Dazzled by the flashing lights of countless [ Recording Stones ], microphones thrust practically into his nose like spears and cannons, Mo Fan felt like a monkey trapped in a cage on display.
"Xiaoqi! Respond!"
"What are your thoughts on this 'dead genius' theory?"
The reporters' questions grew increasingly sharp, practically wanting to tear open his chest to see if a twisted, jealous heart lay within.
Mo Fan took a deep breath. He knew that if he continued being entangled, not only would his "hiding merit and fame" persona collapse, but this pack might dig up even more of his background.
"I..."
Mo Fan's face showed timely extreme panic, like a country bumpkin scared out of his wits by this scene. He hunched his neck, eyes darting around frantically, until suddenly his gaze locked onto a large, rotund figure at the edge of the crowd preparing to quietly slip away.
Diverting disaster eastward.
"Don't... don't ask me!"
Mo Fan suddenly shouted, voice shrill and full of helplessness. "I'm just an errand-running servant! What do I know about genius or not? The true hero with discerning eyes who delivered medicine in the middle of the night and even resisted merchant temptations for A-Song's sake..."
He thrust out his hand, pointing straight at Steward Wang.
"Is Steward Wang!"
"Everyone look! Steward Wang has worried so much over this child these past days that he's lost a whole size!"
The entire scene fell silent for a second.
All cameras, all gazes, followed Mo Fan's finger and focused in unison on Steward Wang's trembling layers of fat.
Steward Wang froze.
He instinctively touched his round belly—lost weight? Had he?
But immediately after, as a veteran who'd navigated bureaucracy for years, his sharp political instincts kicked in.
Since he'd already been forced to take the blame before Elder Liu Yun, why couldn't this pot... become a golden pot? Since he was already riding the tiger with no way down, why not ride the tiger to glory!
"Ahem."
Steward Wang instantly shed his original wretched posture of wanting to flee. He straightened his clothes, stood upright (though his belly still protruded), and his face, originally pale with fear, instantly transformed into the helpless benevolence of someone "whose hidden merit and fame had been discovered."
He strode boldly into the spotlight, blocking Mo Fan.
"Ah, Xiaoqi, I told you not to make a fuss..."
Steward Wang faced the nearest [ Recording Stone ], striking a profound forty-five-degree profile pose, voice weathered: "Since the child has spoken... I'll hide it no longer."
"That's right."
He took a deep breath, eyes brimming with tears. "All those hardships... I bore them alone!"
"Excellent!"
Someone in the crowd shouted (possibly Executive Liu), and applause thundered. The reporters, like sharks smelling blood, instantly abandoned Mo Fan, this servant with no news value, and frantically surged toward this "grassroots cadre who exhausted himself excavating talent."
Just as everyone's attention was drawn to Steward Wang's tear-streaked speech—
Mo Fan lowered his conical hat and, like a slippery mudfish, silently slipped into gaps in the crowd.
No looking back, no lingering.
He moved against the frenzied crowd, ducked into a quiet alley, and within a few bounds, vanished into the intricate shadows of the servant quarters.
Creak—
Pushing open that familiar broken wooden door, the outside clamor was instantly isolated.
Mo Fan returned to his small dwelling.
Inside was deathly silent. No more sounds of children playing, no more sight of A-Song's thin but always bustling figure.
Mo Fan walked to the table.
On it sat half an uneaten sweet potato—A-Song's breakfast from this morning, left unfinished in his rush. Though the bed was made, the depression from someone sleeping there remained visible.
An emotion called "loneliness" surged like a tide in this moment.
"Now... only two bachelors and an old man left in this house."
Mo Fan picked up that half sweet potato, gently rubbing it.
But he didn't wallow in sentimentality long.
After all, as a Necromancer who'd struggled on death's edge, sentimentality was a luxury. He withdrew the cold iron token Elder Liu Yun had bestowed, fingertips tracing the ancient cloud patterns, eyes becoming hard as iron again.
"A-Song ascended to heaven—that's his fortune."
"And I must still struggle in the mire."
Mo Fan put away the iron token, gaze piercing through the window toward that still gray and hazy sky.
"Lu Xiaoqi, rest easy."
He spoke in his heart to that long-dissipated soul: "I'll go farther in your place. One day, I'll question that madman Lin Dong on your behalf about what... truly makes a genius."
Same moment.
Nine heavens above, clouds churned.
"Ugh..."
A-Song gripped the white-haired elder's sleeve for dear life, face deathly pale, stomach roiling.
This was his first time ascending to heaven.
Beneath his feet wasn't solid ground but a broad Spirit Sword. Though a layer of pale green protective spiritual light blocked the high-altitude winds, the visual impact of emptiness beneath his feet, mountains and rivers reduced to ant-size below, still made this acrophobic youth feel waves of dizziness.
