They walked from the pitch of night into the gray of dawn.

Han Yu felt as if a slow-burning fire had been stoked inside his chest. His legs had turned to jelly, soft and useless; he only kept moving through the sheer, stubborn inertia of instinct.

Ahead, the black-robed Old Daoist never faltered. The large crow circled above them, landing on gnarled branches to rest before taking flight again, rising and falling like a dark omen.

Finally, after the sun had fully crested the horizon, they reached a small town.

The Old Daoist glanced at the sallow, emaciated boy who looked ready to collapse. He led Han Yu to a roadside stall and gestured toward a seat.

“Sit. Eat.”

He ordered a single bowl of noodles.

To Han Yu, that bowl of noodles was the most fragrant, heavenly thing he had seen in half a year. He buried his face in the steam, slurping greedily until he had devoured every last drop.

By the time he looked up, a donkey was standing before them.

The Old Daoist didn’t say a word. He paid the bill, took the reins of the newly purchased beast, and led Han Yu back out of the town.

Once they were back on the road, the Old Daoist mounted the donkey. Han Yu followed on foot, trailing behind as the large crow occasionally swooped down to watch him with mocking eyes.

Perhaps bored by the monotony of the road, the Old Daoist began to speak. His raspy voice carried the weight of decades as he told the story of the “Three Friends of Quanlin.”

The Three Friends consisted of one surnamed Han, one surnamed Li, and a woman named Wan’er. They had met in their twenties and become sworn companions. Together, they practiced martial arts, challenged the great dojos, and fought the renowned masters of the land.

They lived a life of spirited freedom in the Jianghu. By their late thirties, the “Three Friends of Quanlin” were famous experts across the Nanli Kingdom.

But everything changed when the one surnamed Han revealed a secret: he possessed a family heirloom related to the cultivation of immortals.

Desperate to transcend their mortal limits, the three began to study the path of immortality. But the pursuit of power drove a wedge between them. The one surnamed Han took the heirloom and abducted Wan’er, fleeing to a remote mountain village to live in seclusion as husband and wife.

The story ended abruptly. The hunched, white-haired Old Daoist fell silent.

With food in his belly, Han Yu’s mind was sharp. He quickly filled in the blanks.

Fifty years had passed. His grandparents had clearly failed to discover the secrets of immortality before they died. His father had been an ordinary man, eventually taken by a hunting accident.

This Old Daoist was undoubtedly the man surnamed Li. He had clearly attained some level of power and had returned to claim the treasure that had been denied to him fifty years ago.

“Grandpa Daoist, is your surname Li?” Han Yu asked tentatively.

The Old Daoist didn’t look back. “Little Brat, just call me Master Daoist.”

“Master Daoist, have you truly learned to cultivate immortality?”

“Learned? Hah! Do you think it’s that easy? I have nothing but a meager skill.”

The Old Daoist pressed his hand onto the donkey’s head, and the animal froze, standing as still as a statue.

Then, he extended a hand toward the boy. “That treasure. Give it to me.”

Han Yu reached into his tattered robes and produced the small wooden disc carved with the flourishing tree.

As he handed it over, a strange sensation washed over him—a deep, instinctive feeling that this object was vital. He felt a sudden, burning desire to understand its mystery.

In that instant, the sensation of holding a hot stone returned to his right hand. A second, identical wooden disc materialized within his robes, resting heavy against his chest.

The Old Daoist took the disc and examined it. Suddenly, his entire frame began to shake with violent emotion.

“This is… this is from Wanchun Valley!”

“I see now! Your family were the descendants of some disciple or servant of the valley! The later generations lacked the spiritual roots, so the path was severed, leaving behind only this keepsake token!”

“Hahahaha! It was fated to be mine! I can finally step onto the proper path! I can finally enter the Orthodox Cultivation Path!”

Ecstatic, the Old Daoist clutched the disc as if it were more precious than his own life.

Han Yu watched blankly, his hand instinctively moving to touch the duplicate disc hidden beneath his shirt.

After the mania subsided, the Old Daoist turned to look at Han Yu. His face was thin and shriveled, as long and ugly as an old horse, but his eyes flickered with a complex struggle.

