The ruffians didn’t dare act rashly. William Clark, panting heavily, ran up and pointed at James Smith, saying to Chief Marshall, “Fool Smith threw horse manure at me—arrest him!”

James Smith was also out of breath and reasoned, “I don’t even own a horse, so where would I get horse manure? Don’t make things up.”

William Clark retorted angrily, “What kind of twisted logic is that! Who says only people with horses can throw horse manure?”

James Smith blinked, looking even more confused. “Yeah, who made that rule?”

Fat Clark stomped his foot and gritted his teeth. “You’re just being unreasonable…”

“Enough. Either all of you leave, or admit to causing a disturbance in public and spend the night in jail!” Chief Marshall spoke up, looking at William Clark. “Let’s see if the immortals from Qingmang Mountain who come for you tonight will break you out of jail, or just wait outside your cell all night!”

William Clark, now that he had an immortal fate, really didn’t take Chief Marshall seriously anymore. But Chief Marshall’s words carried enough weight that even Fat Clark didn’t dare push further. He let out two sharp laughs and nodded. “Short Hill, once I succeed in my cultivation, I’ll come back to see you.”

With that, he turned and left, heading home to wash up.

Chief Marshall then looked at James Smith, his gaze softening. James Smith shook his head. “I’m fine. I used straw paper as a cushion when I threw it—didn’t even get my hands dirty.” As he spoke, he held out his hand to everyone, as if to say, “If you don’t believe me, come and smell for yourselves.”

All the constables stepped back and burst out laughing. Then another constable sighed, “I thought William Clark was a good kid. Who would’ve thought that after gaining immortal fate… he’d turn out like this?”

Chief Marshall, who had spent half his life enforcing the law and was a keen judge of people and situations, shook his head. “It has nothing to do with immortal fate. William Clark’s nature has always been like this. He used to be meek and never dared to show off, keeping all his thoughts to himself so no one could see through him. Now that he has immortal fate, he’s become brazen and no longer hides it. When ordinary people cultivate, even if they don’t become immortals or Buddhas, at least they won’t turn into demons. But if someone is inherently malicious… it’s better if they fail at cultivation, because if they succeed, they’ll only become a menace.”

Another constable sneered, “With that kind of character, even if he enters the Qingmang Immortal Sect, he’ll be kicked out sooner or later.”

Chief Marshall smiled helplessly. “He’s good at pretending. Do you think he’ll act the same way once he’s at Qingmang Mountain? When he didn’t have immortal fate, didn’t he fool all of us? Cultivators are still human—it’s not so easy to see through someone’s true heart and nature.” As he spoke, he sighed. “Forget it, let’s not dwell on it. It’s pointless.”

James Smith was confused. Immortals and cultivation were such lofty, mysterious things—he couldn’t make sense of them. He scratched the back of his head, started humming a cheerful little tune, and strolled home…

After nightfall, an incense table was set up in front of The Clark Residence. The whole family stood respectfully with their hands at their sides, quietly waiting for the immortal to arrive. Before the hour of the pig, a streak of green light shot across the night sky, heading straight for White Horse Town.

In no time, the light landed in front of The Clark Residence. A Daoist in yellow robes asked calmly, “Where is William Clark?”

Dressed in his finest, William Clark quickly responded, hurried forward, knelt down, and bowed respectfully, his face full of devotion. “Disciple William Clark, pays his respects…”

Before he could finish, the yellow-robed Daoist suddenly let out an “Eh?” and looked delighted. He turned his head, glancing around as if searching for something. After a moment, he turned and left, completely ignoring William Clark who was still kneeling before him.

Clang… clang… clang…

The soft sound of blade against whetstone rang out. James Smith was sitting in his own courtyard sharpening a knife. At this moment, the youth’s eyes and face showed not a trace of sleepiness—his eyes were bright as stars, deep as the night.

A shadow flickered, and the yellow-robed Daoist from Qingmang Mountain leapt into the courtyard. He didn’t disturb James Smith sharpening his knife, just stood to the side watching, his gaze growing more and more pleased.

It was as if James Smith hadn’t even noticed someone was there; he didn’t look up. Ever since he was little, he’d always been completely absorbed when sharpening knives, full of spirit. Only when he felt the blade was ready did he put the butchering knife and whetstone back into his satchel, stand up, and bow deeply to the yellow-robed Daoist. “Junior greets the immortal master.”

After sharpening the knife, the youth reverted to looking half-asleep, just short of yawning and crawling into bed.

The yellow-robed Daoist didn’t care about his expression, his voice low and direct. “Boy, are you willing to cultivate?”

“I’m willing to cultivate, but I can’t go with you yet. There’s something important I have to do first.”

The people of White Horse Town only knew that Old Smith had turned down opportunity after opportunity for his grandson, but they didn’t realize that over these past ten-plus years, the chances that had appeared before James Smith were far more than just studying or learning martial arts!

Three immortals, all skilled in magic and sword-flying, had come to James Smith’s home, saying he was born with innate spiritual energy and wanting to take him back to the mountains to teach him the ways of cultivation and immortality. Cultivation is all about fate; taking on a disciple requires mutual willingness, but there’s no need to consult elders. As long as James Smith was willing, even if Old Smith wanted to stop him, he couldn’t have! But James Smith never left—he always stayed in White Horse Town…

The yellow-robed Daoist was the fourth.

Every time a sword immortal came, James Smith was sharpening a knife. The first three had come uninvited, surprising both sides; this time, the fourth, was someone James Smith had deliberately drawn in.

The yellow-robed Daoist frowned deeply. “Why are you so clueless, boy? What could be more important than immortal fate… Fine, tell me, what is this important thing you have to do? If you become my disciple, I’ll help you take care of it.”