Chapter Ninety-Six: A Dialogue at the Sacred Master's Realm, the Youth Paints the Future with His Primordial Spirit [Seeking Votes]

In just three strides, he crossed from the imperial city to the tower of Lin’an Prefecture, his overwhelming aura and surging deadly intent shattering every drop of spring rain that fell through the hazy dusk clouds.

Qin Lishi wore a vibrant crimson official robe, hands clasped behind his back, suspended above the city tower of Lin’an Prefecture, blocking the path of An Le, who stood atop the Ink Pool, and Li You’an, who was crossing the air horizontally.

Qin Lishi’s position as the current prime minister was no accident; he was far from a powerless scholar. He possessed formidable cultivation—indeed, in this world where power came only through cultivation, holding an official post in the Great Zhao Court without a strong cultivation was impossible.

Even those who ranked as successful candidates on the secondary imperial examination might only reach eighth or ninth rank officials in their lifetime; aspiring to seventh rank office, even as a leisurely official, was difficult without cultivation to secure one’s position.

Thus, Qin Lishi’s ascent to prime minister confirmed he was far from an ordinary man without cultivation.

As Qin Lishi took those three strides from the imperial city to block their way, the spiritual energies of various powerful figures within Lin’an Prefecture began to stir and ripple.

One wave after another of primordial soul power swept through, seeking to investigate the situation.

Though the prime minister held a high official rank in Lin’an, he represented only one faction within the prefecture. Other influential families—dukes, grand ministers—wielded power comparable to Qin Lishi’s and mostly aligned with different princes.

Among these, the Lin, Ye, and Zhong families stood as neutral military meritorious houses, a rarity; most chose to back princes they trusted and favored.

Now, after five centuries of the Great Zhao’s southern migration, the grand celestial palace’s patriarch’s fate neared its end—signaling an imminent change in imperial power. At such times, choosing sides was inevitable.

Choosing rightly could extend a family’s glory for centuries; choosing wrongly meant inevitable decline.

This was the nature of court politics—every high-ranking official was a bargaining chip in the princes’ contest for the throne.

Qin Lishi sided with the eldest prince. Consequently, some forces loyal to rival princes sent out their primordial souls to probe and gauge the situation.

The spring rain thickened, the dusk clouds hung low.

An Le stood poised atop the Ink Pool, gazing at Qin Lishi, who had crossed in three strides to block their path, a solemn expression clouding his face.

His white robe fluttered, the Qingshan sword at his waist trembling faintly. He raised his palm to cover Qingshan.

This was An Le’s first meeting with Prime Minister Qin Lishi—a lean elder whose aura was suffused with sorrow, intertwining with a surging killing intent so fierce it shattered the spring rain.

Qin Lishi’s spirit-refining cultivation was exceedingly profound. An Le felt immense pressure, as if a towering mountain pressed down upon him—undeniably a high-level spirit-refining master.

This oppressive force had yet to reach An Le, already blocked by a sword qi as delicate and bright as starlight, preventing it from advancing even an inch.

“Prime Minister Qin, you are a grand master of spirit refinement, yet bullying a mere child who has just formed his primordial soul—truly shameless,” Li You’an remarked coldly.

“General You’an, this man killed my beloved son. How could I show him any kindness? Am I to grovel and offer a smile? As prime minister, I am not so base,” Qin Lishi shot Li You’an a glance, his eyes icy and intense.

Qin Lishi had never been so enraged before. When his eldest son died, though grief and anger overwhelmed him, he had held himself back, channeling his vengeance toward the Lin family afterward.

But this time, Qin Qianqiu’s death was like a knife carving deep into his heart, tearing his soul apart in agony.

He had invested more affection in Qin Qianqiu than in his firstborn.

“General Li, you may leave if you wish, but this boy must stay. He killed my son; I must at least have one life to quell my fury,” the prime minister said. Coming from his stature, such disregard for face demonstrated the depth of his murderous intent.

In truth, Qin Lishi was furious. He had warned Qin Qianqiu time and again that An Le was no longer a mere nobody; behind him stood Zhao Huangting, the venerable imperial uncle—a formidable figure.

