TRYMBPIETM 131: When I went in the Past (13)

Fang Mingge was a little confused.

He unconsciously fiddled with the cover of the camera, thought for a long time, but still couldn’t understand.

He had no choice but to ask Chi Qingzhou, “Teacher Chi, are you saying that he might not have had any connection to the dragon vein in the past?”

Chi Qingzhou hummed, “Director Fang, I remember that your family has produced Daoists for generations?”

Fang Mingge replied, “Yes, our family has passed it down for hundreds of years. There may have been interruptions in between, but the records are complete.”

Their family had a rule that all those who wished to become Daoists would only join Longhu Mountain. So even if there were gaps in the family’s records, Longhu Mountain could always fill them in.

Chi Qingzhou chuckled, “Then, Director Fang, since your family has records spanning hundreds of years, think back—have you ever heard of a dragon vein gaining sentience?”

Fang Mingge answered without hesitation, “No.”

Let alone his family’s records, he had even looked through the records of Longhu Mountain and other Daoist sects, but he had never heard of a dragon vein gaining sentience.

The reason he had initially asked Chi Qingzhou was precisely because he didn’t believe it.

Fang Mingge thought carefully. Chi Qingzhou’s question seemed pointless at first glance, but when combined with his previous answers, it reminded him of something—

The past identity of the young man in the red robe was highly questionable.

The more certain Chi Qingzhou was that the red-robed youth was now a dragon vein, the more it indicated that the other party had done something extraordinary in the past.

Fang Mingge pondered for a long time before tentatively asking, “Could it be the result of external influence?”

For example, Xing Su had become a fierce ghost because he was tainted by an external force, causing him to undergo a transformation.

“In the past few decades, strange occurrences in the country have become increasingly frequent. Just a few days ago, didn’t someone discover that more people are awakening their talent for cultivation? Decades ago, almost no one awakened their abilities past the age of sixteen, but now, there are plenty of people in their twenties or thirties developing talents, and even some in their forties or fifties.”

Given the current circumstances, Fang Mingge felt that if something had indeed changed with the dragon vein, it wouldn’t be entirely incomprehensible.

Chi Qingzhou glanced at him with a half-smile.

“Director Fang, earlier, you were the one questioning his identity, and now, you’re the one considering the possibility that it’s real. Perhaps you should be more decisive?”

Fang Mingge awkwardly rubbed his nose. “I’m just too shocked, isn’t all?”

Chi Qingzhou didn’t press the issue. He simply dusted off his clothes and turned to walk down toward the large rock.

As he gestured for Fang Mingge to follow him, he spoke while walking, “Then you need to understand—what’s been happening over the past few decades is merely an amplification of existing realities.”

It was like a game event where the developers increased the drop rate of a particular card.

“If something originally had a ten percent chance of occurring, increasing it tenfold makes it one hundred percent, which naturally makes the world seem very different.”

His smile carried an indescribable strangeness.

“But if something’s probability was zero to begin with, even increasing it by a hundred times would still make the probability… zero.”

He turned to look at Fang Mingge, who was carrying the camera and had caught up. His gaze flickered slightly.

“Director Fang, do you understand this distinction?”

Fang Mingge’s expression tensed. “Are you saying the probability of a dragon vein developing self-awareness is truly zero?”

Chi Qingzhou paused his steps. “Hmm… I wasn’t being precise enough. To be exact, in our world, the probability of a dragon vein naturally developing self-awareness is zero. As for other parallel worlds… I wouldn’t know.”

Fang Mingge clenched his grip on the camera, the veins on the back of his hand bulging.

He unconsciously repeated a term Chi Qingzhou had mentioned, “Parallel worlds?”

Chi Qingzhou resumed walking. “You can call them alternate planes if you prefer. Either way, that’s the general idea.”

Fang Mingge remained silent for a while before lowering his voice, “Teacher Chi, have you seen another world? What evidence do you have to confirm that this kind of occurrence doesn’t exist in ours?”

Chi Qingzhou gazed into the distance, the smile at the corner of his lips unchanged.

He didn’t provide a detailed answer, only saying, “Su-Ge’s situation is surely recorded in Longhu Mountain. You should have a rough idea of why he built a tomb in Jingming Mountain. If even he had never encountered such a thing, what do you think the likelihood of its existence is?”

That likelihood should be zero.

Fang Mingge instinctively answered in his mind.

The reason Xing Su was so revered was, first, because of his undeniable strength, and second, because he had once chosen self-sacrifice to suppress and enshrine the dragon vein—his contributions couldn’t be ignored.

