Chapter 69

Chapter 69: Setting Sixty-Nine

Setting Sixty-Nine: The Dao of Heaven is Unkind (Part 3)

“It’s you!?”

Shan Ziwei was startled. He hadn’t expected to run into a player here—and one he knew.

The attacker had a shock of red hair—it was Dragon Emperor Unrivaled, from the prison Chessboard. He still remembered that board’s ending: under the system’s cruel settings, the four prisoners had turned on each other. Because he’d lied about being a murderer, he’d been targeted first by Dragon Emperor, then finished off by Host after he’d taken down Dragon Emperor… truly unpleasant memories.

“It’s your grandpa right here!” Dragon Emperor yelled as he lunged.

“Wait! It was Host who killed you last time! Why are you attacking me? I was a victim too—Host stabbed me right through—”

He parried Dragon Emperor’s short sword with his magic broom while protesting bitterly. He knew it was pointless—in games, PvP needed no reason, and they did have history. He was just stalling to buy time to use more Setting Cards.

As expected, Host was a hot button. Dragon Emperor’s attention shifted; his attack went wide, and he instinctively asked: “That bastard killed you too?”

“Yeah, backstabbed me.” He met Dragon Emperor’s eyes, playing along with his emotions. “If I ever see that guy again…” He bared his teeth menacingly.

Dragon Emperor nodded in shared hatred—then caught himself. His death had been partly this guy’s fault too!

“Serves you right—for lying to me!”

He slashed down viciously. The short sword was blocked by soft cloth. Shan Ziwei, now wearing a red hat and black clothes, had the Magic Hat on his head. He slid back and threw out the Magic Mirror.

“CRACK—”

An identical mirror image appeared between them. He patted Little Gaia, who’d worked seamlessly with him, and commanded: “Attack!”

—With his Setting Cards activated, there was no more need for talk. Time to fight.

“BANG!”

The mirror image landed a hit on Dragon Emperor. He checked his SP—the damage was low, and he scoffed: “Pathetic!”

The white-haired youth pursed his lips, looking both helpless and resentful. Dragon Emperor ignored the image’s attacks, brimming with confidence as he hacked at Shan Ziwei, each blow more excited.

“Die! Die! Die!…”

The white-haired youth could only block with his Magic Hat, occasionally landing a weak counter. Dragon Emperor almost laughed—how much damage could a flimsy hat absorb? It wasn’t even a real shield, and didn’t look impressive. And the counter-damage was negligible.

He was having so much fun that he didn’t mind his Club SP turning fully black. Though he couldn’t see Shan Ziwei’s SP, his output was much higher—losing some SP was worth finishing the white-haired youth.

When his Club SP dropped to 30%, he felt a twinge of unease. At 15%, he started to panic—why hadn’t the other Spirit-Collapsed yet?

Impossible. His output was far higher. Even if that hat absorbed some damage, after several skill rotations, the other shouldn’t have lasted this long!

When he finally calmed down and observed carefully, he realized with horror that his skills weren’t always landing. For example, his highest-damage skill, “Frostfall,” required a pre-motion—tossing his short sword and catching it. Every time he tried to use it, a broom would hit his hand, making him fumble the catch. If the pre-motion wasn’t completed, the system counted it as a normal attack—not the skill.

—Holy crap, his counters weren’t for damage—they were for control! He was a controller+tank! The real DPS was the mirror image!

Though he couldn’t interrupt every skill, a 1/4 success rate was enough. Trading blows, his SP was dropping faster than the other’s. By the time he realized it, his Club SP was at 9%.

Unwilling as he was, he considered fleeing—this white-haired youth was far tougher than expected.

But the moment he thought of retreat, Shan Ziwei changed tactics. Abandoning defense, he took two Frostfalls head-on and finished Dragon Emperor’s Club SP with three Heavy Strikes.

In the instant before Spirit Collapse, Dragon Emperor asked in disbelief: “How did you know my SP level…”

Reconnaissance couldn’t show other players’ stats—only special skills could, like Host’s golden eyes. Dragon Emperor couldn’t see Shan Ziwei’s SP, and Shan Ziwei couldn’t see his—yet he’d fought as if watching Dragon Emperor’s SP bar directly.

“Estimation.”

Shan Ziwei put his Magic Hat back on and kindly explained.

“Have you forgotten—we were in a party together?”

—So I know your skill animations, your attack patterns, how much damage you can take. All of it.

Dragon Emperor was stunned. Knowing was one thing—being able to calculate from it was another. That level of awareness, he’d only seen in his second brother.

