The group flew to the stone gate, and as the yellow-robed cultivator’s token light dispersed, the passage vanished without a trace.
“Follow closely,” the man said coldly, glancing at them before his fingers danced in intricate hand seals. He abruptly turned and flung two piercing rays of red and yellow light at the heavily restricted stone door.
Instantly, the tightly shut cyan door shimmered with runes, and with a low hum, it slowly opened, revealing a long, square passage.
Without a word, the yellow-robed cultivator strode inside. The others exchanged glances before following.
Han Li walked among the disciples, seemingly indifferent, but his spiritual sense swept over everything nearby.
The square passage appeared to have been carved directly into the mountain with a magic tool. The walls were exceptionally smooth, and every few steps, profound and cryptic inscriptions were etched into them. Though he couldn’t study them in detail, he knew they weren’t mere decorations.
The passage wasn’t long—after about a hundred zhang, the group emerged into a tidy stone hall, roughly fifty to sixty zhang wide and seven to eight zhang high.
At the center of the hall was a large cyan stone table, its surface crisscrossed with ten vertical and horizontal grooves, forming a massive chessboard covered in black and white pieces, seemingly at a critical juncture.
On either side of the board sat an elder and a child, each holding a chess piece. The elder was a long-faced man in brocade robes, appearing around fifty. The child, no older than seven or eight, had rosy lips and pearly teeth, resembling a jade-carved youth.
“Uncle Lan! Why are you here?” The white-robed cultivator blurted out upon seeing the child, then hastily stepped forward and bowed deeply.
“Uncle Lan?”
The gray-robed elder and the middle-aged cultivator from Hundred Crafts Academy were startled by the unfamiliar child, but upon hearing the white-robed cultivator’s address, their expressions changed drastically. Taking in the child’s braided hair, bare feet, and golden bracelets, they immediately recalled a legendary figure.
“Junior Du Hui, Yu Shan’an pays respects to Senior Lan!” The two hurriedly bowed, their hearts pounding.
“Rise. Can’t you see I’m in the middle of a critical game with Nephew Hu? Don’t interrupt. Wait until we finish,” the child said, his voice youthful but his tone authoritative.
“As you command!” The three Core Formation cultivators, including the white-robed one, immediately complied, standing respectfully nearby without a hint of dissatisfaction.
The long-faced elder playing with the child gave them a wry smile but remained silent. The yellow-robed cultivator, meanwhile, had taken a position behind the child, adopting the posture of a disciple.
The younger cultivators, hearing their elders address the child as “uncle,” stirred in shock. They knew what this title implied, and their eyes widened as they stared at the child, their minds reeling.
Han Li was equally startled upon seeing the child—this was a genuine early-stage Nascent Soul cultivator! What was he doing here?
However, he quickly regained his composure. Though he couldn’t defeat such a cultivator, escaping wouldn’t be difficult. Besides, he doubted the child was here for him.
Outwardly calm, Han Li silently pondered how this development might affect his plans.
After another quarter-hour, the long-faced elder pushed the board away and bowed. “Senior Lan’s skills are unmatched. This junior concedes defeat.”
The child’s face brightened, but then his dark eyes narrowed suspiciously. “Nephew Hu, you didn’t go easy on me, did you? I warned you—no holding back!”
“How would I dare deceive you, Senior? Your skills have truly surpassed the past,” the elder replied, his face seeming to grow even longer.
“Ha! I suppose I have improved after sparring with those mortal chess masters,” the child mused, grinning.
“Enough. Put the pieces away—we have business to attend to,” the child suddenly said, his tone shifting.
He turned to the waiting cultivators, his bright eyes scanning each Core Formation cultivator before settling on the Confucian scholar.
“Nephew Bai, how many years has it been since you joined the Ancient Sword Sect?” the child asked leisurely.
“Over a hundred years,” the white-robed scholar replied, puzzled but honest.
“A hundred years… Quite the endurance,” the child sighed, a strange glint in his eyes.
“Uncle, what do you mean?” the scholar asked, forcing a smile despite his paling face.
“What do I mean? You, the last disciple of the Righteous Path’s Vast Expanse Pavilion’s master, hiding in our sect all these years—our Ancient Sword Sect can’t accommodate someone like you. Have you considered returning to your master?” The child’s voice turned icy.
The scholar’s face drained of color.
The gray-robed elder and the middle-aged cultivator gaped, instinctively stepping away.
“Fellow Daoist Bai, is Senior Lan speaking the truth?” the middle-aged cultivator asked, stunned.
The scholar’s face flickered between red and white, but he offered no denial.
“Since Uncle has uncovered my origins, denial is pointless. But I won’t be taken without a fight!” he finally said.
As the word “fight” left his lips, a white light flashed, and he shot backward into the disciples, conjuring a radiant hand to seize one—the black-robed youth, Meng Di, possessor of the Nine Spirit Sword Body!
“What are you doing?!” the gray-robed elder and middle-aged cultivator roared, surging with power, but they were too late.
Meng Di reacted swiftly, slashing at the hand with a fierce sword beam, but the disparity in cultivation was too great. The beam shattered harmlessly, and the hand closed in—until the scholar suddenly collapsed, the hand dissipating into motes of light.
Meng Di stood frozen, bewildered.
“Hmph! You’ve mastered our sect’s Great White Qi Hand well. But you forgot—I didn’t come here just to play chess,” the child muttered, rubbing his small hands.
None in the hall, save Han Li, had seen how the child subdued the scholar.
Han Li’s eyes narrowed as he studied the fallen scholar and the child, a strange glint in his gaze.
When the scholar struck, Han Li’s spiritual sense had caught a faint red thread shooting from the child’s foot into the scholar’s body, instantly felling him.
At first, he thought it was some needle-like stealth weapon, but upon closer inspection, he realized it was a thread of condensed sword Qi, imbued with a chilling aura. This left Han Li deeply impressed.
He had heard that supreme sword cultivators could refine their sword Qi into threads, capable of breaking all techniques with a single stroke. Now, he had witnessed it firsthand—such mastery was truly awe-inspiring.
“Nephew Hu, lock him in the Dragon Confinement Cave. Don’t kill him yet—we elders still have use for him,” the child said, tilting his head toward the long-faced elder.
The elder bowed and hauled the scholar away through a side door.
Han Li’s gaze shifted to Du Dong, who appeared calm—but his clenched fists betrayed his tension.
Smiling inwardly, Han Li paid him no further mind.
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