The corridor outside the Sage’s chambers was quieter than the rest of the Temple, but the Pope’s footsteps still carried a sharp, irritated rhythm when he walked. Laila, the senior attendant who had served him for more than a decade, kept half a pace behind and slightly to the side, hands at her sides, eyes lowered. She seemed too pretty to be a servant, yet she was still in servant clothing just like the other servants behind her.
Hashirama Senju, the Pope, muttered under his breath the entire way.
“What a drag… Demanding an audience the same day the Sage arrives… as if the gate attack wasn’t enough of a headache. These upper-realm cultivators always choose the worst possible days to drop by.”
He exhaled through his nose, then spoke more clearly without looking back.
“Laila. Before I forget, have someone look into the Sage’s family background. Quietly. And thoroughly, if possible. The boy is far too polite and measured for a child raised in a remote farming village. Tsunade claimed the father was a simple farmer, but I do not believe that is the full truth. That girl has always hidden things from me when it suits her. I can no longer trust her the way I once did. No ordinary farmer produces a son with manners like that.”
Laila bowed her head. “It will be done discreetly, Master.”
“Yes, see that it is.”
They reached a heavy wooden door reinforced with pale metal. Laila opened it and stepped aside. The Pope smoothed his expression into something carefully neutral and entered.
The man waiting inside did not rise.
He sat in the guest chair as though the Temple itself belonged to him, long blue robes embroidered with faint silver patterns that shifted when the light caught them, hair bound high, a single jade ornament at his waist. The entire vibe around him carried the faint, clean pressure that only those who had stepped beyond the Mortal Realm possessed.
Seeing the man, the Pope offered a deep, formal bow, the kind reserved for true immortals.
“This humble servant of the mortal realm’s Temple greets the honored envoy. It is an unexpected honor to receive a visit on such short notice.” You are reading on g.com, the official source.
The cultivator’s mouth curved in a thin, amused smile. His eyes were sharp and pale, the kind that missed very little.
“So the great Pope does not even trust his own daughter anymore? Heh, that’s new.” He tilted his head.
“Though I suppose she was never truly yours by blood. You took her in because the child showed strong mana affinity, did you not? Raised her with high hopes… only for the mana veins in her body to shatter later. Unable to absorb even a drop of mana from any Immortal realm’s nectar. Being unable to form a core, she must've caused you a huge loss, right? What a disappointing investment that must have been.”
The temperature in the room seemed to drop a fraction. Laila, still standing near the door, went very still as she realised the man inside heard everything they were talking about outside the room.
Hashirama’s voice remained level, but the politeness now carried an edge.
“Honored Immortal. I was not aware that listening to private conversations had become a form of entertainment among the upper realms.”
The cultivator waved a lazy hand. “We hear what we hear. Cultivators cannot always choose which sounds reach us. Just as we cannot always choose to ignore a Pope’s quiet dissatisfaction with our sudden arrival.”
Hashirama turned his head slightly. “Laila. Leave us.”
The attendant bowed and withdrew at once, closing the door with careful precision. Only when the latch clicked did the Pope take the seat opposite the immortal.
“Very well. Let us speak plainly. What reason did the Sect Master have for sending you to this humble Temple? Surely it was not merely for conversation.” This chapter was copied from novelping dot com without permission.
The cultivator’s smile sharpened.
“You already know why I am here, Pope. Do not waste my time pretending otherwise. We may have little interest in the daily squabbles of the Mortal Realm, but that does not mean we are deaf to them. The arrival of a new Sage… the attack at your own gates… these things travel quickly.”
Hashirama exhaled slowly.
“That boy is no threat to any of you. You know this as well as I do.”
“Well, let me be the judge of that.” The immortal leaned back. “For your part, make certain the new Sage understands the boundaries of his place. If he begins digging into matters that do not concern him, he may find himself sharing the same fate as the previous one. A broken set of mana veins is also such a simple thing to arrange. Whether he even possesses the potential to cultivate, to form a core, still remains to be seen, of course… but the warning stands.”
He reached into his sleeve and flicked something through the air. Hashirama caught it on reflex. A small, crystalline object rested in his palm, faceted, faintly luminous, the dense spiritual pressure of a high-grade nectar unmistakable.
“Consider it a gift,” the cultivator said, already rising. “For your little Sage. I will not take more of your time. I am sure you have no shortage of problems already, with the attack from the Martial Realm’s Martial Artists on your Sage, I mean.”
Before the Pope could reply and look up, the air shimmered. The immortal’s form simply folded out of existence, leaving only the lingering scent of burning paper and high-altitude wind.
Hashirama stared at the empty chair for a long moment, the nectar cold against his skin.
“…What a drag.” He sighed.