Transmigrated into a Grandpa, Embracing the Laid-Back Life

Just as Su Ming’s heart was churning, on the verge of falling into a whirlpool of self-doubt.

Su Ming’s entire body shook violently!

It was as if a bolt of lightning had instantly cleaved through his chaotic thoughts.

Second Brother...

That honest face, covered in calluses yet always carrying a warm smile, flashed instantly in his mind.

It was one evening, when he was about to set off for the capital. Second Brother was holding his still-sleeping infant nephew in his arms, looking at this younger brother of his who was about to become a ”Provincial Graduate,” his eyes brimming with pride. But when Su Ming jokingly suggested that if he ever had a chance at immortality, he would definitely take his little nephew along to cultivate, Second Brother became unprecedentedly serious.

”Xiao Ming, for our family to produce one scholar like you, someone who can bring honor to our ancestors, that’s already more than our ancestors could have dreamed of. As for this child, don’t let him think about those vague, distant things.”

”Let him grow up safe and sound, marry and have children, learn to count and write his own name. In the future, let him quietly guard the family’s few acres of land and the paper mill business, stay by our side—that’s enough.”

...Stay by our side, that’s enough.

These words echoed repeatedly in Su Ming’s mind, each one weighing heavily on his soul.In that moment, Su Ming suddenly understood.

He understood Second Brother’s choice. For an ordinary mortal, longevity, magical power, soaring through the sky and burrowing into the earth—these were all too distant, too illusory. What they wanted was nothing more than a hot meal, the smiling faces of family by their side, the patch of land beneath their feet that could be cultivated, and a stable life, visible and tangible, passed down from generation to generation.

But the world of cultivators was filled with slaughter, scheming, secluded cultivation sessions that lasted centuries, and endless risks of contending with heaven, earth, and other people. For Second Brother and his kind, this wasn’t a celestial realm—it was a hell far more terrifying than the war before their eyes.

The Chasm Between Immortals and Mortals wasn’t just an iron wall set up by the sects for ”management.” In a sense, wasn’t it also a barrier protecting the fragile yet precious ”stable life” of mortals?

The sect’s ”ruthlessness” was a broader, longer-lasting ”stability” paid for with the blood and lives of countless people.

And what Second Brother wanted was to live out his ordinary yet warm life in this mortal world, shrouded by this ”management” and ”stability.”

Su Ming’s clenched fists slowly loosened.

The indignation, struggle, and confusion in his eyes receded like a tide, replaced by an unprecedented, profound calm.

He no longer looked at the tragic scene outside the window.

He lowered his head and was silent for a very, very long time. It felt like an eternity had passed.

Then, he lifted his head. In those clear eyes, there was no longer a single ripple, only the stillness of a deep pool.

He bowed deeply, deeply to Elder Qingquan. His waist bent at a ninety-degree angle, his posture utterly humble.

”Master.”

His voice returned to absolute steadiness, betraying no emotion.

”Your disciple... understands.”

He hadn’t ”accepted” this cruelty.

He had ”understood” it.

He understood the helplessness behind the rules, the logic behind the positions, the fact that this seemingly heartless chasm between mortals and immortals was built from countless blood, tears, and pragmatic considerations.

Elder Qingquan quietly watched him, watching this young man undergo a monumental transformation of his mind within a single hour. A look of extreme complexity flashed in those usually somewhat murky eyes—admiration, relief, and a hint of pity.

For once, he nodded solemnly.

”Being able to grasp this means that your years on the sect’s path haven’t been wasted.”

With that, he reached for the familiar red-mud gourd of wine at his waist, pulled out the stopper, and took a long, loud gulp.

The pungent, spicy smell of alcohol instantly dispelled the chilling, severe pressure radiating from him. He turned back into that somewhat carefree and lazy old man.

”Alright, stop standing there like a post.” He waved his hand. ”Pack up. We’re moving on.”

Su Ming straightened up and bowed once more.

