Perhaps because he had been reborn only recently, Shen Zong did not truly understand this current body of his.
He still subconsciously believed that his stamina remained exceptional, meaning he ought neither to grow drowsy nor feel fatigued.
Thus, when a sudden wave of dizziness washed over him, his initial reaction was not that his body could no longer hold out, but rather, could Wen Zhihan have slipped him some sort of poison? Instinctively, he reached out to grasp something for self-defense.
In the end, before he could manage to do anything, he plunged into a deep, dreamless sleep, much like a kite with a snapped string.
After all, this physical frame possessed merely the strength of the Foundation Establishment stage, coupled with severe injuries, both old and new piling up together, to which he had long since grown accustomed.
Yet all at once, the pain in his wounds vanished, and once every part of him had received treatment, the exhaustion accumulated over a long period rushed forward in a single overwhelming surge.
When he opened his eyes once more, Shen Zong had no way of knowing how long he had slept.
Perhaps an entire night, perhaps a very, very long time, the surroundings were abnormally quiet.
It felt as though he had returned to his days as the Demon Lord. Whether he woke when the sun was high in the sky or opened his eyes at the crack of dawn, as long as he remained still, not a single subordinate within the grand hall dared to utter a sound.
He was the supreme Demon Lord, disturbed by no one, nor was there anyone who would look upon him without pretense or fear. It seemed he was destined only to be the Demon Lord, never simply Shen Zong once more.
Yet Shen Zong also felt as though he had merely drifted through a long, hazy dream.
He was accustomed to a sleep filled with dreams. To be able to drift into such a heavy slumber until dawn, without suffering nightmares or waking up in frequent starts, feeling simply as though he had dreamt, was a sensation he had not experienced in an exceedingly long time.
In his dream, he seemed to have returned to his youth.
At that time, he was still very small, slight of stature, and had only recently been brought back by his Master. Because he had fallen gravely ill, he had been tended to without a single moment of separation.
Whenever drowsiness overcame him, leaving his body aching and impossible to settle into sleep, his Master would gently fold him into his arms, channeling a continuous stream of meridian-nourishing spiritual energy into his body to alleviate the discomfort.
A young child’s meridians were frail, and his dantian resembled a massive funnel, no matter how much spiritual energy was poured in, none of it could be retained. The moment his Master’s palm pulled away, he would resume frowning in misery.
And so, throughout that entire night, his Master’s spiritual energy never once faltered.
Perhaps because he had relived such a dream, being coaxed by his Master in his sleep into swallowing bitter, foul-tasting medicinal pills, Shen Zong awoke feeling remarkably refreshed, relaxed and comfortable from head to toe.
It was as though his Master had genuinely returned, if only for a brief moment.
The sound of sword qi slicing through the air drifted over. Shen Zong pushed open the door and caught sight of Wen Zhihan practicing his sword forms out in the courtyard.
In the modest courtyard, several wooden stakes bearing yellow talisman papers stood scattered about. They were specially deployed to assist in cultivation and could not be easily battered by a blade’s edge. Looking at them now, those talismans had long since shattered entirely, fluttering down into a scattering of fragments upon the breeze.
Noticing his arrival, Wen Zhihan sheathed his sword, exhaled slowly, and strolled over to the stone table nearby, where he poured two cups of still-warm tea.
Right beside the teapot sat the small flower pot housing the Leaving-Man Tree’s branch cutting.
“Awake?”
Wen Zhihan smiled, pushing the opposite cup toward him. “How do you feel?”
Shen Zong gazed at the clear, bright tea, realizing the question pertained to his injuries. “I am already recovered.”
“That is good.”
Wen Zhihan took a seat and drained his tea in a single swallow. “Some matters require the attention of all peak masters at the Profound Heaven Sect. Since you are awake, I can depart with a quiet mind.”
“?”
