Morning mist shrouded the lakeside.
The black-haired youth cast his fishing rod into the water, humming a little tune, his only thought being: "Hope I catch a fish today without so many bones."
He didn't notice that the clearing behind him was already packed with kneeling people.
At the front, the holy son sat upright, eyes bloodshot, his voice booming like thunder:
"Divine words of the ancient god—'Stir a few more times, or it'll stick!'"
Countless cultivators echoed in unison, their chanting shaking the mountains and rivers.
Next, another group cried out:
"Divine words of the ancient god—'Too salty, use less salt next time!'"
The cries surged like a tidal wave, spreading further and further as more people wept.
"This is the supreme truth of the Dao!"
"Cultivation must not be rash, nor greedy—only restraint leads forward!"
"Stirring again and again tempers the heart; using less salt preserves balance on the path!"
As they chanted, breakthroughs erupted everywhere, their auras soaring as if they had comprehended a holy scripture.
…
The black-haired youth glanced back, utterly baffled.
"…Are you people insane? I was just cooking."
Shaking his head, he turned back to his fishing.
"Ah—don't bother me, the rod's shaking."
…
Meanwhile, across the nine heavens and ten lands, sect elders ordered the "ancient god's words" to be carved into stone steles and spread throughout the realms.
In the South Continent, disciples circled the stele, passing the words from mouth to mouth: "Cultivation is like stirring a pot of soup—it must never cease, day or night!"
In the North Plains, cultivators knelt before a cliffside, weeping as they recited: "The flavor of the Dao lies in restraint, only then is it eternal!"
In moments, the entire continent's cultivation culture changed.
Where once they sought slaughter and treasure, now cultivators stirred pots while training, or shouted "less salt" during meditation.
One broke through on the spot, crying, "It works! The Dao is clearer!"
Instantly, the sacred words were exalted to the highest altar.
…
And the source of it all—the black-haired youth—remained oblivious.
He was crouched by the lake, staring at his rod, muttering:
"Why are the fish biting so slowly today? Have they gotten smarter?"
…
Not far away, a nervous prodigy crept closer, holding out a piece of spirit jade.
"Ancient god, I offer this jade—please grant me one word."
The youth blinked. "…Are you trying to trade fish? I don't take spirit jade."
The prodigy trembled all over, tears streaming.
"The ancient god refuses jade! He scorns worldly wealth!"
Crying, he hurled the jade into the sky, where it shattered into rain of light.
"This is his revelation! — Cultivation must not cling to external things!"
The crowd roared as one: "Glory to the ancient god!"
…
The black-haired youth wanted to cry.
"I… I just said I don't take jade. Why smash your own stone?"
He rubbed his forehead, sighing. "These people are getting stranger by the day."
Helpless, he picked up his fish basket and decided to find a quieter spot.
"Sigh, I just want some peace."
…
He didn't see it, but as he walked away, a thunderous chorus rose behind him:
"The ancient god moves!"
"The ancient god reveals himself!"
"Farewell, ancient god!"
Heaven and earth shook, the nine heavens trembled.
…
That night, one phrase spread across all realms:
"The ancient god just wants to fish."
But this sentence was taken as the highest divine truth, passed from mouth to mouth.
Cultivators closed themselves in meditation, sitting cross-legged with sticks in their hands, swinging them like rods while chanting:
"Ancient god fishes, and heaven and earth fall silent."
Breakthroughs abounded, enlightenment abounded.
A frenzy of cultivation swept the world.
…
Meanwhile, the true "ancient god"—the black-haired youth—was already sprawled on the grass, snoring with his basket in his arms.
In his sleep, he muttered:
"Next time… a place with more fish…"