Immortal Paladin

Just as the old man was gleefully pinching my cheeks and preparing to ruin my dignity forever, I noticed someone standing beside him, mouth slightly open, eyes fixed on me like she’d seen a ghost.

Jia Yun.

Ah, shit.

Out of all the cultivators in the Empire, why did it have to be her?

Back in my first week of stumbling into Yellow Dragon City: new to this world, confused, uninformed, and way too friendly for my own good… I’d made two extremely poor life choices. Their names were Fan Shi and Jia Yun. If not friends, we were at least… suspiciously close acquaintances who got into way too much mischief together.

We had history. Specifically, a night of gallivanting around the city as bratty little hooligans. How? It was thanks to the same damn perfume I was using now. The Chibi Perfume.

We’d all shrunk ourselves down and run wild like unhinged kids with divine credit cards. And now, standing before me, was Jia Yun… still looking exactly as she did back then. Same dark hair, same calculating eyes, and same permanent expression of “I know you’re up to something.”

Me?

I looked very different. Because now I was a ”child.” A ”grandson.” A lie. And a lie on top of a lie. Uuuuh… Great!

Nongmin, with the confidence of a seasoned politician and the morality of a chaotic neutral bard, faked a cough and introduced me with zero hesitation.

“This is my grandson, an offspring of my offspring,” he said solemnly, “from… an affair I had a long time ago.”

Wow. He was really coming in hot with the misinformation, huh?

I glanced at Jia Yun. She looked nervous. Her eyes darted between me, Nongmin, and the old man who was still hovering over me like a candy-bearing vulture.

I remembered a little detail about her. Jia Yun was technically a member of the main sect. But due to some “complications,” probably politics or a family falling-out, she’d been sent to one of the branch sects to “learn humility.” She was still a prodigy, though. Sharp. Watchful. And she knew about the Chibi Perfume. Which meant she knew exactly who I was. I mean, she’d seen me in this shape one time already.

Nongmin, perhaps sensing danger, didn’t dare use Qi Speech. Not with the Tenth Realm grandpa within hearing range. But I felt his glare. That sharp, sidelong do something look.

Or maybe I was overthinking the situation?

Right. We had to sell the story.

I took a deep breath, summoned the spirit of every obnoxious brat I’d ever taught in gym class, and protectively wrapped my arms around the candy stick the old man had given me.

“You can’t have this,” I snapped in my highest-pitched childish voice. “It’s mine!”

Jia Yun recoiled slightly, blinking like I’d just tried to bite her.

“I… I wasn’t trying to steal it,” she stammered, raising her hands defensively. “What is wrong with you?”

I turned my head sharply and clutched the candy tighter.

Perfect.

Operation Gaslight the Fox was a resounding success.

Nongmin didn’t say anything, but I caught the flicker of a smirk at the edge of his mouth.

Yeah. We’d pulled it off for now. Or maybe I got it all wrong, and Nongmin’s hidden smirk was more of him being amused than acknowledging my acting. The old man finally let go of my cheeks, though the damage to my dignity had already been done. He gave one last pinch for good measure and then turned toward Nongmin with hopeful eyes and an unsettling smile.

“Your Majesty wouldn’t mind if my youngest tags along, would you?” he said, gesturing toward Jia Yun like she was a puppy he’d found on the roadside.

My eyes narrowed instinctively.

Jia Yun didn’t react, at least not outwardly. Her face was as composed, but I could see the slight clench of her jaw. Fourth Realm. That wasn’t something I expected. She’d left Fan Shi in the dust, and she wasn’t exactly slouching around at the bottom of the ladder either. Then again… my disciples were monsters. Their rate of cultivation could make geniuses weep. Jia Yun just happened to be a different kind of monster.

Nongmin offered a thin-lipped smile that said ‘I see what you’re doing, old man,’ but nodded.

“Then she will be your responsibility, Jia Sen,” he said.

Ah. So that was the old man’s name. Jia Sen. 

Jia Yun gave a polite bow. “This junior is grateful for the opportunity,” she said aloud in third-person with a careful tone. Good. She was easing back into her usual speech pattern. No more startled prey. Just the calm, polished front of a competent cultivator.

I took that as my cue to retreat.

Slipping between Tao Long and Liang Na, I found a quiet corner and flopped into it like the tired, sugar-rushed child I currently appeared to be. The candy stick was still clutched tightly in my hand, and I munched on it as I stared at the slowly growing group.

“So,” I mumbled around the candy, “who else?”

A polite cough, definitely fake, rippled through the air. The Qi pressure changed immediately.

Someone had arrived.

Standing just behind Jia Sen was a woman wrapped in imperial purple, one leg provocatively shown through the slit of her high-cut cheongsam. Her presence was sharp and unapologetic, and the moment she took a step forward, everyone noticed.

