Starting Cultivation During a Trip

Snowflakes on Cang Mountain are as large as mats, hidden winds and a waning moon shine over shadowed ditches.

Upon the sheer cliff, in the midst of blizzard and squall, waves of killing cries rise, sounds of dreadful roars cleave the night, adding a touch of ominous air to this silent, deathly world.

"This was once the retreat of Pure Yang Zhenren. Withdraw at once!"

"Damn it, we’ve already lost half our men. If Master Ye Si were here, his Living Dead Technique would let us pass this threshold."

"Master Ye Si has journeyed to Mangdang Mountain, where there are clues for Jia Sheng Gui Si, and they’re firm—a certainty. Fifth Master Mo and Third Master Li have both gone too."

"Even Third Master Li? Isn’t his health always poor?"

The cliff stands perilous, with only a few feet of ground to hold. Seven or eight figures gather there, braving wind and snow; three wear Daoist Robes, while the rest are dressed in the garb of the secular world.

Every gaze falls upon a spot not far above: an ancient cave embedded within the thousand-fathom cliff, its sides smooth as a mirror. Upon it, dragons and snakes are inscribed in bold seal script—unreadable characters—like a peculiar Daoist Temple hidden in wild mountains.

Each of these people conceals their radiance, power palpable—none are common martial artists.

Yet at this moment, their robes are stained with blood, faces deathly pale, eyes filled with exhaustion and awe.

"The retreat of Pure Yang Zhenren is no trivial place. We must send someone to the Shangjing White Crane Temple and summon the Master."

"The Master has gone to Northern Zhang Land; he cannot split himself, it will be hard for him to come."

The crowd murmurs, worry etched across their faces. To be before such a Treasure Cave yet unable to enter—it’s enough to make them anxious.

But right now, not a soul dares to cross even half a step past this thunder-boundary. Just the entrance itself has cost them countless losses.

"All of you, retreat."

Suddenly, a cold voice echoes through the vast heavens. Upon the dizzying cliff, amid sweeping snow, a figure descends from the sky. He is tall, cloaked in heavy furs, striding the cliff as if he trod on plain land, traversing wind and snow as if crossing a shallow stream. In an instant, he stands on the narrow platform.

"Second Master!"

"Second Master is here!"

"Greetings, Second Lord!"

Seeing him, everyone’s face breaks into joy. Bowing deeply, none dare show the least disrespect.

"Grandfather!"

In the flickering gloom, Zhang Fan stirs inwardly. Through that pure thought, what he sees is indeed this scene from the past; the towering figure before him is none other than Divine Oracle Zhang Tian Sheng.

He holds the highest prestige among them; just his arrival settles every heart, shaking off all panic and fear.

"Second Master, we’ve found the place."

A man in a Daoist Robe steps forth, pointing through the storm at the mouth of a cave set in the cliff.

"So, the retreat of Beixuan Zhenren has at last been found. My travels throughout Jiangnan have not been in vain—seven years gone." Zhang Tian Sheng said lightly.

"Beixuan Zhenren—such a master truly walked the earth?" murmurs a one-eyed, scar-faced man nearby.

Li Beixuan, a figure lost to history, mentioned only here and there in the notes of the major Daoist Sects’ elders.

Zhang Tian Sheng had glimpsed scarce records about him at Zhongnan Mountain. Over nine hundred years ago, Li Beixuan emerged—he learned Dao at Zhenwu Mountain, then entered Wuwei Sect as a covert agent. By fortune, he mastered the full Northern Emperor Technique; his cultivation soared, rising ever higher, and at last became Lord of the Profound Palace.

It was then his thinking underwent a mighty shift—no longer favoring either the Daoist Sect or the Wuwei Sect.

This "sitting on the fence" displeased the Daoist Sect greatly. Just when the Sects readied themselves against him—a world-shaking event occurred.

Li Beixuan grasped the Path of Pure Yang Wuji, stepping into a realm all others could only look up to in awe.

Pure Yang Wuji—unequaled beneath the sky—enter that realm, and one is called Zhenren.

In those times, his esteem within Wuwei Sect reached the peak. Among the Daoists, no one dared to challenge his edge.

While Li Beixuan held his seat, he raised neither chaos nor war, but rested and renewed, striving to mediate between Wuwei and the Daoist Sect, pressing down on both sides’ enmity and unrest.

Even so, the Wuwei Sect remembers him faintly. Yet the Daoist Sects loathe him—despite his ascension to the Realm of the Infinite, their accounts purposefully erase all trace.

"Only seven years after Beixuan Zhenren transcended, the Daoist Sect launched their sixth Breaking Mountains and Attacking Temples." Zhang Tian Sheng murmured low.

All these past events, pieced together from old Daoist priests’ notes and the Wuwei Sect’s rare records.

To this, he had given much of his heart’s blood.

"Hard to believe—such a man, and yet as if he never came at all," someone sighed.

How many Seekers of Immortality through the ages? How many ever gain Pure Yang?

He should have been founder of a Sect, enjoying incense offerings throughout the land. Yet nine centuries gone, who remembers his name, who recalls he once crossed the mortal world?

"Great rivers eastward sweep all away, countless mighty souls of old—they too sink into yellow sand, unsung by later times."

Zhang Tian Sheng murmured, and with a wave of his hand, drew all minds back from distant thoughts.

"Let us go."

As he spoke, Zhang Tian Sheng shot up like a mysterious bird, a great roc soaring the heavens, leaping up and plunging straight into the cave perched on the sheer wall.

"Second Master!"

The crowd’s faces change; exchanging glances, not one dares tarry—they clench their teeth and follow fast.

The cave-dwelling is deep; in the ghastly moonlight, and the fluttering white snow, one can just make out on the wall ten paces in: there is a shadow, like a man seated in meditation, motionless.