Master Golden Origin's Cultivation Notes

As Jiang She finished speaking.

The young-looking Daoist in black flame-patterned robes aged inch by inch. His skin rapidly withered and wrinkled, growing older with every breath, yellow spots and creases spreading as his frame shrank and dried.

He reverted to the appearance he'd had before absorbing incense and offerings.

The "Fourth Young Master" had hidden in Ru Prefecture for years, bribing ghosts and gods.

The accumulated wish-power and incense offerings were drained away in an instant.

Li Bai and Yuan Danqiu watched from the side, shock rising in their hearts. They couldn't help stepping back two paces, yet their eyes refused to look away, fixed on the scene without blinking.

For a moment, they held their breath, unable to speak.

In their sight, the Daoist aged all at once—from his twenties or thirties to sixty years old, then rapidly grew even older.

By the end, he looked older than even the Old Deer Mountain God.

His hair turned white, his flesh clung to his bones, then began to melt and dissolve.

In the span of a dozen breaths, he became a skeleton.

The village child let out a startled cry.

Only then did Yuan Danqiu remember the seven- or eight-year-old boy beside him. He reached out, covering the child's eyes, and said softly, "Don't be afraid."

Li Bai also stepped forward two paces, drawing closer to the Daoist, blocking the village child's view.

On the Flame Gold Platform, the majestic golden statue of the god began to crack. Before the eyes of the faithful worshippers, inch by inch, it reverted to its pre-ritual form—a cracked, broken stone-and-clay idol.

The cracks spread to the platform itself.

With a crash, it slowly toppled, rolled down the high platform, and smashed onto the ground.

"The statue!"

"What's happening?!"

The worshippers in the hall, bewildered, cried out in alarm. Those who had been kneeling in prayer below barely dodged being crushed. Shaken, they clutched their chests and cursed loudly.

"What's going on? Temple keeper! Temple keeper!"

"How did the golden statue turn to stone?"

"Did you cut corners and embezzle the donations we gave?"

As they raged.

The magnificent, solemn Fourth Young Master Temple.

Its vermilion lacquer and meticulously painted divine murals peeled off in large sheets.

At the same time, the gold dust on the walls flaked away inch by inch. Some of the golden specks landed on a few worshippers in the hall. The rest, caught by the wind outside the door, drifted farther away like swirling snowflakes.

The worshippers in the hall were startled and uncertain.

Not knowing what had happened, they only saw some people covered in gold.

"Strange—why didn't this gold stick to me?"

"This wind is eerie."

Some looked at the statue that had rolled off the high platform, now cracked, and pondered. They tugged at the person beside them: "I think this place is cursed. Let's stay away for a while."

The next moment.

Someone cried out in pain.

"My eyes!"

"This gold dust... Temple keeper! How dare you pass off shoddy goods—I donated money!"

"It hurts! It hurts! What is this thing? Fourth Young Master... Fourth Young Master, save me!"

Some who had touched the gold dust felt pain all over their bodies and couldn't help scrambling out of the hall, hoping the wind outside would shake the cursed stuff off.

They couldn't see what was happening inside the hall. They didn't know the Fourth Young Master truly existed.

Before Jiang She and the others.

The Daoist had lost all flesh and skin, his last spark of spirit and awareness gone. The gods had drawn out his incense offerings, stripping away his foundation, and his lifespan reached its end in that moment.

Many seek the Dao; few attain it.

All his lifelong obsession with seeking immortality turned to gold dust and ash in the temple.

Everything vanished.

Only a skeleton remained.

With a soft thud.

A booklet fell from his drooping sleeve.

Jiang She picked it up.

It was an old, yellowed journal, its handwriting bold and carefree: Master Golden Origin's Cultivation Notes.

Beside it, a line was written vertically: "By Zhou Ling."

The handwriting was free and untamed, yet the characters were good—clearly the result of hard practice. This handbook must have been written by this "Fourth Young Master." "Master Golden Origin" was his self-styled title, and Zhou Ling should be his name.

Jiang She thought briefly, then opened it to read.

The ink had already faded somewhat, written with great solemnity, awkward and crooked into a line.

"Eighteenth year of Zhenguan. My master said I am suited for the Dao and told me to bid farewell to my parents and learn the art of immortality. Are there really immortals in this world?"

"Mother cried."

"Still, entering the Dao at sixteen—who else has such talent as I?"

Much space was left blank on the right, then a few more lines were written.

"So it turns out there are two senior brothers and one senior sister above me. They gave me gifts, saying they were congratulating me on stepping into the Daoist path. I think they need not flatter me."

"If I become an immortal, I shall roam with the moon, drink wine facing the wind—how joyful!"

"My master says there are no immortals in heaven and earth, but the art of levitation can still be achieved. It's not quite what I imagined."

"Nineteenth year of Zhenguan. First time seeing a ghost. It looked quite frightening—green-faced, fanged, hideous."

"Is this what everyone looks like after death?"

"Ugly."

Jiang She flipped through many more pages. The Daoist loved to write—everything from various feelings encountered in cultivation to even complaints about his junior apprentice brother's terrible cooking was all recorded.

Chatty, yet genuine.

"Twenty-second year of Zhenguan. Grandmother passed away. My cultivation was not yet complete. My master said I should not involve myself in such karmic ties, so I only went down the mountain for a glance and did not let my parents see me."

"They have grown somewhat old."

"Why are they still keeping the tiger-head shoes I wore as a child?"

"Twenty-third year of Zhenguan. My senior sister said the emperor had died."

"All men die. We who study immortality have long since left the mundane world—why cling to such things?"

"Eleventh month. Practiced the art of levitation. Can now rise one zhang from the ground."

"This is the Daoist art I wanted to learn when I was sixteen. Now that I have reached adulthood, I only understand a little of it."

"The Great Dao is difficult. Fortunately, I am no ordinary man."

"Fifth year of Xianqing. Seventeen years since entering the Dao. I am already thirty-three. If I were down the mountain, I would be middle-aged, with children and grandchildren by now. Mortals have so many troublesome affairs."

"Father passed away."

"I went to see him. Eldest brother was supporting the coffin at the front."

"More than ten years without seeing each other. Eldest brother has also aged. He has a grandson now. He was very happy to see me, rubbing his hands together, wanting to give me money to spend. What need does a cultivator have for gold and silver's stench? I looked at the wrinkles on his face and still accepted it."

"My master has the art of turning stone into gold. I will go learn it."

"Then he won't have to scheme for money anymore."

"Pitiful."

"I had my senior brother change the cover for me. I wanted to retitle it 'Master Golden Origin's Short Biography of Becoming an Immortal,' but I sparred with my senior brother and lost. Fine, then—let it be called 'Master Golden Origin's Cultivation Notes'!"

As Jiang She read to the later parts, the idle chatter grew less and less.

The man had gone from being talkative in his youth to speaking little, only that self-assured, unrestrained spirit remaining unchanged.

"First year of Yonglong. Thirty-sixth year since entering the Dao."

"Mother passed away."

"It had been so long since I last went home that I had to search for a while to find the way. Eldest brother was so old he was nearly dead. He held my hand and said many things, also telling me that before Father died, he had always wanted to see me. This time, when Mother was buried, they also interred the tiger-head shoes I wore as a child."

"I have almost forgotten the things of my childhood."

"I look like I'm thirty, younger than eldest brother's son. Eldest brother's hair is already streaked with white."

"I regret it a little. I don't know what I was thinking when I went down the mountain before, but I never went to see them. Since I entered the Dao at sixteen, I have never spoken to them again."

"Thirty-six years since entering the Dao, and I still haven't mastered turning stone into gold."