Prologue

White clouds drifted gently, immortal mists shrouded the heavens. Beyond the thirty-three celestial realms, ninety-nine palatial halls stood. Deep within these heavens, in the Purple Cloud Palace, the alchemy chamber glowed.

Inside the chamber, flames cast swathes of crimson light, heat surging like waves, fiercely scorching. At the center rested a pill furnace, beneath which the diagram of the Eight Trigrams was inscribed. Upon the furnace, eight fire dragons, lifelike and vivid, spewed flames from their mouths, positioned at each of the eight cardinal points, corresponding to the trigrams Qian, Kan, Gen, Zhen, Xun, Li, Kun, and Dui.

Though all eight dragons bore similar forms—scarlet scales, whiskers flowing as if alive—their flames differed. One breathed celestial fire, another stone fire, one summoned wood flame, another conjured the fire of samadhi; one wielded the fire of the heavens, one the fire from the earth’s depths, another exhaled mortal fire, and the last radiated the pure, natural flames of the five elements.

These eight kinds of fire converged at the furnace, collaborating through the Eight Dragon Immortal Furnace to forge the flames within.

Beside the furnace stood a young Daoist, about fifteen or sixteen, his features refined and gentle, the aura of the Way radiating from him. He was one of the immortal’s attendants, named Qingyuan.

The immortal of Purple Cloud Palace accepted no disciples, only Daoist attendants, allowing free passage; those who wished to enter became attendants, those who wished to leave departed freely. The bond was fleeting—once gone, there was no return.

Qingyuan watched the Eight Dragon Immortal Furnace, the firelight painting his cheeks red, a fire-poking rod in his hand which he occasionally stirred beneath the furnace.

The rod was pitch-black, seemingly forged of iron, yet despite the immortal flames, it remained unheated, still cool to the touch. Its material was extraordinary; were it made from anything else, it would have been reduced to ashes by the eight fires in an instant. Yet this iron rod, though exceptional, was not a treasure—it had been salvaged from a heap of discarded items, valued only for its durability and resistance to flame, with no other merit. It was simply handy, neither too heavy nor too light, which is why it was chosen as the fire-stirring tool.

Qingyuan watched the furnace, knowing that it was not refining any wondrous immortal pills, but rather a dough sculpture, shaped as nine oxen and two tigers.

He cradled his smooth chin, lost in thought. According to many tales, should he break the rules and eat these dough figures, perhaps he would gain the strength of nine oxen and two tigers. Like the legend of a Daoist attendant who, defying the rules, ate a few beans and grew three heads and six arms; or another disciple who secretly ate two apricots and sprouted wings.

But Qingyuan was always dutiful, never daring to break the rules, and harbored no such thoughts.

Two years prior, another attendant stole a pill from the immortal and swallowed it in secret. Though the pill was a marvelous treasure, immortal gifts were not so easily consumed. The attendant suffered immensely, and only through the immortal’s compassion was he saved, but ultimately expelled from the Purple Cloud Palace and sent back to the mortal world, left to his own fate.

With that precedent, Qingyuan dared not break the rules.

“Where’s my fire-fanning fan?” he wondered.

He reached to his side, finding no fan. He distinctly remembered bringing it earlier.

“Perhaps I misremembered. After days spent studying the Yellow Court Immortal Sutra, my mind must be fatigued.”

With the furnace steady, he hurried from the alchemy chamber toward the immortal hall where he had listened to the teachings.

...

He ran for a while and arrived outside the immortal hall. The immortal was not within, the doors stood wide open, unguarded, and he could see the fire-fanning fan inside.

Qingyuan apologized softly, hurried in, retrieved the fan, and was about to leave when his eyes caught a list upon the desk.

The list was unfurled, its edges inlaid with golden patterns, the fabric shimmering pale gold, dignified and majestic. Jade rods anchored its ends, and its center was blank, save for three characters at the top.

The Investiture of the Gods!

These words resonated deeply, each stroke as if crafted by heaven, exuding an ineffable charm, flowing like clouds and water, tranquil as deep lakes and seas.

Qingyuan recognized the immortal’s handwriting. As for the purpose of the Investiture of the Gods, he had heard of it in passing.

The world had reached a pivotal moment; the time had come to appoint the rightful deities of the heavens—those who would oversee thunder, fire, plague, and battle, the three mountains and five peaks, the stars and constellations, clouds and rain, the realms of the dead and the cycles of good and evil—eight departments of true gods, governing the order of the cosmos.

This was decided among all immortals, but preparations were yet unfinished, so the list remained blank.

...

Qingyuan cared little for such matters. His heart was set on cultivation—to attain immortality, transcend the azure heavens and the nine shadows, leap beyond the three realms, escape the five elements, live free and untethered. He did not wish to become a deity bound by the list after death.

As an attendant of the immortal, he was not an ordinary cultivator; he was protected by celestial fortune. So long as he did not yearn for the mortal world, he faced no threat of death, nor would he be bound to the list.

Beside the Investiture of the Gods lay a white jade booklet, about the size of a palm, pristine and inscribed—this was the Root of Immortality Register.

Qingyuan dared not touch it. He took only the fan and prepared to leave.

Just then, a voice sounded from outside: “Qingyuan, where did you run off to? The nine oxen and two tigers were personally crafted by the immortal, and you’re the one tasked with refining them. If you undercook them or burn them, beware of punishment!”

Qingyuan replied, “Brother Qingfeng, I forgot the fan. I’ll be right there.”

