Chapter Forty-Three: Cultivators of the Eastern Sea

Luoshui walked along, her hand held tightly in Nanluo’s, a bright joy lighting her face. Suddenly she stopped, tilted her head up, and asked, “Uncle, do you know magic too?”

Nanluo chuckled softly, “Yes, I know a little.”

“Then let me learn from you. I’ll be your apprentice,” Luoshui said, her thin, pallid face tinged with an unhealthy whiteness, yet her eyes, large and clear, shone with even greater brilliance.

In her gaze, Nanluo saw hope and couldn’t help but laugh. “Of course, your uncle will teach you. Who else would I teach?” At these words, Luoshui’s eyes curved into crescent moons.

“But,” Nanluo continued, “your uncle is very strict. You’ll have to pass an assessment before I teach you magic.” As soon as she heard this, Luoshui’s face dimmed and she responded quietly, “Oh… there’s a test?”

Nanluo asked, puzzled, “Why, are you afraid?” He had spoken without much thought, never imagining that someone as clever and lively as Luoshui would be daunted by such a thing. Yet to his surprise, she nodded gently.

This only deepened Nanluo’s confusion. “Why are you afraid? You’re so smart—nothing could be too hard for you.”

Hand in hand, they continued their slow walk. Luoshui said, “Last time, that Master Yuan Immortal came to our house. My mother asked if I could become his disciple. He looked at me once and said my body wasn’t fit for cultivation, so I couldn’t be his apprentice.”

Nanluo was taken aback. In his view, the body was never the most crucial factor; it might mean it would take longer to refine one’s energy and strengthen the flesh, but there were plenty of ways to transform one’s constitution. The real key was whether a person had the right insight and understanding—the true measure of how far one could go on the path of cultivation.

“Did he say anything else?” Nanluo asked.

Luoshui’s expression grew even more despondent. “Master Yuan said my body lacked spiritual energy and that my meridians were too narrow, so I couldn’t absorb the energy of heaven and earth.”

If it came to dueling with others, Nanluo had confidence in his current abilities; if things turned dire, as long as the disparity wasn’t too great, he could always escape unharmed. But when it came to healing and saving lives, he had received not a single bit of his master’s transcendent knowledge in that field.

It reminded him how, years ago, even after waiting six years, his master, the Grandmaster of Mysteries, still refused to impart his true way. Yet in the end, he had given Nanluo his cultivation methods. “Could it be that alchemy is my master’s true legacy?” Nanluo wondered. He sent out a thread of divine sense to observe Luoshui’s body, and indeed, as the immortal master had said, her body was nearly depleted of spiritual energy, like a withered branch. He frowned, sensing nothing amiss, and could not understand what the cause was.

From a distance, Nanluo and Luoshui watched. They did not draw near. Master Yuan Immortal was already in the process of selecting disciples, and Nanluo had no need to go over. That did not mean, however, that Master Yuan had not noticed Nanluo. A grown man standing with a little girl at the edge of the crowd was not easily missed. Standing on the high platform, Master Yuan faced their direction and immediately caught sight of Nanluo when he appeared.

In Master Yuan’s eyes, Nanluo was clearly a cultivator. The azure, moonlit Cloak of Hidden Heaven and the long sword at his waist set him apart from ordinary people. Yet when the immortal master swept him with his divine sense, Nanluo registered as nothing more than an utterly ordinary man. Even when Nanluo was just a beginner in energy cultivation, his concealment technique could have hidden him from someone as absent-minded as Master Yuan; now, five years later, his concealment was flawless.

Master Yuan’s divine sense only brushed across Nanluo before he turned back to his disciple-gathering ceremony. There was little pomp in it: he descended on a white cloud to the altar, and all the children under twelve lined up to stand before him. He looked each of them over, pinched their arms or shoulders, and then sent each one away.

Though Master Yuan could not sense Nanluo’s power, Nanluo could see every move of Master Yuan’s with his Heavenly Sight. In the past five years, Nanluo had traveled innumerable rivers and mountains, fought countless people, and debated the Way with many hermits, but few who truly walked the path of cultivation in human form. This Master Yuan, however, was a genuine human cultivator. Nanluo did not know where he had studied, and his methods differed from Nanluo’s own.