“There are some pastries I bought down the mountain inside the side hall, help yourself if you wish. Your injuries are not yet fully healed, so do not rush into cultivation over these next few days.”
Wen Zhihan appeared to have deliberately passed the time practicing his sword out here solely to wait for him to wake up and impart a parting instruction or two. Before Shen Zong could even process what he meant by leaving with a quiet mind, Wen Zhihan had already leapt onto his flying sword and sped away into the distance.
Even if it were all an act, such a scenario felt far too surreal. Shen Zong stood rooted to the spot in a prolonged silence, until the Leaving-Man Tree sprout in the flower pot finally broke the stillness.
If you don’t drink it soon, the tea will grow cold.
So what if it grew cold?
Shen Zong cast a chilling glare at the small sapling. If circumstances permitted, he felt quite inclined to pay it a visit with a blade.
Relying on the fact that this was not its main body, the Leaving-Man Tree felt zero fear, swaying to and fro in the faint breeze while gossiping.
Your master is truly bizarre. On one hand, he drives you into such a wretched state with injuries all over your body, yet on the other hand, he treats you with such tenderness, spending an entire night expending his vital essence and channeling spiritual energy to heal you. You are equally strange, the tea isn’t poisoned, you…
Before it could finish, that cup of nearly cold tea was snatched up by Shen Zong and dumped squarely over the head of the little sapling.
Ow! I don’t like drinking this!
Ignoring it entirely, Shen Zong turned on his heel and walked away.
Deep within the rear mountain’s dense forest, several unorthodox cultivators who had successfully concluded their missions were concealing their presence, standing by for further orders.
Just as Shen Zong stepped into the woods, his footsteps came to an abrupt halt.
He lowered his gaze to the fallen stones by his path and the low courtyard walls, before reaching out to gently brush the entrance gate.
A faint, nearly imperceptible golden glow of rune light rippled beneath his palm.
“A peaceful-dwelling array.”
He murmured the words in muted astonishment, though his brow remained slightly furrowed as he stared with a complex expression at the defensive array cast around the immortal dwelling.
Upon confirming that this was genuinely left behind by Wen Zhihan’s aura, and that no other tampering had taken place, the confusion dwelling in the depths of Shen Zong’s eyes deepened.
The peaceful-dwelling array belonged to the most ordinary and fundamental category of immortal formations, yet precisely because of its simplicity, it was rarely utilized by prominent cultivators.
The reason lay in its inability to trap anyone, nor could it effectively block most intruders.
True to its name of peaceful dwelling, its primary function was to shield those within the array from external disturbances, intercepting any unauthorized arrivals attempting to force their way in.
Yet it possessed glaring weaknesses: first, it offered poor resistance against brute-force breaching, second, as long as someone inside the array actively opened the gate to invite visitors in, outsiders could enter effortlessly without triggering the array’s destruction.
Why on earth would Wen Zhihan have the leisure to deploy such a pointless array around his own residence?
Shen Zong found it rather absurd.
Surely it couldn’t genuinely be to ensure he could rest in peace here, could it?
Wen Zhihan was the final peak master to arrive at the Profound Heaven Sect.
Aside from the nine peak masters of the Profound Heaven Sect, several other major sects had also dispatched representatives to deliberate on current events.
The meeting had been convened within the Grand Sun Hall, the primary peak of the Profound Heaven Sect. Its roof was bathed in golden radiance, while its interior was majestic and grandiose, boasting a vaulted ceiling high enough to accommodate several hundred individuals.
The moment Wen Zhihan stepped through the doors, twelve corpses draped in white shrouds came into view, laid out in an orderly row across the floor.
“Peak Master Wen, take a seat here.”
At the foremost grand master’s chair, the leader of the Profound Heaven Sect beckoned to him. He appeared to be an elderly man with snow-white hair, possessing clear eyes and an air of quiet majesty.
Wen Zhihan offered salutations and greetings to each of the sect masters in turn, before walking over to take his seat in the grand chair stationed beside the sect leader.
