Chapter One: The Daoist Novice

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 this elixir kept?”

“Elixir?” Daoist Mo’s lips curled into a half-smile, the grin stretching wider, growing more and more sinister.

Suddenly, his skin split open, revealing indigo flesh beneath.

With a ripping sound, the human skin fell away to reveal a creature eight feet tall, its entire body a deep blue, face fierce with fangs, two hill-like horns rising from its head—a blue-skinned yaksha.

The yaksha’s right claw shot out, dagger-sharp talons slicing open Lu Qian’s chest and pulling out a still-beating heart.

“This is the elixir! Ha ha ha!” The yaksha opened its blood-red maw and swallowed the heart, gnawing fiercely, blood trickling down the corners of its mouth.

“Aaah!!” Only then did Lu Qian feel the pain, clutching his chest in disbelief at the monster before him.

Then the world went black.

With a jolt, Lu Qian sat bolt upright in bed, drenched in cold sweat, his body trembling.

He scanned his surroundings.

Night was deep and silent, the moonlight pouring in like a silver veil.

“So it was just a dream…” Lu Qian breathed a sigh of relief, though his eyes remained wary.

What occupies the mind by day haunts the dreams by night. He had sensed something amiss, and so such a nightmare had followed.

He truly was Mo Liang’s acolyte, serving in the mountain temple for half a year now.

He was not the only attendant. There were over a dozen young acolytes, and more than a hundred servants and guards.

In the first month after entering, their duties were menial—fetching water, chopping wood, and the like. Then Mo Liang would teach them a method of meditation.

Those who cultivated a sense of “qi” would be recommended by Mo Liang to higher circles for further training.

It was the chance of a lifetime.

Who would not dream of becoming a revered Daoist, living in luxury and splendor?

Lu Qian had harbored the same ambitions—or rather, that had been his intention from the start.

“A few years ago, I awakened memories of a past life, and after plotting for so long, I finally got the opportunity to enter. But I never expected this man to be a demonic cultivator…”

Lu Qian sighed deeply.

His soul was that of an outsider, what one might call a transmigrator.

A few days ago, while chopping wood in the rear mountains, he had stumbled upon the clothing and personal effects of former acolytes—those who had entered a few months before him, some even sharing his own quarters.

These individuals had all succeeded in cultivating qi.

By Mo Liang’s promise, they were to be sent to the immortal sects for advanced training.

But why had he found their belongings abandoned in the remote mountains?

And why had those people never been seen again after leaving?

With these questions gnawing at him, and recalling Mo Liang’s peculiar behavior, Lu Qian was horrified to realize these people had likely met with foul play.

Whatever the reason, they were almost certainly dead.

This mountain was not a sanctuary for immortals, but a den of evil.

He wanted to escape, but the only exit was guarded.

Moreover, the lands at the foot of the mountain were filled with Mo Liang’s followers.

Mo Liang held sway over both the respectable and the criminal. As an ordinary youth, Lu Qian stood no chance against them.

Knock, knock, knock…

“Lu Qian, is everything all right?”

A man’s voice called from outside.

“It’s nothing, just a bad dream,” Lu Qian replied quickly.

“As long as you’re all right. Get some rest,” the voice said, footsteps fading away.

Lu Qian sat up, eyes half-closed, tongue pressed to the roof of his mouth. Gradually, his mind settled into calm.

Soon a warm current rose in his lower abdomen, spreading warmth through his limbs, as if soaking in a hot spring.

This was the sensation of qi cultivated through the nameless technique taught by Mo Liang.

It was precisely because he had succeeded in cultivating qi that Lu Qian felt so uneasy.

Had he not made his discovery days before, he would have cheerfully reported his progress to Mo Liang, only to die without knowing how.

After circulating his energy, Lu Qian exhaled deeply.

“Ten days left. In ten days, there will be an assessment. I can only hope to muddle through.”

At the end of every month, Mo Liang would gather them all for instruction.

At such times, it would be hard to conceal anything.

Lu Qian opened the window for a breath of air.

The clouds were dark as ink, the stars faint and cold.

A sudden flash of lightning split the sky, illuminating the land in a ghastly white.

A fierce wind arose, and rain began to pour in sheets.

From the shadowy corners, it seemed as though cold, sinister eyes watched him.

The next day.

A rooster crowed.

Lu Qian finally returned to himself.

He washed and tidied up, then stepped out, heading towards the great central hall.

Each morning at dawn, everyone was required to greet Mo Liang.

Others in blue acolyte robes made their way alongside him, chatting in small groups, but none acknowledged Lu Qian, leaving him thoroughly isolated.

Just then, the crowd parted.

A lively young woman in a flaming-red hunting outfit approached, surrounded by several maids.

She was fifteen or sixteen, snapping a whip in her hand with sharp cracks.

“Greetings, miss,” everyone bowed slightly in salute.

“Out of my way!” the girl snapped, her brows arching sharply as she lashed a nearby acolyte across the face.

A bloody welt instantly rose on his cheek, yet he dared not cry out, instead forcing a smile: “Thank you for your favor, miss.”

“Worthless dog,” the girl muttered, striding off in boredom.

The acolytes hastily made way, none daring to cross this terror.

She was Mo Liang’s only granddaughter, Mo Ling’er.

Mo Ling’er, spoiled by her grandfather, had grown willful and cruel, quick to strike or curse anyone around her.

In fact, Lu Qian had some history with her.

Taciturn and reserved, his modern manners made him stand out among the other acolytes.

Perhaps it was out of malice that someone incited her to strike him with a rock, nearly killing him.

No punishment befell Mo Ling’er afterward.

At first, he thought it was childish mischief, but now he saw: the elder was corrupt, and the granddaughter, so young, already vicious.

So Lu Qian mused bitterly.

Yet isolation brought its own blessings: he was left in peace, with no fear of his secrets being exposed.

He could practice quietly and undisturbed.

The group entered the main hall, where on the dais sat an old man with eyes half-closed, his hair and beard as white as snow, his skin pale as paper.

Perhaps it was a trick of the mind, but Mo Liang no longer seemed to possess the immortal bearing of Lu Qian’s dream; instead, he exuded a cold, serpentine menace, as if he might devour them all at any moment.