Sima Qingshan left Beiluo City, carrying his book box on his back, heading south all the way, intending to return to Nanjun.

  Tang Yimo could be considered his guide on the path of cultivation, but their relationship was that of friends.

  Tang Yimo had few friends, and Sima Qingshan was one of them.

  Traveling south, Sima Qingshan took in all the sights along the official roads.

  Due to the war, refugees were migrating in droves.

  Most of these refugees had fled from the imperial capital, searching for a place of stability.

  Blending into the crowds of refugees, Sima Qingshan witnessed many succumbing to hunger and cold, dying of starvation or freezing to death by the roadside.

  Faced with such scenes of life and death, Sima Qingshan felt utterly helpless.

  He could paint, but his paintings were, after all, illusions.

  What was known as "splashing ink to manifest reality" was merely form without substance.

  For instance, if he painted a steamed bun, it couldn't satisfy hunger. Thus, he could only watch helplessly as the refugees starved by the roadside.

  Dressed in his patched blue robe, he painted along the way, capturing the myriad expressions of the refugees. Among them were bullies, cunning schemers, and kind-hearted souls.

  Many refugee children watched Sima Qingshan paint, but their faces showed little emotion—they cared only about filling their bellies and staying warm; poetry and artistry meant nothing to them.

  With simple strokes, the ink shifting from thick to faint, lifelike refugees emerged on the paper amid the snowy official road.

  Subtly, an aura of sorrow and bitterness seemed to permeate the air.

  Sima Qingshan set down his brush, his entire presence seeming to condense slightly within this painting.

  "Let this painting be called Refugee Scroll."

  Sima Qingshan took a deep breath.

  He recalled the scene on Beiluo Lake when he had asked Lu about it.

  That day, he stood on an ink-black boat, his blue robe fluttering, gazing at Young Master Lu leaning on the railing listening to the snow, requesting to join Baiyujing and seeking guidance on how to cultivate the Path of Painting.

  However...

  Young Master Lu had simply waved his hand, refusing his entry.

  "Baiyujing has no place for you."

  "The world is vast; go out and explore. You might gain something, some insight."

  "The Path of Painting is not like the Path of Sword or Blade—it lacks overwhelming destructive power or lethality. But if mastered, its might is no less than that of sword or blade."

  Lu had said.

  Beneath the falling snow, Sima Qingshan pondered deeply.

  Afterward, he left Beiluo City, heading south.

  Today, creating Refugee Scroll, a breath that had been pent up in Sima Qingshan's chest burst forth.

  Originally just entering the Body Storage realm, he unexpectedly completed the tempering of one storage.

  "The Path of Painting lies within this heaven and earth."

  A faint smile tugged at Sima Qingshan's lips.

  He looked at the refugees along the road.

  Rolling up the painting, he stepped into a nearby small city.

  Snowflakes swirled through the small city.

  The streets bustled with vendors' cries. Though small, the city had everything it needed, and compared to grand cities like Beiluo or Nanjiang, it felt far more warm and human.

  Sima Qingshan brushed the snow from his clothes, found an empty spot by the street, set down his book box, and took out the freshly painted Refugee Scroll.

  He was going to sell his painting.

  A poor painter could only make a living by selling art.

  He displayed it for a full day, but no one showed interest. Though many gathered around, praising how excellent the painting was, they couldn't articulate why—just pointing and saying, "This painting is beautiful."

  Sima Qingshan wasn't annoyed or impatient.

  If he couldn't sell it in this city, he'd move to the next.

  A wealthy young lady in a red cape, accompanied by her little maid holding a paper umbrella, pushed through the crowd.

  The girl's eyes sparkled like stars, her lashes fluttering lightly as she gazed at the scroll, her red lips pressing together.

  "This painting has a rare charm..."

  "Sir, how much for this painting?"

  The girl in the red cape looked at Sima Qingshan and asked.

  "One hundred taels."

  Sima Qingshan smiled at her.

  "One hundred taels? You penniless painter, you think your work is worth a hundred taels? Who do you think you are?"

  Before the girl could speak, her maid exclaimed in shock.

  The surrounding onlookers gasped in unison.

  A hundred taels... This painter must be out of his mind with greed.

  Did he even know what a hundred taels meant?

  This painter probably hadn't seen that much silver in his life.

  "Little Red, mind your manners."

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  The girl grew anxious and scolded her.

  The maid fumed indignantly, "Miss, don't let this shabby painter fool you!"

  But the girl in the red cape ignored her maid, turning to Sima Qingshan. Her delicate face flushed slightly from the wind and snow. "Sir, is it really a hundred taels?"

  Sima Qingshan glanced at her, faintly sensing a thread of spiritual energy stirring in her energy core.

