Chapter 207: Why Did Grandfather Deceive Me
Looking at Xiao Ju’s earnest expression, a strange thought flickered through Song Yan’s mind.
Xiao Ju’s slow cultivation was partly due to her poor spiritual root aptitude, and partly due to poverty—she lacked sufficient cultivation resources.
Yet her temperament and character were flawless.
Perhaps she was too kind, but personality could be tempered.
He lightly stroked his chin, pondering a certain possibility.
“Should I let Xiao Ju try the Sword Planting Method?”
The Sword Sect had fallen into decline, and he himself possessed only scraps of its legacy.
This small bit of knowledge—one more person knowing it or one fewer—hardly mattered, did it?
“Wait a little longer…”
After deliberation, Song Yan decided to wait until after his own Foundation Establishment before making any decisions.
What he had gone through before was a last resort, a desperate gamble—and who knew how much luck had played a role in that success.
Once he succeeded in Foundation Establishment, he would be able to stand guard nearby.
That way, he would avoid ruining someone else’s cultivation path and accumulating karmic debt, which would in turn create problems for his own state of mind.
Besides, Xiao Ju was only at the third level of Qi Refining—not yet at the stage where she could perform Spirit Severing and Sword Planting.
He resolved to wait until she reached the fourth level of Qi Refining or above before making further plans.
He had never once entertained thoughts of rebuilding the Sword Sect. The Eastern Abyss Sect had, on the whole, treated him well. There was no need to establish his own faction.
More importantly, he simply lacked the strength to do so.
The two sat in silence, each lost in thought.
Since consuming the tiger demon’s inner core, Xiao He had been sleeping for increasingly long stretches.
She had been lively for a few days while aboard the boat, but now she was fast asleep once more.
…
The last rays of the setting sun painted the river in hues of evening glow. A crimson cloud-patterned grain boat lay moored on the water.
Cloud Creek City—the Prefect’s Manor.
Zhao Huaizhen stood outside the manor, flanked by a retinue of servants. His expression showed fatigue, though he forced himself to remain alert.
He had no idea what had gotten into these past few days.
First, a cultivator from the Eastern Abyss Sect had come to inspect the affairs of the Profound Abyss Sect’s enshrinement—and had uncovered a scandal involving their patron consorting with a tiger demon.
That, at least, had been manageable. These were matters of the immortal sects, and had little to do with his governance of the city.
He had barely seen off that visitor before yet another arrived.
No sooner had the previous immortal departed than his servants brought urgent news: the Second Prince, for reasons unknown, had arrived in Cloud Creek City aboard a grain transport vessel from the capital.
Word had come that the prince had not come straight to the Prefect’s Manor upon disembarking. Instead, he had gone sightseeing first, accompanied by a young woman who looked as ethereal as a celestial maiden.
“None of them are easy to deal with…”
He sighed inwardly.
It was true that he, Zhao Huaizhen, craved power and wealth. Countless people longed for the chance to rub shoulders with these immortal cultivators and high officials, but could never obtain such an opportunity.
Yet to have them arrive one after another like this left him breathless.
At least it was only the Second Prince. If it had been some other high official, this hasty preparation might well have offended them.
Just as his nerves were fraying, a delegation arrived at the Prefect’s Manor.
At its head walked the very same young man in the python-embroidered robe whom Song Yan and the others had seen at the docks.
Zhao Huaizhen hurried to the manor gate and bowed deeply. “Your Highness graces us with your presence—this humble official failed to welcome you at the gate!”
The Second Prince had not come with great fanfare. He brought only two personal bodyguards and… a fair-faced young woman—truly a minimalist entourage.
The prince waved a hand, his manner languid. “Prefect Zhao, no need for formalities. This prince has come merely to relax. There is no need for pomp.”
As they conversed, they entered the reception hall and took their seats.
