Quanzhen Sect, back-mountain cliff.
Same old recipe, same old taste.
Surrounded by a crowd of Quanzhen Taoists, Song Zhe had no choice but the cliff.
Right in front stood the strongest third-generation disciple, Zhao Zhijing—he definitely wouldn't last one exchange.
On the left was Yin Zhiping; that guy was formidable too. Last time, he'd knocked Song Zhe off the cliff in a single move.
So this time, Song Zhe picked the right flank as his breakout point.
That side had mostly third-generation disciples, but no one outstandingly strong.
"Song Zhe, give up—you can't escape today."
A third-generation disciple barked at him.
He was seething at this traitor who'd turned his back on his ancestors and colluded with the Mongolians.
Yet reason told him that even a defector should be dealt with by the Sect Leader himself.
"Scoundrel! You dare betray Quanzhen—have you no shame before the Sect Leader? Today, in front of the whole sect, I'll purge our ranks!"
With righteous indignation, Yin Zhiping raised his Quanzhen sword and charged.
He would give Song Zhe no chance to live and spill his secret.
Shing!
Yin Zhiping's blade flashed free; the move Dingyang Needle stabbed straight for Song Zhe.
Compared with these geniuses who'd trained in Quanzhen since childhood, Song Zhe's few days of meager cultivation meant nothing.
"I'll risk it."
Song Zhe summoned his Spirit: Nine-Leaf Sword Grass.
A twig-like sprout whose nine leaves were as sharp as blades.
Facing Yin Zhiping's onslaught, he could only dodge and avoid a head-on clash.
Last time had proved he was no match for these prodigies.
So he gripped the Nine-Leaf Sword Grass and rushed the ordinary disciples on the right.
He channeled his scant Quanzhen True Qi into the grass.
At once the plant glowed faint white, like starlight in the night.
As he swung it, the swords of the Quanzhen Disciples coming at him snapped clean.
Whew…
Thank heavens Bibi Dong had told him Nine-Leaf Sword Grass could cut iron like mud.
Otherwise, after days spent only on the Quanzhen Heart Method, he'd never have guessed the thing could serve as a weapon without a spirit ring attached.
Shluck!
A crisp sound rang sharply through the air.
Warm crimson splashed his face; Song Zhe froze.
The scalding heat felt like molten rock, burning him all over.
"Beast! You dare use a fiendish thing to kill Junior Brother Yang!"
Zhao Zhijing exploded in fury.
He'd assumed a mere two-year cultivator like Song Zhe posed no threat.
With Yin Zhiping acting, two exchanges would already be impressive.
"I—I didn't mean it. I only wanted to live."
Song Zhe's mind lurched into turmoil.
A youth from the 21st century, raised in peaceful times—he'd never seen such gore up close.
That man's blood on his face felt like red-hot iron, making him tremble.
"Betray Quanzhen and still dream of living, scum?"
Zhao Zhijing, angrier by the second, raised his sword and lunged.
"All together—avenge Junior Brother Yang!"
In an instant every Quanzhen disciple drew and charged.
A disciple's death had pushed the conflict past the point of no return.
Song Zhe never imagined things would spiral beyond his plan.
He'd meant only to break through rightward and stall for more points.
He, who'd never wanted to kill, had taken a sinful step inside the Survival Space.
Facing the swarm, he had no choice; he spun around and leapt.
He plunged straight off the Quanzhen cliff.
Better a familiar death by falling than being hacked to pieces.
"Search! Find him alive or dead!"
Watching Song Zhe jump, Zhao Zhijing fumed with nowhere to vent.
He ordered every disciple down the mountain; that beast must not leave Zhongnan Mountain…
Douluo Continent, Song Village, a tumbledown hut.
Song Zhe shot upright with a swish, drenched in sweat.
He panted hard, as though something clogged his throat.
"Little fellow, what's wrong?"
Bibi Dong, alarmed by the commotion, asked in concern.
She gripped his shoulders; seeing him soaked as if fished from water, she grew anxious.
"I—I killed someone. Just now, I killed."
Song Zhe's mind felt like a wire stretched to snapping.
To locals here, killing might be routine; to a red-flag kid like him, it was unthinkable.
In that peaceful era, he'd never needed a blade—countless soldiers stood guard for him.
"Little fellow, you were only having a nightmare—none of it was real."
Bibi Dong pressed his shoulders.
With sincere, beautiful eyes she locked her gaze on him.
She'd seen him asleep on the floor, carried him to bed to keep him from catching cold.
She didn't know what the white light over him meant.
But she was certain the danger targeted him alone.
"Nightmare…?"
Song Zhe murmured.
Right—he'd entered the Survival Space; it was like slaying NPCs and players in a game.
Only, this game was so realistic, every detail cranked to the max.
No wonder it had felt so visceral.
"Good boy—let big sis hug you."
Saying so, Bibi Dong drew him tenderly into her arms.
Perhaps the Song Zhe she saw now was still just Song Zhe—not yet that cold, god-like exile.
He felt himself enfolded in warmth, a faint scent of lavender drifting into his nose.
Unlike last time when they stood, now seated their torsos were almost level.
Cradled against her, his cheek rested right at her collarbone.
"Sister Donger… we're not kin—why are you so good to me?"
Song Zhe didn't know what else to say.
He hadn't felt such warmth in ages.
In his past life, dependent on others, he'd never known family kindness.
Only a warm country had kept his childhood from turning bleak.
"Because you're my little fiancé; one day you'll marry me!"
Though she teased, in her heart she added softly:
Because in my darkest hour,
it was you who warmed me.