Dewdrops fell, sliding down from over ten meters high in the trees, gently shattering on a Daoist’s cheek.

The Daoist reached out and rubbed his face, eyes closed, picked up the yellow gourd in his hand, and sniffed at the mouth of it.

“A gourd of spring intoxicates Haitang Isle, a gourd not yet drunk but its fragrance already wafts out. This wine truly lives up to its reputation as the famous gourd wine. Just smelling it makes my whole body feel comfortable!”

He sighed with a look of intoxication.

Tilting his head back with the gourd, he pretended to drink, fantasizing that fine wine was pouring out of the empty gourd.

In front of the Daoist was a black-and-white Taiji diagram dojo, square-shaped, surrounded by white walls and groves of flowering trees.

A dozen or so young Daoists were sitting cross-legged on the dojo, reciting scriptures.

“Bamboo, when broken, should be mended with bamboo; to hatch a chicken, one must use an egg.

All things done with the wrong means are in vain; nothing compares to true lead containing the sacred mechanism.”

A group of young Daoists chanted the scripture in a sing-song tone, accompanied by two others—one holding an imperial bell (a Daoist hand bell), the other beating a small drum, echoing each other in accompaniment.

In a corner, a young Daoist with slightly dark skin and a somewhat thin frame was moving his mouth, but no sound came out.

Clearly, he was only mouthing the words.

He wore a deep blue Daoist robe, a wooden Daoist crown shaped like a crescent moon on his head, and his expression was wooden.

On the surface, he was singing along, but in reality, his mind was a complete blank.

It had been more than ten days since he arrived in this world, and Brian Bolton was still muddleheaded, unable to adapt to life here.

One night, he had simply closed his eyes, and when he opened them again, he was in a different place.

After more than ten days of observation, Brian Bolton quietly gathered all sorts of information and had more or less figured out some things about this place.

This was a vast country called Great Ling.

The region he was in was a Daoist temple of moderate size, located in the western mountains of Great Ling.

The temple was called Qinghe Palace, a square Daoist palace housing over a hundred Daoists.

He, Brian Bolton, was one of them.

Every day, the Daoists attended morning and evening classes; apart from chanting scriptures, they did chores, and occasionally some Daoists could be seen practicing Daoist techniques.

But after careful inquiry, Brian Bolton learned that the Daoist techniques in this world had no exaggerated effects; they were mainly created for longevity and health.

There were no immortal arts, no strange magical treasures, and certainly no sword-flying.

The only benefit of practicing Daoist arts here was good health, fewer illnesses, and occasionally being able to treat others—what people commonly called qigong healing.

After seeing a few Daoist palaces and hearing about the highly skilled senior Daoists, Brian Bolton completely gave up hope.

Decades of cultivation only made these old Daoists healthy, rosy-cheeked, able to run fast, and full of energy—nothing else special.

After finishing the morning Qi-cultivating scripture, the group of Daoists sat quietly for a moment before getting up one after another at the sound of the bell.

“Those going to the kitchen, hurry up! A distinguished guest is visiting this morning, so everyone needs to be energetic—don’t be as lazy as usual.”

The senior brother supervising the morning class shouted loudly, holding a horsetail whisk.

“Even if we go early, we can’t light the fire—the firewood is almost gone and hasn’t been restocked. All you do is shout, shout, shout, all day long. Even the master hasn’t said anything.”

A chubby Daoist nearby muttered in a low voice.

This fat Daoist glanced at Brian Bolton.

“Old Fang, how about you help me do it all?

I’ll give you this much.”

He held up one finger.

“Ten coins?”

Brian Bolton understood. “No, I have things to do today.”

“Oh, you’re going to the mail room to get a letter, right?”

The fat Daoist, named John Barnes, grinned at that.

But there seemed to be some other meaning in his smile.

Brian Bolton ignored him.

After coming to this world, he had inherited some of his predecessor’s memories, knowing that his parents had died and he had an older sister, but now his sister had gone to the distant capital and they had lost contact.

It seemed he had left on his own initiative, coming to Qinghe Palace to become a Daoist, thus breaking off contact.

He left the dojo, followed the side corridor, and headed toward the mail room.

The corridor was shaped like a square, connecting three dojos.

In one of the dojos, three or five pairs of disciples in Daoist robes, with their arms and legs bound, were sparring with each other.

Brian Bolton glanced from afar; the Daoists were only practicing ordinary martial arts.

There was no internal energy; apart from being a bit more imposing than ordinary people, there was nothing unusual.

A barely noticeable black line flashed in his eyes.

In an instant, above the heads of each Daoist in the arena, lines of attribute data appeared, just like in a game.

‘Edward Warren—Life 11-15, Skill: Rejuvenation Pure Time Talisman Canon—Seventh Yue Form Talisman.’

‘Samuel Shaw—Life 12-13, Skill: Rejuvenation Pure Time Talisman Canon—Fifth Hunyuan Talisman.’

‘David Brooks—Life 11-14, Skill: Rejuvenation Pure Time Talisman Canon—Seventh Yue Form Talisman.’

Each Daoist’s information appeared before Brian Bolton’s eyes.

He lowered his head and looked at himself.

‘Brian Bolton—Life 8-9, Skill: None.

Available attributes: 0.’

Behind his own life and skill stats, there was a small yellow plus sign. Clearly, just like in the games he played in his previous life, attribute points could be used to forcibly increase them.