Regardless of whether it was the Daoists, Buddhists, or other factions, there was a consensus regarding Xing Su: if anyone in this world understood dragon veins the most, it would be him.

If even Xing Su had deemed it impossible, what was there left to doubt?

Fang Mingge’s expression grew complicated. He silently followed behind Chi Qingzhou for a while before finally speaking, “Come to think of it, my elders mentioned that Mr. Xing hasn’t appeared at all recently.”

Chi Qingzhou glanced back at him and grinned. “You mean they found out that Su-Ge woke up but hasn’t seen him wandering around? He’s helping me with something. Isn’t it normal for him to stay put?”

Fang Mingge responded absentmindedly and then asked, “Then, what do you think that red-robed man was before he became the dragon vein?”

Was he human?

Had he been sacrificed or sacrificed himself?

Chi Qingzhou spread his hands. “I don’t know. I haven’t met him before, nor have I had any friends of his kind. If you ask me, I can’t be sure either.”

Fang Mingge let out a disappointed “Oh.”

Chi Qingzhou still wore his usual smiling expression.

His tone was particularly gentle. “But no matter what he originally was, that doesn’t rule out the possibility that he used to be a fierce ghost.”

“What?!”

Fang Mingge froze, nearly dropping the camera in his hand.

He stared wide-eyed in shock, his voice filled with disbelief. “Teacher Chi, are you saying that he…??”

Chi Qingzhou calmly interrupted him. “Don’t jump to conclusions. I never said anything.”

Fang Mingge was even more dumbfounded. “But didn’t you just—”

Chi Qingzhou said, “I mean, he’s a little like me.” He smiled, but his voice was chilling. “Don’t you think? He’s a lot like me.”

That outward peace and cheerfulness, coupled with an innate coldness and cruelty—an extreme contrast, yet strikingly clear.

That sense of a soul being split in two… how similar it was to him.

Fang Mingge had never considered this before.

He didn’t understand why Chi Qingzhou was saying this, but he felt an instinctive fear at this conclusion.

Uneasy, he lifted his camera onto one shoulder and reached into his pocket with the other, intending to call his family or fellow disciples. At the very least, he needed to inform them about what he had encountered and Chi Qingzhou’s conclusions.

“There’s no need,” Chi Qingzhou stopped him, his tone light. “Do you think I hadn’t considered this before coming to Linghe Village?”

Fang Mingge was utterly confused. He looked at Chi Qingzhou in puzzlement, only to find that the usual hint of innocence in his expression had vanished. His brows and eyes were now tinged with sharpness and coldness.

This unfamiliar state made Fang Mingge shiver.

He felt that something about Chi Qingzhou had changed, but he couldn’t pinpoint exactly what.

If he had to describe it, Chi Qingzhou’s current demeanor felt eerily similar to when he had first met him three or four years ago while accompanying Cheng Shang.

Fang Mingge was filled with suspicion. “Teacher Chi, you—?”

Chi Qingzhou’s smile deepened, but he didn’t answer.

Fang Mingge swallowed hard and fell silent.

The system, which had been lying low in Chi Qingzhou’s shadow, was thoroughly startled. It nearly bolted out of the shadow in shock.

Its CPU began trembling.

With overwhelming fear, the system shakily analyzed the available data. The light cluster forming its body even flickered, on the verge of collapsing.

【H-host—】 It asked in terror, 【D-don’t tell me… you’ve already remembered what happened three years ago? When did this happen? Why didn’t you mention it before?】

Chi Qingzhou didn’t answer the system either.

He kept his soft smile, but the hazy gentleness and warmth in his peach-blossom eyes had faded, leaving only ice.

He had been longing to recover his memories for a while now, but with little success, making it seem as if he wasn’t in a hurry.

In reality, it wasn’t that he thought regaining his memories sooner or later wouldn’t make a difference—it was simply that he had been looking in the wrong direction.

He had assumed he would have entrusted his memories to Cheng Shang or another friend. Even Ah Lai and Ah Ting had mentioned something similar, so he had only been able to follow that line of reasoning.

He thought he had to follow the plan from three years ago, tracking down his friends one by one.

He never expected that his past self had even outmaneuvered his present self.

The idea that his memories were hidden with his friends had been a deliberate misdirection.

In reality, for the past three years, his memories had been quietly transferred to his mother through the very curse used by the Chi family.

Fan Tao—she was the true keeper of his memories.

Though, even Fan Tao herself had no idea.

Last night, upon arriving in Linghe Village, he had dealt with most of the peach blossoms formed from Fan Tao, absorbing much of the power accumulated on her. As a result, he had naturally reclaimed most of his lost memories.

