Transmigrated into a Grandpa, Embracing the Laid-Back Life

In less than the time it takes to finish a cup of tea, a Tianji disciple in plain white Taoist robes entered the hall carrying an ancient wooden box with both hands held steady.

The wooden box was completely lacquered black, its surface bearing no carvings or formation lines.

But the moment it appeared, Su Ming keenly sensed that the already extremely thin spiritual energy around them seemed to have met some natural enemy, visibly retreating in tracks away from the box. The box emitted an extremely ancient vibration, even tinged with a strange, decaying odor.

The Tianji Pavilion Master rose slowly from his meditation cushion.

He did not use spiritual power to retrieve it. Instead, with great solemnity, he extended both hands and took the wooden box from the disciple.

Click.

The box was opened gently.

There was no blinding treasure light, no overwhelming pressure. What the Master pulled out was a turtle shell no bigger than a palm.

The shell’s color was a golden brown, as if sedimented by countless years, its surface covered with dense, hairline cracks.

“This is the divination turtle shell left by the founding ancestor of the Tianji Pavilion.” The Master cupped the unremarkable shell in both hands, and his eyes, deep as the star river, shone with an almost fanatical reverence. “Every crack on it carries the backlash of a divination it once calculated. It has seen too many lives, too many rises and falls.”Su Ming’s heart jolted.

He stared fixedly at the shell. The instant his gaze touched it, the seven hundred and fifty formation runes in his Consciousness Sea trembled with unease.

He noticed that the hands of one of Central Continent’s top-tier figures, the man holding the shell, were actually tense, slightly strained.

This turtle shell was no ordinary magical implement; it was itself a carrier of rules.

The Master did not look at Su Ming, nor did he glance at Master Xuanming seated opposite. He slowly closed his eyes.

Whoosh—

The mountain wind flowing through the side hall stopped abruptly.

The air seemed to be clutched by an invisible, massive hand. That absolute silence turned Qingfeng and Mingyue, who stood in the corner, pale in an instant; even their deliberately suppressed breaths became audible, rolling like thunder.

Three breaths later.

The Master’s tightly shut eyes snapped open.

With a flip of his hands before his chest, the golden-brown turtle shell slipped free and hovered silently in midair.

There was no cracking sound, no dazzling light. The shell simply stayed suspended, as if it had grown there in the void.

The Master’s gaunt hands began to form seals.

His ten fingers twisted and shifted like butterflies through flowers, moving so fast Su Ming could only catch afterimages. A faint, invisible ripple radiated from his fingertips and struck the turtle shell.

The shell began to rotate.

At first it turned slowly, like an old grinding stone.

Then, abruptly, its rotational speed surged.

The already-rare spiritual energy in the side hall was frantically drawn away in an instant. Su Ming felt a spasm in his Dantian; the azure spiritual energy he had struggled to accumulate leaked uncontrollably along his meridians, as if swallowed by a terrifying whirlpool.

Su Ming bit down on his tongue, drew his hands into his sleeves, and clenched his fists. The Like Water Art responded to that suction, converting it into a circulating stream and barely stabilizing his posture.

Shadow crouched on his right shoulder, her black feathers fully fluffed. Her tiny claws dug into Su Ming’s clothes as her small body trembled under the pressure.

The shell’s rotation reached an extreme.

The Greenstone floor tiles of the side hall began to creak under the strain. Qingfeng and Mingyue reeled, barely steadying themselves by supporting one another; otherwise they would have fallen to their knees.

Snap!

An extremely crisp, cracking sound detonated.

The high-speed spinning shell suddenly froze midair.

A brand-new, slender fissure shot straight from the right edge of the shell to its very center.

The Tianji Pavilion Master stared fixedly at the divinatory sign that had just formed. His demeanor-as-still-as-an-ancient-well pupils constricted to the utmost.

The ruddy complexion that had once been like a baby’s drained from his face with visible speed, leaving him paper-pale.

The entire hall fell into deathly silence.

The wind still did not return; even Master Xuanming’s fingers, poised on his knee, hung suspended.

The Master stared at that hexagram for a full ten heartbeats.

Finally, he slowly raised his head. The complex look in his eyes crossed the jade table and landed squarely on Su Ming.

“Your fate pattern…” the Master’s voice became hoarse, as if that divination had drained most of his energy. “Has been obscured.”

Su Ming felt his heart clamp down.

His right thumb reflexively clenched around the Xuantian ring on his index finger.

Lin Yu’s soul body inside the ring was perfectly still. The faint blue glow had completely withdrawn, as if it had turned into a lifeless object.

Su Ming said nothing. He stood quietly where he was, facing the Master’s gaze, his expression as placid as a dead pool.

The Master watched him for a moment, but did not press further.

He merely sighed with meaning.

“The Heaven Way leaving blank space is not necessarily misfortune.”

The Master did not continue. With a wave of his sleeve, the turtle shell in midair gave a soft chime and settled steadily back into the black wooden box.

His motion of closing the lid was more solemn than when he had opened it, even carrying a faint urgency barely noticeable.

At the instant the box shut—

“What else did the hexagram say?”

Master Xuanming, who had been silent until now, suddenly spoke. A keen light flickered in his deeply set eye sockets.

The Master’s movement paused slightly.

He turned his head and glanced at Master Xuanming.

The two men held each other’s gaze for a moment.

“Are you certain you want me to say it here?” the Master’s voice was low, as if the wind could scatter it, yet everyone in the side hall heard it clearly.

Master Xuanming’s bony fingers, resting on his knee, twitched faintly.

He looked at Qingfeng and Mingyue standing behind him, then at Su Ming.

In the end, Master Xuanming did not reply. Instead, he cast his gaze back out to the clouds roiling beyond the cliff.

The Master noticed this and stopped pressing him further.

He pushed the wooden box to one side and turned his attention back to Su Ming.

“I can give you Ten-Thousand-Year Sky-Blue Stone Marrow,” the Master said, his voice regaining calm. “But Tianji Pavilion has one condition.”

The atmosphere in the side hall turned extremely delicate again at the word “condition.”

Su Ming lowered his hands and bowed slightly.

“Please instruct, Pavilion Master.” His voice was steady, betraying no ripple.

The Tianji Pavilion Master did not answer immediately. He rose from behind the jade table, hands clasped behind his back, and walked slowly to the edge of the side hall. His gaze was deep as he looked out at the thick fog being torn by the wind beyond the cliff.

“I just saw from the hexagram,” the Master said without turning back, his voice drifting slightly on the mountain wind, “you will, in the future, set foot in the spirit races’ territory.”