It is the month of the peach blossom awarm spring day.
The morning sun has just begun to rise, painting the horizon with a thousand rays of rosy light. Birds that have awoken with the dawn take flight from the branches, heading toward the bustling crowd at the foot of the mountain.
Clear, crisp birdsong sweeps across the mountain stream and descends upon a wide clearing in the wilderness. To the left of the clearing, a crowd surges; to the right, a few dozen people stand scattered.
Chong Wuxi opens his eyes amidst a wave of dizziness. He has no idea where he is, only seeing a mirror standing before him that is taller than a person. Its surface is covered in a hazy mist, creating a blurry reflection that makes it impossible to distinguish the features of the person within.
Half a minute later, the mottled, broken colors before Chong Wuxi’s eyes finally fade. He rubs his temples and looks up, meeting the gaze of the person in the mirror.
Surely he must have opened his eyes incorrectly.
Chong Wuxi closes his eyes tightly and opens them again, but the scene in the mirror remains unchanged.
He lifts his hand, clutching a strand of silver hair draped over his shoulder in disbelief. The small, round child in the mirror also lifts a hand, mimicking his movements to pull at its own hair.
Chong Wuxi pinches his own cheek. He uses a bit of force, and the small child in the mirror frowns in pain, a red mark appearing on its milk-white cheek.
Chong Wuxi thought to himself, “Is this really me?”
“Pass,” a voice rings out. Chong Wuxi turns his head and finds a young man standing to the right of the mirror, dressed in simple robes with a bamboo flute hanging from his waist.
Chong Wuxi follows the young man’s directions and walks to a queue nearby, temporarily suppressing the surging thoughts in his heart.
Seemingly sensing his agitation, the young man in plain robes pauses and gently brushes his hand over Chong Wuxi’s forehead. A faint scent of flowers and wood rises with the spring air, and Chong Wuxi’s mind gradually clears.
He looks toward the distant grass, the image of a new twig outside a hospital window flashing through his mind.
There is no trace of modernity here. People are dressed in long sleeves and short shirts, wearing brocades and robes; it is a completely antique style.
He seems to have arrived in an entirely unfamiliar world. Chong Wuxi recalls a few transmigration novels his high school deskmate once told him about. Could he have transmigrated?
Chong Wuxi looks down, touches his tattered, rough-cloth clothing, and feels a wooden tag. He unties the tag and holds it in his hand, only then noticing that it is carved with several ancient characters. He does not recognize them.
Standing diagonally in front of him is an old man with his eyes closed. The old man has white hair and a beard, looking kind and approachable. Chong Wuxi approaches him, tiptoes, and tugs at the corner of the old man’s robe: “Grandpa.”
The white-bearded old man turns back. The moment his gaze drops, he is startled: “Whoa, why is a young child already gray-haired?”
Chong Wuxi stays silent.
The old man coughs and offers some half-hearted comfort: “Silver hair and light eyes, like a little ball of ice and snow. It is an auspicious sign of a prosperous year; it is a good omen!”
Chong Wuxi hands the wooden tag to the old man: “Grandpa, do you know what is carved on this?”
The old man takes the tag and studies it for a moment. His expression flickers between kindness and indescribable complexity before settling into a very conflicted look: “Chong Wuxi of Changning Village. Child, this is your name plate.”
Chong Wuxi realizes that they have ID cards in ancient times too.
That is not important. What is important is the setting his high school deskmate once described: in some transmigration novels, the protagonist must not be discovered to be a replacement, or their soul will be scattered.
Chong Wuxi lowers his head, racking his brains to figure out how to cover this up.
The old man notices his furrowed brows and pale complexion, so he reaches out to check his pulse: “The three souls are not attached, the seven spirits have not returned; the liver is weak and attacked by evil, and the spirit is scattered.”
Chong Wuxi’s heart tightens, but the old man simply strokes his beard and adds slowly: “This is a symptom of wandering soul syndrome.”
He was so scared!
Chong Wuxi pats his chest, his almond-shaped eyes welling with tears. It seems that because he has transmigrated into a child, his mental age has also been assimilated, making him want to cry at the drop of a hat.
Seeing the little ball of ice and snow teary-eyed, the old man hurriedly comforts him: “Wandering soul syndrome is not incurable. By seeking the root and investigating the cause, this ailment can be resolved.”
Chong Wuxi sniffs and takes the opportunity to weave a story about going to the river to play in the water, being dragged under by something dark and murky, and then losing his memory.
The old man frowns, looking worried: “The thing that dragged you into the water must have been a demon. The demon clan has been restless lately and shows clear signs of a comeback.”
“Grandpa, what is the demon clan?”
