The noisy sounds of the marketplace drifted in through the window cracks, gradually drowning out the jingling bells from her dream, jolting Mu Zhaoran awake from that unbearable nightmare.
Her body shivered as she curled up on the bed, abruptly opening her eyes.
Tears still clouded her vision, her eyelashes wet and clumped together, half the pillow soaked from crying in her sleep.
Mu Zhaoran lay still, eyes wide, not fully awake yet—until a loud call from outside broke the morning quiet: “Steaming hot buns! Just out of the pot—”
That was enough to pull her completely out of the dream.
Instinctively, she lifted her hand and rotated her wrists, which had been bound all night. There were no marks left, but perhaps due to her imagination, her wrists still felt sore.
The faint echo of the bell from her dream lingered in her ears.
Compared to previous dreams, last night’s dream wasn’t about Yan Luo doing anything to her—in fact, he did nothing at all. He just knelt before her, slightly bowing his head, taking in her disheveled form with his gaze.
He simply watched, his clear, glazed eyes beneath the mask, heat and desire gradually creeping into his gaze, traveling back and forth over her body again and again, silently inspecting her with his eyes.
Under his gaze, Mu Zhaoran’s body trembled lightly. She struggled with her wrists in shame and embarrassment, listening to the bell chime in waves, softly pleading with him—first begging him to release her, then to touch her, and finally crying and kicking him, demanding he leave and stop looking at her.
She felt miserable, yet he also seemed uncomfortable. Mu Zhaoran noticed the bulging veins on his neck, the throbbing red scars from lightning strikes around his Adam’s apple, as if they were about to bleed, the heavy fabric of his carefully arranged robes unable to flatten the curves beneath.
Outside of the bell, there were her quiet sobs and his heavy breaths. Both were in pain, both longing for each other, yet he did nothing—no one could tell who was torturing whom.
Mu Zhaoran wanted to scold him fiercely, but when she heard him whisper, “It’s all your fault,” it was like he had found her weak spot. Instantly, all her anger vanished.
“I’m sorry, it’s my fault… please forgive me…” Mu Zhaoran wept remorsefully, huge tears sliding down her cheeks.
Her heart ached with resentment toward Mu Yinyi for revealing all that—how even her own brother ultimately abandoned her, yet still told her that someone had once cherished her, that the ten years she thought were spent trapped were actually years extended with someone else’s life for her sake.
If she had never known about the “Heart-Link Gu” or the life-for-life bond, she could have continued believing that everything between them was merely transactional. She depended on Yan Luo’s protection, he coveted her beauty, and there was never any true affection.
Then, even if she had betrayed him or killed him with her own hands, she would not have felt guilty.
But in his final moments, that small glimmer of true feeling ruined her ability to say a cruel word in her dreams. She ended up crying and begging for forgiveness.
“Mu Zhaoran, how can you be so frustrating?” she muttered, covering her face and pounding the bed in exasperation.
Next time—next time if she dreams again—she would tie him up and leave him there all night! This was her dream; she should be able to do whatever she wanted!
After tossing and turning in bed for a while, Mu Zhaoran finally shoved all her frustration, regret, and guilt deep into her heart and sat up.
After a quick wash, she smoothed her slightly messy hair, straightened the strands with water, adjusted her hairband, and casually pinned a few beaded flowers into her hair.
When she picked up the Draping Silk Bell, her face flushed. She bundled the teal scarf into a ball and stuffed it along with the bell into the storage pouch at her waist—she couldn’t bear to look at them for now.
Outside the Earth Scroll, on the Morning Gold Platform, You Guxue opened his eyes. In an instant, his form became a streak of light and vanished from the platform.
The others heard the sword whistle as it cut through the air and turned, only seeing the faint white streak left behind by the Xing Tian Sword. One of the instructors asked, puzzled, “Why did he leave all of a sudden?”
Someone else replied, “Perhaps there’s an urgent matter.”
In the Punishment Hall, Wu Shan looked up at the familiar figure rounding the shadow wall and couldn’t help but say, “Xing Tian Jun, haven’t you been coming too frequently lately? More than all the previous years combined.”
You Guxue’s face remained expressionless. “Sorry.”
Wu Shan, of course, had heard the rumors from the Five Elements Platform—that Xing Tian harbored unrequited love for the Saintess of Yao Guang. So his frequent visits to the Punishment Platform were easy to understand.
He stepped forward, shaking his head. “You cultivate the Xing Tian Sword, not the Emotionless Sword. As long as you follow the heavenly path and don’t break the rules, a bit of personal feeling shouldn’t matter. Why extinguish emotions entirely and turn yourself into a dull, uninteresting stick? Who would like you then?”
You Guxue remained silent. His feelings were far deeper than mere affection—no matter how many times he tried to suppress them, they would never disappear.
Indulging too much would attract attention from above and create problems. Today, forcing the weapons in the Forge Valley to resonate was already too much self-indulgence. He came to receive punishment, simply to calm himself.
