The Lotus Pavilion was especially lively today.
Senior brothers and sisters who were rarely seen had all returned, some even bringing along disciples they had taken in during their travels. Lin Zhengdu experienced, for the first time, being addressed as “Martial Aunt,” and couldn’t help but feel a sudden sense that time had passed all too quickly.
When she had first transmigrated, her body had inexplicably shrunk from twenty-four years old to four. And this so-called “ancient world” was nothing like she had imagined. The moment she arrived, she had witnessed Fairy Peilan subduing a demon in the most direct, violent way—frightened half to death by the creature’s massive, terrifying true form. Ever since, she had kept her distance from the outside world.
Even now, she still wasn’t entirely used to the blade-filled, life-and-death lifestyle of “immortals.”
As for things like exploring secret realms or slaying demons—those were only interesting when told by others, like stories from a novel. If she had to experience them herself, she wouldn’t be smiling at all.
Fortunately, she had been lucky. The moment she arrived, she met Fairy Peilan, who was both powerful and utterly unconcerned with formal requirements when accepting disciples—only caring about personal affinity. That allowed Lin Zhengdu to quietly settle in the Medicine Sect.
She could mix medicines when she wanted, cultivate when she felt like it, and when she didn’t feel like doing anything at all, she could simply tinker with her little courtyard—as if she were playing a real-life homestead simulation game.
There were plenty of oddballs in the Medicine Sect who disliked cultivation just as much as she did. There were no monthly or yearly exams, no competitive rankings. Not only was Lin Zhengdu not ostracized for her lack of diligence, she even made quite a few friends thanks to her interest in medicine and bone research.
Their eldest senior brother brought out an enormous iron pot—big enough to stew a rhinoceros—and divided it into a clear broth and a spicy broth. He then sent his two newly accepted fire-spirit-root disciples to squat under the pot’s frame to light the fire.
Before long, the two children crawled out, their faces blackened with soot, reporting that the fire was ready. Their master burst out laughing at the sight, then turned to ask Lin Zhengdu if she had a handkerchief.
She waved the two little nephews over and wiped their faces clean.
After that, she rummaged through her storage pouch and took out two red envelopes, handing them over.
“Happy New Year,” she said. “This is lucky money.”
The children looked confused. “Martial Aunt, what is lucky money?”
They had been picked up by their master from a small border town in a weak mortal country. Growing up, they had only seen horses trampling over corpses—never things like “Happy New Year” or “lucky money.”
Their master pressed their heads down into a bow. “Lucky money is given by adults to children for peace and protection—so you won’t get eaten by demons at night. Now hurry and thank your Martial Aunt.”
Clutching the red envelopes, the children obediently said, “Thank you, Martial Aunt!”
After hotpot came fireworks.
The fireworks had been brought back by the senior brothers and sisters traveling outside—every color, every shape. They shot into the night sky and burst open, dyeing the darkness in brilliant hues.
There were also smaller, sparkler-like fireworks, which the younger disciples eagerly claimed, running along the corridors with them. The flickering lights passed through the shadows cast by lotus leaves, while the lanterns above painted the air in shifting shades of green.
Lin Zhengdu had drunk a few cups of wine during the meal. Now she sat on the steps, propping her head on one hand, letting the cool air sober her up. In the distance, colorful reflections scattered across the smooth stone floor.
She could have forced the alcohol out of her system with spiritual energy—she was quite skilled at controlling her blood—but she didn’t want to. Sometimes, quietly sobering up was part of drinking.
For no particular reason, she suddenly thought of Xie Guanqi.
Perhaps it was because a golden firework had just burst in the sky—and the messenger bird’s wings were also golden.
In his last letter, he had written that the Snow Country was preparing for the New Year. The locals would hold a contest to catch pufferfish beneath the ice, and whoever caught the most would become the Snow King for the coming year.
At the end of the letter, Xie Guanqi had solemnly promised he would absolutely not eat any of those pufferfish.