Shan Ziwei stepped back, watching the Spirit-Collapsed Dragon Emperor carefully. The red-haired youth’s eyes were bloodshot. Instead of continuing to attack him, he looked down at the red thread on his wrist.

—A thread identical to Shan Ziwei’s, tied to the “Heavenly Dao.”

He’d noticed it the moment he saw Dragon Emperor—a red thread on his wrist, stretching to some unknown destination.

That thread, which had seemed so inconspicuous, tightened the moment Dragon Emperor Spirit-Collapsed—as if trying to hold onto a fading “Dao.” But the tightness irritated the collapsed red-haired youth. He grabbed his short sword and began cutting at the thread on his wrist.

The intangible thread didn’t break—but the red-haired youth’s lifeline did. He collapsed, blood pooling around his wrist.

Watching, Shan Ziwei instinctively clutched his own wrist—just looking made his spine feel cold.

Beating Dragon Emperor had been surprisingly easy. He’d worried about new tricks, but Dragon Emperor seemed unchanged. He happily played with his new Magic Hat—with a shield-type item, combat was much simpler. It not only reduced damage but also prevented his condition from flaring up.

In that fight, he’d basically done what he used to do in online games: tank aggro, interrupt casts, calculate damage. His awareness was there, but his execution lagged—his interrupt success rate was still low.

When would he get paid? He sighed. He’d learned the theory for building a Role-Play data model—he just needed money to buy equipment to practice.

Little Gaia jumped to the ground, dragging its long sleeves to collect Dragon Emperor’s drops. He looked down—his Toy Box held two items: a white chess piece (standard), and a round jade token. Before he could examine it, he saw the red thread on the corpse detach and retract to its origin.

He scooped up Little Gaia and followed. He got lucky—he didn’t have to go far to reach the thread’s source.

In a bamboo grove, three people stood—from their attire, fellow disciples. A young man in dark blue robes knelt on the ground, screaming as white flames burned him from within.

A young woman beside him was terrified: “Senior Brother! Senior Brother! What—what’s happening? Don’t scare me!”

She tried to approach, but another young man in black stopped her: “Xiao Yu, don’t go near him! That’s… Heavenly Tribulation…”

“Heavenly Tribulation?” She was even more panicked. “Why would it strike Senior Brother? He’s so powerful—he’s never done anything wrong!”

“…Perhaps that’s exactly why.” The black-robed youth said grimly. “He’s a genius. There are rumors that the more blessed a prodigy is, the more likely they are to face Heavenly Tribulation.”

The girl was stunned.

Only Shan Ziwei could see—the white flames on the dark-robed youth came from the red thread on his wrist, burning like a candle wick. The flames consumed only spiritual bodies, not physical objects. In less than a quarter-hour, the youth had burned away without a trace.

—This was “Heavenly Tribulation.”

He’d heard Duan Yuan mention it before, but hadn’t connected it to himself. Now he understood: Heavenly Tribulation was likely what happened when a cultivator lost their “Dao.”

After this encounter, he began to piece things together: the Advanced Chessboard was a large multiplayer instance. Players here were “Heavenly Dao,” bound to a cultivator via red thread. From the black-robed youth’s words, there was competition among players—since only a “Heavenly Dao” could harm another “Heavenly Dao.”

As for why they competed—he thought of the falling karmic threads. Maybe it was about resources?

He’d wondered earlier: if a player died, their bound cultivator suffered “Heavenly Tribulation.” So if a cultivator died, would their bound player die too?

That seemed highly likely. Thinking of his fragile partner, he felt anxious. He could survive—but what if his partner died young? To keep him alive, resources like karmic threads—which could make him stronger—were essential.

So the Chessboard’s focus was “raising” your partner?

Realizing his partner’s life was paramount, he quickly reached for the red thread. He’d been separated from the infant for a while—hopefully nothing had gone wrong.

When he was teleported to his partner’s location, he found Duan Yuan’s expression dark, and Duan Yinchen visibly tense.

—What had happened?

He frantically searched for his partner—then saw the Golden Scale Pool.

“!”

He stared, dumbfounded. The pool defied his idea of a “pool”—it floated in midair like a hula hoop, suspended over empty space. Looking down from above, the water was about three meters deep.

On the water’s surface floated several silver lotus leaves and an unopened lotus bud. The leaves’ veins were oddly regular, like fish scales. In the water swam light-forms like koi, of various sizes, turning the transparent water to gold. When the light refracted on the leaves, the whole surface rippled with golden scales—making the pool’s name obvious.

