Chapter Thirteen: Awaiting Your Arrival

A thought flashed through his mind.

He lowered his gaze to the teacup before him, a silent heaviness settling in his heart.

So, it seemed the other party was not truly cautious.

Rather, he had sensed He Song’s presence, and thus never dared to make a move.

Perhaps he feared that He Song would swoop in at the last moment, like a mantis stalking the cicada only to be caught by the oriole; or perhaps he worried Lin Cong was not truly dead.

But now, it seemed highly likely that tonight he would finally act.

Holding the teacup without taking a sip, He Song listened intently to the footsteps next door.

Soft steps circled the house, then paused at the neighboring window.

A brief silence.

A faint click.

At that sound, He Song instantly realized the window of Lin Cong’s house had been opened.

The window slid up.

The one who had been staking out the place for half a month quickly slipped inside.

He closed the window.

Then, silence descended.

He Song remained calm, quietly holding his cup, listening.

He was waiting.

Waiting for the intruder to succeed and leave—or for Lin Cong to strike and kill him.

Whatever happened, it mattered little to He Song. He would not concern himself with the outcome.

Next door.

A gaunt man in a long robe gently closed the window behind him, shutting out most of the noise from outside.

His keen eyes swept the room, and soon he was creeping toward the house’s sole meditation chamber.

In the rental houses of Bamboo Mountain Immortal Abode, there was always an outer room with windows, and a soundproof meditation chamber within. The outer room, made of ordinary wood, was for receiving guests and daily living; the meditation chamber, built with sound-insulating timber, was for cultivation and spell practice, free from disturbance.

Almost every house was designed this way.

So the man moved without hesitation.

His footsteps were nearly silent. In his hand gleamed a steel dagger as he crept toward the chamber.

“Half a month… If this man is dead inside, the corpse shouldn’t have started to rot yet. Still, that kid next door never leaves his room—what’s he up to? Made me wait half a month for nothing. If I ever get the chance…”

As he drew closer, a flash of ferocity crossed his eyes.

But then he shook his head.

“Forget it. That kid’s an insider at the Abode. If I killed him, I’d never survive here. Still, lucky for me he isn’t home today. The belongings of the dead—I’ll gratefully accept them!”

Greed thickened in his gaze as he looked toward the chamber.

The possessions of a cultivator at the third stage of Qi Refinement...

Surely, that would be worth dozens of spirit stones?

He knew Lin Cong was a burly man, clearly not an ordinary cultivator.

The meditation chamber, when sealed, was nearly impossible to open from outside.

But that posed little challenge to a cultivator.

As long as he wasn’t worried about disturbance, it was easy to break into a chamber. The only risk was the noise, which might alert the neighbors.

That was why he’d waited for He Song to leave before making his move.

Creak… creak…

With a nerve-grating sound, the door to the meditation chamber was slowly pried open.

But as the door swung wide and the room’s contents came into view, horror surged within him.

“I’ve been waiting for you,” Lin Cong said with a sinister grin. One large palm seized the intruder by the throat, as the other hand formed a spell seal.

A flash of sword-light instantly severed the man’s hands and feet.

Immediately, a magical sword hovered at the man’s terrified eyes, controlled by Lin Cong.

Pain wracked his body.

He choked, unable to breathe, terror flooding him as he was reduced to a limbless stump.

He wanted to scream, but the crushing grip at his throat choked off any sound.

He wanted to beg, but found himself unable even to speak.

All he could do was plead with his eyes.

Blood had dried on Lin Cong’s body. The dent in his chest was not yet healed, but he was much improved.

Not only was he alive, but most of his wounds had mended.

With the strength of a third-stage cultivator and a body as fierce as a wolf or tiger, he subdued the man with ease.

“Only now, after half a month, do you dare enter. If you’d come the day after I was wounded, you might have succeeded,” Lin Cong growled, his eyes flashing murderously as he tightened his grip.

“Remember this in your next life: some things should never be touched. If you do, strike with thunder!”

As death closed in, the man heard these words by his ear, and in his heart he cursed He Song.

If not for the fear of He Song lurking behind the scenes, he’d never have waited so long to act. He might have come the very next day, knowing Lin Cong had returned gravely injured.

He never imagined He Song would be practicing spells for half a month, scarcely leaving his room.

But in this world, there are no ifs.

His silent curses reached no one—not He Song, not even Lin Cong, who stared at him now.

He Song had no idea that, unwittingly, he’d caused someone’s death. Nor did he know what had happened inside Lin Cong’s house.

But when half the day had gone by, and dusk was falling with no sign of the intruder’s return, He Song knew the answer.

The man was surely dead in Lin Cong’s house.

Most likely, Lin Cong had not died after all, but was healing inside.

As for why there had been no sound for half a month—he was probably subsisting on fasting pills, and in deep meditation for healing, requiring little movement. Naturally, that made no noise.

Turning over these thoughts, He Song’s expression relaxed.

Whether Lin Cong lived or died was of little consequence to him.

If dead, He Song lost nothing; if alive, he gained nothing.

They had met only twice, exchanged brief greetings—nothing more.

A friendship as light as water; He Song would not trouble himself over such matters.

He tidied away the tea things and soon sat down to cultivate once more.

…

Time passed swiftly, a month fleeing by in the blink of an eye.

By now, it had been a month and a half since He Song became a spirit farmer.

The spirit rice in his five-acre field had already been pulled up and replanted.

This was a technique recorded in the “Manual of Spiritual Plant Cultivation”—a method to increase rice yield, very similar to the transplanting He Song had known in his previous life.

That day, as usual, he ate breakfast and then cast the Spirit Rain spell over the fields for half an hour.

But just as he finished, his spiritual energy drained and he was about to return home to recover, an unexpected figure blocked his path.

“Fellow Daoist He, I said before that I would pay you a visit, but my injuries were too severe and I couldn’t make it. Now that I am fully healed, I’ve come to trouble you for a bit.” Lin Cong, now completely recovered, stood at He Song’s door and greeted him with a cupped fist.