Cultivating for a hundred lifetimes to ascension Chapter 1455 - 787: Rebirth in the Small Town

Zhao Sheng stirred back to consciousness yet held off on lifting his eyelids right away.

The area around him stayed hushed, carrying a subtle aroma that drifted softly, akin to sandalwood blended with a trace of cosmetic essence.

"I'm not dead?"

Carrying a touch of uncertainty within, Zhao Sheng subtly parted his eyes. Before him appeared hanging draperies, ornate balustrades, lavish bed linens, and beside the bed, a maiden whose hair was bound into twin buns.

It dawned on him that he rested upon a bed. Lifting his arm to gaze at it, he noted a pale, slender hand entirely strange to him and surely not belonging to his former self.

"Have I crossed over? Or maybe... taken possession of another's form."

These notions surging through his mind, Zhao Sheng abruptly rose upright in the bed, sensing the frailty and lack of vigor in this vessel, which left him stunned and perplexed.

His once-unbeatable True Body had vanished?

Beyond that, not even a whisper of the Primordial Spirit could be felt.

In that instant, he existed as nothing more than a plain, unremarkable mortal.

Accustomed to myriad strange occurrences, Zhao Sheng swiftly composed himself and methodically scanned the chamber's decorations.

His actions at that point roused the maiden dozing near the bed.

Rubbing her eyes, she glanced upward and, spotting the young master propped up on the bed, cried out happily: "Young Master, you've awakened at last. I'll hurry to inform the Master and Madam."

With those words, the maiden sprang to her feet, pivoted nimbly, and dashed from the room, giving Zhao Sheng no chance to halt her.

Thirty minutes passed before Zhao Sheng, clad in a fresh embroidered gown, took a seat at a spacious round table laden with tempting dishes.

Seated at the table were two additional figures. To the left lounged a plump, ruddy-faced middle-aged man. On the right perched a middle-aged lady exuding warmth and serenity.

These two served as Zhao Sheng's supposed "father" and "mother."

By now, Zhao Sheng had absorbed the lingering recollections of this body, gaining an initial grasp of the local circumstances.

"He" went by Zhao Gongzhuo, heir to a prosperous landowning household, the sole son, and precisely eighteen years of age this year.

The household chiefly traded in rice, flour, grains, and oils, owning five stores and three hundred mu of rice fields, rendering them substantially affluent.

Fresh from a grave ailment, Zhao Sheng felt ravenous. Confronted by the array of savory foods, he yielded to temptation, seized his chopsticks, and dove into the meats with gusto.

"Let the ancient immortal safeguard my boy's well-being. Come morning, we shall head back to the temple to honor our pledge. Infinite Heavenly Venerate, grant us fortune!" The middle-aged woman gazed fondly at her son devouring his meal, pressed her palms together, and bowed in thanks over and over.

At her side, the stout middle-aged man added steadily, "Zhuo'er, since you've only just mended, steer clear of those shady companions for now. Without their luring, how could you have stumbled and almost drowned?"

"Mmm." Zhao Sheng mumbled offhandedly to his parents as he kept on eating.

The feast stretched on for a complete hour.

Sated and refreshed after the meal, Zhao Sheng conversed briefly with his parents before ushering them away without issue.

Watching his parents depart in turn, Zhao Sheng lingered seated a moment longer, then abruptly stood and strode from the main hall.

No sooner had he emerged than a youth drew near warily and inquired, "Young Master, where might you be headed?"

Zhao Sheng eyed the fellow coolly and replied flatly, "I've been bedridden for days on end and grown weary of it. I'm off to see a friend shortly, so no need for you to trail along."

"This... That won't do. The Master ordered me to watch over the Young Master closely. How could you venture out by yourself? Should anything go awry, I couldn't shoulder the blame." Chen San, hearing this, grew flustered and begged hastily.

The youth was Chen San, raised in the estate, son to the chief steward of the manor.

Barring any surprises, he was slated to succeed as the next chief steward.

In response, Zhao Sheng shrugged indifferently, "Fine, if you insist on coming, then come. But hear this: while with me, keep your words few and your eyes sharp. Moreover, I prefer my father stays in the dark about my affairs. Report to him, and you're off the hook—no more following."

Chen San's features twisted in discomfort, yet he dipped his head reluctantly, "Young Master’s instructions, Chen San will heed."

Mmm!

Zhao Sheng gave a faint nod and continued onward to the front courtyard.

Observing this, Chen San hastened after him.

…

Mingxi Town stood as a thriving waterside settlement in Jiangnan, crisscrossed by an intricate web of channels. Countless streams wound not only through lanes and byways but also carved out passages.

Far off, arched stone bridges crossed the waterways, constructed from verdant bricks and pale stones, remarkably solid, rumored to endure a century without fail.

The waters beneath the spans gleamed pure and clear, teeming with darting fish, while willows danced along the shores amid a soft wind.

Strolling by the water's edge, a path of bluestone extended alongside the river, bordered by crowded establishments like apothecaries, scriptoriums, undertakers, provisioners of grains and oils, plus eateries and lodgings.

The avenues teemed with folk, the majority rushing about, though a handful appeared content, ambling at ease.

Zhao Sheng numbered among the latter.

Soon enough, he reached the crest of a stone arch bridge, resting against the balustrade to peer at the flow below, where a dark-canopied vessel glided near from the distance, slipping beneath the arch.

Besides the aged rower, a stately middle-aged scholar occupied the craft, draped in a cypress-green robe, a jade ornament dangling at his belt, who chanced to tilt his head upward.

Their eyes locked, lingering unexpectedly long.

Zhao Sheng's pupils narrowed sharply, his stare fixing on the man's brow, marked by a bold crimson "Feng" character.

The script resembled fresh-spilled blood, striking a chord of recognition.

In a flash, Zhao Sheng brushed his own forehead, sensing no mark.

His face shifted, and he promptly descended the bridge to the bank, where the water mirrored his features distinctly.