Chapter Forty-Seven: A Fellow Countryman

"...Assistant Magistrate, Peach Blossom Village: A family of three from the Liu clan moved into the city, bringing with them several precious pearls. They presented the pearls to the provincial governor, who praised them as worthy of tribute. Thereafter, the Liu family of three vanished under mysterious circumstances."

"Assistant Magistrate, Peach Blossom Village: A Daoist wanderer passed through, begging for rice and water. Before the eyes of the villagers, he transformed rice into gold. The crowd surged to seize it, but the Daoist disappeared without a trace."

"Assistant Magistrate, Peach Blossom Village: Wild beasts entered the village; overnight, more than half of the villagers, young and old, were gone—neither the living were seen nor the dead found."

"Assistant Magistrate, Peach Blossom Village: A golden-armored divine general appeared in the ancestral hall, carrying away three pairs of boys and girls."

"Assistant Magistrate, Peach Blossom Village..."

These were the records Yun Huachi dictated through the night after sifting through a vast sea of county annals, while Lan Yi combed the tangled contents for noteworthy patterns.

Taken individually, these accounts would be no more than rustic ghost stories.

Offering pearls, turning rice into gold, missing refugees, ancestral spirits manifesting—all could be seen as the desperate imaginings of the downtrodden, driven by harsh taxes and calamity to abandon dreams of prosperity, unable even to hope that the land might sustain their families, left only with supernatural tales as an escape from their bitter world.

Yet they shared a single common thread:

Peach Blossom Village.

Someone vanishes.

Supernatural elements.

Peach Blossom Village lies far from the sea—so whence the pearls? Did they grow on trees? Transforming rice into gold—whether through Daoist magic or martial prowess, a certain level of cultivation might achieve such a feat, at least briefly. As for the golden-armored general, ancestral apparitions—these could easily be explained as autonomous combat constructs, a cure-all for a thousand woes.

From a psychic cultivator's perspective, Lan Yi strongly suspected that Peach Blossom Village was much like the mysterious hamlet Huo Yuanjia once stumbled into: a remnant from the artificial divine realm's inception, perhaps a leftover facility, a mythical species, a confluence of virtual energies, or a point where celestial spheres overlapped.

If the artificial divine realm were likened to a vast house, then such anomalies would be like mouse holes.

To open a mouse hole is to open a blind box; one might find artifacts from a prior era, a manual for cultivating fates, nothing at all, or even deadly peril.

It all comes down to luck.

Without knowing the trigger conditions, even being drawn into the mouse hole is no easy matter.

Regardless, whether one is present or not, better to strike first and ask questions later.

Lan Yi had no intention of showing mercy; he immediately dispatched Yun Huachi with a team of martial cultivators to Peach Blossom Village in search of clues. With a martial artist’s pace, as long as they maintained weekly contact with the Jinling garrison, Lan Yi would know at once whether any leads had been found.

According to the experience of psychic cultivators, those possessing innate primordial energy or psychic abilities are particularly prone to attracting inexplicable phenomena.

To put it more mystically:

The world is a vast net, and each person weighs differently upon it. Some, by their sheer weight, draw causality to themselves even if they do nothing at all.

Clearly, innate primordial energy and psychic powers are excellent ways to become "heavier."

Yun Huachi, the refined lady, left with her eyes so full of grievance they seemed about to spill over.

She finally understood.

Immortal Lan Yi did not regard her as a woman—nor even as a person. He cared nothing for her nature; as long as she was suitable, he would use her, just as one would wield a convenient tool, and use it until it was no longer useful.

If Yun Huachi proved inadequate, someone else would take her place.

Most first-generation psychic cultivators were pragmatic, even ruthless; as pioneers of the artificial divine realm, the dangers they faced were immense and unpredictable. To solve problems effectively, as long as the survival of their civilization was not at risk, they could suppress personal preferences and sever primal emotions.

Lan the Old Devil did not object to the beauties around him; he kept them for the pleasure of the eye, let them fawn on him.

But when it came to business, if a woman was suitable for the task, she would be sent to work regardless.

Not that Lan Yi was devoid of desire or a perverse ascetic, either.

If a suitable partner with a foundation of emotion appeared, he would not object to exploring, in depth, the wonders that the interplay of electromagnetism and pistons might spark under the influence of strong and weak forces.

Unfortunately, such partners were exceedingly rare.

The crucial point was this: more often than not, when Lan Yi wished to pursue such deeper explorations, the object of his interest had already been slain by his ever-changing arcane arts—or, if not dead, had become a mortal enemy. This left Lan Yi rather exasperated. Was it truly so difficult to find a normal woman?

"Immortal Master."

While Lan Yi was lamenting the hardships of his courtship, Zhao Sikong’s voice came from outside the study.

"Hmm?" Lan Yi raised an eyebrow.

He recalled that Zhao Sikong was supposed to be dealing with Liu Bian and the others.

Reportedly, Zhao Sikong and Zhao Jian planned to use the ten great tortures over the next few days to dispatch the diehard Qing loyalists in Jinling—flaying, quartering, dismemberment by chariots, slow slicing, the five punishments—each with its own unique technique and secret weapon, guaranteed to make even the most unyielding weep and repent.

Cruel as it was, it was not so cruel as "keep the hair, lose the head"; it was, by comparison, quite civilized.

Besides, martial artists should harbor a certain ferocity—otherwise, what business have they with martial cultivation? Lan Yi was satisfied with his subordinates; at least in this era, men did not lack for aggression, nor were they naïve saints. There was no need, as in some apocalyptic artificial realms, to cultivate savagery from scratch—a savagery that, in those worlds, was often uncontrollable.

Zhao Sikong exhaled in relief outside the door.

He had come promptly after seeing Yun Huachi leave with a sword at her belt and an entourage. He should not have interrupted any romantic matters of the Immortal Master.

"Immortal Master, there is a man claiming to be your... countryman. He brings a message, saying that if you hear it, you will agree to see him. His diction is clear and his words resemble yours, so I took the liberty of disturbing you."

"What message?" Lan Yi’s interest was piqued.

Lately, too many people had sought to attach themselves to him. Claiming to be a fellow countryman was common; some even pretended to be relatives, fellow disciples, brothers, even parents, all in attempts to swindle their way in.

But such people rarely made it to Lan Yi himself.

Any martial cultivator, by circulating their innate energy, could test the authenticity of such claims.

In other words, this man, daring as he was, must possess some skill—enough to get past such superhuman gatekeepers, to startle Zhao Sikong, and to persuade him, a powerful cultivator in his own right.

"He said, 'Love you, walking alone down a dark alley.'" Zhao Sikong’s expression was odd; the words felt strangely shameful to utter.

"..." Lan Yi fell silent.

"Immortal Master?" After a pause, Zhao Sikong spoke again.

"Bring him to me."

"As you command, Immortal Master."

Zhao Sikong could not help but wonder—was it his imagination, or did the Immortal Master’s voice sound a touch more cheerful? Could this man truly be a countryman of the Immortal Master?

"It must concern the psychic arts," Lan Yi mused in the study, already close to the truth.