Chapter Eleven: All Rivers Return to Their Source

Fang Zheng opened his eyes in delight, eager to seek comfort from his sister, but before he could speak, she insisted they practice once more. Terrified, Fang Zheng stammered about aches and discomfort, but Hong Jian saw through his lies instantly, giving him a stern look. Fortunately for him, she relented, considering his recent breakthrough, and told him to consolidate his progress that night. She would check again tomorrow. Fang Zheng felt as if he’d received a royal pardon, quickly saying, “Sister, you should rest early too,” before fleeing.

Hong Jian was left alone, filled with impatience to cultivate the mysterious technique the enigmatic stranger had taught her. Perhaps it was because her body was now free from illness and pain, or because she’d gained experience and knew the knack, but though she struggled to enter the proper state, it was not nearly as taxing as before. After pausing to contemplate, she left the cave, descended to the rocky beach, and found a stone close to the crashing waves to meditate upon.

Indeed, this time she soon felt the same extraordinary comfort as the previous night. Hong Jian quickly became immersed, her breath in harmony with the tides, utterly forgetting her surroundings. She didn’t notice that the mysterious cloaked figure was nearby, standing silently atop a rock some yards away, watching her with a complex expression.

Hong Jian did not meditate long. Awakening from her trance, she found the sky still aglow with lingering sunlight, and the receding tide had revealed a wide expanse of sand. She sighed, still reluctant to end her practice, and hesitated, debating whether to plunge into the sea for a swim.

“Not bad,” a deep, husky voice suddenly sounded behind her.

Startled, Hong Jian spun around. Seeing it was the mysterious stranger, she exhaled in relief, quickly rising and expressing her gratitude: “Thank you, elder, for your guidance.” It wasn’t an empty phrase; her tone and demeanor were sincere. She felt genuine respect and gratitude toward this person who had imparted such a wondrous technique.

He chuckled lightly and hopped down to sit beside her. “No need for thanks. It’s just a transaction, hardly guidance.” As he spoke, he opened his hand for her to see. “Look.”

The rock was small, and his arrival claimed most of it, bringing Hong Jian closer to him than ever before.

He showed her a pale green pill nestled in his palm. It seemed unremarkable, but Hong Jian’s heart stirred. She bent closer to sniff it, confirming her suspicion. “Is it a Moonlight Pill?” she blurted.

The man laughed again at her dog-like gesture, then produced another pill of similar size, placing it in his palm as well. Hong Jian recognized this one—her own Weak Rain Pill, which she had gifted to another. Still curious about the Moonlight Pill, she glanced at the man’s expression and pressed, “Is this truly a Moonlight Pill? Where did you get it?”

Now, with proximity and the angle of the light, Hong Jian could clearly see his face.

This man was no longer young. His beard gave him a somewhat disheveled look, but he was not unattractive, especially his eyes, which seemed unusually deep and thoughtful. Hong Jian was momentarily dazed, unable to describe the feeling, only sensing that he looked unlike anyone she knew, as if he hailed from a distant land.

He shifted to the side, gesturing invitingly, “Sit and talk.” His tone was gentle.

Hong Jian sat beside him. He didn’t explain how he’d acquired the Moonlight Pill, merely letting both pills rest in his palm. She looked from the pills to him and asked, “Elder, have you suffered an injury to your spiritual sense? Does the technique fail to heal it? Is it less useful at higher cultivation? Are you a Golden Core cultivator?”

For reasons unknown, these questions tumbled out unfiltered. In front of Fang Zheng she was a reliable sister, before her peers she was reserved and taciturn, but truthfully, she was only thirteen—a child. With this stranger, she felt more at ease than even before her sect’s master.

He snorted softly, “Why so many questions?” but he didn’t seem angry.

Hong Jian stuck her tongue out and grinned sheepishly.

He shot her a glance, put away the pills, and held out his empty hand. “Let me feel your hand.”

Hong Jian was surprised. Though young, she was not naïve; she was naturally wary of men. His words sounded like he meant to take advantage, and her eyes widened, goosebumps prickling her skin.

When she didn’t move, he glanced at her in confusion, then his face twisted into a mocking smile. He scoffed, reached out, and briefly grasped her wrist—just a fleeting touch—then released her.

“With this talent, raised in a prestigious sect, yet you’re only at the fourth layer of Qi Refining. Utterly foolish,” he said harshly, with no attempt at courtesy.

Hong Jian realized she had misunderstood him. Embarrassed, she blushed deeply and stammered, “Elder, could you teach me how to advance my cultivation more quickly?” Fang Zheng was already at the third layer of Qi Refining; if she didn’t improve soon, her skills would be of little use.

He replied casually, “Since your true essence recovers unusually fast, you should cultivate a proper technique. It will work wonders.”

Hong Jian tilted her head in confusion. “Cultivate a technique? Master Qu forbade us, saying it distracts from the foundation and told us to wait until after Foundation Establishment. But other sects have Qi Refining disciples practicing martial arts.” She recalled Shi Qingxiang’s spiked green vine.

The man was familiar with the various sects’ rules and quirks. He explained, “Foundation Establishment reveals your true nature. Typically, you wait until then to determine the most suitable technique. If you stray too early, it can do more harm than good. Your master isn’t wrong. As for that boy from Cloudstep Sect, he’s either misled or has special circumstances.”

Hong Jian was too curious about Shi Qingxiang to linger, but she caught the implication in his words. “Elder, you told me to cultivate a technique. Is my situation special as well?”

He sneered, “Yes, your ‘special’ circumstance is meeting me.”

His words were full of pride, but Hong Jian was not distracted. She pressed on, “Then, elder, which technique suits me best?” Perhaps the technique to heal spiritual sense was so marvelous that she trusted him completely, believing he could determine her future path with a mere touch.

But he did not answer directly, instead asking, “How would you choose? What kind of water do you prefer?”

His question stumped Hong Jian. The options for water-element cultivators were limited; most martial techniques had little power at the early stages, except for the ice branch. The current sect leader of Pill Cliff, Ling Xuzi, cultivated the “Accumulated Purity Scripture,” reputed to freeze everything within its domain to shards. Few Core cultivators dared face it, but among Pill Cliff’s Foundation Establishment disciples, those with the right talent were rare; most chose other techniques. Hong Jian pondered and considered, “Does he mean I can choose whatever I wish?”

Almost immediately, she dismissed the idea as absurd. How could there be such fortune in the world?

Yet the mysterious man awaited her answer. Should she choose the same ice technique as the sect leader? Hong Jian hesitated only briefly, knowing it was unsuitable. The future was uncertain, and ice could not give rise to wood; she would be unable to help Fang Zheng at all. Thinking further, her heart stirred. She pointed toward the boundless Endless Sea and said, “I prefer a technique like the Endless Sea.”

Her choice seemed anticipated; the man nodded approvingly. “Good. Then the technique you should learn now is ‘The Origin of All Streams.’”