  Clearly, this girl was a cultivator.

  One born from the world's transformation.

  "No."

  Sima Qingshan shook his head.

  The girl was stunned.

  "This painting is one thousand taels."

  Sima Qingshan smiled again.

  The maid nearly exploded with rage. Had this ragged painter never seen silver in his life?

  Daring to jack up the price of a worthless painting to a thousand taels?

  Did he think their miss was an easy mark?!

  "Little Red, go home and have Father prepare the silver. This painting... we're buying it."

  The girl bit her plump red lip, saying seriously.

  "Miss..."

  The maid couldn't believe it.

  Yet the girl's determined gaze made the maid's heart skip a beat. She hurried off toward the mansion.

  Sima Qingshan looked at the girl in surprise.

  He chuckled.

  "Young lady, that was just a joke earlier. Since you fancy this painting, I'll sell it to you for ten taels."

  Sima Qingshan stood, shaking the snow from his body, revealing his patched blue robe.

  The girl in the red cape blinked, then broke into a smile.

  "Really?"

  As if afraid he'd change his mind, she quickly took ten taels of broken silver from her maid and handed it to Sima Qingshan.

  Then she looked up expectantly at him.

  Sima Qingshan rolled up the scroll and passed it to her.

  As he did, he leaned in slightly, whispering, "View the painting with spiritual energy, but remember, do not look for more than an hour... or the gains won't outweigh the losses."

  Sima Qingshan warned.

  The girl was astonished.

  But when she looked up, Sima Qingshan had already shouldered his book box and vanished into the snow and the street crowd.

  He came to a steamed bun stall.

  "Ten taels of silver for a thousand steamed buns—deal?"

  Sima Qingshan asked.

  The stall owner was dumbfounded. Ten taels? A thousand buns?

  This guy must be a fool.

  He nodded eagerly.

  Sima Qingshan handed over the broken silver.

  "Thank you."

  "Tomorrow outside the city gates, distribute them to the refugees—one per person."

  Sima Qingshan said.

  With that, he pinched a falling snowflake and brushed it through the air.

  He painted a pair of icy eyes hovering in the void, staring at the owner, making him shudder in terror.

  This man...

  When the owner snapped out of it, Sima Qingshan was gone.

  The hovering eyes melted into snow water and dripped away.

  Sima Qingshan had known poverty; he understood how ten taels could tempt the heart. He couldn't fully trust the owner's conscience, so he intimidated him a bit.

  The next day.

  Outside the city gates.

  The stall owner indeed set up, cage after cage of steaming hot buns handed out, stirring up quite a commotion in the quiet little city.

  Refugees who had suffered hunger and cold for days gathered at the gates, some weeping with joy.

  From afar, Sima Qingshan smiled.

  He turned, his patched blue robe swaying in the snow, book box on his back, vanishing down the official road.

  Below the city tower, the girl in the red cape clutched the scroll. Unnoticed by anyone, she watched Sima Qingshan's retreating figure, her lashes trembling faintly.

  Sima Qingshan continued south toward Nanjiang City.

  In every city he passed, he painted a new work and tried to sell it.

  But he had no such luck as the first day.

  For three straight days, not a single painting sold; people thought he was mad.

  In this chaotic world, could paintings fill your stomach?

  Obviously not.

  Though Sima Qingshan only asked ten taels per painting, that price was still beyond most people's means.

  On the fourth day.

  Sima Qingshan was about to pack up.

  Suddenly.

  A familiar voice rang out behind him.

  "Sir, are you still selling this painting?"

  Her soft, warm voice carried a gentle lilt. Sima Qingshan froze, turning to see the familiar girl in the red cape, lips pressed together, gazing at him.

  "You...?"

  The girl's face flushed as she held up Refugee Scroll. "I told my father I'm going out to study under a master and will return once I've learned something."

  "I really love your paintings, sir. Will you take me as your disciple?"

  The girl asked.

  Sima Qingshan was taken aback but shook his head.

  This girl... had probably snuck out.

  In these turbulent times, what family would let their lovely daughter wander freely?

  "Hurry home; your father must be worried." Sima Qingshan said.

  The girl felt a pang of regret but didn't press. She bought the painting and left.

  With the ten taels earned, Sima Qingshan again aided the refugees— not much, but it was what he could do.

  Day after day.

  Whenever S ima Qingshan set up to sell, the girl would appear in her red cape, stubbornly asking if he'd take her as a disciple.

  Sima Qingshan always refused.

  "I'm just a poor painter who only knows how to create scrolls. What qualifications do I have to take you as a student?"

  Each time, she didn't insist, bought the painting, and departed.

  Time and again, as Sima Qingshan entered new cities, the girl was there.

  This day.

  Sima Qingshan was selling as usual.

