Record of Mortals Slaying Heaven

Chapter 12: An Unexpected Incident at the Miscellaneous Affairs Hall

The airship passed through the clouds and descended slowly.

Shen Moqi lay on the ship's railing, his eyes wide as he gazed at the scene before him—a vast plaza paved with neat rows of bluestone slabs, gleaming warmly in the sunlight, with a few unknown blades of grass occasionally peeking out from the cracks. Around the plaza, various buildings were scattered in a pleasingly irregular pattern: palaces with upturned eaves and brackets, pavilions built against the mountainside, terraces hidden in the clouds, and some strange structures whose names he couldn't even begin to recall. Further away, several mountain peaks pierced the sky, and he could vaguely see figures sitting cross-legged atop them, seemingly breathing something, their bodies enveloped in a faint glow.

The square was bustling with people. Some wore the same blue robe as him, while others wore dark clothing. Occasionally, a few figures could be seen flying by on swords, leaving streaks of light in the air. These people stood on long swords, their robes fluttering, disappearing in an instant, leaving Shen Moqi staring in disbelief.

As the airship descended, Shen Moqi could make out the faces of the people—some young, some old, some hurrying along, others chatting and laughing in small groups. They glanced at the landing airship casually before continuing with their own business, seemingly used to it all. Occasionally, one or two would look at him a few more times, their eyes filled with curiosity, but that was all.

"boom--"

The flying boat landed gently in the center of the square, barely even vibrating. Deacon Zhao raised his hand and waved, and the three-zhang-long ship began to shrink rapidly, emitting a slight hum. In the blink of an eye, it turned back into a small boat the size of a palm and flew back into his sleeve.

Shen Moqi stood in the square, momentarily lost in thought.

Beneath my feet were cool, smooth flagstones, above me was a sky as blue as if it had been washed clean, and all around me were rolling green hills. The air was filled with the faint scent of grass and trees, mixed with an indescribable refreshing fragrance. Taking a breath of it made my lungs feel soothed and my whole body felt lighter.

This is... a cultivation sect?

He stood there blankly, his head slightly tilted back, his gaze following the faintly visible figures on the distant mountain peaks. His mouth opened and closed, and he remained motionless for a long time.

Deacon Zhao carefully stored the flying boat away, glanced back at him, and seeing his naive and unsophisticated expression, didn't urge him. He simply stood aside with his hands behind his back, waiting quietly. A hint of knowing look lingered in his eyes—he'd seen far too many such looks in his decades in the sect; almost every new disciple was like that. Some were even worse off than him, some even collapsing to their knees on the spot.

After a long while, Shen Moqi finally came to her senses and realized that she had made Steward Zhao wait for so long. She quickly stepped forward and bowed, "Senior, please forgive me. This junior... This is the first time I have seen such a scene, and I was a little out of line."

Deacon Zhao waved his hand: "It's alright, let's go. Go to the Miscellaneous Affairs Hall to register and receive your things, only then will you be considered a true disciple."

The two walked one after the other across the square, heading east. Along the way, Shen Moqi couldn't help but look around, finding everything new and interesting. As they passed a palace, they heard clanging and hammering sounds coming from inside, like someone forging iron; as they passed a medicinal field, several disciples were squatting in the ground tending to some glowing herbs, the air filled with a strange medicinal fragrance; and someone was sitting cross-legged under a large tree by the roadside, eyes closed and motionless, with a faint mist rising around them.

The disciples who passed by him glanced at him curiously, ignored him completely, and whispered among themselves. Shen Moqi vaguely heard words like "newcomer," "which country he's from," and "how good his aptitude is," but she didn't dare to look too closely and just kept her head down, following behind Deacon Zhao.

After walking for the time it takes for an incense stick to burn, a grand hall appeared ahead. The hall's gate was much wider than that of ordinary buildings, and a huge plaque hung above the gate, bearing three simple and ancient characters—"Hall of Miscellaneous Affairs."

Before I even got close, I could hear a commotion coming from inside.

"Wu brat, you'd better find me a disciple to manage the Scripture Pavilion today, or I'm not letting you off the hook!"

The voice was strong and impatient, and it was particularly jarring at the quiet entrance of the miscellaneous affairs hall, making the copper bells on the eaves tremble slightly.

