Starting Cultivation During a Trip

Chapter 343: Chapter 186: Chu Chaoran’s Thoughts! Traveling Through the Memories of the Three Corpses

Pale white clouds, untouched by dust, high in the heavens—fierce mountain encounters, and the Great Demon appears!

Bai Buran tread the desolate mountain path, one hand holding a flashlight, the other carrying a bag.

The Black Rat, its body slender as a hound, slowly stretched out. As if seeing an old acquaintance, it came up to greet him, its green eyes fixed hungrily on the cowhide paper bag in Bai Buran’s hand.

”Younger Brother Hei, did you get into a fight again?”

Bai Buran sniffed the scorched scent swirling in the air, giving Black Rat a scrutinizing look and couldn’t help but ask.

”What a joke. Who dares come to Deserted Mountain and make a move against this Daoist?” Black Rat sneered coldly.

”I never said it was a person...” Bai Buran replied, his tone laden with meaning.

In the mountains, spirit monsters and great demons were hardly limited to the Black Rat alone. Occasional sparring and duels were not uncommon. But Black Rat’s words were blatantly suspicious.

”Brother Bai, what good stuff have you brought me this time?”

Black Rat’s whiskers quivered, hurriedly changing the subject. No matter whom he faced, his pride was as high as the heavens—he would never allow his dignity to slip.

”Dried fish snacks, Sheepfold Mountain, even immortals drink what’s distilled from the mountain...”

Bai Buran set the cowhide paper bag down and retrieved a box of marinated dried fish and a bottle of Sheepfold Mountain.

”Tsk tsk, those old cats love this stuff. Us rats can’t afford to lose face either.”

The Black Rat reached out a paw, its claws long and hooked, popping the lid off the food box. With a sweep of its tail, it snared a dried fish stick and popped it into its mouth, rolling the flavor around, then grabbed the bottle of Sheepfold Mountain, tilting its head back for a hearty swig.

Dried fish with wine, the more he drank, the better it tasted. A spicy mouthful burned down his throat, as if sweeping away his earlier displeasure.

Beneath the heavens’ arc and a moon strung on high, deep in the ancient forest, a black-haired rat lounged against a boulder—munching dried fish, guzzling wine, animated as any human. But in the flicker of his brows, a queer and uncanny air hung thick.

”Brother Bai, head up the mountain now.” Black Rat, warmed by drink, squinted his eyes; with a broad sweep of his tail, he cracked the air with sharp, jarring sounds, startling birds into flight throughout the wood.

”Younger Brother Hei, slow down with the drinking.”

With these words, Bai Buran rose and stepped further up the mountain.

Black Rat watched Bai Buran’s receding figure, envy etching deep into his gaze.

”If this Daoist could ascend the mountain as freely as he does, always hearing the Observatory Master’s teachings, would tonight have ended so shamefully?” Black Rat muttered under his breath, Zhang Fan’s image flitting through his mind.

”You little brat, damn it, just you wait for this Daoist!”

”Ptui, ptui, ptui... bloody awful stuff, tastes like death. A cat’s a cat, a beast’s a beast—only fit to eat this low-grade junk.”

Disgusted, Black Rat swept his tail and flung all the dried fish from the box into the woods.

...

The moon hung at its zenith; in Deserted Mountain.

A Daoist Temple lay half-hidden amid rocks and trees, with babbling streams circling its walls, and the constant rustling lent the mountain an ethereal emptiness.

The temple was not large. The windows in its wall resembled two eyes; above, a decrepit plaque bore the bold inscription: Jue Miaoguan. The brushwork rose and fell like dragons and snakes running across land, as if leaping forth from the deep wilds.

It was midnight; not a shadow stirred within the mountain’s Daoist Temple.

Bai Buran pushed open the door and walked straight to the main hall of the Palace and Temple, the dim candlelight gently glowing. Upon the Divine Altar stood a clay idol, yet covered with red cloth—lending the scene an uncanny air.

”You’ve arrived.”

Just then, a gentle voice echoed through the hall—sounding oddly youthful.

”I have come.”

Bai Buran paused, following the voice toward the corner, stopping finally beside the candle stand.

His gaze tightened, reflecting reverence.

”Observatory Master.”

”Come, tell me—what curious events have occurred lately outside?”

The gentle voice resounded again, bearing a trace of anticipation.

”These days, things have been especially lively in Dongshan Province. The Lord of the Red Palace made an appearance, fought the Lao Mountain Sect Leader, and even had a duel with Zhenwu Mountain’s Liu Nanxu.”

Though Bai Buran now dwelled in Yujing, even the most secret happenings reached him with perfect clarity.

For this duel, Zhang Fan never breathed a word upon his return.

”Ming Shenshou... the Qi Eater god is never-dying. He’s lived up to the name, already risen as a palace lord. Looks like he’s snatched quite a few Divine Techniques over the years.”

The gentle voice rose, tinged with a faint chuckle.

”You actually knew?”

”Ming Shenshou’s awakened Divine Technique is called Stealing Divine Mechanism. When it first emerged, it had no trace of power—he was made a laughingstock.”

The gentle voice echoed through the cold and clear hall, as if nothing in the world lay hidden from the confines of this Daoist Temple.

”Alas, mortals are so often mediocre and foolish. How could they grasp the majesty of the Great Dao, which never reveals itself in brute force.”

”Divine Techniques shroud themselves... That powerless Divine Technique might well be the bane of all others beneath heaven.”

The Daoist Sect’s Divine Power Council ranked Ming Shenshou’s Stealing Divine Mechanism as a Seventh-Grade Divine Technique, since it held no power in itself.

Yet, such a Seventh-Grade Divine Technique could still seize the abilities of others. And as Ming Shenshou’s Dao Practice deepened, the true terror of the man emerged at last.

”Li Chengge is not bad—able to join the Wuwei Sect’s Ancestral Court Daoist Temple in youth, marking him as one destined to be no small fish in the pond.”

”Liu Nanxu has earned the Celestial Master’s title; rare for him to descend the mountain and wander. He fails to realize that the Red Dust is the true land of becoming Immortal—his future achievements may be quite limited.”

The gentle voice wound on, boundless within the small Daoist Temple, as he critiqued the world’s greatest heroes. Ming Shenshou, Li Chengge, Liu Nanxu—all became but trivial tales upon his lips.