As the patriarch neared his destined end, his actions grew increasingly brazen and tyrannical. To provoke An Le and Zhao Huangting now would only invite trouble.

Patience was required. They had to wait for Zhao Huangting’s demise and for Li You’an to leave Lin’an and return to the Canglang River. Only then, when An Le lost his greatest support, could Qin Lishi’s faction easily suppress him.

But Qin Qianqiu failed to restrain himself and struck at An Le again, drawing out An Le’s relentless killing intent, resulting in his death atop the Wanghu Tower.

Within Lin’an Prefecture, waves of auras rose skyward.

Zhao Huangting gripped a bamboo staff; Madam Hua’s presence was suffused with sword intent; Master Lin carried a blood-dripping firewood cleaver, gazing distantly.

Also present was Di Cang, leader of the Martial Temple, wielding Zhao Zu’s Dragon-Slaying Saber, his aura terrifying.

Qin Lishi’s eyes grew colder still. The seemingly unremarkable youth before him had, unbeknownst to him, gathered such formidable backing.

An Le stepped lightly on the Ink Pool, a breeze fluttering his robes, his spirit permeated with calmness as he floated above the ground on his sword.

He looked at the towering prime minister and said thoughtfully, “Prime Minister Qin, have you read my final essay on the Northern Expedition?”

“Prime Minister obviously rejects my viewpoint, believing the Great Zhao’s current prosperity is hard-won, so we must endure—the repeated border provocations of the Yuanmeng Empire, their trampling and ravaging of our Central Plains,” An Le’s white garments fluttered like a spring breeze, his broad sleeves billowing, giving him an ethereal, almost otherworldly grace.

“Endurance has been your persistent principle,” Qin Lishi retorted coldly, gazing at the youth dressed in white, “The Canglang River is a natural moat protecting Great Zhao. If we cross it and fight, our army has never defeated the Yuanmeng cavalry. Should our defenses falter, the Yuanmeng forces will cross southward, setting these vast lands ablaze again, bringing ruin to countless lives and shattering five centuries of prosperity like a dream.”

“That is exactly my position. The world today, Great Zhao is not the strongest. The Western Liang watches hungrily; the Dali Imperial Tutor governs with new policies. Should the Northern Expedition fail, the cost would be unimaginable. Thus, enduring for now is no mistake.”

An Le smiled: “If Prime Minister can so easily endure such national hatred, why not endure this moment’s grievance? The imperial examination is imminent. Should I fail to rank among the top three, the Great Zhao law will surely weigh upon me. Then, Prime Minister, you need not stir up such a commotion to deal with me.”

Arrogant.

Qin Lishi’s gaze sharpened, locking onto the snowy-white youth who exuded an aura as invincible as a white python soaring across the sky.

He understood the implications in the youth’s words.

Holding the southern line and fighting within the river’s bounds was a cautious strategy. Qin Lishi never believed himself wrong. As prime minister, to order a northern campaign and fail would bring eternal condemnation.

He was unwilling to gamble. The civil and military officials supporting him would not risk the fading splendor of Lin’an.

At least during his tenure as prime minister, he would not gamble, nor did he need to.

Qin Lishi also grasped the deeper meaning behind An Le’s words.

The youth was confident—confident he would rank among the top three in the imperial exam. Today’s words left no room for retreat.

Failure meant being crushed under Great Zhao’s law, locked in the Dali Temple’s prison, powerless to resist.

This was the youth’s chosen path: rejecting outside help, betting on his own confidence.

Truly a legendary youth daring to walk the path of Li You’an’s unmatched force.

Even Qin Lishi found a measure of admiration for the youth’s boldness. But admiration aside, the hatred for his slain son would not vanish.

Qin Lishi coldly stared at An Le, his eyes devoid of killing intent.

He descended gracefully onto the city tower, his crimson robe fluttering in the spring wind and rain.

“Very well, I will prepare a cell in the Dali Temple’s prison as your final resting place,” Qin Lishi said.

