“Master Daoist.”

Han Yu stood before the old man, his heart hammering a frantic rhythm against his ribs.

The Old Daoist, possessing a face as long and unsightly as a donkey’s, narrowed his eyes in suspicion. “I’ve given you no Blood Food, and I’ve forced you to feed my raven. So tell me—why is your Blood Essence still so robust?”

Han Yu remained silent, keeping his gaze fixed on the floor.

The Old Daoist reached out, his gnarled fingers clamping onto Han Yu’s wrist like an iron shackle. As he probed the boy’s internal pulse, his eyebrows shot upward in disbelief.

How could a mere child possess Blood Essence as vigorous as a grown man’s?

“Kid, how have you been cultivating? Show me!”

Han Yu sat cross-legged on the floor and performed a single cultivation cycle.

The Old Daoist watched with hawk-like intensity, his gaze scanning for a single flaw. He found none. He began to tug at his short, goat-like beard, lost in a maze of thought.

The Blood Refining Art was a Pseudo-Immortal Method he had painstakingly plundered from a runaway Blood Slave of a Demonic Sect. The three techniques it contained—the Blood Droplet, the Spirit Nurturing Technique, and the Bloodlust Technique—were “immortal arts” that existed far beyond the realm of mortal martial arts.

It defied all logic. A veteran like himself required daily Blood Food to sustain his progress, yet this brat’s essence was overflowing.

Was his own method flawed? Or was the boy a natural freak of nature?

He continued to pull at his beard, but no answer came. He was no true cultivator; he was merely a man following a stolen map. He had neither the foundation nor the wisdom to decipher the subtle intricacies of the technique.

“Forget it!”

The Old Daoist finally scoffed, waving the matter away. In a few days, he would stand at the gates of Wanchun Valley and embark on the Orthodox Cultivation Path. A Pseudo-Immortal Method like the Blood Refining Art would be beneath his notice then.

“You’ve reached this state on your own. Whether it’s a blessing or a curse, I no longer care. Do as you please.”

“If you accidentally cultivate yourself into an early grave, I suppose Wan’er’s spirit in heaven can’t blame me for that.”

With those cold words, the Old Daoist turned away.

Han Yu let out a quiet sigh of relief. He retreated to his room to feed the raven, then used his secret gift to replicate his essence. As the double portion was refined, his total Blood Essence surged once more, a warm current of power through his veins.

The next morning, the Old Daoist urged his donkey eastward. Han Yu followed on foot, the Black Raven circling overhead like a guardian spirit.

The bird had grown noticeably fond of Han Yu. It was receiving a feast of high-quality Blood Essence every day, and its predatory, hungry glint had been replaced by a quiet contentment.

As they traveled, the road grew crowded. Lavish sedan chairs and horse-drawn carriages appeared frequently, flanked by entourages of maids and armored guards.

There were also martial artists—thick-waisted men with broad shoulders, wielding heavy sabers and long spears. Whether traveling alone or in groups, every soul on the road was moving toward the east.

“Master Daoist, are they all going to Wanchun Valley?”

“Yes, every last one of them.” The Old Daoist grinned, his voice a raspy rasp of pride. “They all seek the secret of long life. But out here, their wealth, power, and martial skill mean nothing. Before the gates of the immortal sect, they are all commoners.”

“Whether one is fit to walk the path of immortality is not for them to decide!”

Before reaching the valley itself, they arrived at a hub known as Seeking Immortality Town. It sat roughly half a day’s journey from Wanchun Valley—a rest stop for the desperate and the hopeful.

The streets were a chaotic tapestry of humanity. Wealthy nobles and martial masters were as common here as mushrooms after a rain.

Some wore brocade hats and sable furs; others carried ornate blades that glittered in the sun. To Han Yu, dressed in his tattered rags, it was a world of impossible wonder.

“Kid!”

Seeing Han Yu’s wide-eyed stare, the Old Daoist shook his head. “The skills I’ve taught you… if you cultivate them for a few years, you could become a Guest of Honor for any of these nobles. You could enjoy a lifetime of luxury.”