The old man strokes his beard and explains everything from the creation of the world to the Three Thousand Worlds: “There are three thousand worlds in the universe, but only the Qingyuan Realm is rich in spiritual energy and possesses unparalleled cultivation resources, countless rare treasures, and exotic spirit beasts. In this Qingyuan Realm, the Xuanqing Sect reigns supreme. There are countless immortal sects in the Qingyuan Realm, but only the Xuanqing Sect…”
A row of female disciples in plain robes walks over. The old man closes his mouth, smiles, and unhooks the name plate from his waist to hand it to one of the women for verification, while reporting his place of origin and age.
Chong Wuxi mimics his actions and hands over his name plate, but he hits a snag when reporting his age. He does not know the original owner’s specific age, but since this is an ancient world where people are generally precocious and it is a cultivation realm rich in spiritual energy, he decides that saying he is three years old should be acceptable.
After his name plate is verified, Chong Wuxi is about to continue the previous conversation with the white-bearded old man when a childish voice suddenly comes from behind him.
Chong Wuxi turns around and finds a boy standing behind him who is a head taller than him. The boy has delicate features and snow-white skin, his red pupils glowing in the sunlight like a burning flame.
None of that is important. What is important is that he actually claims to be less than a year old.
Less than a year old!
Chong Wuxi glances at the boy’s expressionless face, then at his height, which is a head taller than his own. Is the cultivation world really this ridiculous?
Perhaps the suspicion on Chong Wuxi’s face is too obvious, for the boy suddenly becomes angry: “Presumptuous! How dare you question this prince? I possess the bloodline of the True Phoenix; my talent and cultivation are a hundred times superior to you mortals, and my growth rate is also a hundred times faster!”
True Phoenix bloodline. Chong Wuxi slowly processes this. A phoenix is a type of bird. Could this angry little bird in front of him have crawled out of an egg?
He tiptoes, about to observe closely to see what difference there is between the boy and a normal mortal, but his gaze meets those of the dozen guards behind the boy.
He cannot afford to offend this little bird.
Chong Wuxi turns back as if nothing happened and tugs on the old man’s sleeve, naturally resuming the conversation: “Grandpa, you mentioned the Xuanqing Sect just now…”
“Oh,” the white-bearded old man points to the mirror in the center of the clearing that is taller than a person, “that mirror is called the Demon-Subduing Mirror, one of the seven treasures of the Xuanqing Sect. The demon clan is good at disguises, but before this mirror, they have nowhere to hide.”
Under the old man’s explanation, Chong Wuxi learns that he has transmigrated into a fictional cultivation world called the Qingyuan Realm. There are countless sects in the Qingyuan Realm, among which the three major sects are the dream destinations for all cultivators.
The three major sects hold a recruitment event every twenty years. Today is the fifth day of the second lunar month, which is the day the Xuanqing Sect selects its disciples.
The old man is a good conversationalist and speaks incessantly: “The Xuanqing Sect has many Nascent Soul masters, and even greater powers at the Spirit Severing stage…”
Chong Wuxi rubs his temples. The Xuanqing Sect. Why does it sound strangely familiar?
The sun rises higher, light shining into the mountain stream and painting the forest in layers of color. Chong Wuxi stands in the warm sunlight, feeling sleepy, when the crowd suddenly becomes restless.
Crisp birdsong echoes from beyond the clouds, yet it sounds as if it is ringing right in his ears. The sleepiness vanishes instantly, and Chong Wuxi rubs his eyes and looks up.
Above the clear, blue sky, three large, snow-blue birds fly through the clouds and mist. Behind the blue birds follow several white-clad cultivators riding swords, their sleeves fluttering as if they were truly immortal beings.
The sky is high and the universe is vast; any person beneath this expanse is tiny. Chong Wuxi lowers his head and grips the wooden name plate in his hand.
The white-clad cultivators arrive gracefully, waving their sleeves to erect a high platform. The white-bearded old man points to the jade stone stairs below the platform: “That jade staircase is called the Immortal Ascension Ladder. The first test of the Xuanqing Sect’s selection is to break through the secret realm of the Ladder and climb to the high platform.”
However, the Immortal Ascension Ladder is extremely difficult to pass. Although many participate, very few make it through. Soon, it is the turn of the queue Chong Wuxi is in. The white-bearded old man is at the front; he looks up, then bows his head to pat Chong Wuxi:
“Calm your mind and focus your intent, and the secret realm can be broken. I am old, so I will not bother with this. I am going to look for another immortal destiny elsewhere!”
Chong Wuxi tries to use the wisdom he has gathered: “Grandpa, how can you know if you cannot do it if you do not try?”