He might be busy. He might have joined the ice-fishing festivities. Or perhaps… he had made new friends.
There was only one reason to write to someone—but countless reasons not to.
Lost in her slightly tipsy melancholy, Lin Zhengdu was startled when a large shadow suddenly fell over her. She looked up to see her eldest senior brother standing before her, sleeves tucked into his robe.
Their eyes met. He crouched down, his narrow fox-like eyes curving into a smile. “You’re not crying again, are you?”
“…I’m just sobering up,” she replied. “Nothing happened. Why would I cry?”
“You never know,” he said, gesturing at a spot near his knee. “When Master first brought you back, you were only this tall.”
“Every New Year, all the other kids would run off to set off fireworks—but you’d sit on the steps crying. No matter how I asked, you wouldn’t say why. Just kept crying.”
He sighed. “I always thought a junior sister’s tears were a weapon, only to be used in a duel with her senior brothers. Then I met you—and learned that junior sisters can cry for no reason at all. Pure torment for me.”
Lin Zhengdu awkwardly touched her nose.
Back then, she had just transmigrated. Surrounded by strangers, without even a phone, unable to see her family during the holidays—of course she cried.
She had cried quietly, at least—not wailing. That already counted as maturity.
But she couldn’t tell him the reason. So every time he asked, she stayed silent.
“I’m an adult now,” she said. “I don’t cry anymore.”
He clicked his tongue, clearly unconvinced.
In his eyes, no matter how much she had grown, she was still a delicate little flower sheltered under their master’s wings—fragile, unable to withstand storms.
Still, after confirming she wasn’t crying, he stood up and wandered off.
After the fireworks, everyone lined up to receive red envelopes from Fairy Peilan. Aside from the youngest disciples who still lived together, everyone gradually returned to their own homes.
There were too many people, too much chaos. Lin Zhengdu couldn’t find the cloak she had taken off earlier. But thinking that she was, after all, a cultivator now, she simply gave up looking and walked back to her courtyard on Medicine Mountain through the wind and snow.
She had overestimated herself.
The short distance from the teleportation array to her courtyard left her shivering the entire way.
Once home, she hurried to light a fire, boil ginger soup, take a hot bath, and change into warm clothes.
As warmth returned, drowsiness followed. She nearly fell asleep just sitting there drinking her soup—only to be jolted awake by its heat.
That wasn’t a good sign. She might be catching a cold.
Cultivation wasn’t a cure-all. True immortality required becoming an immortal. Until then, one was still flesh and blood—stronger than mortals, perhaps, but still capable of falling ill.
She prepared some herbs in a crucible and wrapped herself in a cloak, waiting.
Her courtyard’s formation didn’t block sound—soundproofing formations were more complicated, and she was too lazy to set one up. So with her eyes closed, she could hear the sleet striking the barrier outside, mixed with the crackle of the fire beneath the crucible.
And—faintly—the rhythmic knocking at her window.
It was soft, steady, almost lulling. She was drifting off again when she suddenly jolted awake.
Wait—there’s a formation outside! What’s knocking?
She looked up.
A large, furry shadow loomed against the window—indistinct, unsettling.
Heart thumping, she got up and opened it.
Warm air from the heated room rushed out—and hit Xie Guanqi square in the face.
The chill outside and the heat inside collided. Lin Zhengdu blinked, then hesitantly reached out and touched his chest.
Not an illusion. A living person.
Leather straps crossed his chest, looping behind his back to hold his priceless natal sword.
Even so, she still felt unreal, staring blankly at his face.
It had only been half a year.
Yet the youthful softness in his features had vanished. His jawline had sharpened, his eyes seemed longer, his bones more defined. He looked far more mature.
And most striking of all—a diamond-shaped scar marked his left cheekbone.
The scab had long fallen off, leaving behind a deep red mark the size of a thumb.
The suddenness of his appearance—and the change—left her speechless.
“Happy New Year,” he said first.
At least his voice hadn’t changed.
“Happy New Year…” she echoed dazedly. “Why are you here? Is your mission finished?”
