Chapter One: Lin You

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At the break of dawn, the mist of pine smoke veiled the distant, layered peaks, resembling crimson gauze and golden tents that enveloped the entire Scarlet Pine Mountain. The pine forests glowed red like clouds, their shadows scattered, swaying as if stretching and dancing in the morning breeze.

On the ancient path beside the mountain, a narrow stone road paved with blue rocks wound upwards through the dark pines and verdant cypresses, soon disappearing into the swirling mist halfway up the slope. Amid towering peaks piercing the sky, monkeys swung along cliffs, birds called with melodious cries that echoed through ravines and precipices. Their voices were primitive and rugged, carrying a wild, pure undertone.

Lin You, wearing a straw raincoat and rough shoes, holding a bamboo staff, stood atop stone steps carpeted in moss. The morning dew dripped from the surrounding foliage, yet not a drop managed to dampen his clothes; even the blue cloth bundle on his back remained perfectly dry.

The bundle was small, containing only a few changes of clothing and a single black wooden memorial tablet. This was the spirit tablet of the master of his current body—a slovenly Daoist, unkempt in life yet surprisingly carefree in death.

Lin You gazed at the winding ancient path ahead, his right hand resting on his pack, his expression momentarily unreadable.

A month ago, while searching for the legendary Kunlun Divine Tree atop Mount Kunlun, he had fallen into a bottomless abyss. When he awoke, he found himself inhabiting the body of a sixteen-year-old novice Daoist.

The previous owner of this body was an orphan found by a wandering Daoist, who had spent more than a decade traveling the world with his mentor. A month ago, the old Daoist sensed his end approaching, summoned his disciple to his bedside, gave instructions for his affairs, and passed away that very night. The young disciple, overwhelmed by grief, fell into madness during meditation, his soul extinguished. By chance, Lin You seized this opportunity to return to life.

After several days of sorting through memories, Lin You gained a rough understanding of this world. It resembled ancient China, yet belonged to no historical dynasty. Here, not only did martial artists leap to incredible heights, but also mountain spirits and water monsters had been rumored to haunt the wilds.

The master, according to legend, had once witnessed immortals walking upon the clouds and thus believed fervently in the existence of the divine. For nearly a century, he obsessed over the pursuit of immortality, but only at the moment of his passing did he grow disheartened.

He lamented having not returned to his sect for over a decade, and in his dying breath, entrusted his disciple to bring his memorial tablet back to the Scarlet Pine Temple of Jinzhou, so his spirit might return to its roots.

Lin You, having borrowed this body, felt compelled to fulfill this karmic debt. He resolved to carry out the old Daoist’s last wish: deliver his spirit tablet to Scarlet Pine Temple, and burn three sticks of incense before the master’s memorial one final time.

Now, deep in autumn’s melancholy, Lin You stood among the ancient pines, pausing for a long while.

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His fingertips gently brushed the blue cloth bundle, feeling the hard surface of the spirit tablet, and he murmured to himself:

“In the end, human life is but a fleeting existence, a mere speck in the vastness of the cosmos. If one cannot transcend the mortal world and attain immortality, no matter how glorious or eminent in life, it all amounts to nothing but an empty dream. Daoist, you died in pursuit of the Way; truly, it was a worthy death.”

His previous life had been much like the old Daoist’s—obsessed with seeking immortality. As a fellow seeker, he couldn’t help but feel a sense of kinship. Yet his nature was always carefree, and he soon let go of his melancholy. With a nimble step, he ascended lightly, swift as a bird in flight.

The slippery moss on the stone steps posed no obstacle to him; he moved nimbly, effortlessly evading the tangled branches stretching across the path.

The scenery flashed past; the mountain wind, scented with pine and cypress, swept his face, filling him with an indescribable sense of freedom and ease. It was a novel sensation—he felt as if he had become a bird, soaring freely through the forest.

Were any martial masters of Yu Kingdom present, they would have recognized his movement as the famed Step of the Soaring Crane, signature technique of Grandmaster Daoist Songhe. Legend held this skill was discovered in a mountain stone chamber, possibly left by an immortal, with secrets profound and complex, and when mastered, allowed one to ride the wind like the immortals of old.

After merging with the original memories, Lin You naturally acquired this mysterious technique. Though he couldn’t yet soar through the air as the old Daoist could in his prime, it served well for climbing mountains.

Scarlet Pine Mountain was not the most perilous, but it was imposing and majestic. Reaching halfway up, Lin You felt his internal energy waning. Regulating his breath, he looked up toward the summit. With the mist cleared, his vision widened, and he saw several temple halls standing atop the cliff.

A massive ancient pine, gnarled like a dragon, hung over the temple like a fiery red canopy, covering much of the peak. Lin You glanced sideways, recalling from his inherited memories how the old Daoist had once explained the origins of this ancient pine.

It was said to have been planted by the ancient immortal Scarlet Pine, and the entire mountain’s pine forest had grown from its seeds. The mountain’s name itself derived from this tree.

Lin You had once suspected the old Daoist’s tales were exaggerated, but seeing it now, he was awestruck. He had visited many renowned mountains and ancient trees in his previous life, yet had never seen one as vast as the old pine before him, looming like a cloud that touched the sky.

“This old pine must be three thousand years old—truly astonishing!” Lin You exclaimed.

Though trees can grow without limit, surviving through such vast ages is rare, for calamities both natural and human are hard to avoid. Especially for a pine growing atop a peak, it should have long ago been destroyed by lightning or fire—how could it have grown so grand?

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Lin You pondered deeply, his curiosity about this world growing ever stronger. Just as he prepared to climb further, a jumble of footsteps sounded ahead.

Looking up, he saw two young Daoists in gray robes, carrying bundles, hurrying down the ancient path from above. Both wore troubled expressions, their appearance rather disheveled, as if fleeing some monstrous threat.

Lin You, intrigued, waited as they approached, then stepped forward and bowed, asking, “Fellow brothers, is Scarlet Pine Palace up ahead?”

The two Daoists, focused on the mountain path, were startled by the sudden question. Though the voice was gentle and clear, it caught them off guard.

The elder, Qingyangzi, collected himself, grabbing his younger companion Qingsong, who nearly slipped. He looked ahead and saw, among pine branches and mossy stones, a young man clad in a straw coat, holding a bamboo staff. The youth’s eyes were bright as moonlit ponds, his bearing ethereal, lips curved in a faint smile as he bowed to them.

Qingyangzi paused, realizing his own awkwardness, and quickly returned the gesture, saying, “Good sir, Scarlet Pine Palace lies ahead, but if you wish to offer incense and prayers, perhaps you should return another day.”

“Oh? And why is that? You seem in quite a hurry—what has happened?” Lin You asked, curious.

Qingsong, about to explain, was silenced by a stern glance from the steadier Qingyangzi. He lowered his head, staring quietly at the mossy steps.

Qingyangzi forced a bitter smile, bowed to Lin You, and said, “Sir, my apologies. The temple is undergoing repairs these days and is closed to visitors. I’m afraid you’ve come for nothing.”

Yet as he spoke, his face flushed, clearly unskilled at lying. Seeing the youth’s faintly amused gaze, he grew more uneasy, silently reciting apologies in his heart.

Normally, rare visitors to the mountain would delight Qingyangzi, but these were troubled times. The temple had recently been haunted by ghosts and spirits—an unprecedented event.

First, several brothers encountered ghostly walls while relieving themselves; then, even strong elders were affected, breaking out in fights within the main hall, only quelled by the abbot’s intervention before tragedy struck.

Hauntings in a Daoist temple—such a thing was unheard of, utterly absurd. How could they dare mention this to outsiders?