Transmigrated into a Grandpa, Embracing the Laid-Back Life

That flawless capital officialdom, after the phrase ”not within this perfect cage” settled in Su Ming’s heart, completely disintegrated into a void of ashes.

Cold and darkness poured down like quicksilver, sweeping in from all directions, giving him not even a moment to catch his breath.

Just as Su Ming’s consciousness was stripped from the ”successful” illusion, feeling that loneliness so real it made his heart palpitate, the darkness suddenly tore apart. A searing cluster of firelight, reeking of a pungent burnt smell, smashed squarely into his face.

The scene abruptly flipped.

He was still standing in the same spot, but the surrounding darkness was instantly replaced by a bloody firelight.

The air was thick with desperate wails and cries for help.

His official robe was instantly scorched and stained with blood and filth.

A figure, burned beyond recognition but with a vaguely discernible outline, was being pinned to the ground by several soldiers in official armor. Illuminated by the firelight, the hand the figure stretched out seemed to be trying to grab him, but only waved futilely in the air.

”Third brother! Run... run away!”

”No! Father! Mother!”Sharp screams, mixed with the thunderous crash of collapsing beams and pillars, exploded in his ears.

Every muscle in Su Ming’s body tensed like iron, his chest cavity felt as if gripped by an invisible giant hand, every inhalation carrying the phantom pain of flames scorching his windpipe.

The qi and blood within his body surged uncontrollably in a wild counterflow, his temples throbbed violently, his vision repeatedly darkened—this was not real physical harm, but the intense resonance and tremor produced when his soul directly faced the deepest fears within his heart.

This was the fear buried deepest in Su Ming’s heart, the one he was most unwilling to confront—he had embarked on the path of cultivation to protect. But if, due to his personal recklessness or failure, this layer of protection was torn open, exposing his mortal family to the cruelty of the cultivation world, then everything he had done would be utterly meaningless.

As Su Ming watched helplessly as the flames devoured everything, the phantom of Xu Qing, wearing the County School Confucian robe, appeared in the distance, arguing vehemently with a team of indifferent Government Soldiers, only to be kicked to the ground and driven away in disarray.

Immediately after, Zhou Wenhai, who had once placed great hopes in Su Ming, appeared pale-faced within a patch of shadow. He coughed up a mouthful of blood, his eyes filled with disappointment and lamentation towards Su Ming, then collapsed dead on the ground.

Extreme pain and helplessness seeped like cold venom through his meridians, reaching directly to his soul.

At that moment, all the bloody hues and scorching heat receded like a tide.

The scene flipped for the third time. The warm study, the soft candlelight, Qian Bin’s face wearing that standard, fawning smile once again enveloped him.

”Lord Su, you’ve worked hard reviewing official documents. Have a cup of ginseng tea to steady your nerves.”

Su Ming violently pushed away the offered teacup, the tea splashing onto Qian Bin’s distorted face.

Qian Bin’s fawning face was instantly covered by flames and black smoke. He stretched out a hand, his fingers bony, cold, and powerful, tightly grasping Su Ming’s sleeve.

”Choose! Indulge in power, and you will forever lose the chance for transcendence! Chase strength, and the withered bones of your loved ones will be your path marker!”

Two diametrically opposed extreme illusions—”ultimate perfection” and ”ultimate shattering”—began to flash, interweave, and superimpose around him at a frequency difficult for the naked eye to follow.

Study and fire scene, fine wine and blood, flattery and wails... light, shadow, and sound waves transformed into countless invisible yet sharp files, taking turns at an extremely high frequency to cut and grind away at his consciousness and mental defenses.

”What has your choice brought?!”

”What is your Dao?!”

Each flash was an interrogation of the very core of his Dao heart.

Su Ming’s body began to tremble violently.

His nostrils were filled with the alternating smells of burnt matter and ink, his eyes stung unbearably from the stimulation of blood-red hues and golden light.

At the brink of collapse, he instead became utterly calm.

His breathing became slow and deep. This was not the breath of a mortal, but the gentle cycle automatically initiated by the ”Like Water Art” nurtured by the sprout deep within his Dantian.

”My Dao...” Su Ming silently recited in his heart.

Su Ming discarded all the distracting, fleeting illusions before his eyes, sinking his mind inward, tracing back to the original source—not to exchange for the power and empty fame envied by the mundane world, that was too passive, like flowers in a mirror or the moon in water.

Su Ming had embarked on this path to break free from invisible shackles, to see with his own eyes the vastness of heaven and earth, and ultimately, to firmly grasp the reins of fate in his own hands, to possess the power sufficient to construct a ”place of peace of mind,” to protect those lights he was unwilling to lose.

The so-called superficial glory and suffering before him were all external appearances, meant to shake his true heart.

”Enough.”

Su Ming suddenly raised his hand. Though his eyes were reddened from the stimulation of light and shadow, his gaze was unprecedentedly clear.

Addressing the flashing illusion of the golden official robe before him, his tone was calm, yet carried an undeniable finality.

”This is not my Dao. It merely wastes spirit and mind.”

As the words fell, the golden light, as if plunged into a piece of cold jade, instantly contracted and dimmed.

Immediately after, the bloody firelight and the illusion of iron chains assaulted him again. The cold chains seemed to shackle his wrists once more, the scorching flames licked his cheeks.

Su Ming closed his eyes, his entire body relaxed.

This time, Su Ming did not try to evade or resist.

He even took a slight half-step forward, actively meeting the body-burning flames and bone-chilling cold.

He closed his eyes, completely opening his physical and mental defenses, using all of his divine sense to ”feel” this pain, to ”experience” this fear.

”Such tribulation, even if it is what my heart fears, has already been reflected. Fear it, then avoid it; if avoidance is impossible, then break through it. My heart is set on the Dao, unyielding through a hundred setbacks. This resolve... is even firmer!”

To the illusion of ”failure,” he declared that his Dao heart had already traversed the shadow of that layer of fear.

The bloody flames, the wailing figures, the icy chains began to disintegrate within Su Ming’s consciousness.

Not in an instant explosion, but with a slow, sound like shattering glass.

”Crack, crack, crack...”

The sound was faint, yet continuous.

All illusions, whether the perfect life or the tragic failure, transformed into countless tiny, faintly shimmering fragments, slowly drifting away.

As Su Ming’s consciousness completely returned, the clear darkness before his eyes was rapidly replaced by a stable, faint white light.

This white light was not dazzling, more like a spatial transition.

Immediately after, a cold, weighty object fell into Su Ming’s palm.

Su Ming looked down.

It was a palm-sized white token, neither metal nor jade, its material resembling both stone and bone, cool to the touch, with an even texture.

On the front, a single character ”Heart” was engraved in an ancient, simple style, the strokes upright and proper, without any spark of spiritual light flowing through it. On the back was the most common emblem of the Cloud Hidden Sect—simple cloud patterns encircling a solitary peak, equally unremarkable.

Su Ming clenched it tightly. The cool sensation made his mind, slightly dazed from the long passage of time in the illusion, even more clear.