Chapter 27: Cold Mountain Temple

Zhi Hua had seen many landscape paintings before—she was, after all, a renowned talented woman of Suzhou. Though she couldn’t pinpoint why, this particular painting felt uniquely alive, as though an entire world existed within its brushstrokes. Such profound works rarely appeared in the common market, usually hidden among the treasures of great figures. Having glimpsed one such masterpiece in the past, Zhi Hua was instantly stunned by this piece.

“Boss, which master created this painting?”

Despite her dislike for the shop owner, she couldn’t hold back the question.

Only a reclusive High Person could produce such art.

“One hundred taels.”

Zuo Meng had painted it out of boredom. Though untrained, his status as a creator meant even his casual scribbles held immense value to ordinary people. To martial artists, it might reveal peerless techniques; to Immortal Cultivators, it could unlock immortal methods. To him, it was just ink and paper.

One hundred taels?

An insult to the master’s work! Zhi Hua glared at Zuo Meng, lounging lazily with closed eyes. The fool clearly didn’t understand—such paintings sold for tens of thousands of taels, if they ever reached the market at all. One hundred was a laughable pittance.

“I’ll take it. But I don’t have the silver now. My servants will deliver it later.”

She needed time to gather the funds but feared losing the painting to another buyer.

“No credit.”

Zuo Meng, nearly broke, saw an easy mark. The girl thought she’d scored a bargain. Little did she know he’d simply doodle another copy the moment she left.

“Hold it for me! I’ll return in half an hour.”

“Depends on fate.” Zuo Meng rocked his chair, indifferent.

“You!!” Stomping her foot, Zhi Hua stormed off to fetch the money.

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Breathless but triumphant, she returned precisely half an hour later, clutching her prize. As she left, she shot Zuo Meng one last contemptuous glare.

With silver secured, Zuo Meng shut shop.

Now to execute his plan: spread his cultivation method across the real world, refine it through collective wisdom, and find a Transcendent path. Aligning with the world’s changing rules required starting with basic inner strength.

“Once inner strength flourishes, the world’s combined intellect will forge a way forward during the coming upheaval.”

The Three Great Lords posed no real threat—his two centuries of inner strength narrowed their advantage. Even Heifeng Fort’s mysterious mirror was only a temporary obstacle. His true aim? Shattering the real world’s constraints to ascend the Way of the Immortals.

“But first, I need the prestigious sects’ influence. Alone, I’m just another ordinary person.”

Abandoning his physical form to regain creator powers would’ve allowed meteoric solutions, but the rules bound him to mortal means. A plan took shape.

Outside Suzhou stood Cold Mountain.

Cold Mountain Temple, home to a thousand monks, dominated its slopes. The abbot was a revered High Person. Literary monks handled ceremonies and official matters; martial monks enforced discipline with fists and staves.

“For incense, go to the Front Yard. The rear houses the Arhat Hall.”

A bald monk blocked Zuo Meng’s path.

“I’ve long admired Cold Mountain Temple’s martial arts.” Zuo Meng bowed. “I am Xue Chuan, a lifelong enthusiast. I humbly request a spar with your esteemed monks.”

“Amitabha.”

The welcoming monk chanted a Buddhist chant.

Considering the silver, the monk didn’t drive Zuo Meng away. One hundred taels was no small sum for ordinary people—even someone from a wealthy merchant family like Zhi Hua would need to scrape together such an amount.

“The Buddha’s door opens wide to all; how could we turn away a benefactor? This way, please.”

The welcoming monk led Zuo Meng through the front gate to the training yard behind.

Rows of martial monks practiced boxing techniques bare-chested, while a senior monk from the Arhat Hall paced ahead, observing their movements.

“Jie Nian, Benefactor Xue donated one hundred taels as incense offering and wishes to spar with our martial monks. Assign a disciple.” The welcoming monk spoke to the inspecting monk, revealing his higher status.

One hundred taels?

The inspecting monk gave Zuo Meng a surprised look before clasping his hands.

“Understood, Master Uncle!”

“Jian Wen, step forward to practice with Benefactor Xue. Hold back your strength—don’t harm our guest.”

Jie Nian called out to a burly monk at the front.

The muscular monk bowed as others cleared space. Jian Wen moved opposite Zuo Meng and clasped his hands respectfully.

“Fists and feet lack eyes—please stay cautious, benefactor.”

“Begin!”

Zuo Meng raised his hand.

He’d mastered inner strength long ago in the real world, and the Dream World posed no challenge—this was his creation, like a game admin knowing every hidden treasure. He’d boosted his inner energy to near three years’ worth of ordinary training in just two days.

“Hah!”

Despite Zuo Meng’s scholar robes, Jian Wen attacked full-force—a martial artist’s instinct.

Strike like a lion hunting rabbits. Cold Mountain Temple’s reputation held true.

But Zuo Meng moved quicker.

Before Jian Wen’s fist landed, Zuo Meng leaped. Three fingers clawed the monk’s bald crown, crushing him mountain-heavy to his knees with a thunderous crack. A palm strike to the forehead followed—fluid motions, lightning-fast. By the time gasps rose, Jian Wen lay sprawled on the ground.