Chapter 155: The Universal Heritage Scripture

Beneath the moonlight, the soldiers gazed as Zhou Qing’s figure gradually vanished into the night. Not far away, the middle-aged general who had lost an ear struggled to his feet from the ground.

“What are you staring at, you little brats? Hurry up and report to General Cao, tell him to come out and apprehend that spy!” the general barked, only to let out a pained cry as soon as he stood. His calf, just trampled by Zhou Qing, was numb and aching. “Well? Don’t just stand there—come and help me back to camp!”

Having dispatched a few ignorant soldiers, Zhou Qing continued along the mountain path under the cover of darkness. Not long after, the distant sound of neighing horses reached his ears.

“Hey! You filthy wretch up ahead—stop right there!”

Along with the pounding hooves came a rough, booming voice.

“Filthy wretch?” The insult reignited Zhou Qing’s anger, which had only just subsided. In this desolate stretch of road, there was no one else but him, so there could be no doubt who the shout was meant for.

Suppressing his silent fury, Zhou Qing tightened his grip on the Illusory Peerless, the artifact in his hand, and stopped to look back.

He immediately saw a burly, bald man clad in golden mail galloping toward him on horseback, with several armored riders close behind.

The bald man, seeing Zhou Qing halt, yanked his reins and brought his horse to a stop four or five paces away. He then vaulted from the saddle, landing heavily on the ground. The soldiers behind him followed suit, stopping their mounts and remaining seated, watching intently.

“Baldy, did you just call me a filthy wretch?” Zhou Qing asked, noticing the man approaching with a wooden staff in hand.

“If you know it was you, why bother asking? That’s right, I was calling you!” the bald man replied, planting his staff beside him and rubbing his shiny head with a laugh.

As the man touched the top of his head, Zhou Qing finally noticed the burn marks of a monastic tonsure—evidence that this bald man had once been a monk.

But Zhou Qing had little interest in such details now; the man’s insult had fully ignited his wrath. Focusing his energy, Zhou Qing transformed the Illusory Peerless in his hand into a wooden staff and swung it at the bald man.

The bald man’s eyes widened slightly as he saw the artifact conjured from spiritual energy, clearly able to perceive its form.

The staff in Zhou Qing’s hand swept toward the target, only to be blocked by the bald man’s own staff, lifted swiftly to intercept. Wood met wood, yet not a sound was heard, for Zhou Qing’s weapon was formed of spirit, not matter.

The bald man caught the blow overhead with both hands and, summoning his brute strength, shoved forward, forcing Zhou Qing back several paces.

From this, Zhou Qing could tell that the man’s physical strength exceeded his own—and that the man could see the artifact conjured from his spiritual power. This alone proved that he had, indeed, been a cultivator and possessed some level of attainment.

Otherwise, he would not have been able to see the spiritual implement at all.

Thwarted in his first attack, Zhou Qing flicked his wrist and the staff dissolved into a long whip. With a sharp crack, he lashed out at the bald man.

With a snap, the whip struck—but the bald man dodged swiftly and the blow landed on a rotten log, splitting it clean in two.

To the bald man, who could see the manifestation of spiritual power, this was nothing strange. But to the soldiers nearby, who saw only Zhou Qing waving his hand—causing their general to leap aside, and a rotten log to shatter seemingly of its own accord—this was something uncanny and terrifying.

Fear crept across their faces, and even the bald man himself wore a complicated expression.

“Wait!” the bald man called, stepping aside.

“What’s the matter, baldy? Weren’t you full of swagger just now? What’s this supposed to mean?” Zhou Qing retorted.

“Peace to all dharmas!” the bald man intoned, pressing his palms together. “May I ask, what is your relation to the immortal Tian Yi?”

Zhou Qing was taken aback, scrutinizing the bald man. From his words, Zhou Qing realized the so-called Tian Yi Immortal must be his own grandmaster. If this stranger could discern the connection, he must have recognized the Illusory Peerless in Zhou Qing’s hand.

“You recognize the artifact passed down by my grandmaster?” Zhou Qing asked.

“With the Spiritual Illusory Instrument, one overcomes all rivals. The artifact in your hand is called the Illusory Peerless,” replied the bald man. He then turned and shouted to the riders behind him.

At his cry, the cavalrymen dismounted, turned their horses, and quickly rode away. Soon, only Zhou Qing and the bald man remained on the shadowed, silent mountain road.

“Friend, I, Lin Liang, have offended you just now—please don’t take it to heart.” The bald man stepped forward, offering a respectful bow.

“Your name is Lin Liang?” Zhou Qing asked.

“Yes, fellow cultivator. My surname is Cao, given name Lin Liang. I was devoted to the monastic path from childhood. Years ago, my master passed away, and our temple was lost to the ravages of war. By a twist of fate, I joined the resistance army and became a general.”

He paused, meeting Zhou Qing’s gaze. “May I ask your name?”

“I am Zhou Qing.”

Introducing himself, Zhou Qing put away the Illusory Peerless, but could not help voicing his curiosity. He wondered how this rough, monkish general had come to know of his grandmaster Tian Yi and the artifact he now carried.

“Please, take a seat on this stone, and I shall explain everything,” Cao Lin Liang invited.

After guiding Zhou Qing to a stone by the roadside, Cao Lin Liang began to unravel the mystery.

He explained that he had been a foundling, taken in by his master from the streets and raised in a humble temple called the Temple of Universal Splendor. There, he was taught to cultivate his mind and spirit.

Within their sect, there was a scripture passed down for centuries—the “Universal Splendor Chronicle”—a family record compiled by generations of their predecessors.

The contents of this chronicle, as it happened, bore a remarkable resemblance to the “Travelers’ Miscellany” Zhou Qing possessed.

There was a particularly notable entry, written more than four hundred years ago by the sixth abbot of the sect—while Cao Lin Liang was now the thirteenth abbot.

Just hearing these details, Zhou Qing’s heart was filled with wonder and confusion.

Based on Cao Lin Liang’s words, his own grandmaster must have been a cultivator whose life span extended across centuries—if, of course, what Cao Lin Liang said was true.