He shook his head. “Not yet. I came back briefly. I’ll leave again soon.”
His long hair was still curled. He had worn it that way for so long that she almost thought it was natural.
“May I come in?” he asked. “The wind and snow outside are giving me a headache.”
“Y-yes… of course.”
She stepped aside. He vaulted through the window.
Outside, they had been about the same height. Inside, standing on level ground, he was suddenly taller—his shadow engulfing hers entirely.
She poured him ginger soup and medicine.
Only after he finished did she ask, “Why didn’t you use the door? Why knock on the window?”
He frowned slightly, waiting for the bitterness of the medicine to pass. “Using the gate is troublesome. You’d have to come out, walk a distance, then I’d come in, and we’d walk back.”
He traced a back-and-forth line in the air. “Knocking on the window is easier. If it’s urgent, I can leave immediately. If not, I can just climb in.”
Then he added, “I’ve been traveling constantly—flying by sword. No time to write letters.”
He didn’t mention the hardship—sleeping in the open, having no water, let alone time to write.
Instead, he simply took out a storage ring and a worn slip of paper.
“The materials you wanted. Check if anything’s missing.”
Nothing was missing. There were even extras.
“…Why are there extra bones and blood?” she asked.
“I met some medical cultivators while hunting plague wraiths,” he said. “They asked me to collect these. Since other doctors wanted them, I thought you might too.”
“You met other medical cultivators?”
“Not really. Just crossed paths.”
She turned the ring, its green gemstones glinting in the light.
“It’s too small,” she said.
He took her hand, removed the ring from her finger—and slipped it onto her ring finger instead.
It fit perfectly.
His palm was hot, rough, his touch steady. The heat of his fire-attribute energy made her nerves tighten instinctively.
The room suddenly felt suffocatingly warm.
After adjusting the ring, he finally let go. “You wore it wrong. This finger is correct.”
She stared at him.
“…‘Moonlight before my bed?’”
He blinked. “What?”
“‘Palace jade liquor?’”
“Do you want to drink?”
…Definitely not a transmigrator.
Relieved—and slightly flustered—she let out a breath.
They drank.
The Snow Country wine was smooth, almost sweet—but deceptively strong. After a few cups, Lin Zhengdu lay slumped in her chair, dazed but still conscious.
“Lin Zhengdu, are you drunk?” he asked.
“I’m fine… still moving,” she murmured.
“When’s your birthday?”
“June fourth… already passed. Yours?”
“October eighteenth.”
She raised her hand, showing the ring. “Is this a belated birthday gift?”
“No. A New Year’s gift. Birthday gifts must be given on time—it’s bad luck otherwise.”
From a cultivator, the phrase “bad luck” sounded oddly ironic.
Suddenly remembering, she fumbled for a red envelope—but he caught her wrist.
“That’s for children. We’re the same age.”
“…But I don’t have anything else!”
“Then don’t give anything.”
“Your scar,” she said. “Did the plague wraith do that?”
“No. I did it while fighting.”
He moved closer, showing her the unopened antidote vial.
But her attention drifted to his hand.
Without thinking, she reached out—undoing the tight knot on his wrist guard, then retying it neatly into a bow.
“…The other one.”
He obediently held out his other hand.
She finished, admiring her work, then let go.
“Are you drunk?” he asked again.
“I’m very clear-headed,” she insisted. “Look how perfect that knot is.”
“…How many cups did you drink?”
“Five? Six?”
He said nothing more.
“Xie—Guan—qi—”
“I’m here.”
“I want to see your scar.”
“Alright.”
He leaned down.
His hair brushed her face, warm and soft. The world seemed to spin. Her fingers reached up, tracing the scar.
“…Right now,” she murmured, “if you ask me for something, I’ll probably agree.”
“…Consider it a New Year’s gift.”
“Really?”
She nodded.
“Then… can you reach the Third Realm before the end of next year?”
“…?”
The entire atmosphere shattered.
She shoved his face away in one swift motion.