Zhou Fan stepped into the cave, his footsteps echoing faintly against the damp stone walls. The deeper he ventured, the colder the air became, carrying a faint, floral fragrance that seemed out of place in such a desolate environment.
As he reached the heart of the cavern, his eyes landed on an ancient skeleton seated in a meditative posture. The bones were pristine, untouched by time, yet the faint traces of dissipating qi suggested that this person had once been a formidable cultivator. Zhou Fan's breath hitched as realization struck him.
"Petal Mist Wanderer… so this was his inheritance!"
Just as the words left his lips, the lingering qi in the chamber surged. A hazy figure began to take shape before him, its form flickering like mist under the morning sun. The apparition's features remained indistinct, its very essence continuously depleting, as though clinging to existence with its last vestiges of strength.
"You… who treads this path, do you seek the remnants of my Dao?" The voice was distant, fragmented, as though carried by the wind from another era.
The will's voice echoed through the cavern, carrying an ancient grudge.
"You have come to claim my inheritance… but I have one condition. Swear to eradicate the Tianyu Tribe."
Zhou Fan's expression remained calm as he met the flickering apparition's gaze. Without hesitation, he spoke, "I will."
His words carried no sincerity—just empty promises to appease a dying will. What did it matter? In the end, it was just a lingering remnant of a dead man, unable to act against him.
The will flickered as if laughing at itself. "I do not trust you. But I have no choice… Take my inheritance."
In an instant, a faint glow surged before Zhou Fan. A mid-grade pill furnace materialized before him, its surface adorned with faint inscriptions, though dulled by time. Alongside it, a few scattered qi stones lay on the ground—remnants of what was once a grand fortune.
Zhou Fan's gaze flickered. Though not a grand inheritance, it was still something. Without hesitation, he stepped forward to claim it.
Zhou Fan waved his hand, and the materials vanished into his storage ring. With nothing left to gain from the cave, he turned and left the Mist Forest without looking back.
By the time he returned home, night had fallen. Sitting on his worn wooden bed, he let out a deep breath. For the first time in a long while, he felt like he had gained some footing.
Counting his gains, he had thirteen qi stones in total—ten from the sect's reward and three from the inheritance. Though not a fortune, it was more than he had ever possessed at once in his previous life.
Back then, he had to labor tirelessly for mere scraps. After working an entire week, he would receive only half a qi stone—barely enough to sustain his cultivation. Every day had been a struggle, each moment spent enduring hardship just to advance the smallest step forward.
The next day, in the academy's open training field, a group of youths stood in neat rows. Before them, several wooden dummies were lined up, each bearing the scars of countless training sessions.
A man with a strong physique stood at the front, his stance steady, his expression calm and composed. His presence alone commanded respect.
"Today, I will demonstrate some basic combat arts," he announced.
Without another word, he moved. His hands became a blur, striking the dummy with precision and speed. Fifteen blows landed in rapid succession, each carrying controlled force.
Yet, among the watching students, one of them muttered in confusion, "How many strikes was that? I could only see four…"
The instructor turned to face them again. "Now, you will practice these arts yourselves."
The students straightened, preparing to follow his lead.
But Zhou Fan sat off to the side, utterly indifferent. His gaze was distant, his expression unreadable. He did not so much as glance at the demonstration. To him, it was meaningless. Nothing in this place could shake his heart.
Instructor Wei Han glanced toward Zhou Fan, his eyes narrowing slightly. He muttered under his breath, "So this is the brat who was the first to advance to the mid stage… Complete trash. He must've just gotten lucky."
His gaze lingered for a moment before shifting away. In his eyes, talent wasn't just about advancing quickly—it was about foundation, perception, and potential. And Zhou Fan, sitting there without the slightest interest in training, was nothing more than a fluke in his eyes.
As the training session ended, Zhou Fan left the academy without a word. The murmurs of other students and even the instructor's mocking tone had long since faded from his mind. Words? Mere sounds carried by the wind.
He soon arrived at a small restaurant, ordered a simple meal, and ate in silence. His movements were unhurried, his expression calm, as if the world around him had nothing to do with him.
Why would he be angry at Wei Han's mockery? Was he a child? He had lived for over 700 years. If someone of his age got upset over a few words, wouldn't that make him truly pathetic?
Besides, Zhou Fan was no stranger to humiliation. In his past life, when circumstances had turned dire, he had once shamelessly begged a mere mortal for qi stones—even as an immortal. There had been no guilt, no shame. He had done what was necessary.
To him, shamelessness was nothing more than a mask—one he could wear and discard at will.
Zhou Fan was an extremely shameless person. In his previous life, he had done whatever it took to survive and grow stronger—begging, extorting, snatching. Rules? They were nothing but obstacles to be bypassed. Morality? A luxury only the strong could afford.
For someone like him, words were nothing. Mockery, insults, and disdain—they passed by like a gentle breeze, unable to stir even the slightest ripple in his heart. If words alone could shake him, how could he have endured the struggles of his past life?
As he calmly finished his meal, Zhou Fan remained indifferent. He had no need to justify himself, no need to prove anything to anyone. The only thing that mattered was his own path.