“That man Han stole Wan’er away without a word. If I were to settle that score, I should break my promise and feed you to my crow right now.”

As he spoke, the massive crow landed on Han Yu’s shoulder. Its weight nearly buckled the boy’s knees. Its dark, beady eyes gleamed with malice, waiting for the signal to tear into the boy’s flesh.

“But your eyes… they look exactly like hers.”

The Old Daoist sighed, the anger leaving him. “You are Wan’er’s grandson, and you have given me the Wanchun Valley keepsake token. I cannot break my word to her.”

“Caw!”

The crow shrieked in disappointment and took flight. In a fit of pique, it dropped a splatter of filth right in front of the donkey. The startled beast began to bray and stomp.

The Old Daoist looked embarrassed. “Feathered beast!”

He turned back to Han Yu, his expression stern. “I am heading to Wanchun Valley. It is a journey of a thousand miles. I will teach you a few things along the way. Whether you can learn them is entirely up to you.”

“Once we arrive, I will use this token to claim my place on the Orthodox Cultivation Path. I will owe no one any favors, and the past will be forgotten. Do you understand?”

He seemed to be speaking more to himself than to the child.

Han Yu nodded. A thin, satisfied smile touched the old man’s lips.

They traveled dozens of miles that day, eventually stopping at a city inn. Han Yu ate his fill once more. Though his clothes were rags, his strength was returning. Only his worn-through shoes promised pain for the miles ahead.

He still couldn’t fathom the extra disc. Why did he still have one after giving it away? Had there been two all along?

“Little Brat, come here. It is time for your lesson.”

Han Yu hurriedly hid his token and entered the Old Daoist’s room.

As soon as he stepped inside, the Old Daoist unsheathed a gleaming knife. He gestured toward the boy. “Let some blood.”

Han Yu froze in shock.

“I’m not trying to kill you,” the Old Daoist rasped. “The arts I learned are not the orthodox path. One must release blood to condense essence, using that ‘false qi’ to perform a circulation cycle.”

“To the great sects, this is nothing but monkey business. But to mortals? We are already gods,” the Old Daoist explained.

Han Yu hesitated, then took the blade and cut his skin as instructed.

As the blood welled up, the Old Daoist’s eyes glazed over. He stared at the wound, his throat bobbing as he swallowed hard.

He squeezed his eyes shut and hissed the name “Wan’er” under his breath, forcing himself to look away. Then, he pressed a weathered finger against Han Yu’s wound.

“Follow my lead. Circulate your blood.”

Han Yu focused with everything he had.

At first, he felt the blood leaving him, and a deep chill settled into his bones. But slowly, the cold faded, replaced by a dry, parched heat that flowed through his veins and settled into his entire body.

When the circulation cycle was complete, his mouth felt like ash. A burning, desperate thirst consumed him.

The Old Daoist released him. “Go. Practice on your own. If you forget the path, come ask me.”

Han Yu stumbled out of the room, his throat tight with thirst. In the hallway, he nearly collided with a waiter carrying two live chickens.

The waiter entered the Old Daoist’s room and left moments later, empty-handed.

Almost immediately, the sound of wet, tearing meat and heavy swallowing echoed from behind the door.

Han Yu stood in the dark hallway, chilled to the bone. Was it the Master Daoist feasting on raw flesh, or was it the bird?

The next morning, they continued their trek. That evening, the Old Daoist checked Han Yu’s progress. Finding that the boy hadn’t forgotten the circulation, he seemed satisfied and left him to his own devices.

After two more days, Han Yu’s condition worsened. His lips were cracked and bleeding. No matter how much water he drank, the fire in his throat would not die. He ate until his stomach ached, yet he remained ravenously hungry.

He finally summoned the courage to ask the Old Daoist what was wrong.

The Old Daoist laughed, a dry, mocking sound. “Your Blood Essence is insufficient. Of course you are parched.”

“However, I have already shown you utmost benevolence. I will not be buying Blood Food to sustain your cultivation.”

“Today, I will teach you two spells. After that, you are on your own!”