Wu Shan said, “Enough, follow me.”
At daylight, Zhu Qinglan awoke on the Forge Platform, and the instructors on the Morning Gold Platform all sighed in relief.
Then some wondered how he had survived last night’s attack, but that question would only be answered when he emerged.
Meanwhile, Mu Zhaoran, holding a butter-paper bag in one hand and a bun in the other, walked out of the small town, munching as she went. The sun shone brightly overhead, nearing the hour of Si (9–11 a.m.).
She wanted to find the old man from her past life who had chased her with opportunities. Whenever she saw a similar forest, she would step inside. Whenever she saw a farmer at work, she would approach, examining and tentatively asking, “Do you need help tilling the field?”
The farmers would look up, seeing a finely dressed, pale-skinned, delicate young lady, and wave their hands. “These are rough chores—you clearly come from a wealthy family. You wouldn’t do this.”
Of course, occasionally, a talkative one would ask where she came from, why she was alone in the countryside. If the young lady genuinely wanted to experience it, they might let her work, though it could dirty her skirt.
Mu Zhaoran realized none of these were the person she sought. Her smile vanished instantly, and she turned away, leaving a group of confused farmers in the field.
Dressed in silks and alone, she was bound to encounter people with ill intentions. Luckily, she had many treasures, so dealing with bandits in the countryside was no problem.
Mu Zhaoran wandered through the Earth Scroll, occasionally entering some spirit treasure caverns but never staying long. Other disciples seized every opportunity to cultivate, while she was picky, seemingly aimless, leaving the observing instructors unsure of her intentions.
Three days passed, and Mu Zhaoran finally lost patience.
She entered a roadside teahouse along the mountain path, gulping three bowls of tea to quench her thirst. The rough, bitter tea made her scrunch her eyes and nose, and all her accumulated hardship and frustration erupted at once.
Furiously, she slammed the tea bowl down. “That old man! Who even cares about your inheritance!”
She picked up the top-tier lot from her hand, muttering, wondering what kind of nonsense divination it was—how was she supposed to have gained anything from it?
Mu Zhaoran left the money behind and planned to return to one of the caverns she had passed earlier, to find a place rich in Earth energy for cultivation. She would no longer waste time searching for some hillside or field.
As she turned, the lot in her hand glimmered with golden light, and the scene before her suddenly shifted.
Ripples appeared across the Earth Scroll. In an instant, they settled, and the scene looked unchanged.
Master Cen suddenly stood, stretching his neck, scanning the Earth Scroll: “Where is the Saintess of Yao Guang?”
Since Mu Zhaoran had been wandering idly within the Earth Scroll, other instructors had stopped paying attention to her. Only Master Cen, keeping a close eye on this new prodigy of the Earth Palace, noticed her disappear from near the teahouse.
Once he asked, all the instructors began searching the Earth Scroll—but could find no trace of her.
“Could she have entered some hidden realm?” someone speculated.
Another replied, “Even if she did, there should be a marker indicating her location. Now even her marker is gone.”
Counting the markers, there were twenty-four disciples entering the Earth Scroll, but now only twenty-three markers remained.
“We’ve been guarding the Scroll’s entrance, yet we didn’t see her leave?”
“Could she be in danger?”
“The Earth Scroll has always been under our surveillance. Any accident would immediately teleport her out, not make her vanish like this.”
Someone looked to Master Cen: “Should we ask the Sacrificial Elder to intervene?” The current Sacrificial Elder of the Five Elements Academy was Ling Zun, one of the Three Honored. The Three Honored resided on the highest suspended island, guarding the Jun Tian Hall, rarely appearing without major matters.
Master Cen thought for a moment. “There’s usually no danger inside the Earth Scroll. Let’s observe a little longer.”
Mu Zhaoran didn’t know what was happening outside. She walked along a winding forest path. Just a moment ago, she had been on a wide official road; now it was replaced by a narrow earthen trail, and the teahouse behind her had disappeared.
Not far ahead, partially hidden by trees, she spotted the eaves of a thatched cottage.
She brightened and quickened her pace, turning past the cottage to see a stretch of farmland waiting to be tilled.
An old man with graying hair sat on the ridge of the field, pounding his bent back while sighing, lamenting that his age had made his body weak and fearing he wouldn’t be able to finish tilling the land—come next year, he might go hungry.
Seeing him again, Mu Zhaoran hesitated to approach. In her previous life, she had been headstrong and often ruined things on impulse. When she struck someone with a hoe, she had been ruthless; afterward, she would calm down and regret it. But regrets were useless, so she learned to make excuses for herself, until over time, she began to take it for granted that nothing was ever her fault.
Now, standing once more before the old man she had struck with a hoe in her past life, she couldn’t help feeling nervous and intimidated.
The old man turned and saw her. His eyes, layered with wrinkles, lit up with a sharp gleam as he beckoned her over. “Young lady, have mercy and help this old man a bit,” he said.
