“Thank you for your mercy, Immortal Child! I shall remember this benevolence as long as I draw breath!”

Wei Baoyu, the fourth son of the Nanli Kingdom’s Prime Minister, stole a trembling glance upward before scrambling away with his entourage. Only the Old Daoist, Han Yu, the massive black raven, and eight fine steeds remained in the quiet of the inn’s stables.

Because of a single request from Han Yu, the young noble had abandoned his horses—the only living things his party had possessed.

Once the dust settled, Han Yu turned to the Old Daoist. “Master Daoist… can these serve as Blood Food?”

The Old Daoist grinned, his teeth yellowed and jagged. “They can, and then some! But look at you—with that puny frame, do you really think you can handle them? One well-placed kick from these beasts would snap your ribs like dry twigs.”

“Besides,” the old man’s voice dropped to a conspiratorial rasp, “we are at the threshold of Wanchun Valley. If a true Immortal Master senses the slaughter of horses, how will you explain the stench of blood?”

“Master Daoist, I’ll give you half,” Han Yu blurted out.

“Now that’s more like it!” The Old Daoist let out a dry, satisfied cackle. “Get back to your room and feed that bird. I’ll handle the rest. Tomorrow, I enter the gates of the immortals!”

The Old Daoist led the horses away into the night. Han Yu returned to his room, fed the raven, and fell into a deep, meditative trance.

At dawn, the Old Daoist reappeared and tossed a small, lidded clay jar to Han Yu.

“This is your share of the refined essence. A single jar is enough to sustain your Blood Food for three months. Use it sparingly, and you might even stretch it to a year.”

Before Han Yu could offer a word of thanks, the travel-worn old man had already turned toward the horizon.

Han Yu scrambled to keep pace. “Master Daoist, are we going to the Valley now?”

Without looking back, the Old Daoist replied, his voice thick with a lifetime of suppressed longing. “Correct! The true path finally begins!”

They left the bustling crowds of Immortal-Seeking Town behind, heading east toward the shrouded peaks. As they approached the sanctuary, the road grew eerily deserted.

“In this world, many claim to seek the heavens, but few possess the iron heart to follow through,” the Old Daoist laughed when Han Yu questioned the silence. “The Immortal Destiny Grand Ceremony is still a year away. Who would dare trespass on these grounds without cause?”

“If a sentinel decided to strike them down for disturbing the peace, they would have only their own foolishness to blame!”

The old man stopped and fixed Han Yu with a piercing stare. “Kid, do you really have the nerve to keep going? I have a Keepsake Token. You have nothing. If the Immortal Masters decide you’re a nuisance, they’ll kill you where you stand.”

Han Yu gave a simple, silent nod. The Old Daoist shrugged and pressed on.

After hours of trekking, they reached a range of mountains veiled in eternal mist. The air here was different—crisp, sweet, and surging with a vitality that cleared the mind with every breath.

In the distance, a colossal, verdant tree stood sentinel before the mountain pass, its canopy piercing the clouds. White cranes spiraled gracefully through the vapors, and swirling mists hid the world beyond.

The sheer majesty of the gate invigorated the Old Daoist. He surged forward with newfound strength, Han Yu close behind, while the black raven descended to perch heavily on the boy’s shoulder.

Within a hundred yards of the tree, a silence so heavy it felt physical pressed against them. A massive boulder blocked the path, inscribed with glaring, blood-red calligraphy: “Those who disturb our cultivation without cause shall be slain!”

The killing intent radiating from the stone made Han Yu’s skin crawl.

At the foot of the boulder, the Old Daoist reverently produced his disc-shaped Keepsake Token. He raised it high with trembling hands.

“This humble one brings a Wanchun Valley Keepsake Token! I beg for entry to seek the path of immortality!”

For a long moment, there was only the sound of the wind.

Anxious sweat beaded on the Old Daoist’s brow. He held his breath. Just as despair began to creep in, a voice drifted down from the canopy.

“Understood. Wait.”

A figure blurred through the sky, riding a streak of shimmering light—a flying sword. The cultivator landed atop the boulder, looking down at the two travelers with utter indifference.

He was a square-faced man in elegant blue robes, standing with his chin tilted high. To the Old Daoist, this arrogance was comforting; it was the hallmark of a true Immortal Master.

“The token,” the blue-robed man commanded, his hand outstretched.

The Old Daoist used his martial arts to leap onto the rock, placing the disc in the man’s hand before dropping back down to wait with bated breath.

The cultivator traced the intricate tree pattern. “Genuine. This token grants entry to one soul. Is it for you, or the boy?”

“It is for me,” the Old Daoist said instantly.

“For you?” The man scoffed. “You’re pushing eighty. Do you truly believe you can still forge a path? You’d be wiser to send a son or a nephew whose roots aren’t yet brittle.”

“I am alone in this world,” the Old Daoist replied, his voice firm. “I seek only to glimpse the truth before I return to the earth.”

The blue-robed man looked away. “If you bring the token, we cannot deny you. Come. Without it, an old man like you wouldn’t have even a prayer of crossing this threshold.”

Overjoyed, the Old Daoist bowed until his forehead nearly touched the ground. “Thank you, Immortal Master! Thank you!”

He scrambled after the guide, forgetting Han Yu and the raven entirely.

“Immortal Master!” Han Yu’s voice rang out, sharp and clear. “Please, let me enter as well!”

The blue-robed man didn’t pause. The Old Daoist didn’t look back.

Han Yu reached into his tattered robes and pulled out his own disc. “Immortal Master, I have a token as well!”

The blue-robed man froze. He turned slowly, his eyes narrowing in suspicion. The Old Daoist spun around, his jaw dropping in pure, unadulterated shock.

When they saw the identical disc in Han Yu’s hand, the atmosphere turned heavy.

“What is this?” the man muttered, walking back to snatch the token. “I go years without seeing one, and today two appear together?” He inspected it closely. “Genuine. Very well. Both of you, follow me.”

The Old Daoist’s face shifted from shock to a simmering, vein-popping rage. Han, you bastard! Even in your grave, you’re still playing me! You had two tokens all along!

No wonder you could steal Wan’er away! And this brat… playing the obedient servant while hiding a second token in his shirt… none of you Hans are any good!

The guide led them to the base of the giant tree, warning them to step exactly in his footprints to avoid the lethal defensive formations. They moved in a dizzying pattern—three steps left, five right, circling and doubling back—until the world suddenly brightened.

They crossed a bridge of shimmering light, and Wanchun Valley opened before them.

Towering peaks pierced through golden clouds. Groves of emerald bamboo and ancient pines lined the hills, and exotic flowers glowed with their own internal light. Buildings were scattered like constellations across the landscape, and disciples in blue and gray moved with an air of refined grace. Every so often, a streak of light arced across the sky as a cultivator soared past.

The guide led them to a building marked as the Deacon’s Quarters.

“Deacon Fang,” the guide said, bowing to a pale man with calculating, narrow eyes. “I have found two holders of Keepsake Tokens while on patrol. I bring them for your inspection.”

Deacon Fang examined the discs with a cold, clinical gaze. “Chen Pei.”

The guide bowed lower. “This disciple is here.”

“Record two Minor Merits for your service. Return to your post.”

Chen Pei beamed, receiving the merits into a jade square at his waist before hurrying away. Deacon Fang then turned his narrow, slit-like eyes on the Old Daoist and the boy.

“Names? Ages?”