Zhao Huaizhen stole a careful glance at the prince’s expression, then ventured tentatively, “Your Highness must be weary from the journey. Perhaps you would care to rest in the Flower Pavilion? A modest banquet has been prepared…”
He had originally wanted to mention that dancing girls and beautiful attendants awaited in the pavilion, but upon seeing the lovely young woman at the prince’s side, he thought better of it.
“Prefect Zhao, back in the capital, you and I were already acquainted. There is no need to be so stiff.”
Only then did Zhao Huaizhen let out a breath of relief.
“…No need for banquets,” the Second Prince said, stretching languidly. His gaze swept across the manor’s grounds before he asked suddenly, “I’m tired today. I shall retire early.”
“I hear Cloud Creek is known for its ‘Misty Spring River’ scenery. Tomorrow, I intend to go out for a stroll.”
His gaze settled upon the young woman who had remained silent throughout, and he grinned. “Hey! Lady Xie, the fairy maiden—would you do this prince the honor of accompanying me tomorrow?”
The young woman sat in quiet composure, her white robes purer than snow. Her ink-black hair was simply tied up.
Her bearing was serene, and between her brows there emanated an air of transcendence.
Her fair face still held a trace of youthfulness, unadorned by cosmetics, her skin like congealed jade. At the prince’s words, she did not speak—she merely gave a slight nod.
“Your Highness, this humble official is too blind to recognize—might I ask who this lady is?”
The Second Prince smiled. “Prefect Zhao, do not underestimate her just because she is young. This is none other than Immortal Master Xie Chan of the Hanging Sword Mountain—a true celestial teacher.”
“Ah!”
Zhao Huaizhen’s expression shifted to one of shock. He hurried to bow with utmost respect and was about to apologize for his discourtesy, but Xie Chan stopped him.
She shook her head. “Prefect Zhao, there is no need for that.”
The Second Prince leaned back in his seat with a lazy air, eating from the fruit platter a servant had presented. “Prefect Zhao, the capital is in chaos right now. My brothers are all scheming and fighting over the matter of selecting an heir—they’re at each other’s throats.”
“Just so happens the grain transport was heading to Cloud Creek City, and I remembered you. So here I am, to stay for half a year or so and lay low for a while.”
He pointed at Xie Chan. “Lady Xie happened to be traveling down from the mountain and escorted me here.”
Xie Chan nodded. “The Xie family once received Your Highness’s favor. Escorting you is a small matter, hardly worth mentioning.”
“So that’s how it is.”
Zhao Huaizhen wiped the sweat from his brow. Both of them were easy to talk with, and his heart settled considerably.
He had known about this Second Prince for some time—the man had no interest in power politics and cared nothing for the struggle for succession.
It seemed he had truly come here just to relax.
“This humble official will prepare quarters for you both at once.”
“To be frank, the timing is rather unfortunate. A cultivator from the Eastern Abyss Sect who came to inspect the enshrinement affairs just departed, and the Zhaixing Villa has not yet been properly cleaned. Immortal Master Xie, might you stay in another villa for the time being?”
“That is of no consequence.”
Xie Chan had endured hardship since childhood. After joining the Hanging Sword Mountain, she had devoted herself wholeheartedly to the Dao. The question of which villa she stayed in meant nothing to her.
However, Zhao Huaizhen’s words had caught her attention.
A cultivator from the Eastern Abyss Sect?
“Prefect Zhao, do you know which cultivator visited here recently?”
“Oh, that would be Immortal Master Song Yan of the Eastern Abyss Sect,” Zhao Huaizhen answered honestly.
Song Yan?!
Xie Chan’s eyes, usually as calm as still water, suddenly brightened. She raised her head and looked toward the Prefect. “Is this true?”
Zhao Huaizhen was somewhat bewildered. He was but a humble mortal Prefect—would he dare lie to an immortal?
Before he could answer, the Second Prince glanced sideways at her, the corner of his lips curving upward. “Miss Xie, you know this Immortal Master Song?”
Xie Chan pressed her lips together and nodded, then continued her inquiry. “Prefect Zhao, do you know where Immortal Master Song went specifically?”