Elder Su, head of the Disciplinary Hall, was seated on the opposite side of the sect leader. During the process, he merely exchanged a fleeting glance with Wen Zhihan before silently looking away.
Perhaps because lives had been lost, the atmosphere within the Grand Sun Hall was tense and oppressive. Sound-suppressing barriers had been erected all around to prevent anyone outside the doors or windows from eavesdropping.
“In recent days, several sects have encountered deeply distressing tragedies…”
He remembered this segment of the plot, it had also occurred in the original narrative.
Perhaps due to his intervention, or perhaps through sheer coincidence and the will of fate, a plotline that originally should not have unfolded until a year later had been advanced to today.
Within the original text of Homeward Journey, the various immortal sects had convened a meeting of this nature due to a cascading series of incidents.
Listening closely to the discussions and deliberations of the senior figures from various sects, Wen Zhihan simultaneously recalled the finer details from the original story.
These criminal acts had originally been committed by Bai Chixin, operating under the guise of the villainous master in collusion with unorthodox cultivators from across the sects. When he realized the truth could no longer be concealed, he shifted the entire blame squarely onto Shen Zong.
It was precisely this framing that left Shen Zong unable to clear his name, directly precipitating his forced plunge off the cliff and eventual descent into demonic cultivation.
Now that he had returned, to prevent Shen Zong from being wrongfully accused and framed, he had spent the past three days gathering a massive trove of evidence against those unorthodox cultivators. He needed only to capture Bai Chixin’s lingering soul to bring the truth to light.
Wen Zhihan’s nerves remained tightly strung throughout, terrified of hearing his disciple’s name whispered while the crowd worked to pin down suspects. He remained tight-lipped and taciturn until the meeting adjourned, at which point he finally exhaled a faint breath of relief and departed in haste.
Returning to Qiongwu Peak, Wen Zhihan found neither sign of anyone within the courtyard nor inside the rooms.
As he walked along, however, he caught sight of the Leaving-Man Tree placed out in the sunlight to catch some rays.
He tapped against the flower pot. “Where is Shen Zong?”
The Leaving-Man Tree still possessed a mere two leaves. The tiny sprout looked fragile enough to snap, waking up a beat slow as it wobbled its leaves.
Oh, your disciple?
He should have headed over to the rear mountain’s martial training grounds.
The martial training grounds.
This was a space explicitly designated for cultivators to hone their footwork and combat techniques, reinforced with a smattering of auxiliary formations.
Wen Zhihan arrived at the training grounds just as Shen Zong stepped back into the courtyard, giving the flower pot a rap of his own.
“Where is Wen Zhihan?”
Heh, he just got back a moment ago!
I lied and told him you went to the training grounds. Am I a good friend or what? You can go over there now to patch up the lie.
“Don’t do anything unnecessary from now on.”
What?! I was trying to help you! Why are you so unappreciative!
Shen Zong strode straight indoors, casually carting the flower pot along with him.
Well, did you manage to track down everything?
“Close enough.”
With the assistance of the Leaving-Man Tree, coupled with the advantages of his rebirth, Shen Zong had managed to reclaim his core natal magical artifact in a mere three days, successfully binding it to his soul. He was now merely a single catalyst away from restoring his pre-rebirth strength.
This time, his bold move to meet with unorthodox cultivators directly on Qiongwu Peak had actually been undertaken for an entirely different objective.
A secret medicinal powder.
It was fundamentally a slow-acting poison, when administered in insufficient doses, it produced no symptoms whatsoever. Yet if Wen Zhihan ingested it in advance, it would ensure the success of the secret art, or so the Leaving-Man Tree claimed.
Fearing deception, Shen Zong had spent the past two days combing through numerous ancient texts to verify the properties of the secret medicine.
To guarantee absolute flawlessness, he had even deliberately tested the efficacy of this drug on someone else. Only today could he truly confirm that its effects matched the Leaving-Man Tree’s claims.