His words implied restraint.

Today, he would not kill An Le, nor fight Li You’an, Zhao Huangting, Hua Jiebing, and others to unleash a storm over Lin’an. That would bring no benefit and would cost too many strong warriors.

Yet, he would ensure An Le could not place among the top three in the imperial exam.

The confident youth would perish beneath his own confidence.

Qin Lishi knew full well that An Le’s background and trump cards were but temporary illusions.

Li You’an and Di Cang would eventually leave Lin’an for the Canglang River; Zhao Huangting’s time was near its end; Hua Jiebing and the Lin family’s decline was inevitable.

The youth’s supporters behind him would fall like autumn flowers, petal by petal, leaving the youth vulnerable.

Then, killing him would be effortless.

As the youth said, if he could endure national hatred, why not endure a personal grudge?

Gazing coldly at the white-robed youth who soared above Lin’an’s city and out beyond its walls, Qin Lishi slowly closed his eyes.

Li You’an looked at the closed eyes of Qin Lishi, then at the youth who flew out of the city, and suddenly chuckled softly.

In this way, An Le was truly pushed onto a path of no return. Yet if he could emerge from this path, the youth’s future might be dazzlingly brilliant.

Li You’an drifted out of the city.

Qin Lishi remained with eyes closed.

Above Lin’an Prefecture, the aged Zhao Huangting of the ancestral temple sneered: “How dull. I thought Qin Lishi would fight to the death over his son’s death. I had prepared for a fierce battle, but in the end, you restrained yourself. Truly worthy of the name Qin Lishi—master of endurance.”

“Not thrilling at all.”

“Sometimes, endurance means giving up opportunity.”

“Whether facing the Yuanmeng Empire or this An Le boy, the same applies.”

With those cryptic words, Zhao Huangting gripped his bamboo staff and returned inside the city. He knew where Li You’an had taken An Le and chose not to follow.

Li You’an’s willingness to bring An Le there spoke volumes about how much he valued the youth; thus, he did not meddle.

Di Cang’s blood surged like a crimson dragon coiling about him. He stared at Qin Lishi on the city tower—the greatest political obstacle to the Northern Expedition.

He turned his gaze to the departing figure of An Le, hoping the youth might show Qin Lishi the consequences of endless endurance.

Hua Jiebing and Master Lin had nothing to say about Qin Lishi—his family and Qin’s were like fire and water.

Though the storm that enveloped Lin’an Prefecture had yet to fully erupt, all knew the true tempest would break out during the forthcoming imperial examination.

On the city tower, Qin Lishi slowly opened his eyes.

The icy spring rain struck his face; his gaze was cold and aloof.

Many primordial souls scanned the void, but Qin Lishi ignored them all. His crimson robe billowed fiercely as he faced the whole of Lin’an Prefecture and uttered two words:

“Release results.”

An Le rode his sword swiftly, the spring rain pattering against his face, refreshing his spirit.

He had his own calculations after the exchange with Qin Lishi. Though pushed to a dead end, the invincible momentum he carried was already a path of no return.

If that momentum broke, it would be like a blown-up balloon pierced—losing all hope for the future.

In that case, why not add more pressure upon himself?

Perhaps great pressure would become the energy to fuel the balloon’s ascent.

Li You’an floated ahead, gazing deeply at An Le with a mix of admiration and melancholy.

“You are betting your entire pride and spirit. Should you fail the imperial exam, I will not save you. Neither will Zhao Huangting. Because this is your own choice,” Li You’an said.

“The sharpness of a treasured sword comes from honing; the fragrance of plum blossoms arises from bitter cold. Perhaps my sword grows ever keener with every trial,” An Le smiled.

Li You’an chuckled softly: “You truly remind me of my youth—full of sharpness. Lin’an’s gentle lands are no place for you. You should come to the Canglang River battlefield. Only there can you endure true tempering.”

“Qin Lishi fears that if we cross the river, we cannot defeat the Yuanmeng cavalry. But he greatly underestimates our troops at Canglang and the valor of Great Zhao’s generals. The Yuanmeng army has yet to breach Canglang—not because of the river’s natural defense, but because of the courage and strength of Great Zhao’s warriors.”