His infant partner and a female infant floated in the golden water. The koi-like lights avoided them. The baby was curled up, eerily still; the girl giggled and splashed, trying to catch the lights.

Finally, she caught one about a foot long. She hugged it, suddenly sleepy, and closed her eyes. The koi melted into her body; once absorbed, a bubble enveloped her and lifted her out.

Duan Yinchen caught her, beaming, and channeled spiritual energy to guide the koi’s refinement.

“Wonderful—a second-grade koi! Lingling can break through to early Kaiwu—”

She saw Duan Yuan’s expression and fell silent, quickly hiding her smile. She looked worriedly at the infant: “Grandfather, he’s too weak to catch any koi. The Golden Scale Pool’s opening is limited—this is a waste of opportunity…”

Duan Yuan frowned but didn’t act. As she’d said, if the infant didn’t break through to Qi Refinement now, he’d die. But the pool had restrictions—a Huashen-stage cultivator like him couldn’t intervene.

For an ordinary person, that was true. But Shan Ziwei didn’t think anything could stop him, the Heavenly Dao. Hearing Duan Yinchen, he knew what to do.

—No problem. His partner could be the quiet type—leaving fish-catching to the parent.

Already in dad-mode, he took out a karmic thread and strode into the pool with gusto. Splash—he sank straight to the bottom. He’d forgotten the pool looked shallow but was deep enough to drown him several times over. After a moment of panic, he realized the water was breathable.

The koi didn’t avoid him—to them, he was an unknowable, indescribable presence. The whole pool was like a buffet, fish waiting to be chosen.

Since he was catching fish, he’d get the best one for his partner.

He Reconnaissance’d his way through a school of third- and second-grade koi—and found a big one: a meter-long “first-grade koi.” Its info confirmed it was a treasure that could directly boost a cultivator’s power and break through bottlenecks.

He swam happily toward it—then a flash of radiance passed before his eyes.

Duan Yuan’s breathing suddenly deepened. Startled, Duan Yinchen looked at the pool—and her face went pale: “Koi Emperor!”

The Golden Scale Pool had at most a thousand koi. One in a hundred was second-grade; one in ten second-grades was first-grade; but a hundred first-grades might not produce a Koi Emperor—a testament to its rarity.

The Koi Emperor that shocked them was only half a finger long, its radiant body glowing with rosy light. It was incredibly fast, circling the infant in an instant, curious.

The infant seemed to sense something, reaching out as if to grab—and on the third circle, the Koi Emperor swam right into his hand.

“This… this…”

Duan Yinchen was speechless. Seeing a Koi Emperor was rare enough—catching one was unheard of. Only children under three, below Foundation Establishment, could enter the pool. A fleeing Koi Emperor moved at Golden Core speed—not like this foolishly throwing itself into someone’s arms.

It wasn’t easy. Shan Ziwei, having deep-hidden his merit, spat out a mouthful of water. Even though the Koi Emperor couldn’t see or avoid him, it took considerable effort to tie the karmic thread to the overactive little fish.

He glanced at the infant’s tiny hand. Leaning in to check his red thread, the baby suddenly reached out, startling him—probably just a coincidence.

With this Koi Emperor, his partner should become senior disciple, then head disciple, then marry the junior sister and reach life’s pinnacle. He felt like a proud parent.

Then he realized he’d celebrated too soon.

The Koi Emperor melted into the infant’s body—and the baby let out a pained whimper. His skin, flesh, and bones glowed translucent under the radiant light, showing torrents of spiritual energy rampaging inside him, escaping through his eyes.

“Oh no!” Duan Yuan’s expression shifted drastically. “The Koi Emperor’s spiritual energy is too fierce—he can’t contain it—hmm?”

His gaze locked onto the infant. The chaotic energy inside seemed to be pressed down by an invisible force, barely guided into a circulation path.

“The Starry Sky Scripture?” Duan Yinchen stammered. “How does he know it… how could he possibly…!”

“Haha! As expected of the Heavenly Eye bearer—born with knowledge!” Duan Yuan’s eyes blazed. “I only ran it through his body once—and he remembered it after a single try. The Heavenly Eye’s comprehension… truly terrifying!”

She was speechless. Though there was a saying about “cultivating from the womb,” infants couldn’t practice on their own—they couldn’t even control their bodies, let alone run cultivation methods. Before reaching maturity, they could only rely on elders’ guidance.

