Ch 65: The Cannon Fodder Won’t Play Along Anymore [QT]

Immortal Lady Lingyue was a renowned beauty of the cultivation world, her skin fairer than snow, her brows and eyes like a painting. Even though she had long been Dao-companions with Ying Tianhai, there were still many cultivators who admired her.

She had originally only half-listened to her son’s tale, not paying much attention to the “Mu Xing” he mentioned, a mere demonic cultivator.

But now she was faintly intrigued.
“Oh? He looks like me?”

Ying Shu hadn’t thought that far at first, but once the idea surfaced, Mu Xing’s features flashed in his mind. Comparing them with his mother’s face before him, he felt more and more certain of the resemblance.

He nodded firmly. “Yes, very much so—especially the brows and eyes.”

He speculated eagerly: “Mother, could you have some long-lost relative? To have features like yours is really rare.”

Lingyue rolled her eyes. “Nonsense. A cultivator’s bloodline is too precious. How could there be something like a ‘long-lost relative’?”

Yet as she spoke, an image of a fragile infant’s face suddenly flashed in her mind, and her expression froze.

If… if that child from back then had not been sent away, wouldn’t he look very much like her now?

A cultivator’s child, nourished with spiritual energy in the womb, was not born wrinkled and blind like a mortal babe. When that child had been born, he had been as delicate as carved jade, his features inheriting the best of both parents—exceedingly adorable.

If not for that cursed “Clamitous Lone Star” fate, who would willingly give up their child of ten months’ pregnancy?

“Mother?” Ying Shu waved a hand before her eyes, puzzled. “What are you thinking about, so lost in thought?”

“Oh, nothing.” Lingyue collected herself. Yet because of that fleeting thought, her interest in the Mu Xing her son spoke of deepened.

“You said this Mu Xing is a demonic cultivator. Whose disciple is he? What path does he cultivate?” Lingyue asked gently. “I’m not one of those rigid-minded cultivators. As long as he’s not the sort of demonic cultivator who kills and pillages, I won’t oppose you befriending him.”

Ying Shu was stunned, then sulked. “You weren’t even listening to me earlier! That’s not the problem at all. It’s not whether I want to be his friend—it’s that he looks down on me!”

Lingyue frowned slightly. “And why should he look down on you?”

She said, “You are the Young Sect Master of the Yudao Immortal Sect, born noble. It has always been you who looks down on others—no one has the right to look down on you. If that Mu Xing is so blind, then you needn’t concern yourself with him.”

Ying Shu disliked hearing this. He muttered, “Forget it, you don’t understand anyway. I’m going to find Senior Brother!”

And off he ran.

Lingyue sighed and shook her head.

Perhaps because of this conversation, that very night Lingyue dreamed.

She dreamed of the child from sixteen years ago—her own child, whose spiritual root she herself had cut out, his little face red with tears.

She could no longer clearly remember his features, only that he had resembled her.

In the dream, that infant’s face gradually merged with another—an older, grown face. The blurred outline was sharpening, and just as she was about to see it clearly—

“Mother!” She turned back, and it was Ying Shu calling joyfully behind her.

In that single turn, the vague figure suddenly receded.

A surge of panic rose in her heart; she tried to chase after it, but the figure fled a thousand li in an instant, disappearing before her eyes.

Lingyue jolted awake.

She sat up, clutching her chest.

That spot seemed to tingle and ache, perhaps from the lingering agitation of the dream.

“Lingyue?” A knock came at the door.

This loving couple did not sleep in the same chamber, each having their own cave-dwelling. But just now, Ying Tianhai had sensed his Dao-companion’s violent emotional fluctuation, and hurried over.

“I just had a dream.” Accepting the hot tea her husband handed her, Lingyue sipped, the numbness in her chest gradually subsiding.

“What dream?” Sect Master Ying sat on the bedside, drawing her into his arms, fingers gently smoothing her long hair.

Lingyue leaned on his shoulder, her voice distant. “Brother Hai, do you think… that child of ours is still alive?”

Ying Tianhai’s fingers paused. Naturally, he knew who she meant.

His tone was unreadable. “Why suddenly think of him now?”

“You dreamed of him, just now?”

Lingyue softly hummed assent. “I dreamed he had grown up. But I didn’t see his face clearly.”

Ying Tianhai said nothing more. He shed his robe and lay down, holding her close.

“Don’t think about it. Sleep.”

His voice was calm: “No matter how he is now, it is best if he has nothing to do with us. Ah Yue, don’t forget what fate he bears.”

“And even if you can set aside yourself, what about Xiao Shu?”

At the mention of their youngest son, Lingyue immediately sobered. The guilt and weakness stirred by the dream vanished without a trace.

She sighed, closed her eyes. “Mm, I won’t think about it anymore.”

She had let it go—but Ying Tianhai kept it in mind.

The next day, he left the sect.

He went to find the Master of the Heaven’s Secrets Pavilion.

Mortals dream often, for they cannot control their consciousness, so at night they drift through fanciful scenes.

But cultivators, their divine sense tempered thousands of times, can even control their dreams.

The higher the cultivation, the less likely one was to dream.

But there was one special case: a high-level cultivator might dream of things directly connected to themselves.

