"Uncle Youcai, why are you joining in on this nonsense! A 'little immortal' killing bandits—why don't you just say you're the immortal yourself? If this grain was stolen, then take it back right now! I'll take responsibility for it; I won’t count it as theft."

Ma Youcai, with a pained expression, replied, "What do I have to say to make you believe me? There really was an immortal! He killed all those bandits. And besides, this grain was originally stolen from my family by the bandits. How is it stealing if I just took back what’s mine?"

Seeing the unfriendly expression on Ma Pingchuan’s house guards, Ma Youcai mumbled again, "You didn’t show up when the bandits were here, but now that I have grain, are you planning to rob me too?"

Ma Pingchuan, knowing he was in the wrong, waved his sleeve irritably and motioned for them to leave. He still had the matter of his ancestral tomb to deal with.

"By the way, Dachuan! The immortal told me to tell you to move out quickly. He said there’s a problem with your ancestral tomb. If you don’t leave soon, you’ll all be dead!"

Ma Pingchuan’s eyes flashed with anger. Ma Youcai had hit a sore spot.

"Ma Youcai! What the hell are you talking about? Your own family tomb has a problem! Just because you're old doesn't mean I won’t put a bullet in you!"

As one of the guards pressed the muzzle of his gun against Ma Youcai’s face, he broke into a cold sweat, regretting his loose tongue. One guard even kicked his leg, nearly knocking him to the ground.

"I was only trying to help—"

Feeling wronged, Ma Youcai muttered, but before he could finish, Zhang Qiming suddenly appeared. He had been on his way to help, only to stumble upon the scene. He instantly recognized the well-dressed man with guards standing protectively around him as the village leader of Ma'an Village, Ma Pingchuan.

"Little Immortal! Tell them it was you who killed those bandits. They won’t believe me."

Ma Youcai’s words made Ma Pingchuan wary of Zhang Qiming. After all, if Ma Youcai would call someone an immortal, this was no ordinary person.

"He's saying you killed all the bandits up on the mountain? You, a mere youngster, have that kind of skill?"

"Never mind who I am. Listen: there’s a problem with your ancestral tomb. Poison gas is seeping out of the ground. If you don’t leave soon, you’ll all die here!"

Zhang Qiming didn’t waste time and turned to leave. But Ma Pingchuan, deeply superstitious, especially hated hearing ill omens about his family tomb. He shouted angrily, "Take him down!"

Without any warning, the guards fired at Zhang Qiming.

"Bang!"
"Bang!"
"Bang!"

The guards’ guns were even better than the bandits'. Bullets whizzed through the air, and sensing the danger, Zhang Qiming dodged swiftly.

This unprovoked attack enraged Zhang Qiming. "You’re asking for death!"

He unleashed the Qi family’s blade technique, moving with the steps of the Eight Steps of the Cicada. No one present could even see him. In a flash, all the guards who had fired were clutching their throats, collapsing.

"Impossible!"

In his youth, Ma Pingchuan had trained in martial arts and met many skilled fighters, but he had never seen anyone eliminate eight guards in an instant. He didn’t even see how Zhang Qiming struck.

Just as Ma Pingchuan reeled in shock, Zhang Qiming’s blade was already pressed against his throat, its icy presence making Ma Pingchuan shiver, paralyzed with fear.

"If you had dared to shoot at me, you’d already be dead," Zhang Qiming said coldly.

Ma Pingchuan backed down, his previous bravado evaporating. Though he had a gun at his waist, he knew Zhang Qiming could kill him without breaking a sweat.

"Good sir... Immortal, please spare me," Ma Pingchuan stammered.

Zhang Qiming withdrew his blade. "I advise you to stay away from your family’s tomb. It’s not a place you can handle. Going there means certain death."

"Leave this place as soon as you can," he warned. As soon as the words left his mouth, Zhang Qiming vanished.

A moment later, other guards, alerted by the gunshots, arrived, looking bewildered. "You useless fools! I nearly got killed back there!" Enraged, Ma Pingchuan slapped each of them.

…

Not long after, Zhang Qiming returned to the entrance of the tunnel Zhang Nian and the others had excavated. The earthquake had distorted the tunnel’s structure, but thanks to their reinforcements, he could still enter to save them.

Zhang Qiming was determined to help them, partly because he was now strong enough to protect himself, but also because he needed them to continue advancing his missions. A hundred years from now, completing these tasks would be next to impossible. Even locating these people would be challenging, and their skills would be vastly improved.

For example, Zhang Jiuri, who was still inexperienced now, would become a formidable martial artist a century later. Zhang Nian, arrogant now, would become bitter and master sinister arts, including human-skin disguises. Dealing with him then would be a nightmare.

Inside, Zhang Qiming entered a dome-shaped chamber. In the center stood a bronze horse with eighteen strings, which had already been destroyed by one of the previous intruders. With no traps left, he proceeded deeper inside.

He soon found a hidden passageway. The entrance was small, but those who entered earlier had already opened it up. Zhang Qiming picked up a fallen brick from the ground and noticed two distinct fingerprints pressed into it.

"This is the Zhang family’s skill, the Two-Finger Divine Technique," he thought.

He also saw a corpse at the passage’s edge. Judging by the elongated index and middle fingers on the skeleton, it was undoubtedly a Zhang family member. Zhang Qiming looked down at his own left hand; he too had this unique physical trait, though he was far from mastering it.

As he prepared to enter the passage, he noticed a brittle drawing slipping out from the skeleton’s ancient, crumbling clothes. The picture, though faded with age, was still recognizable. It depicted three people: a taller figure, a long-haired one, and a small child between them. All three had smiling faces, appearing content and close.

Zhang Qiming’s eyes welled up with tears. He recognized the drawing—it was one he had sketched himself long ago.