Chapter Nineteen: The Scenery Here Is Uniquely Beautiful

Liu Yueming walked ahead on the snowy path, his expression cold and indifferent. Behind him trailed the old man and Zhou Yu, all three making their way down the mountain.

“I really have taken in a fine disciple, haven’t I?” The old man teased Zhou Yu as he drank from his wine gourd. “I thought you had excellent character but a frail body. Now I see, your constitution is even more monstrous than a beast’s.”

Sweat soaked Zhou Yu’s forehead as he trudged along at the rear, dragging the giant bear’s carcass through the snow. Hearing the old man’s words, he wiped his brow and called out loudly, “When Heaven entrusts a great task to someone, it first toils his muscles and bones and toughens his spirit. But without a sturdy body, how could one endure the ordeal? I am the chosen of Heaven, after all!”

Liu Yueming paused ever so briefly at Zhou Yu’s words, a silent thought crossing his mind: Am I then the one abandoned by Heaven? He quickened his pace, striding into the wind and snow.

“Again?” Zhou Yu gritted his teeth as he watched Liu Yueming surge ahead. He gathered his strength, dragging the bear carcass at a run, overtaking the old man and giving chase to Liu Yueming.

Zhou Yu had recovered from his injuries in just three days. During those days, his appetite was bottomless—he devoured almost half the giant bear. As long as he was awake, he was eating. The old man grew weary from roasting meat yet could not satisfy Zhou Yu’s hunger.

Zhou Yu remembered back in school, when a fall during soccer practice left him with a broken arm. That week, his appetite was just as monstrous—he ate so much that the doctors eventually forbade him anything but the smallest portions. Yet a week later, his arm had healed.

To be the chosen of Heaven must mean being extraordinary. After some thought, Zhou Yu found it a little tragic that his one extraordinary trait was his appetite.

That night, the watch had shone, forming a human silhouette—just a dream. Zhou Yu had woken drenched in cold sweat. The mysterious AI assistant remained silent; even the time had vanished from the watch’s display. But he did not throw it away; whenever he rested, he would press its little button, hoping for a response. There were still too many unanswered questions.

Back on Earth, Zhou Yu had always been a diligent and determined man—fighting to survive at the bottom, lacking only an opportunity. Now, all of that was behind him. In this foreign world, burdened with an impossible task, he had finally let go of the past during his life-and-death struggle with the celestial wolf, casting off that heavy weight.

Now, he was more diligent and resolute than ever. Once his body healed, he poured himself into training: swordsmanship, physical strength, and the mysterious cultivation method bestowed by the AI. He practiced for nearly twenty hours a day. The old man once asked if he’d gone mad.

“I suppose I’ve already died twice,” Zhou Yu replied. “What’s left to hold me back? All I want is to become stronger and live as I wish. Nothing in this world can stop me now.”

The old man sighed that Zhou Yu was old—older than even himself.

On their descent, Zhou Yu took the initiative to drag the bear’s carcass, partly to ensure the three of them had enough food—mostly himself—and partly as a form of training.

After Zhou Yu overtook Liu Yueming three times with the bear, Liu Yueming glanced at him, then sped up, tacitly accepting the challenge. And so, the two began a race down the snowy path, leaving the old man far behind and cursing loudly.

“You little brats! Don’t you care for the elderly at all? Oh, my aching back!”

Zhou Yu was puzzled that someone as powerful as the old man could suffer from something as mundane as a slipped disc, but reality often proved stranger than fiction—the old man’s back truly wasn’t what it used to be.

After half a day’s travel, the three stopped to rest. Zhou Yu began slicing meat from the bear with his greatsword, working slowly at first—cutting a thin sliver, then another, each placed in a neat pile. As he found his rhythm, his sword flashed faster and faster, until thin slices of meat flew from the bear, forming a small mountain beside him.

“He always finds new ways to torment himself,” the old man muttered, sipping his pre-meal wine.

