He slept for a while, but he was still too excited to fall asleep. He turned over again: “Gordon Brooks, I heard that the elixirs of immortals can cure all diseases. When we refine a batch of pills, if the emperor falls ill, we’ll give him one, cure him, and then ask to be made prime minister...”

Meanwhile, Wesley Benson had seen off Gordon Brooks and Julian Reed, feeling miserable. He sat alone in his room for nearly half an hour. Then he stood up, pushed open the door, and walked out.

Behind Misty Rain Peak, halfway up the mountain, were the Preaching Cliff and the Dao-Proving Tomb. Wesley Benson was not allowed to enter there, so he made a detour and arrived at a lower section of the cliff. This cliff was actually a huge rock jutting out from the mountain, looking extremely abrupt. The giant stone hung in midair, extending more than ten meters from the peak, with clouds swirling beneath it, so deep that the bottom could not be seen. Beside the boulder stood an ancient tree with gnarled roots, no one knew how many years it had lived. Its canopy spread wide enough to cover dozens of meters in circumference. Lush and verdant all year round, it seemed to be a companion to the stone, stretching its largest branch out over the cliff, covering the rock, sheltering it from wind and rain.

This was Wesley Benson’s refuge. Whenever he was in a bad mood, he liked to sit here alone, gazing out at the endless, towering mountains stretching for thousands of miles, watching the distant clouds and mist shift and change, as elusive and uncontrollable as his own future. This was the back of the mountain, with the Preaching Cliff and Dao-Proving Tomb above, so few people ever came here. Thus, no one had ever discovered Wesley Benson’s little sanctuary. Today, he once again sat cross-legged on the giant stone. The clouds and mist below churned and rolled, as if foretelling something unusual about today. Tomorrow, three more servants would become official disciples, and would never again have to do menial chores. Yet he himself would remain the only official disciple in the sect still doing such work. For decades, Wesley Benson had known his aptitude was poor, but the fire of hope in his heart had never been extinguished. He recalled an old saying: “Diligence can make up for lack of talent.” Every day, he worked several times harder than others, never giving up, year after year. But another three years had passed, new disciples were being admitted, and his situation had not changed at all.

Wesley Benson’s mood was bleak, as biting as the cold wind halfway up the mountain. He let out a long sigh, a wave of melancholy washing over him, and lay down on the stone.

White clouds drifted across the azure sky, but Wesley Benson’s mood was far from bright. Just then, a sharp, strange voice came from beneath the boulder: “Little Daoist, for decades you’ve come here sighing and lamenting—why is that?” Wesley Benson was startled, jumped up, and looked around: “Who? Who’s talking to me?” The sharp voice spoke again: “What’s so surprising? I’ve watched you for decades, feeling sorry for you. Normally, people want to talk to me, but I can’t be bothered with them.” This time, Wesley Benson pinpointed the direction of the voice: “You, you’re down below?” “That’s right. Tell me, old man, what’s troubling you so much?”

Wesley Benson remained wary. The voice was odd, and didn’t sound like a good person. Besides, appearing so mysteriously was hard to trust. “Who are you? How long have you been lurking here?” The voice snapped, “You think I want to stay here...” Realizing he’d said too much, he stopped abruptly. “Oh, so you’re being suppressed here?” Wesley Benson suddenly understood. The voice said angrily, “If it weren’t for that old scoundrel Franklin playing tricks back then, I, in all my glory... how could I have ended up like this!” “Franklin? That’s the founding ancestor of my Wuwei Sword Sect!” Wesley Benson remembered, and cried out in shock. “That’s right. He tricked me, and used the spiritual energy that had gathered at Misty Rain Peak for millions of years to suppress me here. Otherwise, with his cultivation, I would have...” The voice trailed off, but Wesley Benson more or less understood why he was here.

“The most hateful thing is, he even planted a sky-shading pine above me, blocking my access to the spiritual energy of heaven and earth. For thousands of years, I haven’t made a bit of progress. It infuriates me!” Wesley Benson laughed, deeply admiring the ancestor’s wisdom. “Enough about me, little Daoist. Tell me, why do you always come here to sigh and lament?” The voice was unwilling to talk about itself any longer. Wesley Benson had never confided in anyone, and after so many years, his heart was indeed full to bursting. Now, this suppressed being would likely never see the light of day again, and even if he knew, he couldn’t spread it around. So Wesley Benson poured out his story like beans spilling from a bamboo tube, telling everything.

When he finished, Wesley Benson let out a long breath, feeling a sense of relief he’d never known before. The voice was silent for a while, then Wesley Benson felt a powerful force, unlike anything he’d ever experienced, surge up from beneath the stone, sweep through his body in an instant. Before Wesley Benson could resist—or even think of resisting—the force had already probed every part of him and then withdrew.

“So it’s a case of sealed meridians. Little Daoist, has anyone ever told you why your aptitude is so poor?” Wesley Benson was stunned and asked, “You mean, I have sealed meridians?” “What, you know about this condition?” Of course Wesley Benson knew; after all, he’d been in the Wuwei Sword Sect for decades. Hearing this, the fire that had never stopped burning in Wesley Benson’s heart was suddenly extinguished.