The sun was setting, its slanting rays casting a warm glow as an elderly man with a long white beard walked side by side with a child along a mountain path.
The orange-red sunset made the elder's face seem all the more kind and benevolent. Every step he took flowed in natural harmony, as if he were one with the surrounding trees, exuding an extraordinary aura.
The boy beside him, however, was different. Around ten years old, he walked with his head held high, chest puffed out, a proud smile tugging at his lips. He was still thinking about how his master had dealt with the mountain bandits earlier that day. Imagining himself one day mastering such skills, he couldn't help but feel elated.
The boy then glanced back over his shoulder and saw another child following them at a distance of forty to fifty paces.
That child's clothes were tattered, his body filthy, and each step he took seemed heavy and laborious. His breath came in visible puffs, yet he refused to stop for rest. He only wished to catch up with the two ahead.
The elder finally spoke. "He's still following us?"
The boy scowled impatiently at the ragged child and replied, "Master, he's followed us for ten miles already. Why hasn't he given up? Let me chase him away."
Before the elder could lift his hand to stop him, the boy had already darted off.
Running up to the other child, he shouted harshly, "Hey! You've been trailing us this whole way. Aren't you being annoying?"
The ragged child answered simply, "I told you—I want to cultivate immortality."
His words were brief, but his gaze was resolute. For some reason, the boy felt provoked by such an attitude. He raised his voice. "My master already said he won't take disciples. Clinging to us like this is pointless. Get lost! And if you don't know what's good for you, don't blame me for being rough!"
The other child said nothing, but his unwavering stare was answer enough.
To the boy, such silence was provocation. He lost his temper and actually channeled his spiritual energy into a punch.
Though his cultivation wasn't high, a blow infused with spirit power would cause serious harm to an ordinary person. What's more, he had no intention of holding back, and his punch was fast.
The ragged child was already exhausted, and the fist rushing toward his face came ever closer. Yet just as the strike was an inch away, his eyes suddenly turned sharp.
He bent forward, slipping under the fist, his movements clean and precise. His left foot stepped forward, stabilizing his stance, and in the same fluid motion he drew back his arm and lashed out like a released spring, his fist driving straight into his opponent's abdomen.
The blow would have landed squarely—if not for an elder's hands seizing both their fists in midair.
The one who had intervened was none other than the white-bearded elder.
With a weary sigh, he held both their fists firmly. As an elder, he could not simply stand by and watch children fight.
The two boys quickly realized they could not advance even half an inch further. Understanding that the fight was already over the moment the elder stepped in, they both withdrew their fists.
Only then did the elder let go and, with a note of reproach, said, "Qin Fen, how could you use spirit power against an ordinary child? A punch like that could have seriously injured him."
Qin Fen protested, "Master, he's being far too persistent. Without a lesson, he won't stop."
The elder shook his head. "When will you learn? To be a man, you must be generous. Only then will your road broaden."
He turned to the ragged child. "I am Chang Qingzi. And you are?"
The boy cupped his hands respectfully. "Revered Daoist, my name is Liefeng."
Chang Qingzi smiled. "You pack quite a punch. Have you studied martial arts?"
"Yes," Liefeng replied.
"You fight well. Just now, had I not stepped in, my disciple would already have been struck down. Since you possess such skill at your age, why seek to become my disciple?"
After a pause, Liefeng answered, "I have two reasons for wishing to become your disciple."
"Oh? And what are they?"
"First—though in combat of the same level, martial artists are not weaker than cultivators, martial artists cannot break through to the Seventh Realm, nor attain immortality. In terms of future prospects, martial arts can never match cultivation. With a chance like this, how could I let it slip by?"
Chang Qingzi nodded. "That makes sense. And your second reason?"
Liefeng's tone grew steady. "When I saw you in the village today, you fought bandits without asking for reward, and treated the villagers with kindness. I believe you to be a man of virtue. That is why I wish to take you as my master."
Chang Qingzi frowned slightly. "Your words seem contradictory. You seek the immortal path for your own future, yet you also claim to choose me for my conduct? Perhaps you don't know—I am but a wandering cultivator, my strength limited. If I took you as a disciple, I might delay your future."
He stroked his beard thoughtfully. "Moreover, cultivation depends greatly on innate talent. A mortal must possess spiritual roots to practice. The earlier one begins, the better. My disciple Qin Fen, for instance, was born with a Fire Root—perfectly suited for my techniques. He began training at seven, and already, at his age, he has reached the peak of the First Realm. Such speed is a sign of true talent. But you, starting so late, will surely fall far behind your peers."
Hearing this, Qin Fen puffed out his chest proudly. If not for his master's intervention, he might have been defeated just now, which had shamed him. But at least this reminder of his superior talent helped him regain some dignity before Liefeng.
Yet Liefeng remained composed. "Strength matters, yes. But to me, whether as a cultivator—or as a man—someone who relies solely on power to act arrogantly, without virtue, is no better than a beast. I will not walk alongside such people."
Chang Qingzi's eyes widened slightly, staring at the boy. Could a ten-year-old truly say such words?
At that moment, he began to feel genuine interest in Liefeng.
He asked, "What of your family? How could they let a child wander the mountains alone?"
Liefeng answered calmly, "They are dead."
Though Chang Qingzi had suspected as much, hearing the boy speak so lightly of his parents' deaths still surprised him.
Liefeng went on, "My parents were martial artists. They not only passed down their skills to me, but also taught me the principles of being human. When they could no longer endure corrupt officials oppressing the people, they struck down a greedy magistrate. But in the end, they could not escape the imperial court's pursuit. They perished together with the cultivators sent after them, leaving only me alive."
His gaze grew resolute. "You may think me ignorant and arrogant, but in this world where strength rules, I wish to hold to my bottom line. More than that, I long for the power to stand against injustice. Daoist, please accept me as your disciple."
The wind stirred around them, rustling trees and wild grass alike. Yet in that moment, it felt as though the world had fallen still between them.
Chang Qingzi smiled with approval—but then turned away, striding off down the path.
Watching the receding figure, Liefeng felt disappointment weigh on him. He did not follow, but simply stood where he was, gazing at the elder's back as it grew smaller in the distance.
Then, unexpectedly, Chang Qingzi turned his head and called out, "The sun is nearly down. Aren't you coming?"