Chapter 62

Yue Wuhuan poured his heart into creating an exquisitely beautiful phoenix kite, standing as tall as a person with wings spanning twice that length. Adorned with gold and vibrant colors, it was remarkably lifelike and fitted with a bamboo flute that, when caught by the wind, produced a long, resonant, bird-like melody.

Song Qingshi was so overjoyed he felt like soaring. He scratched his head, at a loss for words to praise it, repeatedly exclaiming, "Wuhuan, you're amazing! This kite is a hundred times better than the one I bought."

Yue Wuhuan chuckled, "My Lord, the one you bought didn't have a bamboo flute—it should be called a paper hawk. Only those with flutes that make sounds are called kites."

Song Qingshi took out the beautiful paper hawk he had purchased and examined it, surprised. "You're right!"

Though he loved colorful things, comparing the kite Yue Wuhuan made to his own paper hawk was like comparing a phoenix to a sparrow—one soaring in the heavens, the other buried in the dirt. Even a blind person could tell which was more beautiful. The more Song Qingshi looked at his own paper hawk, the more displeased he became. Just as he was about to discard it, he saw Rong Ye arriving to deliver the students' alchemy assignments. Finding him diligent and responsible, Song Qingshi casually handed the paper hawk to him, and Rong Ye seemed quite pleased.

Children probably wouldn’t mind whether they played with a paper hawk or a proper kite, right?

As a dignified Immortal Venerable, a grown man nearing a thousand years old, of course he should play with the most magnificent kite!

Song Qingshi eagerly pulled Yue Wuhuan up Xinyi Mountain. He loved watching the ever-changing clouds, but even more, he adored the beautiful things that flew among them—birds, kites. As a child, he had secretly watched children flying kites. That swallow kite had soared so high it nearly vanished into the clouds, the children cheering and laughing endlessly. It had seemed incredibly fun.

Flying a kite was best done with two people—one holding the kite, waiting for the wind to signal the other to run with the string.

To make it more interesting, Song Qingshi forbade Yue Wuhuan from adding any auxiliary arrays to the kite and banned all wind-controlling or levitation spells. He wanted to fly it the mortal way, relying solely on natural wind. For this, he had even analyzed the seasonal wind speed and direction on Xinyi Mountain, scientifically determining the best spot to launch the kite. Rubbing his hands together eagerly, he was determined to send the kite soaring high.

Upon reaching Xinyi Mountain, they placed the kite on a prepared level clearing.

Song Qingshi took out a notebook from his Mustard Seed Bag and carefully reviewed the essentials of kite-flying. He reworked the calculations based on the current wind, estimating the kite’s height and position to avoid mishaps like tangled strings in trees.

Yue Wuhuan peeked at the notebook’s contents and couldn’t help but laugh.

Song Qingshi, confused by the genius’s laughter, quickly double-checked his formulas to ensure he hadn’t made any numerical errors.

Once confirming the calculations were correct, he positioned himself and had Yue Wuhuan hold the kite while he ran. The first attempt was too fast, causing the kite to tumble on the ground, but the second succeeded in lifting it. Yue Wuhuan stood behind him, showing him how to reel the string in and out, patiently raising the kite bit by bit.

The magnificent phoenix ascended slowly, its long golden-red tail feathers trailing behind, riding the wind to pierce the clouds, its flute singing crisply.

The white clouds now bore the hues of life, no longer drab and lifeless.

As Song Qingshi gazed at the white clouds and the phoenix kite, his mind suddenly wandered. The scene felt strangely familiar, like a landscape he had seen countless times but could never quite recall. Something buried deep in his bones stirred uneasily, struggling to break free from its chains...

In his mind, a strange sensation was repeatedly suppressed, only to resurface again and again, engaged in constant struggle.

Song Qingshi’s head ached from the effort, yet his eyes remained fixed on the phoenix among the clouds, stubbornly seeking answers.

