Starting Cultivation During a Trip

Chapter 95: Chapter 86: Ghost Refining in the Yellow Springs, Father’s Old Friend (5,000-Word Chapter)

The Divine Splitting Technique, handed down from the world’s number one mystical art, [Three Corpses Illuminating Fate].

Its name has always been whispered, yet its profound technique is never seen in this world.

The Nine Great Legendary Inner Core Techniques are but legend; every technique is exceedingly difficult to cultivate, and even the offshoot Daoist skills drawn from them stand at the pinnacle of the world. Even with peerless talent, it is difficult to comprehend even a thousandth of their mysteries.

For instance, the [Heart Demon Guide] inherited from the [Divine Demon Holy Embryo] has fallen into the hands of Zhenwu Mountain.

Zhuo Kuangsheng is Chu Chaoran’s junior brother—what brilliance, what matchless talent! Yet even he is trapped in the demon tribulation, unable to master this art, unable to transcend, imprisoning himself in the wild cave behind Nanxuan Palace.

The Divine Splitting Technique is much the same.

If the [Heart Demon Guide] plumbs the depth of thoughts, then the [Divine Splitting Technique] carves at the Primordial Spirit itself, all the more perilous and unfathomable.

”Legend has it, if one masters the [Divine Splitting Technique], one can split their own Primordial Spirit—split in two, split in three... all is possible.” Bai Buran lowered his voice.

”So long as a single wisp endures, the person cannot be extinguished.”

”The Divine Splitting Technique, a technique of undying?” Zhang Fan murmured softly.

”It is but a byproduct on the endless road in pursuit of immortality...” Bai Buran spoke with hidden meaning.

Since ancient times, how many seekers of immortality have there been, yet how few attain eternal life.

On this path, within the Daoist sects, countless brilliant souls toil endlessly, searching painstakingly, leaving behind myriad attempts and cultivation arts in their pursuit of immortality.

Some of these paths are dead-ends, some remain unfinished, requiring successors to forge ahead; some may spend their lives, only to find, at journey’s end, the road still leads to death.

But so what? The path of seeking immortality is, after all, searching for life amid certain death.

”Boss, has anyone ever mastered this [Divine Splitting Technique]?” Zhang Fan pressed on.

”The Primordial Spirit is most intricate; add so much as a wisp, or take away a sliver, and the difference is heaven and earth.” Bai Buran shook his head.

If the Primordial Spirit so much as moves, a slight misstep means, at best, a vegetative state; at worst, death and the Dao perishing are near at hand.

Let alone splitting the spirit in two, or even in three, in four...

”Even if this [Divine Splitting Technique] truly exists, it may be no more than an unrealized theory.”

Bai Buran cradled his insulated cup, softly blowing away the flecks of tea leaves floating atop, taking a delicate sip. His eyelids lifted slightly, and he gazed at Zhang Fan with a hint of deeper meaning.

”What have you been up to lately?”

”What?”

Bai Buran’s voice snapped Zhang Fan’s mind back to the present.

”I asked, what cultivation are you pursuing lately? Why these kinds of questions?” Bai Buran said gravely.

”I... I’ve just been reading some Daoist scriptures and pill books, had a few thoughts,” Zhang Fan replied, dodging the question.

”A cultivator must always hold reverence in his heart.”

Bai Buran set his insulated cup on the table, his voice steady: ”The Daoist way is vast, with three thousand branches—each seeks to choose their own road to immortality, gazing toward the path of Infinite Pure Yang...”

”Yet some lose even a sliver of reverence, and set foot upon a divergent road.”

Here Bai Buran paused, glancing at the tightly closed office door, then continued, ”You can’t say these roads are wrong, but they are indeed fraught with peril. The human heart is fickle. On such roads, it’s all too easy to lose oneself...”

”Boss, you mean...”

”Wuwei Sect!?”

Zhang Fan’s brows furrowed, and two figures flashed in his mind.

Hai Pig King Tao, Wuma Wuqilu... both are from the Wuwei Sect, from the Thirteen Zodiacs.

Their innate gifts and strength along the path of cultivation are indisputable, yet the paths they’ve trod are too unconventional, skirting righteousness for the edge of wickedness.

”The Ancestral Master bestowed upon me the Longevity Technique—three parts heart, seven parts fate.” Bai Buran looked at Zhang Fan with deep significance.

”Many begin at the same place, but the path is so long, so long you can never see its end...”

”Hearts change, consciousness grows restless; wild thoughts breed ceaselessly. Those most brilliant of all are often the very ones to grope for the strangest, most dangerous roads...”

Bai Buran paused here: ”Zhang Fan, I know you have some talent...”

”On this path, talent is never a guiding beacon. Don’t try to figure things out blindly... just like those people of Wuwei Sect.”

Bai Buran’s words were laden with severe warning. He faintly sensed that the field Zhang Fan was now probing had already touched upon certain taboos.

”I understand.”

Rumble...

At this moment, outside the window, a thunderclap split the air, the flash of lightning cut through the night, interrupting their conversation and drawing Zhang Fan and Bai Buran’s attention.

”Looks like the weather’s turning.” Zhang Fan murmured, rising to leave.

...

At this moment, Yujing City South Station.

A high-speed train from Shangjing City slowly pulled into the station. As the doors slid open, passengers spilled out, save for one door—only a single, towering figure stepped out from beneath it.

It was a middle-aged man, burly and tall, easily over 1.8 meters, his face covered in a thick beard, looking rugged and wild. His left eye bore a patch, and atop his right eyelid was a long, thin scar.

Perhaps it was this aura of ”keep away” that made him the only passenger to exit through that door.

”Ten years since I’ve returned, and it rains the moment I’m back?” The one-eyed man raised his head to the sky, murmuring, ”This is no good omen.”

Speaking thus, the one-eyed man set down his backpack, bent over to rummage, and produced a wrinkled, slightly yellowed photograph.

In the photo were two people, one big, one small. The larger was unmistakably Zhang Lingzong, only much younger, his skin porcelain pale. Beside him stood a child of eleven or twelve, rounded with baby fat, his features faintly echoing Zhang Fan’s visage.