The familiar words from her memory made Mu Zhaoran take an instinctive step back.
She closed her eyes, calming herself, habitually reasoning in her mind: it hadn’t been easy to find this place, she couldn’t run, and the past was the past. Now it was a fresh start—she would act as if nothing had happened, as long as she didn’t act impulsively like last time.
Adjusting her mindset, Mu Zhaoran stepped forward, her brows arched, eyes bright, a sincere and sweet smile on her face. She spoke bluntly: “You’ve probably been waiting for me for quite a while, old man?”
The old man put on an air of pretension. “This old man waits for someone destined to be so.”
“I appearing here means I am that destined person,” Mu Zhaoran said. She knelt down beside him on the field ridge, looking at the hard, compacted soil ahead. “Since I’m such a rare destined one, why bother with these meaningless tests? You might as well pass your technique directly to me.”
The old man turned to her in disbelief, as if he had never encountered such shameless audacity. “Nonsense! To inherit my technique, you must pass my test. You’ll till this whole field. Don’t expect to get something for nothing.”
Mu Zhaoran didn’t want to get something for nothing—but she also didn’t want to overexert herself. Having lived through her previous life, she knew his bottom line. She bargained outright: “Then I’ll dig one strike.”
The old man puffed his beard and glared at her, finally begrudgingly gesturing, “At least half the field!”
Mu Zhaoran mimicked him, drawing a line in front of her. “Just this patch!”
The old man’s eyes grew rounder with frustration. “Girl, you haven’t even started and already complain about the hardship. How will you ever succeed?”
Mu Zhaoran shot back, unconvinced. “Old man, aren’t you here to pass on your technique? Why make it deliberately difficult?”
After much back-and-forth, they each gave a little ground, marking a patch they could both accept. The old man sighed repeatedly, muttering, “How could the Earth cultivation path decline to such a state?”
In his words, he clearly disdained Mu Zhaoran as a crafty, sly successor.
Mu Zhaoran lifted her chin and retorted, “Look at the other paths—either ethereal and graceful, or sword techniques that awe the world. Even when testing successors, no one makes them dig soil.”
In cultivation, one sought transcendence and immortality; no one wanted to sink deeper into the dirt.
Mu Zhaoran had never done farm work before. Even agreeing to till the soil, she didn’t know where to start.
The old man had waited in this Earth Scroll for thousands of years, finally finding a suitable lone seedling. Even seeing that she was pampered and disliked hard work, he still indulged her.
Seeing her unsure where to start, he sighed and stood, personally showing her how to hold the hoe and apply force. Mu Zhaoran grasped the essentials and swung the hoe into the hard, clumpy soil.
At first, she misjudged her strength, failing to move the soil several times, almost hitting her own foot. The white-bearded old man sighed continuously beside her, and Mu Zhaoran, irritated, slammed the hoe into the ground and glared at him.
The old man quickly shut his mouth and sat back on the ridge.
Mu Zhaoran re-gripped the hoe, adjusted her stance and strength, and tried again.
The soil finally gave way. A surge of pure earth energy flowed from the overturned ground. Mu Zhaoran froze—the soil’s energy was so dense, she could see strands of rich brown spiritual energy drifting upward with the naked eye.
Her spiritual orifices opened instinctively, drinking in the earth energy from below as if starved.
The old man sat on the ridge, humming, “Now you understand why this old man has you till the soil.”
Mu Zhaoran absorbed the surrounding earth energy through her spiritual orifices. With her outstanding Earth affinity, the pure energy filled her body, invigorating her meridians.
The old man chanted the guiding formula aloud, teaching her how to circulate the earth energy throughout her body, channeling it into her dantian.
Without realizing it, Mu Zhaoran followed his instructions, swinging the hoe, breaking the soil. The overflowing earth energy enveloped her, flowing into her meridians bit by bit, following her mind’s guidance, gradually consolidating in her dantian.
When Mu Zhaoran came to her senses, she had actually tilled the entire patch of land.
The loose, reddish-brown soil was dotted with tiny streams of earth energy, giving off a vitality capable of sustaining all life.
She squatted, scooping up a handful of soil, feeling an indescribable joy and satisfaction. But when the soil pressed against her palm, pain shot through her hand—blisters had formed.
“So painful.” Mu Zhaoran shook the soil from her palm, and the joy born from her heart vanished. Frustrated, she muttered, “I said I hate Earth cultivation! I, the illustrious Saintess of Yao Guang, have become a plowing ox!”
The old man remained on the ridge, watching her with satisfaction. “Now come and thank this old man for helping you establish your spiritual foundation.”
She had consolidated her foundation?
Mu Zhaoran immediately closed her eyes and looked inward at her dantian. A reddish-brown mass filled it—the earth energy fully condensed, forming a tangible patch of land, as if the soil beneath her feet had been directly transplanted into her dantian.
Her vision darkened, and she almost fainted on the spot.
—She couldn’t possibly be the first cultivator in history to literally turn her dantian into a field, could she?