Immediately afterward, another helpless voice rang out, sounding quite old yet tinged with a weary resignation: "Uncle-Master, it's not that I don't want to help you. How many disciples have I sent? At least seven or eight, right? But what was the result? They were all driven away by you in less than half a month. Now, as soon as the outer disciples hear about going to the Scripture Pavilion, they run away faster than rabbits. Who dares to go?"

"Are they here to manage the scripture pavilion? They're here to cause me trouble!" The first voice was even more agitated, clearly angry. "They don't even know where any of the scriptures are! When I ask them where the scriptures are, they all scratch their heads like idiots. I asked them to tidy up the bookshelves, and they crammed the scriptures into a mess, some even on their own! I had to reorganize them myself, which was even more tiring than before they came! Don't I need to cultivate? Isn't my time valuable?"

"Then you can't..."

"What do you mean, 'can't'? You have to find me someone today, or I'm not leaving!"

Shen Moqi couldn't help but glance at Deacon Zhao while listening to the conversation.

Upon hearing the voice, Deacon Zhao visibly paused, a complex expression flashing across his face—a mixture of helplessness, a headache, and even a slight urge to turn and run away. He hesitated for a moment, muttering to himself:

"How did I end up running into this person..."

Shen Moqi was taken aback. Before she could ask, she heard Deacon Zhao continue muttering, "But it would be even more troublesome if he found out..."

After saying this, Deacon Zhao took a deep breath, his chest heaving as if he had made up his mind, and walked towards the entrance of the Miscellaneous Affairs Hall with a stiff upper lip.

Shen Moqi hurriedly followed, her mind racing with curiosity—who exactly was this? Even Steward Zhao had that expression?

Upon reaching the door, Deacon Zhao bowed respectfully to those inside, saying, "Disciple Zhao Yuan greets Martial Uncle."

Shen Moqi also bowed, while secretly glancing up at the same time—

Inside the miscellaneous affairs hall, a middle-aged man stood with his hands on his hips in front of the counter, looking displeased. He looked to be no more than forty or fifty years old, with a thin face, wearing a faded gray Taoist robe with frayed cuffs, and his hair was casually tied up in a Taoist bun with an ordinary wooden hairpin inserted.

What surprised Shen Moqi the most was that the person had no aura fluctuations and stood there like an ordinary mortal, without any sense of pressure.

But Deacon Zhao calls him "Uncle-Master"?

Hearing the voice, the middle-aged man turned around, his gaze falling on Deacon Zhao. A hint of surprise appeared on his face, and he raised an eyebrow: "Oh, it's Zhao, kid! Where have you been all this time?"

A middle-aged man in his forties or fifties calling the seventy- or eighty-year-old Deacon Zhao "young man"?

Shen Moqi almost burst out laughing. He quickly lowered his head, biting his lip hard, but his shoulders trembled uncontrollably. He desperately told himself: Don't laugh, don't laugh, this is a senior, a master…

Deacon Zhao straightened up and respectfully replied, "Reporting to Martial Uncle, this disciple has just returned from the Great Yan Kingdom to guide new disciples."

"A new disciple?" The middle-aged man's eyes lit up, and his gaze immediately turned to Shen Moqi, scrutinizing him from head to toe. "Is this the kid?"

When Shen Moqi was swept by that gaze, he felt a tightness all over his body—he felt no pressure at all, yet he had a feeling that he was seen through, from head to toe, inside and out. He even had the illusion that this person could see right through the spirit stone in his arms and the phone in his backpack.

The middle-aged man glanced at it a few times, then suddenly grinned and said, "Very good, you've come at just the right time."

He turned to the helpless-looking old man behind the counter and said, "Young Wu, I'll take this man! Ask Young Zhao for his identification, and then send his belongings to the Scripture Pavilion!"

The words had barely left his mouth when the middle-aged man took a step forward and leaped into the air. Before Shen Moqi could react, she felt a sudden lightness in her body—

An invisible force lifted him by the waist, raising him completely off the ground! His feet instantly left the ground, as if an invisible hand was holding him in mid-air. He instinctively tried to struggle, but found that his limbs were completely unresponsive and he couldn't move an inch. He could only watch helplessly as the ground receded into the distance, and the figures of Deacon Zhao and that "Wu boy" grew smaller and smaller.

"S-senpai—" he cried out in a panic, his voice trembling.

Shen Moqi felt the wind whistling past her ears, and the surrounding scenery seemed to be stretched out like lines, rushing past rapidly—the square, the palace, the crowd, in the blink of an eye, became tiny dots under her feet, and even their outlines could not be seen clearly.