Then, abruptly, the kite’s string snapped. The phoenix lost balance, tumbling through the air before plummeting downward.

Yue Wuhuan stared at the broken string in his hand, baffled. He didn’t believe he could have made such a mistake.

Song Qingshi dropped the reel and soared on flames, chasing after the kite. Watching it wobble perilously close to a swamp, he panicked. With a desperate lunge, he managed to catch it just before it hit the mud—but the kite was too large. The phoenix’s tail still dipped into the swamp, staining a significant portion.

He flew back sheepishly, handing the kite to Yue Wuhuan. "Did I fail because I didn’t fly it properly?"

"No," Yue Wuhuan examined the broken string carefully. "I used sturdy silver thread specifically to prevent snapping, and I checked it thoroughly while winding. The quality should’ve been fine." He paused, then smiled, showing the string to Song Qingshi. "Look—it was this little troublemaker’s doing."

A tiny golden ant crawled along the silver thread, its nibbling having weakened the string until it could no longer bear the weight.

Golden ants were common on Xinyi Mountain. By pure coincidence, one had climbed onto the kite and gnawed through the string, causing the fall. It all seemed completely plausible...

Song Qingshi froze. "So... this was just a coincidence?"

"Hmm, let’s head back first," Yue Wuhuan reassured him. "This paint can’t be cleaned. I’ll replace the soiled parts later and use a stronger string."

What were the odds of an ant biting through a kite string?

One in a billion?

Song Qingshi suddenly recalled the incredible lightning calamity during Yue Wuhuan’s Foundation Establishment, how Yue Wuhuan had once mentioned missing chances to uncover Xie Que’s true nature due to coincidences. He even remembered his first encounter with An Long—a sudden gust of wind blowing the rare herbs he’d painstakingly gathered into a filthy, stinking swamp, forcing him to hold his nose and approach, only to discover the half-demon boy buried within.

Why had the system chosen his soul fragment for this task? Why had it sent him back?

Were all these things just coincidences?

Song Qingshi halted, casting a suspicious glance at the sky, feeling as though he’d forgotten something crucial.

...

Yue Wuhuan returned to repair the kite.

Song Qingshi, distracted and uneasy, couldn’t concentrate even on his toxicology tests. After feeding the lab mice, he wandered out for a walk. He strolled past the schoolhouse, sternly observing the students’ research for a while, then flipped through some books in the library before inexplicably finding himself before the ancestral hall.

The hall had been renovated, now pristine and well-kept. The scroll was unfurled on the wall, and offerings of fruit and flowers adorned the altar.

Though their late master had taken on a rather disgraceful disciple, that disciple had in turn accepted a dutiful and talented grand-disciple—a roundabout form of filial piety.

Realizing he hadn’t paid respects in ten years, Song Qingshi sheepishly entered, lit three sticks of incense, then eyed the offerings hungrily. After informing his master, he plucked a large, red peach and ate it while admiring the scroll left behind.

The peach Yue Wuhuan had chosen was juicy, sweet, and delicious.

His master’s painting was truly awful—as bad as his own skills—utterly incomprehensible.

If a thief broke into the ancestral hall, they’d leave this scroll untouched.

After some deliberation, Song Qingshi decided the painting should be stored away. If more disciples joined the Medicine King Valley in the future, their reverent visits to admire their Grandmaster’s work would only reveal this hideous, nonsensical mess... Would their master’s dignity survive? Would the Medicine King Valley’s reputation?

Better to replace it with some of their master’s medical texts for disciples to venerate instead.

He took the scroll down and brought it back to Poria Palace, intending to store it in the treasury.

As night fell, his heart grew heavier.

He had long given up hope on the system’s task, and Yue Wuhuan’s condition showed no signs of improvement. His only recourse was to persist, to stay by his side and wait for time to bring a new opportunity. If nothing else, he’d strive to prevent further deterioration. At worst, he’d never leave the Medicine King Valley again, spending his life with Yue Wuhuan, finding ways to bring him joy every day.