”Yes, Master.”

...

After leaving Wind Crossing Ferry, the two swapped for a slightly more spacious and sturdy-looking carriage.

The task of driving naturally fell to Su Ming.

The carriage rolled along the muddy official road, heading toward the capital of Great Xing, neither fast nor slow.

Inside the carriage, Elder Qingquan was back to hugging his precious wine gourd, leaning against a pile of soft luggage, sleeping like the dead, snoring like thunder.

Su Ming sat on the swaying carriage shaft, holding a thread-bound ancient book—*Analysis of Ancient Runes: Volume of the Stars*.

Without Lin Yu’s guidance, Su Ming read slowly. He dissected the structure of each ancient rune in his mind, trying to find the evolutionary relationship between them and the three thousand six hundred basic runes used today.

”’Break,’ an ancient rune, actually related to the trajectory of falling stars. No wonder the modern ’Break’ rune demands such an explosive burst of spiritual energy when inscribed—it’s simulating the instant momentum of a meteor striking the earth...”

Su Ming’s eyes grew brighter and brighter as he immersed himself in the ocean of knowledge, as if the noise around him had nothing to do with him.

That night, Su Ming drove the carriage off the crowded official road, parking beside a long-abandoned Earth God shrine.

Without disturbing the elder, he jumped down alone, skillfully unharnessed the horse, and fed it some hay mixed with spiritual beans.

After finishing this, he didn’t enter the shrine. Instead, he sat on the doorstep of the dilapidated temple, stroking the cool Xuantian Ring on his finger.

The night wind blew, carrying the chill of the wilderness.

...

Two days of travel by carriage.

The rain had stopped, but the scenes on the official road grew increasingly horrifying.

The southward tide of refugees hadn’t diminished with distance from the border; instead, it had snowballed into an even larger, more terrifying mass.

Ragged, mud-caked refugees merged into a gray river, flooding the entire official road. The carriage could only crawl like a snail through the gaps in the crowd.

Su Ming put down the ancient book in his hands.

He watched the men pushing wheelbarrows, on which lay dying old people; he watched the women holding crying, starving infants, their own tears long since dried up.

His gaze grew extremely deep.

After Elder Qingquan’s brutal ”worldview education,” Su Ming no longer felt simple pity or impulse when looking at these refugees.

He was like an extremely calm observer, seeing through the surface of suffering to the sect’s invisible, giant hand manipulating the fate of the world.

”This is the price of having no power.”

Su Ming said this silently in his heart. The hand holding the reins grew steadier.

Evening came.

The setting sun at the horizon was like blood, dyeing the withered yellow grass a grim, tragic color.

Su Ming drove the carriage off the crowded official road, stopping by a long-abandoned post station, preparing to camp there for the night.

Half the roof of the station had already collapsed, and the yard was overgrown with waist-high weeds.

As Su Ming jumped down from the carriage to tether the horse, his gaze suddenly froze.

In a corner of the station’s main building, where one wall was still intact, a man was crouching.

He was an old soldier wearing the standard leather armor of the Great Xing nation.

The leather armor was covered in sword marks and dried, blackened blood. His left arm was severed at the shoulder, the stump crudely wrapped in a dirty cloth, the seeping blood staining half his body a dark red.

The old soldier’s face was as pale as paper, his lips cracked and covered in a thick layer of white, dead skin. He just sat there, slumped in the muddy water, staring blankly at the setting sun in the sky, like a corpse slowly losing its warmth.

Su Ming stopped in his tracks.

He detected an extremely peculiar smell on this old soldier.

It wasn’t the smell of blood or the stench of decay.

It was a faint scent, mixed with sulfur and some kind of cold, yin energy. An ordinary person couldn’t smell it at all, but to Su Ming, a Foundation Establishment cultivator, it was as glaring as a torch in the dead of night.

This was... murderous aura? And not just any—it was murderous aura that had been refined or catalyzed through some formation?