Such dreams were usually called prophetic dreams.

His Dao-companion suddenly dreaming of the child abandoned sixteen years ago—Ying Tianhai couldn’t shake the feeling that something was wrong.

Yet he did not manage to see the Master of the Heaven’s Secrets Pavilion.

The hooded disciple in white before him, even when facing the Sect Master of a great sect, showed no extra expression. He said coolly:
“The Tower Master is in seclusion. He does not see visitors.”

Ying Tianhai sighed. He knew the Master of Heaven’s Secrets Pavilion never left the snowy mountain, often in closed-door cultivation. In such a case, no one could summon him out.

He was about to leave, when the disciple suddenly spoke again:
“But the Tower Master did say, should Sect Master Ying come, I am to pass on a message.”

Ying Tianhai’s head snapped up. “What message?”

“He lives. He has returned.”

Nonsensical words to anyone else, yet Ying Tianhai understood instantly.

His expression shifted in an instant to something complicated. Without sparing the disciple another glance, he turned into a streak of spiritual light and vanished from the region.

Naturally, he did not notice that once he left, the eyes of the “ordinary” Heaven’s Secrets Pavilion disciple briefly turned pure silver, before returning to normal.

A quiet voice drifted from the mountaintop:
“Ying Tianhai, what will you… do?”
Then the night wind scattered it.

---

By the time Mu Xing arrived at the South Sea, the Mirage Market had already opened.

This South Sea shore, usually so desolate that even a shadow of a person was rare, was now bustling with life.

On either side of the street, vendors were not only cultivators from all over but also many of the South Sea’s sea clans.

There were sea maidens with transparent fish-fins at their ears, wearing pearl garments; barefoot sea youths with striking beauty; and of course, some strange-looking ones—half-transformed demons with patches of scales on their faces, coral sprouting from their heads, or grinning to reveal rows of sharp teeth…

Mu Xing found it all very novel.

Most stalls here were run by ordinary sea folk or cultivators—mostly peddling curiosities, rarely anything truly precious.

For real treasures, one had to wait until the fifteenth day, under the full moon.

Then, as the bright moon rose from the sea, the true Mirage Market would reveal itself.

To enter, one had to prove their qualification.

And qualification meant capital.

Either vast sums of spirit stones, or treasures worth vast sums of spirit stones.

With several days left until the fifteenth, cultivators could wander the outer market.

Though remote, the South Sea coast was also home to mortal fishermen.

The cultivators’ Mirage Market was cloaked in barriers—mortals could not see or enter it.

To them, the Mirage Market was only a mysterious yearly fog that rose from the South Sea, obscuring ships’ paths.

Sometimes, a lost fisherman might catch a fleeting glimpse in the mist—brilliant lights, and figures flying gracefully in the sky.

But at a second glance, nothing would remain.

Over time, these stories spread, until mortals had their own legend:

That in the boundless South Sea lay a Penglai Immortal Isle, where immortals lived on wind and dew, could fly through the heavens and earth, and where the land was littered with jewels and golden palaces, with elixirs granting immortality.

Mortal emperors and nobles would send alchemists and seekers across the seas to find Penglai.

And some were indeed lucky—happening upon a sea clan or a cultivator, obtaining a few sea herbs or pills. To mortals, these could extend life.

Thus, the tale of “immortals of the sea” grew ever more real.

Mu Xing became one such “immortal.”

He had only been browsing the Mirage Market—he was always curious about novelties. Even Xu Jiao shook her head, sighing that she couldn’t match his enthusiasm for shopping.

After three days here, both sea folk and human cultivators at the stalls knew of a blue-robed, beautiful young master—generous, never haggling, and rich.

Anything that looked pleasing or interesting, whether useful or not, he would buy.

That day, he bought from a sea youth a shell-boat.

It was pale pink, large enough for three or four, leaving a trail of pink phosphorescence as it sailed—exceedingly pretty.

Overjoyed, he sat in his new treasure, drifting across the waves—when a massive ship came into view.

Its sails bore two great seal-script characters: “Great Zhou.”

It was the current human dynasty’s flagship.

The people aboard clearly saw the glowing shell-boat, and then the figure upon it—blue wide sleeves fluttering above the sea’s surface, as if he might ride the wind away any moment.

An Immortal!

Having lived as a mortal in past lives, Mu Xing did not despise or avoid humans as some cultivators did.

He declined their invitation to come aboard, recalled the rumors, and with a wave left them a great many gifts—before truly riding the wind away.

Another South Sea “immortal” legend was born.

But he hadn’t gone far before someone called out to him.

It was Ying Shu again.

He stood on a magnificent treasure-ship radiating light, surrounded by a cluster of disciples Mu Xing didn’t bother to examine—clearly Yudao Immortal Sect members.

Ying Shu greeted him, then complained:
“You treat mortals so well, but why are you unwilling to even pay attention to me?”

He had clearly seen Mu Xing’s earlier actions.

Mu Xing replied: “And what of mortals? I’ve lived among them longer than I’ve lived in the cultivation world.”

Before Ying Shu could respond, a plain-looking man beside him suddenly spoke:

“You lived in the mortal world… for many years?”

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