Regarding these "chosen ones" of the cultivation world with their bizarre brain wiring, Mo Fan was completely speechless.
Holding his rice bowl, watching Lin Tian flee as if dodging a plague god, he could only shake his head helplessly.
"Riddlers will be riddlers. Anyway, starting tomorrow, we won't be on the same server anymore."
After settling the bill, Mo Fan walked out of the dining hall. Facing the sky full of brilliant sunset afterglow, he walked along that winding mountain path leading to the outer court servant district for the last time.
This was probably his last time walking this path with the identity of a "servant."
Hanging at his waist was that crudely manufactured, low-quality wooden token carved with the three characters "Hundred Forging Peak."
Tucked securely inside his robes against his chest was that massive fortune of a full twenty mid-grade Spirit Stones.
When he pushed open that drafty, broken wooden door of his, the dim light and musty smell of the room hit him in the face.
Mo Fan stood in the doorway.
He looked at the simple, hard plank bed he had slept on for months, the wooden table with four uneven legs propped up by a broken brick, and the chipped, coarse porcelain tea bowl on the table.
He touched the massive fortune in his chest, feeling an extremely strong, surreal sense of cognitive dissonance.
"Twenty mid-grade Spirit Stones... probably enough to buy this entire servant district and renovate it ten times over."
Mo Fan shook his head and smiled bitterly.
He walked to the bed and began to pack his bags. Actually, he didn't have much to pack.
His truly valuable belongings—including Mo Yan, Summon No. 003, Summon No. 004, and that pile of Yin-attribute Spirit Beast materials enough to last him a long time—had long since been categorized and stuffed into the depths of that premium storage bag.
He merely symbolically grabbed a few changes of coarse cloth clothes, re-wrapped the [ Pale Bone Scepter ] (which was disguised as a heavy iron rod) in rags, and tied them into a bundle.
Just as he tied a dead knot on the bundle...
Flap, flap, flap—
A faint fluctuation of magical power suddenly came from outside the window.
Mo Fan turned his head alertly, only to see an exquisitely folded spirit paper crane, radiating a faint shimmer, fluttering its wings and flying in through the gap in the broken window lattice.
The paper crane circled once in mid-air, transformed into a letter carrying a faint medicinal fragrance, and landed softly on the broken wooden table.
Mo Fan walked over, picked up the letter, and unfolded it.
It was A-Song's handwriting. Slightly neater than before, but still carrying a hint of unfamiliarity and childishness.
Brother Seven:
I heard from the senior brothers of Longevity Peak that you displayed great divine might at the Outer Court Grand Tournament and actually made it into the Top 8! I knew it, Brother Seven, you could definitely do it!
Between the lines, there was an unconcealable excitement and pride.
Seeing this, Mo Fan couldn't help but raise an eyebrow.
It seemed Sect Master Qing Feng protected this precious disciple extremely well. Those boiling rumors outside about "forbidden love" and "public confessions" had all been forcibly suppressed by the Sect Master's faction and hadn't reached A-Song's ears at all.
That saved him a lot of breath explaining.
In the second half of the letter, the handwriting became somewhat messy, seemingly written in a hurry:
Brother Seven, I originally wanted to go down the mountain today to pick you up and celebrate. But Master said that the Azure Wood Green Dragon Qi in my body has recently reached a critical metamorphosis stage. > He has arranged an extremely important closed-door cultivation for me, ordering me to go all out to break through to the Foundation Establishment stage.
I dare not disobey Master's Dharma Decree, so I can only come see you after I break through. But don't worry, senior brother told me you were assigned to Hundred Forging Peak. > As soon as I come out of seclusion, no matter how remote that mountain peak is, I will definitely go to the back mountain to reunite with you immediately!
Brother Seven, wait for me.
—A-Song
After reading the letter, Mo Fan gently rubbed the edge of the paper with his fingertips, a smile of heartfelt gratification hooking the corner of his mouth.
This wasn't just because of A-Song's concern.
It was even more because this time difference was simply perfect to the extreme!
With A-Song entering seclusion to assault Foundation Establishment, he absolutely wouldn't be coming out in the short term.
And as long as A-Song didn't run to Hundred Forging Peak, the secret guards and elders of the Sect Master's faction naturally wouldn't cast too many glances at him, the "trash brother retiring in an abandoned mine."
He could perfectly use this extremely precious free farming phase to thoroughly figure out the background of Hundred Forging Peak and build it into his true, impregnable undead base camp!
"Good kid, cultivate in peace." Mo Fan carefully folded the letter and tucked it away securely. "When you come out of seclusion, your Brother Seven will absolutely give you a huge surprise too."
The sky gradually darkened.
With a creak, the courtyard's brushwood gate was pushed open.
Old Lü, hunched over, carrying a jug of inferior burning liquor brewed by a mortal distillery in one hand and an oil-paper package seeping with grease tucked under his arm...
He walked in with an extremely complex expression.
Mo Fan happened to be carrying his bundle out of the house.
The two met face-to-face in the courtyard.
"Uncle Lü." Mo Fan went up and casually took the oil-paper package from Old Lü's hand. It was half a golden-roasted chicken, still retaining its residual warmth.
Old Lü didn't speak. He just stared dead at the luggage on Mo Fan's back and that crude "Hundred Forging Peak" wooden token at his waist.