He spent the entire night sorting through them. When he realized he had set a trap for himself, he couldn’t help but feel like ridiculing his past self.

He had no idea where he got the confidence three years ago to pull off such a stunt.

What was it? The belief that the most dangerous place was the safest? Or the assumption that the mastermind would keep his mother around as leverage against him?

Clearly, his relationship with his mother hadn’t been good enough for them to care about each other. The bloodline curse wasn’t strong enough to suppress him either.

He found his past self’s actions to be far from cautious.

In the end, it was Xing Shuangzhan who pointed out a possibility.

“Three years ago, you probably didn’t trust any of them. The only person you trusted was yourself—your present self.”

“No matter what trouble you encountered, you could always find a way to handle everything.”

Trusting himself?

That made sense. In that case, there was nothing to worry about.

After all, the current Chi Qingzhou trusted himself very much too :).

So in the end, Chi Qingzhou didn’t do anything. He simply sorted through his memories and then rested.

Meanwhile, Xing Shuangzhan only rested for a short while before returning to the shadows, focusing on helping Chi Qingzhou process the lingering curse that hadn’t been fully digested, while also refining a considerable amount of Yin energy.

However, even now, Xing Shuangzhan had yet to completely finish this task.

After all, Chi Qingzhou had suddenly absorbed the power from Fan Tao and regained his memories, which caused his own power to start leaking out.

This leaked power had even affected Chi Qingning, making him recall many past events.

If this leakage wasn’t controlled, or if it worsened in the future, how to contain it and disperse it would be entirely up to Xing Shuangzhan.

That man—he could always keep up with his train of thought.

Without needing him to say anything, Xing Shuangzhan could already anticipate all possibilities for him.

Chi Qingzhou narrowed his eyes slightly and, passing by the busy crew members who were noisily handling props and materials, continued walking down the mountain.

His destination was the same as Chi Qingning and the others—the temporary base of the film crew in Linghe Village, where they had stayed the previous night.

Fang Mingge hadn’t expected him to continue heading down the mountain. He stood there dazed for a few seconds before hurriedly calling out, “Teacher Chi, where are you going now? Shouldn’t we be calling people to correct Teacher Song’s route first? It’s not time for your scene yet. Wouldn’t it be inappropriate for you to go in person?”

Chi Qingzhou turned back with a smile. “I think this works just fine. Director Fang, how about we go ahead and shoot a trial version first? Who knows, we might end up using this footage.”

Fang Mingge was taken aback. He frowned and thought for a moment before nodding.

“Teacher Chi has a point. Alright then, let’s go shoot a version first. Maybe someone will have a burst of inspiration and come up with an even better effect.”

Amid the crew’s bewildered and incredulous gazes, Fang Mingge waved and loudly reminded the crew members to bring the essential items he had previously prepared before following him down the mountain.

“Huh…?”

“Wait, are we changing the script? Just like that?”

The group couldn’t help but complain, but seeing that Fang Mingge had already made up his mind, they had no choice but to haul their hard-earned equipment and props, resigning themselves to follow Fang Mingge and Chi Qingzhou down the mountain.

They had no idea that most of the props Fang Mingge had them bring weren’t meant for the actors—they were for protecting themselves. Yet they still grumbled about all the running around.

Chi Qingzhou watched them with a faint smile for a moment before calmly shifting his gaze away.

He walked forward at an unhurried pace, pondering a question in his mind.

That ghost deity had tried every possible way to stop him from coming to Linghe Village—was it because it feared him entering the moving tomb, or because it feared him regaining his memories?

Had it ever considered the possibility that he would hide his memories in his mother?

With all those endless tactics, and now this attempt to divert attention while tightening its defenses, was its true target actually Ah Shang, who was currently in seclusion inside the moving tomb?

…

Most of the Wanxiang film crew began moving toward the base camp, and the hillside quickly became lively.

At the same time, on the gentle slope at the entrance of Linghe Village, Shen Wenxu, covered in blood, was dragging a limp human figure along.

He had changed into a new dark blue Daoist robe, but now it was once again soaked in fresh blood. Thick, sticky drops dripped from the hem of his robe.

The person he was dragging lay like a dead dog, only managing a muffled groan after a long moment.

The pungent scent of blood spread through the air, yet the villagers gathered at the entrance of the village acted as if they hadn’t smelled a thing, continuing to chat amongst themselves.

Seeing this, Shen Wenxu licked the corner of his lips and let out a delighted laugh.

“Master, I heard that your father came from Linghe Village? Ah, looking at the people here, I can’t say I’m surprised that they produced a descendant like you.”