While Nanluo observed him, Master Yuan finished examining all the children. The clan chief of the Yangping tribe, Huangyuan, hurried forward to ask how many had been chosen. For the tribe, this was a matter of great importance. If even one child was accepted, it meant the tribe had a foothold in the world of cultivation—a powerful patron for the future.

But Master Yuan shook his head. “None possess the necessary talent. I cannot impart the Way.”

“None at all? Out of so many?” the chief asked anxiously, his white beard trembling.

Master Yuan shook his head again. Sensing the chief’s worry, he said, “Do not fret. I reside at the temple three miles from here. If any more children are born, once they reach the age of five, bring them to me to see.”

By tradition, opening a school and accepting disciples was always accompanied by a demonstration of magic, to convince new followers of the reality of the teachings and thus inspire wholehearted devotion. But just then, Master Yuan suddenly bowed toward Nanluo and called out, “Since you are here, fellow cultivator, why not come closer and join me?”

At those words, everyone turned to look. The entire Yangping tribe—five or six hundred people—was gathered there. When they saw Nanluo, most were puzzled, but soon, after the initial confusion, some began to exclaim in recognition.

“Is that… Nanluo, that boy?” the chief asked someone nearby, uncertain. Old Mu, standing beside him, said, “That’s right, it’s him. He’s been back for a while now. I hadn’t had a chance to mention it before… he just showed up on his own.”

Two decades earlier, Nanluo had been a household name in the tribe. As the successor to the priesthood, his status was second only to the chief. Not everyone could claim such a title. Soon, those who knew the story began whispering it to the younger generation.

But though they recognized him, no one stepped forward to greet him. It was too strange—a man missing for twenty years had suddenly returned, looking unchanged, even more radiant than before. Even those who recognized him hesitated to approach.

Except for one—his younger sister, Hongguo. With a cry, she ran to him, and when she reached him, tears streaming, she simply stood and stared, as if trying to see him clearly, to see through him.

Though her appearance had changed greatly, Nanluo recognized her at once. The bond of blood was not diminished by time. She was now about thirty, her features still hinting at the mischievous girl of old, much like Luoshui in her liveliest moments. Yet now her face bore the marks of an adult’s hardships and resolve—a resilience that mirrored Nanluo’s own.

“Why are you crying? You’re too old for tears. Has someone bullied you? Tell your brother, and I’ll deal with them…” This was what Nanluo used to say to her in the past; whenever he did, Hongguo would wipe her tears and lead him to whoever had wronged her.

Silent tears streamed down her cheeks. When she’d heard her brother had been carried off by the giant eagle, she had wept herself hoarse by the door, sat in silence for a day and night, and nearly died from grief—if not for the priest’s intervention, she would have died twenty years ago.

Nanluo wiped her tears away, but couldn’t keep up with the flow. He smiled, “No more tears, now. So many people are watching. Wait until we’re home to cry, all right?” At his words, Hongguo quickly lowered her head and wiped her eyes, but the smile at the corners of her mouth could not be hidden.

Nanluo held one hand in each of his—a sister wiping her eyes, a niece glancing between her mother and long-lost uncle.

He greeted the crowd with a warm smile, whether he knew them or not, feeling an abiding kinship with all. As he approached the altar, he nodded to old acquaintances. Master Yuan showed no impatience, merely watched in silence, his bearing otherworldly.

The chief would not let this future pillar of the tribe go unwelcomed. He quickly led Nanluo to Master Yuan’s side. Master Yuan said, “Old friend, you have been gone many years—catch up with your kin as you wish. I care nothing for such formalities.” The chief’s intentions were transparent to a cultivator’s eyes.

The chief hastened to praise Master Yuan’s lofty and unworldly character. Master Yuan only smiled and turned to Nanluo. “I am Yuanji, a cultivator from the Isle of the Woodcutter in the Eastern Sea. May I ask, friend, where you have studied the Way?”

Nanluo smiled, “I have cultivated alone in the wilds for many years, never staying in one place. From this day forward, the Yangping tribe shall be my place of practice.” He did not reveal his origins, only made it clear he would remain here.

Hearing this, the people of the tribe realized he had indeed mastered the arts of cultivation—no wonder he looked unchanged by time.

Yuanji’s face remained impassive, betraying neither belief nor skepticism. He said, “Today, I open my temple and seek disciples; it is customary to demonstrate the Way. Why not, friend, join me in a display, to dispel the doubts in everyone’s hearts?”