“But—such a pity.” Duan Yuan gazed at the infant, his expression shifting, settling on regret. “I underestimated the Heavenly Eye’s loss.”

As he’d said, even if the infant precociously activated the cultivation method, his eyes were a massive gap—every energy passing through leaked out.

“Grandfather… is there really no hope?” She looked away, pained. It was hard to watch such talent fade before her eyes.

“Unless—” He glanced at the unopened lotus bud above the pool, sighing. “Unless the Nine-Turn Golden Lotus blooms. Its seeds could help stabilize his spiritual energy.”

Even as he said it, he knew it was wishful thinking. The Nine-Turn Golden Lotus had grown over the pool for ten thousand years—it wouldn’t bloom on command. He shook his head, giving up on the infant.

“Fate cannot be defied…” If the King of Hell wants you at midnight, no one can keep you till dawn. A Heavenly Eye bearer without the eye simply couldn’t survive.

His breath caught. For the first time, the Huashen-stage elder’s face showed undisguised shock.

Before him, a miracle unfolded: the Koi Emperor’s dissipating energy seemed to stir the sleeping lotus. The pale golden bud trembled, as if yawning, slowly stretching to fully bloom.

The white-haired youth sitting on the silver lotus leaf curled his lips: Fate cannot be defied? I am fate itself—did you ask my opinion?

The Nine-Turn Golden Lotus’s splendor outshone all creation. Such overwhelming beauty couldn’t be tolerated by heaven and earth—it faded after only a moment, leaving a silver seedpod.

Plop. A golden lotus seed fell into the water. Plop. Another.

Nine seeds sank. Two were nudged by the water toward the infant’s sunken eyes. They seemed to find a new home, slipping beneath his eyelids and fusing perfectly with his eye sockets.

Legend said Taiyi Zhenren used lotus flowers to reshape Nezha. Lotuses had always been good for stabilizing spirit and body—especially the ancient Nine-Turn Golden Lotus. It couldn’t replace the Heavenly Eye, but it barely covered the infant’s gaps. His spiritual energy finally settled; his body returned to normal, and a bubble lifted him from the pool.

At last, he was safe. Shan Ziwei, holding his last karmic thread, breathed a sigh of relief. His partner’s tribulations made him realize his resources were far from sufficient.

[Setting 4: Your “Timing” authority has been unlocked. You may use Opportunity Threads to seize chances.]

[Setting 5: Your “Karma” authority has been unlocked. You may use Fate Jade to write destinies.]

As if rewarding his efforts, the system unlocked two new settings. He was stunned. Beyond the cryptic new authorities, his authority grew with his partner’s cultivation—meaning—

“Foundation Establishment!”

Duan Yuan stepped forward and held the infant. A quick probe made his breathing heavy: “You truly are a child of fortune, favored by heaven!”

Foundation Establishment? He thought: they’d said the first stage was Kaiwu, followed by Qi Refinement, then Foundation Establishment? So his partner had skipped a level?

Two karmic threads well spent. Basking in his partner’s success, he didn’t see Duan Yinchen’s expression—and thus didn’t know how unprecedented a one-year-old reaching Foundation Establishment was.

Duan Yuan laughed and lifted the infant, speaking almost as an equal.

“You can feel it, can’t you—your vitality is constantly draining.”

…Wait! He was alarmed. Even after all that, his partner was still so fragile—was this the Hard Mode’s challenge?

Fortunately, Duan Yuan offered a solution.

“That gap—only reaching Huashen stage can fully seal it.”

“So you must cultivate! You must cultivate!”

Duan Yuan’s voice was fierce. He stared at the infant as if carving his words into his very soul.

“Only by endlessly pursuing that supreme Dao can you survive.”

“The Dao is your only path to life.”

The infant made a faint sound—whether a whimper or a reply.

This was like brainwashing…

Seeing Duan Yuan’s fervor, he felt an inexplicable chill—like watching a zealot indoctrinate a child with dangerous ideas. But the zealot’s words didn’t seem wrong—so why was he so uneasy…?

Duan Yinchen held the infant, silenced. Duan Yuan seemed to realize his intensity, took a deep breath, and calmed.

“You…”

He started to name the infant—but realized he had none.

He pondered for a moment: “—Xiuyuan.”

“From today, you will take my surname. Your name is Xiuyuan.”

He gazed into the distance, his vision blurring, as if trying to glimpse that supreme, unnameable thing.

“The Dao is long and the path is far; I shall search high and low.”