The cloudy eye sockets of the old man, who had seen all the fickleness of human nature, actually turned somewhat red in this moment.
He had tumbled through this servant district his whole life. He had seen too many young people harboring dreams of becoming immortals, only to have their spines broken by reality, turning into a handful of yellow dirt that no one cared about.
He never expected that the crippled Xiaoqi, who was always bullied by the stewards and couldn't even eat his fill, could actually make such huge waves in this man-eating cultivation world.
"Xiaoqi..."
Old Lü's voice was terribly hoarse. His lips trembled for a long time before he squeezed out a sentence:
"You brat... you brat actually really did it!"
Old Lü knew absolutely nothing about Mo Fan's dark, Machiavellian scheming behind the scenes, nor did he know anything about a Necromancer's trump cards.
In his eyes, Mo Fan was a tragic child without any Spirit Root, deemed to be trash.
He could even imagine that Mo Fan, in order to be worthy of A-Song's current status, didn't hesitate to practice that evil body cultivation method that would grind his bones to dust...
Forcefully carving out a bloody path among a pile of immortals relying on sheer, death-defying willpower!
"Just got lucky, Uncle Lü." Mo Fan smiled, pulling Old Lü to sit down on the broken wooden threshold. "Come, let us two men have a drink. This is my last meal in this courtyard."
Mo Fan tore open the oil paper, ripped off a chicken leg, and handed it to Old Lü, while he himself took a bite of a chicken wing.
The inferior burning liquor entered the throat, spicy and pungent, burning into the stomach like a line of fire.
The two just sat on the threshold, looking at the cold crescent moon overhead, chatting aimlessly.
Old Lü didn't ask about those absurd rumors regarding Shen Qiu in the newspapers, nor did he ask how Mo Fan won the tournament.
He just acted like an old father sending his son off on a long journey, drinking sullenly and naggingly advising:
"Xiaoqi, once you enter the inner sect, that is a true immortal realm. The rules are strict, and the waters are deep. You have a stubborn temper, and you practice body cultivation; you're prone to impulse."
The old man, borrowing liquid courage, patted Mo Fan's thigh.
"In the future, when encountering issues, you must endure and yield more. We can't afford to provoke those big shots. Even if you suffer grievances, don't butt heads with them."
"You must remember: staying alive safely is better than anything else. A-Song is still watching you from up there..."
Mo Fan listened quietly.
He didn't refute, nor did he feel impatient.
For a Necromancer like him who wandered on the edge of life and death, this extremely rare, even somewhat nagging mortal warmth was like a basin of charcoal fire in the dead of winter—incomparably precious.
"I will remember, Uncle Lü. Don't worry, what I'm best at is staying alive."
Mo Fan smiled, raising his chipped tea bowl and clinking it against Old Lü's wine jug.
The night deepened.
Old Lü, slightly tipsy, staggered back to the neighboring courtyard.
Mo Fan stood in the night wind, watching the old man leave.
On the edge of the threshold where Old Lü had just sat, tucked silently under that empty, chipped wine bowl, lay three faintly glowing shards of a mid-grade Spirit Stone.
For an inner sect disciple, this might just be the cost of a meal; but for a mortal servant, this was a massive fortune enough for Er Ya to grow up safely and for Old Lü to enjoy his twilight years in peace.
After seeing Old Lü off, the night had become as deep as thick, un-meltable ink.
Early tomorrow morning, Mo Fan would take his token and report to that legendary "abandoned mine mountain," Hundred Forging Peak.
He returned to the house, lay down on the hard plank bed fully clothed, preparing to rest and recharge to deal with whatever situations might arise tomorrow.
However, less than the time it takes an incense stick to burn after he closed his eyes...
Hum—
That familiar "sixth sense," which had saved his life in countless crisis moments, struck again without warning.
There was no sharp killing intent, no red alert from the [ Death Vision ].
But that heart-palpitating oppressive pressure clearly told him that an extremely powerful entity had arrived outside his door.
Tap, tap, tap.
The broken wooden door was knocked three times, extremely lightly and rhythmically.
The sound was exceptionally clear in the silent midnight.
"In the middle of the night, could it be that Lin Tian coming to my door to act crazy again?"
Mo Fan frowned and rolled off the bed. His right hand grasped the empty air, covertly latching onto the edge of his storage bag.
If the person outside made any strange moves, he could erupt instantly and deliver a fatal blow.
He held his breath and slowly pulled open that creaking wooden door.
The cold moonlight poured in through the crack in the door.
Standing outside the door was, astonishingly, the runner-up of this Grand Tournament who had dropped a harsh word outside the inner sect plaza during the day before fleeing in panic—Shen Qiu!
Mo Fan froze.
This time, the third wheel, Lin Tian, was not present.
Shen Qiu was still wearing her signature purple-black tight martial suit. Her figure was tall, her curves outlined thrillingly by the moonlight.
But her gaze was completely different from the shame, anger, and sharpness she displayed during the day.
She stood quietly in front of Mo Fan's door.
In those cold eyes, the disguise of the ice goddess had faded, replaced by an indescribable complexity, inner conflict, and even a trace of imperceptible softness.
She looked at Mo Fan, who had opened the door, seeming to want to say something...