"Three days from now, after the ancestral rites, you will stand as the Chief Disciple of the Cleansing Dust Sect."
The Grand Elder's tone was as cold as the iron incense burner beside him. His eyes carried nothing but reluctant acceptance.
Li Qiye didn't bow, didn't speak. He only sat quietly, the calm in his gaze almost taunting.
He had expected nothing less.
Then, as if asking for a cup of tea, he said with a faint smile,
"Since I'm to be Chief Disciple… shouldn't the sect prepare a weapon or two for me? Something suitable for self‑defense."
That composure unsettled one of the elders. The boy couldn't be more than thirteen, yet he carried the steady presence of an emperor watching over his court. This quiet confidence couldn't be faked.
The elder frowned. "You may choose a common weapon or two. But if you're dreaming of treasures or immortal tools—forget it. Those are rewards for great merit."
Li Qiye's lips curved slightly. His eyes drifted toward the blackened stick leaning beside the incense stand.
"Then I'll take that stick," he said evenly.
"…What stick?" the elders blinked in confusion.
It took them a second to realize what he meant—the half‑burnt rod used for stirring ash during offerings. Scorched, ugly, and worthless.
They had braced for him to demand imperial techniques or divine artifacts. Instead… a stick.
"This one," Li Qiye explained slowly. "It came from the ancestral hall, tempered by flame and incense. It carries the sect's lineage and spirit.
As Chief Disciple, I should wield this relic—to symbolize the inheritance I now carry."
He spoke smoothly, words wrapped in reason like polished jade.
The elders exchanged helpless looks. It was such blatant nonsense that they barely knew how to respond.
In their eyes, only someone like that shameless drunk Three Smiles Elder would think this made sense.
"Fine," the Grand Elder sighed, waving a hand. "Take it. It's just a burnt stick."
Li Qiye smiled faintly. "My thanks."
He tucked the wooden staff at his waist as though it were a sacred weapon. To the watching elders, it felt absurd—like a child playing make‑believe.
"Huairen, see him to his quarters," said one elder curtly.
The six elders stood stiffly, frustration simmering beneath formal courtesy.
A mortal had entered their immortal sect and snatched the title of Chief Disciple through an ancient decree.
It was humiliation—plain and bitter.
The Lonely Peak
Li Qiye followed a young disciple up a narrow winding trail to a remote mountain.
It wasn't tall, but its isolation made it feel like a kingdom apart.
At the summit sat a small courtyard choked by vines and weeds, its gate half‑collapsed with age.
"Th—this will be your residence, Senior Brother," the disciple said awkwardly, correcting himself mid‑sentence.
By seniority of entry, Li Qiye was far beneath him—but by sect rank, every third‑generation disciple owed him respect.
Li Qiye surveyed the courtyard. Broken tiles, cracked walls, creeping moss.
To anyone else, it was exile.
To him—it was peace.
"Quiet cliffs, clean air," he said, smiling faintly. "Perfect place."
"It's called the Lonely Peak, actually," the disciple replied, still uneasy. "Perhaps later, you might move to the Main Peak."
Per sect tradition, the Chief Disciple had the right to reside there among the elders, where the spiritual energy was strongest—but the elders' resentment had made that impossible.
"No need," Li Qiye said lightly. "This will do."
The disciple nodded and carried in a few supplies.
"If Senior Brother has any requests, please seek me at the Outer Hall."
"What's your name?" Li Qiye asked suddenly.
The boy blinked, then bowed. "Disciple Nan Huairen, Outer Hall attendant."
"Li Qiye." His response was soft, matter‑of‑fact—as if re‑introducing himself to the world after an eternity of silence.
Once Nan Huairen left, Li Qiye began cleaning.
He swept the courtyard, cut the weeds, repaired the gate.
By the time the sun slipped behind the peaks, a gentle stillness had returned to the Lonely Peak.
His movements were steady, practiced, as if the simple act of restoring order was its own form of cultivation.
When night fell, exhaustion settled in.
Li Qiye sat by the courtyard steps, breeze on his face.
He unclipped the blackened stick and studied it under the moon — the surface charred, yet gleaming faintly in the dark.
He ran his fingers along it, a ghost of a smile touching his lips.
"The Snake‑Beating Staff," he murmured to himself.
Memories stirred — the day Mingren was still a reckless boy, when Li Qiye had guided those rowdy disciples and used this very stick to beat respect into them.
It had become almost a legend within the sect — one swing, and even dragons behaved.
When his work was done, he had tossed it aside like trash.
Yet after millions of years, it still waited for him there.
He closed his eyes briefly.
He had roamed all of creation, his soul trapped inside that ever‑living crow.
Everyone he had once known — the Medicine God, the Blood‑Seal Emperor, even Mingren himself — long gone, vanished into dust.
He remembered the herdboy he had been, the night he lost a cow and stumbled into the Demon Immortal Cave.
How he had been forged into the Crow of Eternity—cursed to fly through death and rebirth, through the tombs of the Nine Worlds.
He had learned the deep secrets of the heavens—earned immortal insight at the price of his own freedom.
And in the end, he had torn his fate apart, breaking his own soul to be free.
He had taught countless geniuses who became immortal emperors.
All so that one day he could return—as himself.
Now the wish was fulfilled.
But none of them remained.
He let out a quiet sigh — then tightened his fist, resolve rising like fire in his chest.
"This life—no matter the era, no matter the heaven—I'll climb again.
I'll stand upon the peak of creation.
I'll return to the Demon Immortal Cave — and remake the world in my own fate."