Liu Yueming said nothing. He silently began to practice swordplay, specifically the technique called “Severing Snow.”

That day, after watching Zhou Yu practice Severing Snow, Liu Yueming had tried it himself. His sword struck the falling snowflakes, but instead of slicing them apart, it merely split them. He frowned in silence for a long time, a rare ripple of emotion crossing his icy face, and began to practice the technique.

Zhou Yu sought to follow the drifting path of the snowflakes with ever-changing sword movements, aiming to cut them in their fall. Liu Yueming, however, prized speed—he had no intention of slowing down; instead, he would go even faster. If his sword could move so swiftly that the force of the stroke lagged behind the blade itself, he too could sever snow.

Watching the two, the old man sighed quietly. He raised his left hand, palm up, and sent a thread-thin sword energy at a falling snowflake. The flake quivered and split in two, each half drifting to the ground.

Still not enough, the old man thought, recalling the first time he had met Liu Wujian.

It had been snowing then as well. The four elders of the Soul Sect, the greatest order in the Southern Province, had blocked Liu Wujian’s path as he left the Spirit Realm. At that time, Liu Wujian was in his prime, second only to the master of the Spirit Realm, Ling Youzi. For reasons unknown, he had slain the Soul Sect’s mightiest young disciple.

The combined strength of the four elders could have swept any other sect aside. In the thickly falling snow, they demanded to know why Liu Wujian had killed their man. Liu Wujian gave no answer—he drew his sword and departed.

For a long time, the four elders stood frozen. At last, one said, “We have lost.” Then they all left.

When the old man was sure they were gone, he crept out from hiding and went to the place where they had faced off. Scattered on the ground was a ring of snowflakes—whole, unbroken, yet somehow different from all the others.

As the old man turned to leave, a chill wind rose and he heard a faint rustling behind him. Looking back, he stood in shock—the ring of snowflakes had blossomed open.

He knew then he would never reach such a level in his lifetime. Yet, watching these two young men, the wrinkles on his old face relaxed into a smile.

When Zhou Yu finished slicing the meat, he dug out the special fat the old man had prepared from the bear’s belly, lit it, then laid his greatsword across the fire, placing thin slices of meat atop it.

The sword could hold exactly three slices at a time. Soon, the meat began to curl and turn golden on one side, the fat sizzling and sending up a mouthwatering aroma.

Since coming to this world, Zhou Yu had eaten little but roasted meat—save for a few fruits in the beginning. He had dined on everything from tiger’s whip to bear’s paw.

“Master, Yueming, food’s ready.” Zhou Yu took the cooked slices from the sword, tossed one each to the old man and Liu Yueming, then set on three more while finally eating one himself.

The meat was crisp and charred on one side, still tender on the other. Zhou Yu rolled up the slice and took a bite—chewy and juicy, the flavor lingering in his mouth. If only he had soy sauce or vinegar to dip it in, he thought wistfully.

As soon as he finished one slice, the next batch was ready. He handed out one each, then replaced them with three more.

“Why did you think to use Severing Snow as a way to train your swordsmanship?” Liu Yueming asked, even as he ate, his mind never leaving the sword.

The old man chuckled. “That’s a long story. Actually, it was your father who taught me.”

“I have no father.” Liu Yueming cut him off coldly, set down his food, and rose to leave. He stepped out from behind the sheltering slope into the wind and snow, and began to practice his sword.

The old man fell silent, sipping his wine with his meat. Only after he’d finished his third slice and drained a jug, eyes now hazy, did he finally speak: “When you understand what love is, you will also bear the weight of hatred.”

Zhou Yu, stuffing himself with meat, managed to roll his eyes at the old man. “Being poetic is a disease—you should get that looked at.”

Just as Zhou Yu was swallowing his fiftieth slice of meat, a chill colder than bone pierced him. He looked up, eyes widening in shock, the piece of meat he was biting slipping from his mouth.