Chapter One: Mistaking Sincerity for Strategy

Autumn rain in the Immortal Spirit Realm was the most lingering and tenacious, its chill seeping through one’s clothing with a discomfort that was hard to ignore. Yet for cultivators, such nuisances were easily dismissed, barely worth a second thought. So when Zhou Yihu heard the news, it was anger that welled up within him—a fury born of being underestimated, of having his intelligence insulted.

The greeter of Old Yellow Mountain, Daoist Qingsong, could only shrug helplessly in the face of Zhou Yihu’s indignation, for the facts were as he had stated. Qingsong, though of middling seniority among the ranks of the mountain, was the one tasked with receiving guests. Zhou Yihu, from the first echelon of Dark Cloud Stronghold, had arrived five days prior. Old Yellow Mountain never turned guests away at the door, so when Zhou Yihu presented himself, he had been clear about his intentions: he was here to visit Wu Yue, the archenemy of his own stronghold. He had even explained that this was a friendly visit, not a vendetta. But Old Yellow Mountain’s reply was absurd: Wu Yue had caught a chill in the autumn rain, fallen ill, and was now unfit to receive guests.

The sheer implausibility of it made Zhou Yihu both angry and amused. How could someone who had slain two cultivators in the Mortal Shedding stage—especially within the very sanctum of medical arts, Old Yellow Mountain—succumb to a mere cold? And to claim it would take at least half a month to recover? Clearly, Wu Yue simply did not wish to see him. Could it be that Wu Yue was so frightened by Dark Cloud Stronghold that he dared not face him? Zhou Yihu’s initial thoughts leaned this way, dismissing the young master’s reputed prowess as exaggerated tall tales.

Then, after waiting in vain for days, he was suddenly informed that Wu Yue’s condition had worsened. Zhou Yihu’s patience snapped. Did they truly think he was here for leisure, sightseeing, or idle visits? Did they take him for some greenhorn without backing or experience? Did they not realize he came on important business, with the might of Dark Cloud Stronghold behind him, a man who had lived over a hundred years?

He slammed his teacup down on the table with perfect control—only the tea splashed, the cup remained intact. His expression was dark as he said, “Are you detaining my brother Wu Yue, that you must hide behind this excuse of a chill? Are you not afraid the world will laugh at such a transparent lie?”

Qingsong, who appeared barely in his twenties but carried the poise of a seasoned veteran, responded with a gentle smile. “We simply speak the truth and have a clear conscience.” He sipped his tea calmly, the implication obvious: who among us is truly blameless? A year ago, you declared that you and Wu Yue could not coexist, vowing to see him dead. And now you call him brother. Do not treat us all as fools.

Zhou Yihu understood the barb perfectly. He could hardly claim to be sincere himself, but the situation was real, and Old Yellow Mountain showed not the slightest fear of Dark Cloud Stronghold. He forced a bitter smile. “There are reasons you do not know, Daoist. Allow me a meeting with Daoist Wu, and he will believe my words are true.”

Qingsong replied slowly, “Daoist Wu is but a guest here; his wishes are not ours to command. Yet after being caught in the autumn rain, he has taken ill. It is truly unwise for him to see anyone now.” He even managed to look troubled.

Zhou Yihu drew a deep breath, feeling that this young Daoist was wasted here and would make a fine actor elsewhere—such was his performance. Yet he had no choice but to accept it, and it galled him.

“If that is so, then at least permit me to see him. I have some knowledge of medicine myself,” Zhou Yihu said, wearing an expression of utmost candor. If they could fabricate a chill, why couldn’t he claim medical skill? His methods were simple—if your hand hurts, cut it off; if your foot aches, chop it—surely effective!

Qingsong eyed him with suspicion, but Zhou Yihu’s face was the picture of innocence. Qingsong pondered a moment before replying, “There’s no need for your trouble, Daoist Zhou. Our sect is quite accomplished in the medical arts. A mere chill is of no concern.”

Zhou Yihu struggled to contain his frustration. He barely kept his tone civil. “If it’s of no concern, how is it that five days have passed and he’s still not recovered?”

Qingsong shook his head. “Impatience is the bane of healing. Minor illnesses require minor remedies, greater ailments require more involved care—all progress must be gradual.”

Suddenly the table beside Zhou Yihu shattered into splinters, startling Qingsong. Zhou Yihu’s face was iron with rage. “It is nothing, merely anger I cannot vent. Do not take offense, Daoist.”

Qingsong sighed. “It is only human. A pity for the pear-blossom wood table, though.”

Zhou Yihu forced a smile. “Since I caused it, I shall of course make amends.”

Outside, the rain still fell. Where was this place? Wu Yue felt heavy-headed and light-footed, his vision dazed. He was lost in confusion for some time before he finally regained awareness. He vaguely remembered resting on the mountain path, feeling dizzy as he descended, and then—what happened? He must have fallen ill.

He was in a simple, somewhat familiar wooden cabin—his own quarters.

The door creaked open, and a young boy entered carrying a bowl of medicine, its herbal scent wafting ahead of him. As ever, medicine was never tasty, not even on Old Yellow Mountain.

The world seemed resigned to the idea that good medicine must be bitter. It was said that a few years ago, someone invented sour and sweet medicines, but no one bought them, even when prices dropped from double the usual to half. In the end, only a few children came, asking for candy. The truth of this tale was uncertain, but it had become a legend, and no one ever tried to improve the taste of medicine again.

Wu Yue, still muddled, stared at the newcomer for a long while before his eyes widened in disbelief. “Am I still dreaming?” he asked, unable to hide his astonishment.

The boy, however, was all joy at seeing his patient awake. “Wu Yue, you’re up! I’ve been caring for you these past days—it’s been exhausting for me!”

“How are you here? No—how are you still like this?” Wu Yue stared at Yu Fu, his shock unguarded. He was overjoyed to see an old friend, but something was off. Counting on his fingers, Yu Fu had been eleven when they’d first met, and nearly four years had passed—so why did he look unchanged?

“Did you catch some illness that stunted your growth?”

Yu Fu rolled his eyes. “I came all this way to see you, and you’re neither grateful nor hospitable. Now you’re cursing me with illness? No wonder you lost your cultivation and became an ordinary man.”

Wu Yue smiled awkwardly, picked up the bowl, and downed the medicine in one gulp. The bowl was large, but as an adult, it was hardly a challenge. It smelled bitter but tasted cool on the tongue. Wu Yue was about to speak when he noticed Yu Fu staring at him in shock, pointing at the bowl and then at himself, eyes wide. “You actually drank it?”

“What’s wrong?” Wu Yue asked, confused.

“That was for external use—meant to be applied to your underarms.”

“So what will happen now?” Wu Yue asked, wary.

Yu Fu shook his head in dismay. “Master Yu specifically instructed that, since your constitution is weak, you must be cautious with medicine. This remedy is too potent—just a topical application is enough.”

“As for drinking it, honestly, I have no idea what will happen. But nothing good ever comes from ignoring a doctor’s orders. At the very least, your illness will worsen. That’s inevitable.” Yu Fu’s face was grave.

Wu Yue felt a wave of despair just as a powerful dizziness overtook him.

“What? His condition has worsened? He drank the wrong medicine?”

“That’s correct,” Qingsong replied, his face utterly calm and sincere.

Zhou Yihu’s laughter grew louder and louder. Qingsong began to worry he might have gone mad.

“Old Yellow Mountain, you are too much!” Zhou Yihu leaped off the cliff and departed.