My Journey to Immortality Begins with Hunting-Chapter 288 – The Battle Unfinished, an Old Friend Visits Cloudpeak Province - Part 1

Black Lotus poisons.

Green Lotus kills,

White Lotus beguiles,

Red Lotus destroys.

The Four Lotuses are one lineage

The world believes the Red Lotus Rebels alone fought their way to the Jade Capital, but that isn’t so. Spells like ashes that sate an empty belly and cure the sick or a giant black lotus blossoming in a village are simply not the Red Lotus’ tricks.

The four branches have always worked together; only the most combative Red Lotus blooms in full view.

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Fang Jianlong was once the Blood‑Blade Sect’s brightest prodigy, his only dream to reach the Sacred Fire Palace

On one mission he met Zhu Nuyang’s daughter. They survived hardship side by side, hit it off instantly, and married.

But the wedding was just a fishing ploy set by Elder Zhu, and Zhu Nuyang still lost.

A junior like Fang Jianlong was captured along with Zhu Qiao'er and hauled back to the Red Lotus Cult.

Fang Jianlong swallowed his pride, scraping by with his wife in the Red Lotus Cult, praying nightly that the Sacred Fire Palace would come. And they did. They took his wife, but not him.

Last year she remarried to a clan heir of the Sacred Fire Palace.

Just as Li Yuan had once understood Fang Jianlong’s betrayal, Fang Jianlong now understood her choice. She wasn’t a cultivator; youth was brief. Rather than waste it on a man who might never return, better to marry again and bear heirs for the Zhu Clan. There were surely other pressures too.

Even leaving him behind must have been calculated.

Back then, Fan Jianglong had his own excuse. I need deeper ties with Elder Zhu, and he has only one daughter, so best to...

Similarly, the people of the Sacred Fire Palace had their excuses too. That boy defected to the Red Lotus Cult; if they spared him, maybe he really joined them. He’s untrustworthy, best to leave him.

Fang Jianlong could empathize—perfectly. People were like that. Even so, he could not forgive the betrayal.

The tall man sat cross‑legged before a sealed chamber, back straight as a spear, muscles bulging beneath his clothes. Head bowed, eyes shut, he was motionless stone.

The passage of time had given rise to his hatred...and a fate.

When Zhu Qiao'er remarried, the Red Lotus Cult trusted him completely. His frenzy, diligence, and hatred pleased the higher‑ups; they even let him carry a letter to Black Lotus Cult’s vice cult leader. They had even made a promise to him.

“No one else can replace your shadow bones, but we can. When the time is right, the next bone‑swap is yours—take on our Red Lotus Arts.”

Yet Fang Jianlong was no longer young; time was scarce. He treasured every chance.

So, to hand the letter to Peng Mi at once, he had waited here all along, not departing for even half a moment.

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Days slipped by.

Crimson clouds suddenly clogged the sky; pale snow drifted down, settling on his sword‑straight brows. Fang Jianlong did not move.

Snowflakes thick as goose down poured from the heavens. Still he did not move.

The snow was warm; where it fell, his spent strength revived, as though cultivating beside a rich meat field.

“A lucky snow means a bumper year. Ha ha ha, another rich harvest!”

“Good snow! Wonderful snow!”

Long‑ago voices rang faintly in his memory. In an age when fields were growing barren, people had discovered that this warm snow made the soil fertile. As the snow increased and harvests returned, villagers cheered all the louder.

Now those voices were gone.

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Past and present flashed by. The chamber door finally creaked open.

A smiling man in black lotus robes emerged.

Fang Jianlong shook off the warm snow, leapt up, pulled out the letter, and dropped to one knee. His voice rang out, “Fang Jianlong of the Red Lotus Cult, here to deliver a letter!”

Peng Mi snatched it, glanced him over, and chuckled, eyes half‑closed. “Not bad, you look every inch a Red Lotus. Reminds me of some old comrades.”

“You flatter me,” Fang Jianlong replied, head low.

Peng Mi had only been making conversation. The moment the words left his mouth he forgot them. He ripped the letter open, skimmed it, then chuckled.

“So that’s all? Someone martyred himself to forge a ghoulish spirit artifact? Nice enough...but a weapon’s worth depends on whose hand it lands in.

“In the Holy Tree Temple...so long as that old fossil stays off the field, who can face me? Put a fine weapon on the wrong wrist and it’s just wasted metal.

“Amitabha ...goodness, goodness.”

With an easy stride, Peng Mi stepped onto empty air, rose as though invisible stairs had formed, and vanished in an eye‑blink.

Fang Jianlong stared after the soaring figure, envy thick in his eyes, then turned and left.

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A short while later, inside a central command tent.

A black blur dropped from the sky; the Black Lotus cultists on watch saluted.

Peng Mi ignored them and bellowed, “Old Zhu! Old Zhu! Where are you? Good news, great news!”

No answer.

He strode straight to the forge tent. As expected, the stern old man inside was fully absorbed in hammering yet another spirit artifact.

“Old Zhu, you maniac. Don’t you ever rest?”

As always, talking was pointless; when Zhu Ban forged, the sky could fall and he would finish the billet first. Hear nothing but the anvil, live only for the Holy Tree Temple’s ruin. With the war escalating, that phrase had become his norm.

Zhu Ban’s sworn enemies were the Holy Tree Temple’s temple master, Qing Hancheng, the Jing Clan who perpetrated the crime, and the Cui Clan who sat idly behind the scenes. He meant to pour every remaining breath into helping the Lotus Cult erase the Holy Tree Temple. He’d also hedged his bets. If the cult won, his daughter and son‑in‑law would live because of him; if the cult lost, they could still survive on his son‑in‑law’s credentials as a weaponsmith.

Peng Mi could only wait.

At last the hiss of quenching died away; Zhu Ban’s focus mode switched off.

“What is it?”

“Good news!”

“What good news?”

“Your old rival Gong Lang is dead.”

Zhu Ban paused, finished treating the blade, wiped his hands, and finally asked, “How?”

“Forged himself to death,” Peng Mi said. “The weapon he left ended up in the hands of some nobody, yet it’s troublesome. The Red Lotus just asked me to join them in wiping the fellow out before things get worse. When we’re done I’ll bring Gong Lang’s weapon back as a trophy. Amitabha ...”

“Forged himself to death? Explain.”

“The details are unclear, just rumors.” Peng Mi recounted the story of what happened on the Yin‑Wind Cliff as he’d heard it.

Zhu Ban fell silent for a long time before murmuring, “Arrogant, womanizing, and a bully. But in the moment he died, he behaved like a true weaponsmith.”

Oil and water, Peng Mi thought. They never could mix.

“Who owns the weapon?”

“An elder named Jing Ruyi.”

“Heh. Child’s play for you, Vice Cult Leader Peng.” Zhu Ban’s eyes held no warmth. After a moment he added, “You haven’t touched my daughter and son‑in‑law lately, have you?”

“...” Peng Mi looked awkward.

“What now? Tongue‑tied?” Zhu Ban sneered. “Seems the vice cult leader’s words carry no weight. Your men don’t fear you.”

“It’s not that, Old Zhu.”

Zhu Ban’s face eased a fraction. “Then what?”

“The Holy Tree Temple locked the matter down tight. Even our spies found nothing solid. Rumor says Li Yuan burned his own lifespan to forge a weapon. He’s a withered old man now, life nearly spent, slipped out of the Holy Tree Temple alone, and vanished.”