From black to white, from night until dawn.
Han Yu felt flas burning in his chest, his feet as limp as noodles, barely able to move forward by sheer instinct.
The black-robed old Taoist ahead never stopped, while the large crow overhead flew intermittently, rising and falling.
Finally, after daybreak, they arrived at a small town.
The old Taoist glanced at Han Yu's sallow, emaciated face and feeble steps, leading him to a food stall where he ate a bowl of noodles.
This was the most delicious al Han Yu had eaten in half a year. He buried his head in the bowl, slurping it all down.
When he looked up again, a donkey stood before him.
Without a word, the old Taoist paid and led the newly purchased donkey out of town.
Outside the town, the old Taoist rode the donkey while Han Yu followed behind, the large crow occasionally descending from the sky.
Perhaps bored from walking, the old Taoist rasped out the story of the "Three Friends of Quanlin."
One surnad Han, one surnad Li, and one nad Wan'er. They t in their twenties, trained martial arts together, challenged renowned masters, and road the rivers and lakes with high spirits. By their late thirties, the Three Friends of Quanlin had beco famous experts in Nanli Kingdom.
The Han fellow claid his family possessed a treasure related to immortal cultivation.
Thus began their pursuit of the immortal path, but this research created rifts among the sworn siblings. The Han man absconded with Wan'er and the treasure, settling in a mountain village as husband and wife.
The black-robed, white-haired, stooped old Taoist didn't continue the story, but Han Yu, now with food in his belly, thought more clearly.
Fifty years later, Han Yu's grandparents died without achieving immortality; his ordinary father died hunting.
This old Taoist must be that Li fellow, now seemingly possessing immortal cultivation skills, co to reclaim the Han family treasure.
"Grandfather Taoist, are you surnad Li?" Han Yu asked curiously.
Without turning, the old man rasped, "Boy, just call Taoist Master."
"Taoist Master, have you mastered immortal cultivation?"
"Mastered? Far from it. Just trivial tricks." The old man pressed the donkey's head, making it docile.
Then he extended a hand toward Han Yu.
"Give that treasure."
Han Yu handed over the small disk carved with a lush tree, then froze.
As he relinquished it, he felt—this object might be useful, worth examining—then the sensation of holding a hot stone reappeared in his right hand.
Simultaneously, an identical disk materialized in his pocket.
The old Taoist examined it carefully, then began trembling violently.
"This...this is from Wangu Valley..."
"So it's true! Your family descends from a Wangu Valley disciple! Weak bloodline severed your cultivation path, leaving only this token!"
"Hahaha! This belongs to ! Now I can walk the true path! The true path to immortality!"
Ecstatic, the old man clutched the disk as if it were more precious than life.
Han Yu watched blankly, secretly pocketing his duplicate disk.
After reveling, the old Taoist turned his gaunt, ugly face—resembling an aged horse near death—toward Han Yu, eyes flashing complex emotions.
"That Han bastard stole Wan'er without a word. For his sake, I should break my promise and feed you to my crow."
As he spoke, the large black crow landed heavily on Han Yu's shoulder, nearly toppling him. Its beady eyes glead with hungry malice.
"But your eyes...resemble Wan'er's."
Sighing, he continued, "You're Wan'er's grandson and gave Wangu Valley's token. I won't break faith with her."
"Caw!"
Disappointed, the crow took flight, even defecating before the donkey, which brayed in fright.
Embarrassed, the old man cursed, "Damn feathered beast!"
Then he scowled at Han Yu. "We're going to Wangu Valley—a thousand li journey. I'll teach you sothing along the way. Whether you learn depends on you."
"At Wangu Valley, I'll use this token to walk the true immortal path...owing no debts, severing all past ties. Understand?"
These words seed more for himself than the boy.
Han Yu nodded, prompting a satisfied smile on the ugly face.
That day, the odd group traveled dozens of li, resting at an inn where Han Yu ate his fill. Though still ragged, he regained vigor—only his worn shoes promised discomfort tomorrow.
He still didn't understand the duplicate disk—Wangu Valley's token.
Why did handing one over leave him with another identical one?
Hadn't there only been one originally?
"Boy, co. Ti to teach you cultivation."
Hiding his token, Han Yu entered the old man's room.
The Taoist produced a gleaming knife. "Bleed yourself."
Han Yu stared in shock.
"Not harming you. My thod isn't orthodox—requires blood condensation to form false qi that mimics true cultivation."
"Immortal sects call this monkey tricks. Mortals call it cultivation."
Understanding, Han Yu reluctantly cut himself.
The old man unconsciously licked his lips at the blood, then muttered "Wan'er" to restrain himself. Pressing Han Yu's wound, he said, "Guide your blood with my direction."
Han Yu concentrated, initially feeling coldness spread from his bleeding arm, then dryness as the blood energy circulated through his body.
After one cycle, parched thirst overwheld him.
The old man released him. "Practice yourself now. Return if you forget."
Han Yu left, thirst burning his throat, just as a waiter entered with two live chickens.
Soon, loud swallowing ca from the room.
Han Yu wondered: Did the Taoist or the crow eat them?
Next morning, they continued traveling. That night, the old man checked Han Yu's progress and, satisfied, left him alone.
After two more days of unbearable thirst and hunger despite eating well, Han Yu asked why.
"Your blood energy's insufficient," chuckled the old man. "But I've done enough—won't buy blood sacrifices for you."
"Today I'll teach you two spells. After that, you're on your own!"
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