The old man pats his head again and walks away, laughing heartily. Chong Wuxi still wants to say something, but the boy behind him speaks coolly: “The old man you are talking to is the number one rogue cultivator of the Qingyuan Realm, the Carefree Wanderer.”
“Which rock did you crawl out from under? You do not even know that?”
Chong Wuxi is about to retort, but the female disciple from earlier walks over and returns his name plate. Calm the mind, focus the intent. Chong Wuxi takes the name plate, takes a deep breath, and walks up to the Immortal Ascension Ladder.
He understands “calm the mind,” but this “focus the intent” is unclear. How does one do that?
Chong Wuxi closes his eyes, grits his teeth, and decides to act as if he is already dead. The moment he steps onto the ladder, snow suddenly begins to fall from the sky. Rain mixed with large, thick snowflakes drifts down, swirling and landing on his hair and eyelashes.
Chong Wuxi lifts his hand to brush off a flake, but another falls. The cold wind carries the snow in an endless stream.
Outside the secret realm, the blue sky is clear as a wash and the sun is shining brightly; it seems the secret realm of the Immortal Ascension Ladder is its own small world.
Chong Wuxi clings to the railing, cautiously picking his way up, terrified that he might accidentally roll down the stairs.
When he reaches the seventeenth step, a blizzard descends. Snow piles up on the jade stairs. Chong Wuxi carefully avoids the piles, but a gust of wind howls past, scattering the snow and slapping it onto his face.
Chong Wuxi realizes that something seems wrong.
He stops and stares at the snow pile, starting to think. He has not been thinking long before he is nearly frozen stiff. He shivers, wipes the snow off his face with his sleeve, and continues his climb.
The final step is very high. Chong Wuxi exerts all his strength to lift his leg, but he still cannot reach the height of the step. Finally, he grabs the silk ribbons on the railing and uses both hands and feet, struggling with all his might to crawl onto the final step.
After stepping onto the eighteenth step, the array inside the Immortal Ascension Ladder automatically stops. In an instant, the clouds disperse, the rain stops, and the wind and snow cease. Although people outside cannot see into the secret realm, Chong Wuxi is still flushed with anger.
Transmigrating is one thing, but becoming a child is another! And being a child is one thing, but being shorter than a phoenix bird that is not even a year old is entirely different!
The people on the platform who have already passed the test all stare at the unharmed Chong Wuxi in disbelief. Inside the secret realm, the snow was flying and the wind blades were like knives, leaving trails of blood on them, yet the beautiful little boy in front of them is unscathed.
Unbelievable.
Chong Wuxi stands on the top step and lets out a long sigh of relief. The cultivator in charge of registration on the right side of the platform walks over and says kindly: “Chong Wuxi of Changning Village, test passed.”
The young cultivator on the left says excitedly: “Inside the secret realm, there were snow blades and wind swords. You are the first person to pass through without a single scratch.”
Chong Wuxi freezes in place.
Snow blades and wind swords. According to the direction the wind was blowing, that pile of snow could not possibly have hit his face.
“Before long, you will be my junior brother,” the young cultivator says happily. “Tomorrow is the spiritual root test, followed by the initiation ceremony. Junior brother, would you be willing to join Piao Miao Peak to be my companion? Piao Miao Peak is covered in snow all year round; it suits your appearance perfectly.”
After waiting for a long time without receiving an answer, the young cultivator looks up and finds his beautiful, snow-ball-like junior brother staring unblinkingly at the large pile of snow on the Immortal Ascension Ladder.
“Is something the matter?”
Chong Wuxi points to the snow pile in the secret realm: “Senior brother, does the Immortal Ascension Ladder have self-awareness?”
“I do not think so,” the young cultivator scratches his head. “But the First Seat senior brother once said that the secret realm of the Ladder is transformed from a wisp of divine consciousness of the Saint Sovereign of the Nine Li Peak. If the tester’s state of mind is firm, the secret realm will change along with the tester’s state of mind.”
Chong Wuxi closes his eyes, the image of the three snow-blue divine birds he saw earlier appearing in his mind. He then opens his eyes and stares intently at the large snow pile on the steps.
Under his gaze, the snowflakes forming the snow pile slowly scatter, then slowly gather, finally forming into the shape of a snow bird according to Chong Wuxi’s will.
“So the legend is true; the secret realm can really change! But why is this snow bird so strange?”
The young cultivator stares at the snow bird for a moment, then suddenly claps his hands: “Right, the legs of this snow bird are too long; it looks very disproportionate.”
Chong Wuxi recalls his pathetic scene of crawling up the last step using his hands and feet, and he turns to glare fiercely at the long-legged snow bird.
He knew this pile of snow was up to no good, and that “Saint Sovereign” was definitely not a good person!