After finishing volumes sixteen and seventeen, I wanted to say only this: "Ping Chao, you have me sweating for you."
I knew nothing of the overall conception of Immortal Road, nothing of what lay ahead. I was a leisurely traveler along Immortal Road, accustomed to evening bells like dusk horns beneath a frosty sky, accustomed to years like spring blossoms and autumn moons, languidly falling drunk beneath the setting sun... Yet in the instant when I happened to glance back, you quietly placed a perilous peak on the road I was about to travel...
You and I have never met, and oceans separate us; perhaps we will never see each other in this lifetime. I can only come to know you through scattered words online. My impression of you now is that you love taking risks. Uploading Immortal Road to a purely commercial website like this was a risk, because the chances of flopping were far too great. You were fortunate: Immortal Road ultimately attracted friends of its own. Yet just when everything seemed ready to proceed quietly and naturally, you started taking risks again.
In historical military fiction, Western fantasy, or traditional martial arts novels, if the protagonist can stand alone against ten thousand, it means the author has run out of imagination. Only in immortal fantasy, born of the peerlessly magnificent depictions in Chinese culture and the imagination that roamed unbridled through legends passed down from generation to generation, are ordinary mortals so powerless, helpless, and incapable before such mighty beings. In The Investiture of the Gods, million-strong armies of mortals might as well not exist; in Journey to the West, when did the countless heavenly soldiers and generals ever count for anything in the Great Sage's eyes? Immortal fantasy, a hotbed of individual heroism, has settled into