The carriage rumbled over the muddy ruts of the uneven official road for the last stretch of mud, and ahead, the imposing city wall of the Great Xing capital—crouching on the horizon like a prehistoric beast—finally revealed its formidable outline against the autumn dusk.

The wall was built from massive blocks of bluish-gray stone, weathered by the passage of years, its surface scarred with dark traces of sword strikes and axe blows. Under the setting sun's blood-red afterglow, the entire city exuded an indescribable weight and desolation.

At a fork in the official road, the carriage slowly came to a halt.

Elder Qingquan lifted the carriage curtain and stepped out. His patched gray cloth robe rustled in the autumn wind. He did not look at the distant capital but instead cast his gaze toward the north.

"I'll take a turn up north. An old friend lives there," Elder Qingquan said, pulling the stopper from his gourd and tilting his head back for a swig of strong liquor. The pungent aroma of alcohol instantly spread through the cool air. He casually wiped his mouth, his tone as casual as if he were just visiting a neighbor's house. "You go into the city and handle your business. When you're done, use the communication talisman to contact me."

"Master, please be careful in all things." Su Ming stood by the carriage, cupping his hands in a respectful bow, performing a proper junior's salute.

"Worry about yourself," Elder Qingquan said with a light chuckle.

The moment the words left his mouth, without forming any hand seal or a flicker of spiritual light, his slightly stooped figure, under Su Ming's watchful gaze, turned into a faint wisp of green smoke without any warning. A gust of wind blew, and the smoke dissipated completely, as if the man had never been there.

Su Ming stood still, sensing the aura that had vanished without a trace in the surrounding air. A flicker of reverence passed through his eyes. This was the skill of a Golden Core stage grandmaster—control over the world's spiritual energy so refined it had returned to simplicity.

After seeing the elder off, Su Ming did not continue driving the carriage. He guided the cart that had accompanied them for days to the side of the road, near an abandoned tea shed. He casually untied the reins looped around the Yunnan horses' necks and lightly patted their rumps. The two horses, now free, snorted and galloped off toward the distant wilderness.

The carriage was too conspicuous. In this capital, where power struggles and spies lurked everywhere, walking was the least eye-catching method.

Su Ming took a deep breath. As he drew closer to the capital, he could clearly sense that the already thin ambient spiritual energy in the air was now heavily suppressed by a vast, dense, and highly exclusive peculiar force.

That was the capital's Dragon Qi.

Although Great Xing was merely a vassal state under Cloud Hidden Sect, it was still a mortal dynasty ruling over tens of millions of people. Centuries of national destiny had converged here, forming an invisible, natural grand formation. Under this Dragon Qi's suppression, any cultivator's spellcasting power would be greatly diminished, and the range of divine sense exploration would be compressed to an appalling degree.

Su Ming immediately activated the Aura Concealment Art. Instead of merely restraining his spiritual energy as he had before, he completely sealed off the liquid-like, deep-pool-like spiritual energy in his Dantian, turning it into the tiniest trickle that flowed slowly through the hidden pathways of his meridians. His heartbeat began to slow, his body temperature dropped slightly, and his pores closed tight, locking all of his "spiritual nature" firmly inside his body.

In just a few breaths, the Su Ming who was the all-powerful True Disciple of Formation Peak at Repair Hall had vanished. In his place stood an ordinary martial artist in a coarse blue cloth outfit, his eyes carrying a hint of weathered caution.

He lowered the bamboo hat on his head and, following the flow of people, made his way toward the capital's East Straight Gate.

The inspection at the city gate was extremely strict. Two rows of city defense soldiers in iron armor gripped their spears, their eyes scanning every person entering the city like hawks. On the mottled brick wall inside the gate tunnel, layers of notices and arrest warrants were plastered.

Su Ming lined up in the long queue, moving slowly with the crowd. His peripheral vision swept over the wanted posters on the wall without drawing attention.

Beneath the thick layers of paper, a yellowed notice with slightly torn edges caught his eye. Although five years of wind and sun had blurred the ink, the big characters were still glaring.

"Fugitive Su Ming, former Hanlin Academy Compiler, suspected of colluding with foreign enemies, causing military setbacks..."

Su Ming's footsteps did not pause, nor did his breathing rhythm change in the slightest, but beneath his bamboo hat, his eyes narrowed slightly.

Five years. Back then, to cover up their embezzlement of military funds, the Yongchang Marquis Manor had viciously framed him—an insignificant compiler with no connections—as a traitor. He had thought that after five years, he, a worthless nobody, would have long been forgotten by those lofty nobles. He hadn't expected this arrest warrant to still be hanging here.

Was this the obsession of the Yongchang Marquis Manor, or some kind of warning to fight to the death?

"Once a mortal's machinery of power gets moving, its stubbornness can be more terrifying than a cultivator's sword," Su Ming silently said to himself. He buried this grievance deep in his heart again. In an extremely ordinary tone, tinged with a hint of fawning, he offered the inspecting guards a few pieces of broken silver and a forged travel pass.

"Officer, you've worked hard. This humble one is here to visit relatives in the capital."

The guard weighed the silver in his hand, glanced at Su Ming's utterly unremarkable face, and waved him off impatiently. "Go on, go on! Don't loiter on the streets. The capital's been uneasy lately. Get yourself into trouble, and no one can save you!"

"Thank you, officer, thank you!" Su Ming nodded and bowed repeatedly, pulling at his non-existent sleeve, and quickly stepped into the deep gate tunnel.

Passing through the gate, the clamorous energy of the mortal world instantly rushed toward him.

This was the capital's East Market. The setting sun's afterglow, like scattered gold, bathed the wide bluestone street. Shops and stalls lined both sides, taverns echoed with the noise of drinking games and bets, perfumeries exuded thick fragrances, and peddlers carrying loads on poles weaved through the crowd, hawking their wares. It all stood in stark contrast to the cold, desolate world of immortal cultivation.

Su Ming did not linger. Following the intelligence route Wang Defa had provided, he avoided the bustling main street and turned into a quiet alley called "Ink Fragrance Lane."

Compared to the noise outside, this lane was remarkably cold and still. The air carried a faint scent of ink and the fermented smell of paper. At the end of the lane, there was a small shop.

The shop's wooden door had seen years of use, its paint peeling. Above the door frame hung a black signboard with gold characters, bearing three words in neat regular script—"Qingya Zhai."

No formation fluctuations. No spiritual energy leaking. It looked like nothing more than an ordinary mortal bookshop, exuding a stale, scholarly atmosphere.

Su Ming reached out, lifted the faded cotton door curtain, and stepped inside.