Food System in Cultivation World-Chapter 512 - 464: Easily Scattered by Upper Realm Gale (Part 2)
Today a slash, tomorrow another slash, and after a few days, yet another slash...
They don’t even let you catch your breath—it makes people hopeless forevermore.
Just like, after much hardship, one year you finally have a good harvest, but the price of grain drops, the taxes rise, harsh officials squeeze you harsher than ever, and even the local gentry and landlords are left weeping, utterly helpless.
Or say, after much difficulty, you finally gain scholarly honors, believing you can rise above the common crowd from now on.
Yet who would have thought that a mere licentiate means nothing at all.
No magical power, no divine abilities—taking even one step higher is harder than hard.
You suffer humiliation from your classmates but dare only to be angry in silence, for their family’s status far surpasses yours. Even if they were to beat you to death, your family would have no door to seek justice...
The farmer loses field and grain, eating at the mercy of Heaven’s will.
The scholar finds the imperial exams arduous, with advancement blocked at every turn.
The merchant rushes back and forth; unless they flatter and bribe, they suffer cold shoulders and humiliation.
The craftsman dares not keep secret methods—lest he be blamed for "treasuring a jade and inviting guilt," and disaster comes crashing down...
Generals and ministers, princes and marquises, shamans and healers, common folk of every trade—all have their suffering.
Let me ask the world—who among mortals does not suffer?
Intense agony grows and spreads wildly in the darkness—a haze of black qi, invisible to the mortal eye, now mixes with the night air.
It turns into twisted, grotesque apparitions, baring their fangs and claws, gathering continuously above the skies of Jade Capital.
Meanwhile, voices accusing the emperor of guilt surge ever higher, ever louder.
This torrent of condemnation could not possibly be all spontaneous from the people.
No—certain shrewd and watchful souls are quick to fan the flames and stir waves.
For instance, Prince Fortune, who year after year lingers in the capital and disdains to visit his fief; or Consort Cui’s adopted Fifth Prince; or the Third Prince, whose birth-mother is distantly related to Liu Shao...
In the end, it’s the Celestial Dog swallowing the sun, panic fills the hearts of men—who can say who speaks these words?
At such a moment, the slowest to react turns out to be the emperor Yonghui himself, the very center of the storm of rumor.
He knows nothing of the Celestial Dog devouring the sun—he only stares upward at that immense alchemical cauldron, constantly urging the priest before it:
"Imperial Preceptor, though Chen Xu has yet to be brought here, we can still gather more of Master Wen’s blood.
Refine a hundred thousand blood-pills—without Chen Xu, can we really not succeed in forging this Nine-Revolution Immortal Elixir?"
The Daoist’s feet stride on the Eight Trigrams, pacing ceaselessly before the cauldron, his hands shifting seals, drawing earthfire.
His expression remains composed, but his pupils are as dark as the abyss, and now and then his gaze flashes with a madness that nearly outstrips the emperor’s own.
No one can see the madness lurking beneath his eyes; the emperor only hears a voice calm and unhurried:
"A hundred thousand blood-pills must be refined, and blood of virtue must also be taken.
Your Majesty, do not hurry. Let this humble Daoist first repair the thirty-sixth ley-dragon...."
Inside a secret chamber, the earth’s fire blazes as bright as noon, casting flickering radiance over the vast alchemical chamber like clouds at sunset.
The Celestial Dog swallowing the sun outside has no power here—the furnace-room is untouched, as heated and fierce as ever.
Yet at the same time, within the Tower of Twelvefold Ascension, a different scene unfolds.
The banquet hall glows with not a single shadow, entirely unaffected by the outside events.
An unfathomable scroll, source unknown, falls from the heavens before the feet of a young man, two little spirits perched on his shoulder.
The young man’s eyes are bright as the stars, his bearing unruffled; thus, he steps onto the scroll, wavering between the real and the unreal.
Those present are stunned into silence; the banquet hall is quiet as a crypt.
Only when the youth strides along the scroll, as if walking a long river upstream, does someone at last exclaim in shock:
"What is he doing?"
"What on earth is happening?"
"Is this the second-tier passage?"
"Why..."
One exclamation after another, the hush is shattered—like oil in a boiling pan.
And so a rising tide of voices swells, questions overlapping on questions:
"Why, why is today’s passage so different from the past?"
"Xie Mingyi—Young Lord Xie—you ascend the Tower of Twelvefold Ascension often; have you ever seen such a marvel for the second tier?"