  Suddenly, the thunder of hooves exploded outside the city, mingled with shouts of killing.

  Sima Qingshan frowned, rolled up his painting, and stepped out of the gates. He saw bandits on horseback charging through the refugees, while the girl in the red cape stood with furrowed brows, spiritual energy circulating, her cape fluttering as she faced them down.

  Sima Qingshan couldn't help but smile.

  This girl had real guts.

  He pulled out a brush.

  The bandits trampled forward, hooves kicking up piles of snow like grains of rice scattering.

  The girl's pretty face paled with tension.

  She told herself silently: She was a cultivator; cultivators could hold off a hundred. She could do this.

  The bandit leader let out a cruel laugh, swinging his heavy blade down to cleave the girl in two.

  Suddenly.

  The girl heard a warm voice behind her.

  "Young lady, buying a painting?"

  Her body trembled.

  The blade sliced through, cutting a lock of her hair. As the strands floated away, the blade—and the bandits—vanished as if erased from a canvas.

  All that remained were a dozen bewildered horses milling in the snow.

  The girl's eyes widened.

  She whipped around to see Sima Qingshan holding his brush, smiling at her.

  He handed over a scroll.

  Instinctively, she took it and unrolled it. Inside was a girl with graceful charm, eyes like paintings, smile like peach blossoms.

  The girl pressed her red lips, her brow arching slightly.

  "Painting Sect, Sima Qingshan."

  He smiled. "Young lady, would you join my sect?"

  ...

  The founding of the Painting Sect was unknown to Lu.

  He sat on the second floor of Baiyujing's pavilion, a gentle breeze blowing, the endless snowflakes long scattered.

  Before his eyes, system prompts scrolled endlessly.

  "From humble beginnings rise towering structures. Congratulations, Host, for advancing to Qi Refining Layer 4. Spiritual energy storage reaches 10,000 strands. Rewards: Phoenix Feather Sword ×2, ten random spiritual energy herb seeds."

  "Host advances to Qi Refining Layer 4: Spiritual energy deployment range expanded, autonomous recovery enhanced (spiritual energy, soul strength, physical strength). Obtained movement technique: Thunder Surge Art."

  "Note: With 10,000 strands of spiritual energy, qualification to condense spiritual liquid unlocked. 10,000 strands can condense 1 drop of spiritual liquid."

  The system prompts flashed before Lu's eyes, leaving him somewhat stunned.

  This change was massive—at least, in Lu's view, it was huge.

  "10,000 strands of spiritual energy can condense one drop of spiritual liquid?"

  Lu murmured.

  What was spiritual liquid?

  As the name suggested, liquefied spiritual energy, but different from spirit stones. When Lu broke through to Qi Refining Layer 3, he gained the method to create spirit stones, but...

  Those were merely infusing spiritual energy into jade or minerals that could hold it.

  A decent-quality stone might hold about ten strands.

  But one drop of spiritual liquid contained ten thousand strands.

  Lu smacked his lips. Without a doubt, spiritual liquid was an unparalleled resource for cultivators.

  With it, nurturing top-tier cultivators would be far faster.

  And it wasn't just Lu's storage shifting from strands to liquid.

  He could even condense ambient spiritual energy into liquid!

  This would save him a tremendous amount.

  His spiritual sense surged. Lu raised his hand, grasping at the void.

  Spiritual energy formed a massive vortex in his palm, compressing relentlessly.

  Finally...

  It became a round, crystal-clear, deep blue drop—like a teardrop of spiritual liquid.

  The liquid held immense power; with his spiritual sense, Lu could even detonate it!

  From the extreme concentration of spiritual energy?

  Lu smiled.

  Beyond the liquid, he gained other rewards.

  What shocked him most...

  The familiar "Phoenix Feather Sword ×2."

  This flashy move left Lu dumbfounded.

  His mind stirred.

  Profound fluctuations spread, the Great Dao thundered, the void tore open.

  Two pitch-black rifts exuded terrifying pressure, accompanied by resounding phoenix cries.

  Two crimson Phoenix Feather Swords floated beside Lu, handle-less like phoenix tail feathers, radiating heat and sharpness.

  Lu stared at his three Phoenix Feather Swords, speechless.

  Was this gearing up to swap his Thousand Blades Chair for a Phoenix Feather one?

  But he recalled the earlier Phoenix Feather Sword had a "(damaged)" suffix. How many were there in total? It piqued his curiosity.

  One damaged sword was already top-grade Xuan tier; he couldn't imagine the rank if all were collected.

  It oddly felt like collecting trading cards.

  Just as Lu finished reviewing the rewards.

  The crowd, startled by the thunder tribulation, finally crossed Beiluo Lake, rushing toward Baiyujing's pavilion with concern.