“Those officials sitting in the court judge only by their own thoughts, never leaving the comfort of Lin’an to witness the battlefield. They do not know how fierce the generals defending Canglang really are.”

“Our Great Zhao generals are not weak; the court simply lacks the resolve to cross the river.”

“At the imperial exam, your greatest opponent will be Ye Wenxi. Though her ranking on the junior saint list is lower than Qin Hua’an’s, Qin Hua’an will surely lose to Ye Wenxi.”

“Ye Wenxi is the granddaughter of Ye Longsheng, raised on the Canglang battlefield, crawling through heaps of the dead. Her reputation commands great respect on the Canglang front and within the Yuanmeng ranks. Qin Hua’an, Sima Pudu, and the Wang family’s Qilin’er are all geniuses raised in Lin’an’s gentle lands—trash by comparison.”

“Therefore, the Canglang battlefield truly forges warriors,” Li You’an said.

An Le smiled lightly upon hearing this, knowing well the fierce nature hidden beneath Ye Wenxi’s graceful exterior—a ruthless figure who had taken many lives.

“The Canglang battlefield, huh?” An Le’s eyes gleamed with yearning.

True strength was forged in battle.

Li You’an strode forward, hands clasped behind him. An Le followed on his sword, now able to relax and enjoy the freedom and elegance it afforded.

They flew for some time, passing over mountains blurred with mist and spring rain.

Twelve peaks rose highest, their misty hues like flowing jade.

A verdant, hazy mountain peak gradually came into focus beneath them. Li You’an guided them to descend among the mountains.

Lush and dense, with rolling ridges and cascading waterfalls roaring like thunder.

The mountain path was muddy and seldom trod, littered with dead and new leaves. The air was fresh yet tinged with the sour scent of fruit fermented through autumn and winter.

Li You’an walked through the mud without exerting cultivation, hands behind his back, eyes reflecting nostalgia.

An Le followed silently, his Ink Pool and Qingshan swords at his waist, showing no complaint despite his white robes and boots stained by the mud, stepping carefully through the underbrush.

Soon, they reached the mountain summit.

A welcoming pine grew beside jagged cliffs, swirling mountain mist veiling a large plateau.

Beside it stood a towering sheer cliff carved as if by a sword.

The sound of flowing water echoed softly, lending a serene atmosphere.

“Curious where I’ve brought you?” Li You’an, clad in scholar’s robes, smiled at An Le.

An Le was indeed puzzled, no idea where they were.

Approaching the cliff, Li You’an pointed at the mirror-like surface and said, “Look closely at this cliff. Do you see anything?”

An Le’s gaze swept over the smooth, rain-shedding cliff, polished like porcelain tiles seemingly crafted by tools from a previous life.

He saw nothing and shook his head. “I see nothing.”

Li You’an narrowed his eyes and smiled faintly. “Do you know what this place is?”

An Le shook his head again.

Li You’an stood beneath the welcoming pine, his robes billowing, back to An Le.

“This mountain was nameless until I, after becoming the top scholar of the minor saint list, chose it as the place to converse with the Sage Master.”

“I once spoke with the Sage Master here.”

“Had I become the Seventh Mountain’s master, I would have named this mountain the Seventh Mountain. Alas, I never attained that title, and so the mountain remains unknown and unvisited.”

Li You’an spoke softly, but his words struck like thunder, astonishing An Le beyond measure.

He then smiled, patting the welcoming pine, reciting quietly:

“Last night drunk beside the pine, I asked the pine how drunk I was. Suspecting the pine would move to support me, I pushed it away with my hand.”

“This is a verse I composed before becoming the Seventh Mountain master, thus I named this mountain ‘Supporting Pine.’”

Supporting Pine Mountain—truly a name chosen with casual ease.

What shocked An Le even more was that this was the very place where Li You’an had once conversed with the Sage Master.