Yet, he felt this wasn’t nearly enough...

Lying on the bed, Song Qingshi unrolled the scroll, scrutinizing it from every angle, hoping his master might inspire him—perhaps in a dream, imparting a method to erase painful memories without harming the brain, or allowing time travel to return to the past and beat Xie Que to death, dragging Yue Wuhuan back to the Medicine King Valley to spoil and cherish daily. Without psychological barriers, maybe Yue Wuhuan would finally feed him sweet, soft treats every day.

Alas, the Medicine King Valley’s founder knew nothing beyond healing and alchemy. He hadn’t even left behind texts on psychological treatment...

What a useless master!

Song Qingshi, confident his master couldn’t hear his thoughts, complained freely. He tossed the scroll onto the bedside table, lit a luminous pearl, and resumed organizing pharmaceutical notes. Absorbed in his work, he turned back to find he’d accidentally spilled a large blot of ink onto the scroll.

Instinctively, he tried to wipe it, but the aged scroll was too fragile—the slightest pressure tore a hole. Panicking, his trembling hands split it clean in two...

Song Qingshi stared in horror...

Clutching the severed halves, he had no idea what to do.

Could his all-capable, precious disciple repair paintings?

Could he secretly paint a new one and pretend nothing happened?

In a panic, Song Qingshi paced back and forth. He considered burying the evidence and feigning ignorance unless Yue Wuhuan asked—but that felt dishonest.

Suddenly, the torn scroll emitted faint golden lights, like golden fireflies dancing in the air...

Song Qingshi curiously moved closer to observe and realized it was the Golden Light of Merit, a rare treasure. As a medical practitioner, he had accumulated some merit from developing life-saving medicines, so he was no stranger to it. It was said that some cultivators had ascended to godhood through merit alone.

Why would a mere scroll contain the Golden Light of Merit?

Baffled, Song Qingshi picked up the scroll to examine it. Unexpectedly, the Golden Light of Merit within surged toward him, rapidly merging into his body.

His vision blackened as his consciousness faded...

Within his consciousness, an endless sea of clouds appeared. Deep within the clouds stood a house like a snow cave, cold and desolate, filled with nothing but towering piles of books. Song Qingshi saw a youth who looked much like himself—his face blank, like a porcelain doll—sitting obediently inside, reading book after book...

As dusk fell, the youth suddenly stirred, his eyes flickering with quiet anticipation, as if the doll had suddenly awakened.

Slowly, he walked to the window, perched on the windowsill, and peered furtively toward the horizon, as if waiting for something.

At the edge of the sky, golden-red light gradually rose—a phoenix woven from the brightest flames in the world, its nine golden-red plumes trailing fire as it flew closer. It passed by his windowsill, its radiant glow illuminating his wide, wondering eyes and filling his lonely room.

The once-dull sea of clouds burst into life under this magnificent spectacle.

This was the only joy in his dull life.

Day after day, year after year, the youth waited and watched...

...

Song Qingshi was awakened by Yue Wuhuan. When he came to, he found himself slumped over the desk, his mind still dazed.

"My Lord, what happened?" Yue Wuhuan reached out to wipe his eyes.

"Wuhuan, I dreamed..." Song Qingshi murmured, realizing his face was wet with unstoppable tears. "At first, it was a beautiful dream... but then it turned into a nightmare. A terrible nightmare..."

"Nightmares aren't real," Yue Wuhuan said, flustered by his inexplicable sorrow. After comforting him for a long while, he finally asked, "What did you dream about?"

Song Qingshi lifted his head, gazing intently at those most beautiful phoenix eyes in the world, unable to look away. Struggling to suppress his grief, he tightly clutched Yue Wuhuan's sleeve and sobbed:

"Wuhuan, I dreamed the phoenix was gone."

"Wuhuan, I want to bring him back."

"Wuhuan, I will never give up."