Black Robe didn’t bother to explain anything. He raised his hand and tossed a palm-sized black token toward Six Pence: “Press it to your forehead and leave its mark there. If you ever dare to harbor disloyalty again, your fate will be utter annihilation.”

Six Pence caught the token, a look of shock appearing on his face. Accepting the restriction and henceforth serving James Smith as his master had long been decided, and Six Pence was mentally prepared for it. What truly startled him was this token...

A look of impatience appeared between Black Robe’s brows. Six Pence dared not delay any longer and hurriedly pressed the token to his forehead. Black Robe softly chanted an incantation, the token flashed with light and then went dark. Six Pence felt a tearing pain in his mind, and understood that a sliver of his soul had been seized by this strange token—his life was now in the hands of its master.

Black Robe tossed the token to James Smith: “A reward for you.” Then, with a wave of his hand, he sent out a swirl of black light, ignoring the still-kneeling Six Pence, and wrapped James Smith up, turning to leave.

Six Pence sat dazed on the ground, staring blankly in the direction where the black light had vanished. He was still lost in thought over that token—such a precious thing, if it appeared in the world, who knows how much bloodshed it would incite in the struggle to possess it. Yet Black Robe seemed to care nothing for it, casually gifting it to a junior...

A moment later, James Smith found himself inside a stone house.

The floor was solid, the walls cool to the touch—this house was real. It was quite spacious, but empty, not even a table or chair, just a few meditation cushions placed on the ground.

Black Robe sat in the center, casually pointing to the cushion in front of him, and said to James Smith, “Sit. No need to be formal. If you have any questions, just ask.”

James Smith first sat down according to the etiquette of a junior, then asked, “Benefactor, where is your immortal mountain, and may I know your esteemed name?”

“Lishan, George Baker.” Black Robe revealed his name, but James Smith, being a youth of the mortal world, had no idea what weight those five short characters carried in the eyes of cultivators.

No matter how you looked at it, the elder in black called George Baker was not one for idle chatter, but seeing the confusion on James Smith’s face, George Baker actually explained a few things to him with surprising patience.

The Lishan Sword Sect has only been established for three thousand years, but its status is lofty. Its inherited Daoist arts and sword techniques are extraordinary, its disciples are numerous and elite, and it stands far above ordinary sects—recognized as one of the seven great celestial sects by all true cultivators.

The Lishan Sword Sect owes its current standing entirely to the prowess of its founding ancestors. Three thousand years ago, nine great cultivators settled on Lishan, joining forces to establish the sect’s foundation. Of these nine, six comprehended the Dao, transcended tribulation, and ascended to immortality, roaming the cosmos ever since. Imagine, then, how extraordinary the arts they left behind must be!

As for the three who did not become immortals: one perished at the final step, unable to cross the last tribulation, dying and vanishing into the cycle of reincarnation, his fate unknown; another died prematurely, suddenly going mad and being consumed by his own cultivation; the last is none other than James Smith’s benefactor, George Baker.

James Smith had always known his benefactor was no ordinary man, but he never imagined he was so remarkable. With George Baker’s seniority and background, there were likely few in the world qualified to meet him without kneeling!

Calming his mind and suppressing his astonishment, James Smith asked again, “May I ask what you wish me to do, benefactor?”

It was a question he’d long wondered about. As a child, James Smith hadn’t thought much of it, but as he grew older and saw the reactions of other sword immortals to the wooden bell, he gradually realized that Elder Baker was no ordinary cultivator. Someone like that—who could move Mount Cuiwei to fill Lake Yanqi as mere exercise—what matter could possibly require the help of a mortal boy?

“I am dying.” George Baker’s words were shocking, but his tone was calm, as if he were talking about the weather warming, the tea cooling, or the flowers blooming—trivial matters: “I have a heretical cultivation method. Practicing it might extend my life, but it could also bring even worse consequences. So I need someone to test it for me. That person is you.”

James Smith couldn’t understand what consequence could be worse than death, but he knew nothing of such arts, and figured asking wouldn’t help, so he just nodded. “Oh.”

George Baker, on the other hand, looked a bit curious: “Why, aren’t you going to ask me if this heretical art will harm you?”

“If you said it would, wouldn’t that be a letdown? I’d rather not ask.”

George Baker was taken aback at first, then, for the first time ever, the old man who had never smiled suddenly laughed...

Since he had resolved to repay his benefactor, what did it matter what consequences the art might bring? He’d have to practice it anyway. Hearing Elder Baker call it “heretical” over and over, it was clearly not a righteous path, so he might as well not ask—just close his eyes and jump in, and whatever happens, happens.

It was hard to tell if this youth was foolish or wise, brave or simply reckless.

James Smith, however, moved on and asked the other question that concerned him most: “Why me?” Then, he added the “answer” he’d pondered over the years: “Is it because I have outstanding talent?”

Chapter Six: A Hundred Thousand Thoughts, A Hundred Thousand People