Dialoguing with the Sage Master was a dream for many cultivators, yet Li You’an had chosen such a secluded, unassuming spot.

“I spoke with the Sage Master for a long time, asking all my doubts. The Sage Master answered each, including mysteries of cultivation.”

“When departing, the Sage Master left three sword qi lines etched into this cliff—depicting past, present, and future. I understood two: past and present. Now only one remains.”

“Over the years, I brought many promising juniors here, including Ye Wenxi. Yet no one has ever seen the painting within the cliff.”

“I am particularly interested in the final sword qi representing the future, to understand what the future holds. That is why I brought you here.”

“Look closely. If you can perceive the painting and gain insight, then do so. If not, then so be it,” Li You’an said.

The Sage Master had left three sword qi: past, present, and future.

An Le’s eyes sharpened as he stared at the mirror-like cliff.

Li You’an sat beneath the ancient pine, producing a wine gourd from somewhere, sipping quietly and paying no mind to An Le.

An Le sat beneath the cliff, gazing intently upward, eyes fixed unwaveringly.

The spring rain ceased; sunlight broke through the lingering dusk clouds.

The sun dipped westward; stars and moon climbed high.

Dawn’s first light spread fish-belly white across the east, the morning glow painting the sky.

An Le kept his gaze locked on the cliff, motionless.

A day and a night passed in the silent mountain, broken only by insect songs.

Stars cascaded like a waterfall.

Li You’an rose beneath the pine, shook his head with mild regret—perhaps this youth could not perceive the Sage Master’s final future sword qi, unable to glimpse the future.

Indeed, the future is unknown—how can it be seen?

Just as Li You’an, disappointed, prepared to rouse An Le, his brow twitched. He stepped back beneath the pine.

“The future—the Sage Master did not paint the future, but awaited a future encounter,” An Le murmured.

As he spoke, a pure aura rose from his white robes, swirling gracefully.

The Ink Pool and Qingshan swords transformed into twin sword lights, circling him, singing a clear, sharp melody.

Within An Le’s third eye palace, sword qi rang out thunderously.

His primordial soul stepped forth.

Step by step, as if ascending to the heavens, he advanced toward the flawless cliff.

Finally, before the cliff, he stretched out his hand. Like rippling water, it entered the cliff’s surface. To Li You’an’s eyes, the youth’s primordial soul transformed into an unparalleled sword light, painting a vision of the future upon the cliff.

In that instant,

The sword qi burst forth.

Soaring upward, straight to the stars.

***

“Brother Shen.”

“Hm.”

Shen Changqing walked along the road, greeting familiar faces with nods or brief hellos.

Yet no one showed any emotion, as if indifferent to all.

To Shen Changqing, this was normal.

This was the Demon Suppression Division—a body maintaining the stability of Great Qin, tasked mainly with slaying demons and monsters. Of course, they had other duties as well.

One could say that everyone in the Demon Suppression Division had blood on their hands.

When accustomed to life and death, one grows indifferent to many things.

When Shen Changqing first arrived in this world, he struggled to adapt, but over time, he grew used to it.

The Demon Suppression Division was vast.

Those who remained were either formidable experts or possessed potential.

Shen Changqing belonged to the latter.

Within the division, there were two professions: Demon Guards and Demon Exterminators.

Every recruit started as a low-level Demon Exterminator, then rose step by step, ultimately hoping to become a Demon Guard.

Shen Changqing’s former self was a trainee Demon Exterminator—the lowest rank of Demon Exterminators.

With memories of his former self, he was very familiar with the division’s environment.

Soon, Shen Changqing stopped before a pavilion.

Unlike the other grim and blood-soaked places in the division, this pavilion stood out like a crane among chickens, exuding a rare tranquility.

The pavilion’s doors stood open, with the occasional person entering or leaving.

After a brief hesitation, Shen Changqing stepped inside.

Upon entering, the atmosphere abruptly changed.

A waft of ink fragrance mixed faintly with blood scent hit his nose, causing his brow to furrow instinctively, then relax.

The blood scent clinging to everyone in the division was nearly impossible to wash away.