Chapter Eleven: Song Xianming

“This precious spiritual elixir—it would be wasteful to simply drink it down like a fool devouring a divine fruit. I’d better just take a small sip.” Song Changsheng uncorked the bottle and took a large swig nonetheless.

He savored it for a moment, but truly couldn’t detect much flavor—aside from a faint, unique fragrance, it was hardly different from drinking cold water.

The Earthmilk Elixir was gentle in nature; even without deliberate refinement, its effects would gradually enhance one’s cultivation.

Though Song Changsheng’s progress in cultivation was astonishingly fast, he had always been meticulous about laying a solid foundation and avoided relying on pills unless absolutely necessary.

As good as the Earthmilk Elixir was, moderation was key; he believed in letting things progress naturally.

“I still have to deliver this wine to Uncle Wu, but there’s only half a jug left…” Song Changsheng stared at the wine pot in his hand, feeling a bit troubled.

“Hmm, maybe I’ll mix in some first-grade spirit wine. He probably won’t notice.”

…

At dusk, Song Luzhou lounged at his ease, sipping from a white jade cup. After a taste, he frowned in suspicion, “This wine… seems a little off. Did your aunt come up with a new brew?”

——————

The next morning, after finishing his early cultivation and tending carefully to his appearance, Song Changsheng ascended the steps toward the mountain peak.

There was only one path from the mountainside to the summit, paved with white jade steps—over six thousand in all, leading straight to the Cloud Hall at the peak.

Step by step, Song Changsheng climbed upward. Every time he traveled this road, his heart would settle into an unprecedented calm.

Having been given a second chance at life, he possessed a composure far beyond his peers; whatever he did, he was steady and methodical. Elders often remarked that he lacked the sharp vigor of youth.

He merely smiled at such comments, continuing to do things his own way. He was not devoid of ambition—he simply didn’t care to flaunt it.

In cultivation, the heart must be cultivated first—better to be steady than hasty.

Just as with these steps: with a spell, he could reach the top in moments, yet he insisted on climbing them one by one as a mortal would.

Others could not understand why he did this, but only he knew that this, too, was its own form of cultivation.

On the path of cultivation, speed was important, but so too was one’s state of mind—a truth many only realized in old age. Song Changsheng had understood it early.

These steps were like his own path: only by placing one foot firmly after the other could he walk steadily and far.

Thus, he never sought to win fleeting victories.

The spiritual energy at the summit was far denser than halfway up the mountain. Every breath was refreshing and invigorating—no surprise, as this was where the essence of a third-grade spiritual vein converged.

Spiritual veins corresponded to the cultivation ranks of practitioners; a third-grade vein was sufficient for a Purple Mansion cultivator’s needs. Yet ever since Ancestor Song Yun returned to the earth, the family had no longer had a cultivator of that stage holding court, and much of the spiritual energy had gone unused.

“Your grandson greets you, Grandfather.” Outside the great hall, Song Changsheng bowed deeply and with perfect decorum. He felt genuine respect for this grandfather of his.

“So it’s Sheng’er. Come in.” A slightly aged voice echoed, and the doors to the hall swung open of their own accord.

Song Changsheng entered. The hall was empty and silent, but he was accustomed to this.

He walked to one side of the hall and pushed open a hidden door. Instantly, the scene before him changed.

A vast lake appeared, its waters clear as crystal, rippling under the breeze. Occasionally, a spirit fish would leap from the surface.

Red-crowned cranes flapped their wings contentedly, their calls bright and joyful.

Beneath a grand elm by the lakeshore sat an old man, fishing rod in hand, a bamboo creel by his side.

He wore a robe of gray, patterned with silver moon clouds, a white jade crown on his head, a red jade token at his waist, and cloud-walking boots on his feet—like an immortal descended from beyond the sky.

This was Song Xianming, the greatest expert in the Song clan and across Lingzhou.

“Grandfather, any catches today?” Song Changsheng came to his side with a smile.

“You’re too early; not a single fish has bitten yet,” Song Xianming replied, his face warm and kindly, like a beloved elder from next door.

“You said you’d be in seclusion for a year—why are you out so soon?” Song Changsheng asked, settling on a stone.

Song Xianming sighed, “With so many upheavals in the family, how could I continue my seclusion in peace?”

A rare spirit root, a demonic cultivator’s attack, his own grandson nearly lost…

One thing after another—how could anyone remain untroubled?

“Song Qing entered the Dao yesterday,” Song Xianming suddenly said.

“Oh? As expected of a rare spirit root prodigy. It took me over three months to sense my first wisp of spiritual energy. From now on, he’ll be known as Song Qingqing,” Song Changsheng responded, raising his brows, though he was unsurprised.

“That child’s talent is extraordinary—a natural-born swordsman. He may even surpass the great ancestor Taiyi in potential.”

Though the words were praise, Song Changsheng sensed a deeper meaning.

“But he is cold by nature; I fear he will walk the path of the emotionless sword. That would not bode well for the family,” Song Xianming sighed. After waiting so long for a genius, to have such a result was no comfort to him.

“The emotionless path?” Song Changsheng frowned. To walk the path of the emotionless sword, one must first sever all seven emotions and six desires. No wonder the family worried their hopes would come to nothing.

After some thought, Song Changsheng spoke, “Qingqing is still young and moldable. As long as he feels truly connected to the family, there’s still hope.”

“Indeed. That’s why I called you here today. Do you have any ideas?” Song Xianming asked.

Song Changsheng paced a while, then his eyes lit up and he smiled. “In fact, I do have a good idea.”

Song Xianming looked intrigued. “Let’s hear it.”

“If we don’t want Qingqing to step onto the emotionless sword path, we must bind him with human feelings—kinship, friendship, love… Well, love is a bit premature. But we can start with kinship and friendship. If we find him a good companion, he’ll find it easier to integrate into the family,” Song Changsheng said confidently.

“Oh? Have you someone in mind?”

“What do you think of Xier?”

Song Xianming’s frown relaxed and he nodded. “Xier is kind and lively, and they’re close in age. She’s a fine choice. Only, it’s uncertain whether she’ll have a spirit root.”

“I think she’s full of spiritual energy—she’s sure to be talented in the future.” Remembering his lively, adorable little cousin, Song Changsheng couldn’t help but smile.

“In that case, let’s proceed as you suggest.” As Song Xianming nodded, a fish bit the hook. With a flick of his arm, a spirit fish over an inch long was pulled from the lake.

“Excellent, excellent. First-grade top-quality. You’ll have a treat today—this Jade-Scaled Fish is found only here in Mirror Lake. Take it home with you,” he said, placing the jade-like fish in the creel.

“Thank you, Grandfather. But I doubt you summoned me just for a private meal, did you?”

“Haha, of course not. I have a new task for you—you must set out at once,” Song Xianming said, casting his line with a cheerful smile.

Song Changsheng was surprised. “What sort of task?”

Song Xianming smiled. “Mount Qing.”

…