Chapter Thirty-Three: Eldest Senior Brother

At the foot of Mount Feilai.

Master Daofan released his hand from Shen Yu’s shoulder.

Shen Yu suddenly staggered, spitting out several mouthfuls of bright red blood before leaning against a red pine. Though his face was pale, his gaze remained clear and composed.

Daofan said, “I didn’t expect you to strike so hard today, showing no courtesy at all to the Hall of Pure Laws.”

Shen Yu replied calmly, “Is that a good thing or a bad thing?”

Daofan said, “I’m rather pleased. In all these decades, not a single disciple from the Abyssal Saint Hall has participated in the Four Halls Ritual, and yet this time, one ordinary disciple has shaken the entire Daoist Order. As an old man, I can’t help but feel some satisfaction.”

The Abyssal Saint Hall had always been sparse in disciples, its lineage passed down almost singularly for centuries, and so it had never taken part in the Four Halls Ritual. As the Grand Elder of the Abyssal Saint Hall, Daofan naturally harbored some regrets.

Shen Yu cared nothing for this and only responded indifferently, then slowly guided the spiritual energy in his core to heal his wounds.

This injury was even graver than what he had suffered atop the Treasure Cliff. Forcibly drawing spiritual energy into the body was far too damaging; had Xun Ju intervened at the time, the consequences would have been unthinkable.

He could not help but regret that Fang Hen had managed to survive in the end.

Opening his eyes, Shen Yu said, somewhat vexed, “My cultivation is still too low.”

Daofan shook his head. “The Way teaches gradual progress. With the talent you displayed today against Lan Yingxing, in a few years’ time, even Fang Hen will be no match for you.”

Fang Hen, senior brother of the Hall of Pure Laws, had stepped into the Wandering Spirit Realm after just over twenty years of training—a figure who, elsewhere in Linghuang, would outshine most sect leaders.

Daofan’s tone was utterly certain, for today he had seen Shen Yu’s talent with his own eyes.

Lan Yingxing had wielded the Three Mountains Technique, the secret legacy of the Hall of Pure Laws and its most formidable Daoist art, yet Shen Yu had countered it with a single sword.

The battle had been so swift that most witnessed only what followed, overlooking what had happened in that instant.

Shen Yu had seen at a glance the flaw within the Three Mountains Technique—a youth with such clarity of mind could only be called prodigious.

Daofan smiled with satisfaction. “Take your time.”

Shen Yu, still weak, simply sat cross-legged and said with composure, “It isn’t Lan Yingxing I care about, nor Fang Hen.”

Daofan was puzzled.

Shen Yu said earnestly, “I care about Xun Ju. At the last moment, he blocked my sword and suppressed me with overwhelming power. If my cultivation were a little higher, I could have killed him as well.”

Daofan was struck speechless, staring in shock at the pale-faced youth before him.

The master of the Hall of Pure Laws was a cultivator of the Ascension Realm, perhaps even on the verge of the legendary Immortal Realm—a giant in the world of Shanhai Linghuang, master of the sect’s laws and order. Yet this boy had not only killed his disciple before his eyes, but after being stopped, even wished to slay him as well.

Daofan’s expression grew complicated, and with a sigh he said, “You have a bold heart. In years past, the sect leader was much the same.”

“A heart clear as the Dao, fearless of all things—perhaps this is the truest nature of a cultivator.”

Shen Yu looked at Daofan and said, “Master, perhaps it’s because you bind your heart with too many fetters that you have remained where you are.”

Daofan regarded him, thinking to himself, This boy truly sees himself as the sect leader already.

Shen Yu’s face was as calm as still water, as though everything he said was only natural.

From a distance, Su Mo descended the mountain and interrupted the quiet between them. “Junior brother, you’ll be needing this, won’t you?”

He tossed over a pill.

Shen Yu caught it, swallowed it, and felt its gentle medicinal power slowly spread, easing the sharp pain in his chest at last.

Su Mo did not ask about the Four Halls Ritual, only inquired, “Do you want to rest here for a while, or head up the mountain?”

Shen Yu shook his head, rose, and walked toward the small stone cave where he had once stayed, saying as he went, “Senior brother, go about your business. I’ll rest here and refine the medicine.”

Su Mo’s expression was odd as he turned to Daofan.

Daofan just shook his head, sighed, and left.

Shen Yu sat cross-legged again, but suddenly remembered something and asked, “Is it possible to bring someone here?”

From outside the cave, Su Mo replied, “That little girl called Yang Liu?”

Shen Yu nodded. “Yes. The head of Sitting Oblivion Peak is too narrow-minded.”

Today, the youth had not only destroyed Zhang Zhi’s life-bound spiritual treasure, but also caused his cultivation to falter. There was no way Yang Liu would be allowed to stay on Sitting Oblivion Peak.

Su Mo smiled. “Let her come over first. We’ll discuss it again when master returns.”

“Alright.”

Shen Yu had nothing more to do, but seeing Su Mo still lingering outside, asked, “Senior brother, is there something else?”

Su Mo shook his head repeatedly. “No, nothing. I’ll be heading up the mountain.”

He turned and made his way up the slope, but halfway up, he glanced back at the cramped cave and sighed to himself.

Such a clever junior brother—why does he insist on living in a hole fit for a dog?

Su Mo continued up the mountain, walking slowly until he reached the arched bridge. There, a spirit carp leapt from the water, passing by his side and blowing bubbles in delight.

Entering the mist-shrouded woods, the thick fog retreated before his steps and gathered again as he passed.

The emerald leaves, swayed by the breeze, all pointed ahead, as if guiding his way.

Su Mo trod the mossy stone steps, ascending to the highest point of Mount Feilai. After gazing out over the rivers and mountains, he sat down to read.

The mountain wind lifted his sleeves; he sat as elegant as a jade tree in the wind, serene and at ease.

Over the years, Su Mo had traveled many places, and each journey was as uneventful as this climb—bridges over every stream, safety in the face of danger, and spirit beasts gathering to protect him wherever he went.

But since joining the Daoist Order, he had rarely left the mountain, spending his days reading, tending flowers, and planting grasses.

Shen Yu once said he was a child of fate, that Mount Feilai existed for his sake. The spirit carp, the azure luan on the mountain—he had raised them all from childhood.

Within the Abyssal Saint Hall, save for a few elders wandering the world, only Daofan, Su Mo, and Shen Yu remained.

Daofan had his own abode and seldom visited Mount Feilai.

When Shen Yu first ascended the mountain, he discovered that the entire spiritual vein of Mount Feilai was tied to Su Mo, its energy cleansing him day and night.

Senior brother—did he truly have no cultivation at all?

A child of fate—how could such a one be an ordinary mortal?