The voice outside responded, then wondered, “Didn’t I see you carry it out earlier?”

Qingyuan was about to answer when suddenly—there was a rustling sound.

The white jade booklet flipped open, turning seventeen or eighteen pages before stopping.

Qingyuan was intrigued, turned to look, and saw a line of glowing words:

Qingfeng, bearer of immortal roots, gifted with excellent aptitude.

The glow illuminated the script. Qingyuan hesitated; though he was obedient, curiosity stirred within him.

He whispered, “Mingyue.”

Mingyue was also an attendant of the immortal, a girl of exquisite beauty, fair skin, and graceful demeanor. She was gentle, true to her name, radiant as the moon. All the disciples, including Qingyuan, were close to her.

The booklet rustled, turned back several pages, stopped, and a line shone:

Mingyue, bearer of immortal roots, gifted with extraordinary aptitude; she possesses the immortal root and Daoist bones, with hopes of becoming an immortal.

This entry was far more detailed than the previous, clearly Mingyue’s aptitude far surpassed Qingfeng’s.

Qingyuan felt secret joy, then suddenly said, “Qingyuan.”

The white jade booklet did not move.

Qingyuan was stunned, pausing in disbelief.

After a moment’s hesitation, he reached out and took the booklet, intending to search for his name.

As he opened the first page, his face turned pale.

The first page read: “Those with scant fortune, weak fate, and no immortal root do not enter this register.”

“Scant fortune? Weak fate? No immortal root?”

Qingyuan felt as if plunged into an icy abyss, shivering uncontrollably. He flipped through many pages, finding no trace of his name, his heart growing ever colder.

He had studied Daoist texts and knew well what this meant.

Without immortal roots, one could not even step onto the path of cultivation.

Even with low aptitude, one could hope to make up for it with diligence. But with no immortal root, there was no hope at all.

As for scant fortune and weak fate, it meant he was born without destiny for great wealth or immortality.

Such was heaven’s decree.

“Impossible… I clearly visualized the Ninefold Jade Towers within the Purple Mansion of the Mud Pill Palace. I clearly visualized the Ninefold Jade Towers…”

Suddenly, he froze.

He had indeed visualized the Ninefold Jade Towers.

But among his peers practicing this method, all had pushed open the Jade Towers, truly embarking on the path of cultivation.

His Ninefold Jade Towers remained unmoved.

“Impossible…”

He murmured, trembling, “The immortal… the immortal is a Primordial Golden Immortal, possessing boundless power, profound arts, and unmatched cultivation. Surely he can help me…”

...

But in the next moment, as if doused with cold water, his hope was extinguished.

Primordial Golden Immortals were the ancestors of the celestial realm, embodiments of the Dao itself, acting in accordance with heaven’s mandate, never opposing its course.

“The immortal always follows the will of heaven, never acts against it. How could he change fate for a humble attendant like me?”

Qingyuan collapsed to the ground.

Despite this, he clung to a shred of hope, heading toward the rear hall in search of the immortal.

Yet he was stopped by his senior brothers.

The immortal was already in seclusion.

...

He returned to the alchemy chamber in a daze.

The furnace fire had died.

The lid was open, revealing the nine oxen and two tigers, all made from white dough—oxen with gentle faces, tigers fierce and vivid, lifelike as if about to leap forth.

Qingyuan saw at once the heat had been just shy, leaving them underdone.

He no longer cared, only sat beside the furnace in silence.

The residual heat was still intense.

Qingyuan seemed oblivious, thinking, “How could this be? If I don’t attain immortality, after a hundred years I’ll be nothing but bones. How can I accept this? I’ve spent years in Purple Cloud Palace, seeking only the path to eternal life. How can I resign myself to perish after a century?”

Suddenly, a breeze swept through.

The nine oxen and two tigers all toppled.

Qingyuan looked up and saw them all with heads facing south.

According to Daoist texts, this was an omen.

The Northern Dipper governs death, the Southern Dipper governs life.

If he could not cultivate, after a hundred years he would perish; yet at this moment, with the oxen and tigers facing south, the texts declared the Southern Dipper governs life.

Could his chance lie in the south?

Qingyuan stood in a daze for a long while.

He knew that staying in Purple Cloud Palace, he could listen to immortal teachings, read celestial scriptures—a fortune beyond compare. But without immortal roots or destiny, he could never tread the immortal path, no matter the opportunity.

The immortal, though a Primordial Golden Immortal, would not defy fate.

To remain would be futile.

“Perhaps I should descend to the mortal world and seek my opportunity?”

He hesitated.

The mortal world, compared to Purple Cloud Palace, was far less likely to grant immortal fortunes. But with no hope here, he had to seek elsewhere, however slim the chance.

Qingyuan gritted his teeth. “South!”

He deliberated, tucked the fire-poking rod into his belt, took the Yellow Court Immortal Sutra he had been studying, and prepared to leave.

Before departing, a sudden impulse struck—remembering those tales of three-headed, six-armed figures and ones who grew wings, he ate all the nine oxen and two tigers.

They were undercooked, ruined for the immortal, but for himself, at least they were celestial objects. At this point, there was nothing left to lose; even if consuming them overwhelmed him, it was fate.

Qingyuan ate until his stomach ached, then went to the gates of Purple Cloud Palace, gazing down at the layers of immortal clouds and swirling white mist.

“Brother, I have been ordered to descend to the mortal world. Please send a celestial crane to carry me down.”