"Child, don't be afraid. Open your eyes and look."
The elder's gentle voice reached his ears.
A-Song forcibly suppressed his discomfort, tremblingly opening a sliver of his eyes.
The next second, his pupils dilated dramatically.
The dizziness vanished, replaced by soul-deep awe.
The sea of clouds parted, revealing an immortal paradise suspended in midair.
Dozens of massive floating islands orbited like stars around the moon encircling that towering main peak piercing the clouds. Rainbow bridges connected the islands, spiritual cranes danced, and silver-white waterfalls defied gravity, flowing upward from pools below toward the sky, transforming into pervasive clouds and mist.
The air was thick with spiritual energy so concentrated it nearly couldn't dissolve. A-Song merely took a deep breath and felt his lungs burning as if aflame, every pore in his body cheering jubilantly.
In comparison, the servant quarters where he'd lived for over a decade were practically a pigsty.
"This... this is the inner sect?"
A-Song murmured, his mind flashing to words Seventh Brother had said when telling him stories.
"Seventh Brother... you lied to me."
"You said Immortals also had to defecate and eat, had to haggle over a single Spirit Stone... but the people here truly seem not to eat mortal food."
The Spirit Sword pierced the cloud layer, finally descending at the main peak's summit.
Here there was no resplendent decoration, only an ancient, magnificent palace constructed entirely of massive blue stones—[ Dao Asking Palace ].
A-Song stepped onto the ground, the sensation underfoot warm as jade. Looking down, this wasn't stone at all but solid blocks of ten-thousand-year warm jade! Just one brick could probably buy all of Qingmu Town.
"Come in."
A gentle voice came from deep within the great hall.
A-Song followed the elder into the hall.
Inside wasn't lit, yet bright as day.
In the hall's center, on the only meditation cushion, sat a seemingly young man. He wore simple blue robes, black hair loose, looking like a failed scholar.
But his eyes were ancient, as if containing the alternation of sun and moon.
Azure Cloud Sect Master—Qing Feng (Late Nascent Soul stage Great Cultivator).
He had specially emerged from seclusion early for this child.
He released no pressure, not even a trace of spiritual power fluctuation. Yet sitting there, he seemed the center of this heaven and earth—surrounding light, air, even time's flow underwent subtle light-dark alternations with his breathing.
Standing before him, A-Song felt like a grain of dust gazing up at a starry sky.
"Superior-grade Wood Spirit Roots, Yi Wood Azure Dragon Qi."
Sect Master Qing Feng's gaze fell on A-Song like an old craftsman viewing an uncarved peerless jade, eyes showing undisguised appreciation.
"In Azure Cloud Sect's thousand-year establishment, you're the third."
"Sect... Sect Master, greetings." A-Song stammered, trying to kneel and kowtow. "I... I'm called Li Hansong."
"No need for tension."
Qing Feng smiled slightly. That sense of heavenly-earthly centrality instantly dissipated, becoming spring-breeze gentle. "Arriving here means returning home."
He raised his hand, index finger lightly pointing.
A green flowing light crossed space, instantly entering A-Song's brow.
Vast amounts of profound text and images exploded in A-Song's mind—the highest-level wood element cultivation method inheritance.
"From today, you are my, Qing Feng's, registered disciple. When you reach Foundation Establishment, that will be your formal discipleship day."
Qing Feng withdrew his hand, tone solemn:
"Wood Spirit Roots govern life force, excel at alchemy and healing, and are good at prolonged combat. You're not merely a cultivation seedling but the sect's future 'life sustainer.' This path won't be easy, but can go very far."
At this point, this Nascent Soul mighty one paused, gaze seeming to pierce layers of clouds toward that distant mountain base.
"Cultivate well."
Qing Feng said meaningfully: "Don't let down... that 'painstaking effort' that sent you here."
A-Song's whole body shook.
He knew the Sect Master's "painstaking effort" referred to Seventh Brother.
So the great figures knew everything. They knew about that clumsy act, knew about that lame servant's petty calculations. But they permitted it, even appreciated this struggle to pave the way for juniors with everything one had.
"Yes!"
A-Song kowtowed heavily, forehead striking the warm jade floor with a crisp sound.
Evening approached.
A-Song stood at the cloud-level great hall entrance, overlooking the vast sea of clouds below.
While several kilometers below in a muddy small courtyard—
Mo Fan stood beneath the old locust tree, looking up at that unreachable main peak shrouded in clouds and mist overhead.
One in heaven, one on earth.
But in this moment, their gazes seemed to intersect across layers of clouds and space, converging together.
"Seventh Brother, I'll work hard." The youth in the clouds clenched his fists.
Mortal dust and cloud heights, in this moment, achieved some silent resonance.