Three months had passed since the visit of the mysterious old man who called himself Lao Tzu.
In the Immortal World, the matter had become the greatest riddle of the age. Lao Tzu had descended quietly into a mortal realm, lingered there, and then returned directly to the Divine Realm, ignoring all formal process. He had only whispered something to the Jade Emperor—words no one else heard.
Since then, the Jade Emperor kept his silence. Ministers asked, sect masters prostrated, immortal kings speculated—but he gave no answer. His silence was more terrifying than thunder.
The rumor spread like wildfire: something in the mortal world called Hong Chen was worth Lao Tzu's personal descent. The Azure Sect had vanished. An immortal sword king had fallen. A single cabbage had ended lives that once shook heavens.
And the words Lao Tzu left behind… Stop looking for the farmer.
---
Life on the Farm
Back in Hong Chen, the farmer in question continued his ordinary days.
Lai rose before dawn, hoe over his shoulder, and tended to his fields as though they were sacred scriptures. His cabbages gleamed with morning dew, whispering secrets only he understood. To outsiders, the farm was a quiet patch of land. To those who knew better, it was a fortress of heaven and hell combined.
Garfield the white tiger snoozed beneath the trellis, occasionally twitching as his dreams replayed iron golems breaking his bones. Long Fei dragged himself from bed with bruises and curses, only to be sent flying again by wooden puppets. Blanca balanced buckets of water on her head, her small feet rooted to the earth as though she were carrying mountains.
Ao Guang watched them with a complicated expression, often sighing at their cruelty. But when he saw Lai's calm smile, he said nothing. Even he—the ancient dragon—had no courage to question the farmer's methods.
---
Letters Across Distance
It was not just the crops that grew. Between Lai and the Empress, a different kind of seed had sprouted.
Caravans carried crates of vegetables into the Imperial Capital. Hidden among the cabbages and pumpkins were folded letters written in Lai's steady hand. On the surface, they were supply reports, farm notes, or "harvest records." In truth, they were conversations: subtle jokes, cryptic remarks, half-finished poems.
The Empress's replies were no less restrained—banquet menus, questions about pests, commentary on soil. Yet between the lines bloomed her heart: a brushstroke left unfinished, a petal sketched in haste, a phrase that lingered too long on the page.
Neither confessed what they felt, but both found reasons to keep writing.
---
The Tournament
Three months later, a new storm rose.
The Ironheart Sect, a mid-tier sect of considerable fame, announced a Grand Martial Arts Tournament. Young cultivators from across Hong Chen would compete, the winners rewarded with treasures and prestige.
For the common folk, it was a festival. For the sects, it was a chance to recruit talent.
For Lai, it was amusement.
"We've been cooped up too long," he said one morning, wiping soil from his hands. "Let's take a little trip."
Long Fei stiffened. His cultivation had soared—he now stood at the peak of Foundation Realm—but he still felt like an ant compared to Garfield, who had entered early Soul Transformation. Worse, both Ao Guang and Blanca radiated pressures so suffocating he sometimes wondered if his training had been a mistake.
But this was his chance. To fight before a crowd. To prove that his suffering was not in vain.
Garfield stretched and yawned. "A tournament? How boring." Yet when Lai glanced at him with a smile, he added quickly, "But I'll watch."
---
Ironheart Sect's Arena
The sect's mountain arena bustled with life. Flags rippled in the wind. Drums boomed. The stands filled with thousands of spectators—merchants, farmers, wandering cultivators, sect elders.
The battles began one after another. Young cultivators unleashed their techniques in flashes of fire and steel, desperate to dazzle the crowd. Some were eliminated in a single exchange, others fought bitterly until they collapsed.
In the stands, Lai sat comfortably with his companions. He bought roasted peanuts for Blanca, candied fruit for Long Fei, and skewered meat for Garfield, who devoured it like a starving beast. To anyone watching, they looked like a family on a holiday outing.
But Fei's palms were sweating. His turn was coming. He remembered every brutal strike from the wooden puppets, every moment he thought he would die, only to be healed and thrown back in again. Compared to that hell, what could these pampered sect disciples do?
He clenched his fists. He would not shame his master.
---
Suspense Builds
"Next match," the referee called.
"Long Fei of Fallen Town!"
The crowd stirred. Whispers spread. A boy from a backwater village, standing at the peak of Foundation Realm? Unheard of.
Gasps rose when he stepped into the arena. His aura was steady, his gaze unwavering. For someone his age, it was extraordinary.
Lai only smirked, leaning back in his seat. Blanca nibbled on peanuts. Garfield muttered, "If he loses, he's dead meat."
The referee continued.
"His opponent…"
---
Cliffhanger
The arena doors opened. A figure stepped through. His presence was like a storm compressed into flesh—eyes burning with resentment, a sneer carved into his lips.
The crowd erupted.
"That's… him!"
"Heavens, what is he doing here?"
"Ye Tianlong… the cursed genius!"
Long Fei turned to face his opponent, heart pounding.
From the stands, Lai's smile deepened.
The match between Long Fei and Ye Tianlong was about to begin.