Beneath the Immortal Gate, Bowing as a Servant

Leaving the road of Yanwei City was a path into the true mortal realm. Chen Ping'an did not travel alone. He knew very well that a lone old man carrying silver in this desolate wilderness was no different from a walking piece of fat meat. Spending a few pieces of broken silver, he found a merchant caravan heading north, disguising himself as a down-and-out country squire going to seek refuge with distant relatives, blending in among the porters and shop assistants.

The carriages rumbled, and the horses' hooves clattered. For over half a month, he spent his days in this constant swaying and exhaustion. By day, like the others, he gnawed on hard, dry bread and drank turbid river water; by night, he would find a haystack sheltered from the wind, wrap his clothes tightly around himself, and fall asleep to the sound of the wind and chirping insects.

This body, having been nourished by True Qi for two years, was much stronger than that of an ordinary old man, yet the hardships of the long journey still caused a constant ache deep within his bones. He never complained and spoke very little, simply traveling in silence. The people in the caravan merely regarded him as an eccentric old man who had once seen the world but had now fallen on hard times, keeping a respectful distance from him, which was exactly what he wanted.

Whenever the night grew deep and quiet, he would sit cross-legged in an unnoticed corner and slowly breathe in and out. The fatigue of the journey instead became another form of cultivation, making his control over that strand of True Qi in his body increasingly effortless.

The scenery before him also changed day by day. From boundless plains to gradually rolling hills, and finally to the endless mountain shadows on the distant horizon like painted brows. The breath of this heaven and earth seemed to have become different from before.

The further north he went, the fresher and more humid the air became. When the caravan reached the territory of the Qinghe Mountain Range, Chen Ping'an took a deep breath and could feel a cool, refreshing breath seep into his core, faint yet real, entering his lungs through his nose. He knew this was the thin yet real existence of the Spiritual Energy of Heaven and Earth. He was not far from his destination.

At a town at the foot of the mountain, he parted ways with the caravan. Alone, and following the information he had gathered, he found the office of the Liuyun Sect manager responsible for recruiting miscellaneous disciples. That place was not established at the sect gate shrouded in immortal mist, but rather in an inconspicuous cluster of buildings at the foot of the mountain. A courtyard of green bricks and grey tiles, the entrance did not even have a proper signboard, looking just like the accounting office of some wealthy mortal family.

At the courtyard gate, twenty to thirty people had already gathered, most of them clad in rags with sallow faces. Among them were refugees wandering from place to place, thugs who had committed crimes in the city seeking the protection of a sect, and one or two dream-filled youths harboring hopes of Immortal Destiny but lacking the Spiritual Root for cultivation. Upon their faces hung the same expression—confusion toward the future, and an instinctive, humble awe toward the Immortal Sects.

Chen Ping'an rubbed his clothes to make them look even older, let his hair become more disheveled, and then, hunching his back, silently merged into the back of the crowd. He was in no hurry to step forward, but instead, like a roadside stone, quietly observed.

In the courtyard, behind an Eight Immortals table, sat a middle-aged manager dressed in brocade robes with a shrewd appearance. He was idly doodling in a ledger with a calligraphy brush, seemingly lacking the slightest interest in the life and death of the mortals at the gate.

To everyone who stepped forward, he only asked three questions: "Name?" "Age?" "Do you have a trade?"

The vast majority were impatiently waved away by him. Occasionally, one or two who were physically strong and perhaps knew some carpentry or stonemasonry would be reluctantly recorded and assigned to do hard labor. Chen Ping'an observed for a full hour, figuring out most of Manager Feng's temperament—he was greedy yet feared taking responsibility, loved flattery yet was extremely impatient.

When it was his turn, he hunched his back and shuffled over, his face plastered with the most humble and panicked smile.

"Name?" Manager Feng did not even lift his eyelids.

"Reporting to Lord Immortal, this lowly one... this lowly one is Chen Ping." He used a pseudonym, his voice raspy with the characteristic wheeze of the elderly.

"Age? Where are you from?"

"Fifty-six. I fled from the south. In my home... there is no one left." As he spoke, his eyes turned red, and turbid tears welled up.

Manager Feng then looked up at him. Seeing a withered old man with one foot in the grave, a flash of disgust and impatience crossed his eyes.

Right at this moment, Chen Ping'an fumbled in his breast pocket and presented a forged travel permit. But as he handed over the document, a small metal piece wrapped in cloth slipped from between his fingers, extremely covertly, sliding onto the table along with the paper. The cloth bundle landed on the table, emitting an extremely faint, dull thud of silver striking wood.

Manager Feng's gaze was instantly drawn to it. From the corner of his eye, he caught sight of a corner of the cloth bundle, revealing a snow-white silver edge. His fingers tapped the table seemingly at random, perfectly sliding the bundle beneath his sleeve. The entire process was seamless, and Manager Feng's seemingly casual movements were clearly well-practiced.

Manager Feng's expression softened visibly. He cleared his throat, his tone becoming slightly more polite. "Hmm... At such an age, what can you still do?"

Chen Ping'an knew the fish had taken the bait. He hastily bowed and said, "Reporting to Lord Immortal, this lowly one cannot do heavy labor. But I know a few characters, and in my youth, my family worked with plants and flowers. I know how to tend to those delicate things, and above all, I have patience."

"Oh? You understand plants?" Manager Feng seemed to show some interest.

"A little, just a little," Chen Ping'an nodded like a chick pecking grain.

Manager Feng tapped the table with his brush handle, pondering for a moment. The outer sect's medicine garden indeed lacked honest and dutiful miscellaneous servants who also understood a bit of pharmacology. Those young disciples were all restless, always wanting to slack off to practice breathing and cultivation; they were far less reliable than these old mortals who had no hopes left. Moreover, this old man was very "tactful."

"Very well." With a broad stroke of his brush, he wrote "Chen Ping" at the end of the register, appending the words "Medicine Garden" behind it. "Go over there to collect your clothes. From now on, you are a member of our Liuyun Sect."

"Thank you, Lord Immortal! Thank you, Lord Immortal!" Chen Ping'an put on an expression of boundless gratitude, bowing repeatedly before trembling as he backed away. He received a set of grey cloth miscellaneous robes, made of coarse material with loose stitching, carrying the pungent smell of cheap dye.

A dark-faced outer disciple in charge of leading the way threw the clothes to him expressionlessly, saying coldly, "Change, then follow." Chen Ping'an silently changed, throwing his worn-out mortal clothes along with the remaining loose silver in his breast pocket into the roadside grass, never looking back.

He followed the disciple, stepping onto the stone steps leading to the sect gate, paved with solid slabs of green stone, stretching out of sight. The steps were long, and climbing them was arduous. Halfway up, Chen Ping'an intentionally stopped, clutching his knees and panting heavily, appearing physically exhausted. Taking this chance to catch his breath, he turned to look down the mountain.

The mortal world, the towns, the fields, and the roads all became small and distant beneath his feet, like a silent scroll unfurled. He knew that from this moment on, the wealthy pawnshop owner Chen Ping'an, who had lived in Yanwei City for over fifty years, was completely dead. Henceforth, there was no Chen Ping'an in the world. The only one alive was a miscellaneous servant bowing his head in the outer sect medicine garden of the Liuyun Sect, Chen Ping.

He turned around, facing the endless stone steps, taking one step at a time, never looking back.