“This humble official only knows he boarded a boat heading north toward Lin Prefecture. As for his exact destination…” Zhao Huaizhen furrowed his brow, an apologetic smile on his face. “How cultivators conduct their affairs—this humble official dare not inquire too closely.”
“Lin Prefecture…”
Xie Chan murmured the words to herself.
That year, she had followed Grandfather Xie Xing to Hanging Sword Mountain for the selection of immortal seedlings. Both she and Brother Xie Chuan had been accepted into the sect.
Since joining, she had never stopped searching for information about that person who had saved her family all those years ago.
Song Yan.
At first, she had found nothing. It was only after the events at Changping that the name Song Yan had spread among the great sects.
For many, discussions about Song Yan were merely passing conversation.
But for her, Xie Chan, it was entirely different.
The Second Prince’s hand slowed as he ate his fruit, a sense of unease stirring within him. Throughout their journey, he had never once seen this celestial maiden display such an expression.
This Song Yan…
What kind of person could he be?
Sure enough, after a moment of silence, Xie Chan suddenly rose to her feet. “Your Highness, we have now arrived in Cloud Creek City, and there should be no further concerns. I must take my leave.”
The Second Prince raised an eyebrow. “Oh? Is the immortal going to chase after that Immortal Master Song?”
Xie Chan nodded.
She did not know what she hoped to accomplish, but she felt she had to see him—to see the man who had once been her savior.
Even if she missed him, even if there was only the slimmest hope.
The Second Prince was silent for a moment, a flicker of loneliness crossing his eyes, yet he still smiled. “Miss Xie is, after all, a member of the immortal sects. This prince is but a mere mortal—how could I presume to burden an immortal?”
He waved his hand, affecting a casual air. “Go, then. Do not delay on my account.”
Xie Chan had no thought of lingering another instant. She left behind the words “Take care, Your Highness,” and departed.
The Second Prince rose to see her off, but the girl under the evening sky did not once look back.
Watching Xie Chan’s receding figure—her fine robes rippling gently in the wind—the prince’s face still wore that lazy smile, yet it could not conceal the loneliness in his eyes.
Hah…
The young man laughed self-deprecatingly. “The path of immortals and mortals diverge… I was a fool to indulge in such fantasies.”
“Still…”
“Is it truly impossible to cultivate without a spiritual root?”
…
Returning to the Cloud Inn, the night passed without incident.
Early the next morning, Song Yan prepared to leave the city and head for Changfeng Village.
As he descended the stairs, he found Wu Dou waiting at the entrance, a horse-drawn carriage parked beside him.
“Good morning, Young Master. Have you had breakfast?”
Upon seeing Song Yan emerge, Wu Dou hurried over with a bow, holding a bundle of pastries in his hand—they appeared to be local delicacies.
When Wu Dou noticed Song Yan’s gaze on the carriage, he rubbed his hands and explained hastily, “Young Master, the silver you gave was more than generous. Thinking the journey to Changfeng Village is quite far, I took the liberty of hiring a carriage.”
With such generous payment, simply pointing the way and making introductions felt inadequate. He could not rest easy taking the money for so little.
“The driver is an acquaintance of mine—knows the roads well, strong horses, guaranteed to be both swift and smooth.”
Song Yan gave a slight nod.
The few taels of silver he had casually tossed yesterday were indeed excessive for a simple guide. He had not expected Wu Dou to be so thorough.
“That will do. I thank you, brother.”
“You’re too kind.”
Song Yan nodded to Xiao Ju, and the two of them climbed into the carriage.
Wu Dou sat beside the driver, and the two chatted in the local dialect.
It had to be said—Song Yan’s image as a martial artist of the jianghu saved him a great deal of unnecessary trouble.
Even if someone saw his lavish spending and harbored thoughts of robbery and murder, they would have to consider whether they possessed the strength to attempt it.
The carriage set off.