“When that time comes, mentioning you are a descendant of the ‘Three Friends of Quanlin’ will bring glory to your grandmother—and to me!”

Han Yu thought: I am the grandson of my grandfather and grandmother. How did I become your descendant?

The Old Daoist chose an inn and addressed the waiter with a brusque command: “Two rooms. One meat dish and one vegetable dish for every meal. This donkey is your payment.”

“And bring four live chickens to my room.”

The waiter’s eyes widened at the donkey. He beamed, nearly tripping over his own feet. “How long will you be staying, Master Daoist?”

“Until tomorrow.”

The waiter scurried off to inform the innkeeper, who appeared moments later, bowing and scraping. “Quickly! Arrange the premier suites and a private table on the second floor!”

The two were led upstairs to a secluded dining area. The Black Raven swooped down from the rafters and perched on Han Yu’s shoulder, much to the waiter’s astonishment.

At a window table nearby, a young master in fine silks was lounging with a maid. They were drinking wine directly from each other’s mouths, flanked by two stone-faced attendants.

Hearing the commotion, the young master looked up, his face twisted in annoyance. He glanced at the ugly Old Daoist and the boy in rags.

“Who invited these beggars to disturb my—”

The maid suddenly whispered in his ear, “Master, look at the bird!”

The young master’s annoyance vanished, replaced by greedy interest. “Incredible! Is that a hunting eagle? It looks majestic! Wang San, go bring that bird to me.”

A burly man stepped forward from the attendants. Without a word of greeting, he reached out a massive hand to seize the raven.

Han Yu looked at the Old Daoist.

The old man let out a dry, raspy chuckle. “Why look at me? Haven’t I already taught you what to do?”

Han Yu turned his gaze to the raven. Should he let them take it?

As the man’s hand closed in, the raven took flight. Its talons lashed out like lightning, carving deep, bloody trenches into Wang San’s forearm.

The man screamed in pain, his face turning purple. “You cursed beast! You’re dead!” He reached for the heavy saber at his waist.

In that heartbeat, a Blood Droplet condensed at the tip of Han Yu’s finger. He aimed it at the man’s chest. “Don’t do it—”

But Wang San had already bared his steel. Han Yu hesitated no longer. He flicked his finger, and the Blood Droplet hissed through the air.

Thud.

The droplet punched a clean hole through Wang San’s shoulder blade. It continued through him, slamming into the heavy wooden table and drilling a perfect, transparent hole through the oak.

The saber clattered to the floor. Wang San stared at the ragged child in front of him, his face pale with terror.

“A… a spell?” he stammered.

The entire second floor fell into a deathly silence. Every eye was fixed on the boy.

The young master in silks stood up, his legs shaking so violently he looked ready to collapse. He threw himself to the floor, his forehead hitting the wood with a loud crack.

“An Immortal Child! I am in the presence of an Immortal Child! Please, forgive me! I am Wei Baoyu, the fourth son of the Prime Minister! I beg for mercy!”

The maid and the remaining servants collapsed into kowtows. “We beg for mercy! Forgive our blindness!”

Han Yu looked at the Old Daoist, utterly overwhelmed. “Master Daoist…”

The Old Daoist was also looking at Han Yu with a trace of surprise. The boy had fired a lethal spell and yet remained standing, showing no signs of the usual exhaustion. His vitality was unnerving.

“Since you’re the one who dealt with them, it’s your business. Do as you like.”

Han Yu hesitated for a moment. “Then… all of you should get up. Just stop trying to take our things.”

Hearing this, Wei Baoyu and his men didn’t dare move. They assumed the boy was being sarcastic, highlighting their attempted theft.

“Immortal Child, please! Forgive our greed!” Wei Baoyu cried. “We would never dare covet your divine bird! I am willing to do anything to make amends!”

Han Yu told them to rise, but they refused to budge, insisting on paying a price for their offense.

Han Yu looked at the raven, then at the terrified nobles. He finally had an idea.

“Do you have many live animals with you?”