The Unorthodox Taoist of a Supernatural World

The mountain mist hung heavy, the blue-green peaks fading into obscurity. A thin veil of cloud shrouded the summits, and in the autumnal rains, the mountains exuded a tranquil serenity.

Atop the mountain, on the edge of a cliff, an old man in white sat cross-legged upon a rush mat. His face was ruddy, his hair as white as a crane’s, his spirit lively and bright; he seemed less a mortal and more like a banished immortal descended from the heavens.

By his side stood a young acolyte in blue, his lips red, his teeth white, well-featured though not handsome, but at least dignified in bearing. His face was still tender with youth, perhaps sixteen or seventeen years old.

This youth, named Lu Qian, served as the attendant to the old immortal, Mo Liang.

Mo Liang was a renowned hermit within a hundred miles, revered by officials and nobles alike. They had pooled their resources to build him a temple atop the mountain for his cultivation. People from the foot of the mountain, drawn by his reputation, vied to send their sons to serve him.

Lu Qian, orphaned from a young age, had come in hopes of fortune and, to his surprise, was chosen.

At that moment, the old immortal exhaled a breath of white mist, ending his meditation. Stroking his long, flowing beard, he gazed at Lu Qian with kindly eyes and a gentle expression: “Fetch the elixir. I would take it now.”

Elixir? What elixir?

Lu Qian was bewildered. When had the old immortal ever given him an elixir?

He ventured cautiously, “Master, forgive my ignorance, but where is thi