Not to flatter myself, but you are excessively paranoid. Call it prudence if you’re being generous, but frankly, your persecution complex is severe.
Seeing that Shen Zong trusted him so little that he felt compelled to test the drug on others, the Leaving-Man Tree immediately felt wounded by comparison.
Unlike your master, who believes whatever I tell him.
“Didn’t I tell you to minimize contact with him?”
Shen Zong’s voice chilled.
I didn’t! I only mentioned, you know, my cover story about following you two around!
You, I have nothing more to say to you!
The little sprout retired into self-imposed isolation.
Wen Zhihan had returned as well.
The moment he arrived, he whisked Shen Zong away from the dwelling.
Without a second thought, Wen Zhihan picked up the teacup Shen Zong had been holding and downed the lukewarm tea inside to moisten his throat before speaking,
“The sect has issued an order to descend the mountain and investigate a disturbance caused by unorthodox cultivators. Shen Zong, are you willing to accompany me down the mountain?”
Shen Zong naturally offered his assent.
They packed a few simple supplies before setting off. Boarding the cloud boat, Wen Zhihan finally remembered to inform him that their destination this time was the mournful Dragon Valley.
Dragon Valley was situated in the southern territories, located within close proximity to several renowned immortal sects. For ages, it had remained somewhat desolate due to conditions unfavorable to mortal habitation, yet its abundant spiritual energy had drawn a massive influx of rogue cultivators and demonic practitioners to settle there.
Consequently, it had turned into one of the regions most severely impacted by the recent wave of unorthodox disturbances.
When Wen Zhihan warned him that the journey might harbor risks and advised him to bring adequate defensive gear, Shen Zong brought along an additional lightweight sword.
Upon catching sight of that particular scabbard, he paused for a fraction of a second.
“Why bring such a worn, antiquated scabbard? Since we happen to pass by towns, shall we purchase a finer one?”
Shen Zong carefully wrapped the scabbard layer by layer in soft cloth to protect it, shaking his head without offering a verbal reply.
In his previous life, he had accidentally destroyed this scabbard during a crisis. Having regained it now, he kept it close by purely for the purpose of seeking out a skilled craftsman to reinforce it, replacing it had never crossed his mind.
That Wen Zhihan would disdain this old, battered scabbard of his was something he had long since grown accustomed to.
Seeing that Shen Zong refused to swap it out, Wen Zhihan knew better than to press the matter, though he felt a faint trace of perplexity, muttering to himself,
“Hmm, so sentimental, are we?”
This happened to be the very first scabbard he had ever crafted for his young disciple.
At the time, the young Shen Zong had been small of stature, yet stubbornly insisted on wielding a long, sharp blade rather than opting for a short sword tailored for children.
The inevitable result was that his arms were too short to pull it out smoothly.
Amused by his predicament while suppressing a chuckle, Wen Zhihan had personally fashioned a custom scabbard featuring a side opening several inches wide, resolving that minor hitch.
Later on, as Shen Zong grew taller and entered his teens, he acquired a brand-new natal sword, when his old weapon shattered during a skirmish, he had never been seen carrying this scabbard again.
He had assumed it was discarded long ago, yet it had been preserved all the way until the present day.
Discovering that his disciple cherished something he had given him, to claim he felt no internal joy would be a falsehood.
Yet observing the expression with which Shen Zong wrapped up the scabbard, try as he might, it bore little resemblance to happiness, leaving Wen Zhihan somewhat uncertain once more.
Meanwhile, the Leaving-Man Tree seized the opportunity to whisper secret words to Shen Zong.
Hey, hey, why are you cradling a piece of junk like that?
Initially, Shen Zong ignored it.
Just as the Leaving-Man Tree grew bored enough to drift off to sleep, assuming no reply was forthcoming, Shen Zong spoke in a muffled tone.
“It is not junk. It is a relic.”