"Aaaaaahh ...

A scream rang out in the air, startling several birds into flight, which fluttered around the mountains for a while.

---

At the entrance of the miscellaneous affairs hall, Deacon Zhao and that "young Wu" looked at each other, speechless for a long time.

After a long while, "Young Master Wu"—the old man who looked even older than Deacon Zhao—stammered, "This...this...you just took them away like that? They haven't been registered yet, and they haven't given us anything..."

Deacon Zhao shook his head with a wry smile: "Never mind, since it's the person our senior uncle wants, we can't stop him. I'll tell you this disciple's information, and you prepare the entry-level items. I'll personally deliver them to the Scripture Pavilion later."

"Young Wu" nodded, took out a palm-sized jade token and engraved Shen Moqi's name on it. Then he pulled out a cloth bag from under the counter, put the token in, and began to pack other things into it: two neatly folded blue robes, a thin booklet, and a small cloth bag containing five faintly glowing spirit stones and three pills the size of longan.

He shook his head as he pretended to be serious: "This is the eighth one already. The previous seven lasted the longest at thirteen days, and the shortest... was kicked out after three days. I wonder how many more days this one can last."

Deacon Zhao glanced at him, remained silent for a moment, and then suddenly asked, "What about the one Uncle-Master mentioned who put the book upside down?"

"Young Wu" paused for a moment, then burst out laughing: "Oh, when he was tidying up the bookshelf, he laid the whole row of scriptures down, spines facing inwards and edges facing outwards. The next day, his master went to see it and was so angry that his beard stood on end. He threw him out of the scripture pavilion on the spot, along with his bedding. He almost rolled down from the mountaintop."

Deacon Zhao couldn't help but laugh, then sighed.

"Young Wu" tied the cloth bag, handed it to him, and asked in a low voice, "Senior Brother Zhao, how long do you think this new disciple will stay in the Scripture Pavilion?"

Deacon Zhao took the cloth bag, thought for a moment, and tentatively asked, "Half a month?"

"I bet ten days." "Young Wu" said confidently, holding up two fingers. "If it exceeds ten days, I'll give you a pot of spirit wine."

"make a deal."

The two exchanged a glance, sighed simultaneously, and wore a mischievous smile on their faces.

The echo of that scream still faintly reverberated among the distant mountain peaks.

---

The wind lashed his face like knives, making it impossible for Shen Moqi to open his eyes. He could only keep them tightly shut, feeling his stomach churning. He tried to shout "Slow down," but his mouth was filled with wind, his cheeks puffed out like balloons, and he could only manage a series of muffled whimpers. He felt like a chick being carried by an eagle, ready to be thrown off at any moment.

He didn't know how long he had been flying—it could have been just a short while, or it could have been a long time—but just when he felt he was about to faint, the scenery beneath his feet finally stopped rushing past. The force that had been supporting him slowly descended, carrying him through a bamboo forest, and his feet finally touched solid ground.

His legs buckled, and he collapsed to his knees, his hands bracing himself against the ground as his chest heaved violently. A wave of nausea washed over him, and he couldn't help but gag a few times, but nothing came out. He could only gasp for breath, his vision blurring in waves.

"What a spineless coward." The middle-aged man's voice came from above, tinged with disdain. "With such little courage, what are you trying to achieve immortality? When I first flew, I wasn't like you."

Shen Moqi was too weak to argue and could only continue panting, lying face down for a while before he recovered. He raised his head and finally saw the scene before him clearly—

This is a solitary peak, not high, but remarkably serene. It's surrounded by lush bamboo, each stalk straight and upright, its leaves a vibrant green that rustles softly in the wind, like whispers. Deep within the bamboo grove, a nine-story building is faintly visible, its eaves upturned, its style simple yet elegant. Each floor has windows, their frames adorned with exquisite carvings. A plaque hangs above the building's entrance, bearing three ancient seal characters—"Scripture Repository." The edges of the plaque are somewhat weathered, clearly indicating its age.

The air is filled with the faint scent of ink and the refreshing aroma of bamboo leaves, bringing a sense of tranquility.

The middle-aged man had already reached the entrance of the high-rise building. He pushed open the half-closed wooden door with one hand and glanced back at him.

"What are you standing there for? Come in."

Shen Moqi took a deep breath, steadied her still weak legs, and stood up by supporting herself with her hands. She staggered a bit before following after him.