“Bang!” There was a muffled sound in the air, and Adam Brooks returned once again. This was the last trip; all the parts had been brought up, and all that was left was assembly. Looking around, there was a vast expanse of white mist in all directions—even with the eyesight of an immortal, it was still impossible to see through. Adam Brooks was not worried; the Immortal Realm was ever-changing, and such labyrinths were as common as cattle. He casually drew out a wisp of immortal energy, silently recited an incantation, and said, “Discern!” The immortal energy condensed into the shape of a wooden stick, spun twice in front of him, but failed to point out any direction.

Adam Brooks was taken aback: although his path-finding technique was only a first-level immortal art, it had always worked flawlessly in the past, easily finding a way out of any maze. What was going on today? He tried again, recited the incantation, cast the immortal art, but the path-finding technique still couldn’t find a way out.

Adam Brooks let out a miserable cry: “No way! I lived freely in the mortal world, but had to become an immortal, and after becoming one, I ended up as the most useless tribulation immortal. I finally managed to do a little business, hadn’t even reached a modest life, and now I’ve fallen into a death trap! Oh heavens, are you messing with me?!”

As he shouted, a shimmering radiance suddenly appeared in the white mist, the light swirling inward, swallowing Adam Brooks like a trap. His vision blurred, and before he knew it, he lost consciousness. A burly old man emerged from the mist, looked at Adam Brooks lying on the ground, sighed, and said kindly, “Child, so you are also a tribulation immortal.”

He thought for a moment, reached out and hoisted him onto his back, then casually released a wisp of immortal energy, which condensed in the air into a purple dragon pattern. The dragon’s mouth opened, its tongue flicked in a certain direction, pointing the way for the old man. If any other immortals were present, they would have been shocked, for this casual display was actually the ninth-level immortal art “Dragon Guides the Way,” which required at least the cultivation of a ninth-level immortal to perform! For the old man to use it so effortlessly, his strength could only be described with one word: unfathomable!

Chapter 03: Linglong Gall

Carrying Adam Brooks, the old man strode swiftly, moving on the ground even faster than Adam Brooks could fly with immortal arts. In less than the time it takes to eat a meal, he had already walked out of the vast mist. It turned out they were in a boundless mountain range, with a deep valley beneath the mist.

Emerging from the mist, they arrived at the mouth of the valley, where eleven narrow mountain gorges connected to another valley. Jagged rocks loomed, and the rocky gorge was a mere thread. On both sides, the cliffs were steep, with a single line of white clouds in the sky. Passing through the valley, cold winds whistled, the chill was biting, clusters of flowers bloomed, exotic trees cast their shade, rare birds were startled, and birdsong and insect chirps filled the air—a true scene of an immortal’s abode. The immortal energy here was abundant, far surpassing the meager Adam Brooks’s Fushan cave-dwelling. However, Adam Brooks was still unconscious at this moment and had no luck to appreciate such beauty.

The old man passed through the gorge and entered the connected valley behind. He casually pressed his palm on a huge boulder at the mouth of the gorge. The boulder flashed with spiritual light, shed its weathered stone skin, and transformed into an enormous, exquisite jade seal. At the same time, clear light swirled above the valley, a magical gate opened, and an immortal’s cave-dwelling appeared out of thin air.

A refined immortal stepped on a cloud from the tranquil cave-dwelling and respectfully said, “Since you recognize our sect’s ‘Way-Seeking Seal,’ you must be an old friend of my master. There’s no need to announce yourself—please come in.”

The old man smiled slightly, stepped onto the cloud in one stride, crossed the sky in two, and with a few steps had already entered the lofty cave-dwelling. “Are you also of the Mu generation? What is your name?” “William Moore. Sir, have you been here before and met my senior brother Henry Moore?” The old man chuckled, “Every disciple that old Ghost Doctor takes in is smarter than the last—it makes this old man a bit jealous.”

William Moore glanced at Adam Brooks on the old man’s back and said, “So this brother is not your beloved disciple. I thought you had come to seek medical help for your own student.”

As they conversed, they had already arrived before a series of connected pavilions and corridors. Green bamboo was cut for pillars, dried thatch pressed with mud for the roof. Green bricks paved the ground, carved stones served as chessboards. In an octagonal pavilion, an old man and a young man sat facing each other, playing chess. The old man’s figure was ethereal, sometimes visible, sometimes not, sitting steadily as if fishing, stroking his long beard.

The young immortal across from him did not share this air of leisure. His eyes were fixed on the chessboard, brows tightly furrowed, holding a white jade chess piece in his hand, with a swirl of multicolored light in his palm. The light flowed, flashed across the jade piece, and the piece turned into a pile of white ash and scattered. The old man chuckled, “Yang’er, you’ve lost again. While you’re at it, help me wash my medicine robe, hahaha…”

The old man carrying Adam Brooks stood in the corridor, chuckled, and asked, “William Moore, does your disrespectful master still like to gamble with you all?” William Moore smiled, “If Master goes a day without gambling, he feels stifled inside.”

The old man in the chess pavilion swept his hand, and a black chess piece flew out. William Moore saw a streak of black light shoot toward him. He wanted to dodge but was powerless to do so. Seeing the black light about to hit him, he knew his master’s temperament well—though the black light wouldn’t harm him, it would surely leave him speechless for half a day.

Suddenly, a hand reached out from the side, pinched the black light between two fingers with ease. The old man carrying Adam Brooks laughed, “Old Ghost Doctor, disciplining your disciple in front of me—aren’t you being a bit much?” The old man in the chess pavilion had already seen him, watched him silently for a while, then suddenly sighed, “Brother Eric Steele, have you already decided?”