"Who is that man? How have I never seen him before?"
"How arrogantly he acts! We are bewildered—he utters not a word, gives no explanation."
"Where’s his name card? Where is it? Look quickly, who is he, truly..."
There are too many name cards. The palace attendant on duty keeps his eyes open but dozes off—with so many name cards to sift, how could he possibly find the right one now?
Both Left and Right Moon-Seizing Immortal said before—whoever comes, unless it’s an obvious troublemaker, today’s grand banquet welcomes all.
So who cares who arrives?
Suddenly, the crowd erupts in cheers: "It’s the Moon-Seizing Immortal—he’s here!"
"Wonderful! May the Moon-Seizing Immortal explain and dispel our doubts!"
In the midst of cheers, a group of Clear Void Palace disciples in pale moon-white robes flank a Daoist in apricot-yellow, more than a dozen people manifesting in the first-floor banquet hall.
No one knows how they entered—certainly not through the main doors.
They look instead as though they descended out of nowhere from the floors above.
Amid the throng’s excitement and cheers, Moon-Seizing Immortal speaks, calling out to Chen Xu ascending the scroll.
His voice is coldly clear, bearing a quality like jade untainted by earthly dust.
His first words are thunderbolts:
"This layman—could you be Chen Xu of Yunjiang Prefecture?"
A question that seems ordinary, and yet it shrouds the once-noisy banquet in eerie, deathlike silence.
Yunjiang Prefecture—Chen Xu!
How many are there in Yunjiang Prefecture named Chen Xu?
Namesake souls may be many, but few would be hailed by Moon-Seizing Immortal with such solemn inquiry—certainly only one.
He from the celestial southern marches, dazzling as a star, whose emergence stunned the world;
He whose verses and prose shook the age, whose deeds will be praised for millennia;
He fated to remain immortal in history’s annals, wherever he wanders, all will speak his name...
Such is his fame—yet today he appears so low-key and unheralded—
No. No, is he truly low-key?
Perhaps, he has never declared his own name to all the world.
But once he appears, low-key is out of the question.
Just as now, who knows how he triggered the resonance of the Twelvefold Tower, conjuring forth this mysterious scroll?
Again Moon-Seizing Immortal asks:
"Daoist Chen, may I ask—where did this scroll originate? Is it truly the path to the second tier?
Might others also step upon it and ascend the second level by your side?"
Chen Xu’s steps are poised; walking the scroll with measured pace, at last he looks down at those below, responding serenely:
"The Twelvefold Tower—built eight thousand years ago, at the dawn of Shenzhou’s age."
What? Eight thousand years ago?
At this, Chen Xu outstrips even the Moon-Seizing Immortal in startling speech.
He seems insensible to the crowd’s questions, oblivious to what world-shaking awe his words should inspire.
He simply continues in his own way: "I listened to the winds of the Twelvefold Tower, and they told me the purpose of its founding."
The winds of the Twelvefold Tower—many whisper of having heard their sound.
Xie Mingyi present here is among those rumored to have heard its voice.
So too is the Star-Picking Adept of the Clear Void Palace.
But today only Moon-Seizing Immortal is here; the Star-Picking Adept is absent.
Yet for all those who have heard, never did any claim to learn the ultimate secret of the tower’s construction as described by Chen Xu.
All eyes and ears turn to Chen Xu’s voice, as clear and flowing as a distant river, unfolding steadily before the world:
"At its origin, this tower was built to watch the heavens,
To observe the changing of the four seasons, the twelve long moons, the cycles of day and night, the mysteries of heaven and earth.
To seek the secrets of the world below, it must root upon earth; to seek above—it must reach Heaven."
Chen Xu’s tone is placid, but every utterance is earthshaking.
Each phrase weighs with revelation, until the gathering thousands can only listen—no single voice dares to break the spell.
All listen intently, yet the more they hear, the greater their confusion.
Then Chen Xu says:
"Because the tower above can reach Heaven, over the ages it’s been said: Whoever climbs to the twelfth level of the Twelvefold Tower can ascend to immortality from the mortal world.
Alas, ascending to the tenth floor is easy; to reach the twelfth—immeasurably hard.
The difficulty lies not in chance or fate, but in those who climb—should their cultivation be lacking, their bodies unfortified, if they reach the twelfth floor, the upper world’s astral winds may scatter body and spirit alike."