Wu Dou called out from the front, “Forgive this humble one’s boldness, Young Master, but it seems you didn’t come for the tales of General Xiao?”
Song Yan gave a noncommittal hum and offered a casual explanation. “An ancestor of mine hailed from Changfeng Village. This trip is something of a visit to our ancestral homeland.”
“I see.”
Wu Dou acknowledged this and asked no more.
Though Song Yan seemed easy enough to talk to, he had no intention of annoying his wealthy patron without cause.
Xiao Ju occasionally stared blankly out the carriage window, gazing at the glimpses of scenery through the curtain and imagining the landscape beyond.
“What kind of person was Senior Song’s grandfather, I wonder?”
After bouncing along rugged mountain roads for the better part of a day, the carriage finally halted before a village nestled in a mountain hollow.
Changfeng Village was smaller than imagined—several dozen households scattered across the hillside, their gray-tiled, earthen-walled houses arranged in uneven clusters.
At the village entrance, an old locust tree slanted its branches. Beneath it sat several old men smoking dry tobacco. When the carriage stopped, they all turned curious gazes toward the newcomers.
In the distance, women bent over the terraced paddies, transplanting seedlings. The occasional bark of a dog only underscored the village’s quietness.
Song Yan and his companions’ arrival seemed almost… noisy by comparison.
Stepping down from the carriage, Song Yan walked forward with measured steps and cupped his fists toward the old men beneath the locust tree. “Elders, might any of you have heard of someone named ‘Song Ying’?”
“He was also a villager. Roughly twenty-some years ago, he still lived here, and then he left. Where did he used to live?”
To his surprise, the smoking elder shook his head and clicked his tongue. “Our Changfeng Village has the Shu family and the Zheng family, but this surname Song…”
He turned his gaze to the man beside him. “Say, how come I’ve never heard of that?”
The man questioned gave the same answer. “Song Ying? Never heard of him.”
The old men exchanged puzzled glances, all shaking their heads and clicking their tongues.
Song Yan froze. This scene felt terribly familiar.
He had already sensed something was amiss.
Undaunted, he continued along the village paths, inquiring at every household from one end to the other. He even knocked on the door of the village schoolmaster’s home, but the answer was always the same.
“No such person.”
Xiao Ju hugged her sword and followed quietly at his side.
Wu Dou ventured, “Young Master, could it be that your elder remembered incorrectly?”
“That shouldn’t be the case.”
Song Yan shook his head.
It was not until they passed the village ancestral hall and encountered the elderly village chief leaning on a cane that things changed.
The old man squinted in thought for a long moment, then suddenly went “Oh!”—and before he even spoke, a look of joy had already appeared on Song Yan’s face.
“You mean that wandering herbalist with the medicine box? I remember, I remember.”
“But he wasn’t a villager…”
Not a villager?
“Twenty-some years ago, he did come through. He built a thatched shelter on Wuzhi Plateau and stayed for half a year or so, treating illnesses for many villagers.”
“That man was quite odd—often muttering to himself at the cliff face. Then one day he simply vanished… Why, is he your relative?”
Song Yan drew a deep breath.
Receiving such a strange answer, he found it nearly impossible to keep his composure.
“Why did Grandfather deceive me?”
Truly baffling. Even if he meant to lie, he should have said “our ancestral village is Changfeng Village,” not “Wuzhi Plateau.”
What exactly was on Wuzhi Plateau?
He pondered for a moment, then turned to Wu Dou. “You’ve worked hard, brother. You may head back. I wish to stay here one night.”
Wu Dou looked puzzled but nodded nonetheless.
He boarded the carriage and departed.
The elderly village chief, having nothing better to do, led them toward Wuzhi Plateau where the “thatched shelter” stood.
Though advanced in years, the old man had been a farmer his whole life, and his stride was by no means slow.
Song Yan asked about the village’s history, and the village chief answered every question without reservation.
This line of inquiry, however, unearthed a curious fact.
Changfeng Village had actually been formed by the merging of two villages that once sat higher up the mountain.