Tenth Realm.

“Blocking the door, are we?” she said lazily, her voice like honey drizzled over sharp steel. “What’s an old fossil like you doing here? Unsightly. That’s what you are.”

Jia Sen didn’t even flinch. He just kept smiling with that grandfatherly kindness that now felt like a mask more than a personality.

“Oh, have some patience, Zai Ai,” he replied with mock sympathy. “You aren’t getting any younger yourself.”

Zai Ai narrowed her eyes but otherwise seemed amused. Before she could bite back, Nongmin stepped in with all the poise of someone who knew when to drop a little oil on the fire before it burned down the manor.

“Zai Ai,” he said smoothly, “thank you for honoring us with your presence.”

It was diplomatic code for: Don’t start something in front of the guests, please.

Jia Sen tilted his head, clearly intrigued. “An independent cultivator with Tenth Realm cultivation, returning to the Empire’s doorstep? Curious. Unless…” he leaned forward with mock conspiratorial glee, “this is another one of your summons, Your Majesty?”

I couldn’t help myself.

I muttered, “So a booty call then?”

Silence.

Several heads turned to look at me.

I shrugged, lips still red from the candy. “What? We’re all thinking it.”

Liang Na turned away and covered her mouth. Tao Long gave me the side-eye of a man deeply reconsidering his life choices. Jia Yun… looked like she wanted to die.

Zai Ai, to her credit, laughed.

“Oh, I would love to have romantic entanglements with His Majesty,” she said without shame. “But no. I’m here on official matters.”

She gave Jia Sen a pointed glance.

“I’m helping my little disciple.”

Jia Sen snapped his fingers. “Ah, yes! Your disciple. I remember now. He’s starting some sort of business venture… the Adventurer’s Guild, is it?”

Zai Ai’s smile was wicked. “That’s right.”

The mention of the Adventurer’s Guild caught my attention like a thunderclap in a library.

Back on Earth, in the game LLO, the Adventurer’s Guild had been the nexus for quests, rumors, impossible bosses, and broken mechanics. It was a behemoth of a faction, sprawling and powerful, interwoven into nearly every major questline. But here? In this world? It was just a fledgling idea, barely standing.

I licked sugar off my fingers, eyes flicking to Zai Ai. “So, your disciple runs the Adventurer’s Guild?”

Zai Ai raised an eyebrow, clearly surprised I spoke in full sentences. “He’s the founder. A bit idealistic, but competent. He’ll be arriving at the summit with members of the Martial Alliance, if their egos don’t drag them into some scenic detour.”

Jia Sen gave an exaggerated sigh. “Ah yes, the Martial Alliance. Puffed-up peacocks too proud to admit their legacy’s rusted.”

Zai Ai didn’t even turn to him. “Says the man who trains brats in seclusion and calls it ‘wisdom.’”

They kept at it, flinging barbs like children tossing rocks in a pond. I zoned out briefly, watching a spiral of light curl lazily around Tao Long’s fingertip, probably some idle formation script he was playing with to keep from stabbing someone.

Eventually, Nongmin had enough. “We’re leaving,” he said flatly, the emperor in him momentarily surfacing.

The bickering stopped. Even Jia Sen turned serious. “Where will the World Summit be held this time?” he asked.

Nongmin gave a faint nod. “As usual… somewhere new. A realm just opened to the north, past the Empire’s edge. Unstable, but safe enough for now. We’ll need to travel nonstop at cultivation speed if we want to arrive before the sealing window closes.”

Translation: No stopping to pick up weaklings. If you couldn’t keep up, you didn’t come.

Zai Ai’s gaze drifted toward me, her eyes narrowing. Her lips tugged down into a frown. “Weird kid,” she muttered.

I sat up straighter and narrowed my eyes. I wasn’t sure whether to be offended or proud. I mean… she was weird. Was she expecting a toddler to not chew on a sugar cane sword like it was a heavenly artifact?

Nongmin, naturally, stepped in with an air of forced patience. “Young Wei can handle himself.”

That was my cue. I leaned forward, putting a bit of manic fire into my brat impression, and said loudly, “Yeah, you heard that right, hag! Go die in a ditch!” Gasps. Some audible. Tao Long dropped the glowing spiral he was forming out of boredom. Jia Yun looked like she wanted the floor to open up and swallow her.

Zai Ai blinked slowly. Her face said, ‘I am seriously considering vaporizing this child.’

“You little…”

“Come on!” I shouted, grinning like a gremlin. “Murder this bratty imp! Let’s go! Finish the job, scary auntie!”

Her palm twitched. For a second, I thought she might actually do it.

Nongmin cleared his throat and stepped in between us with infuriating grace. “Wei,” he said with a tight smile, “we behave properly in front of honored guests.”

He turned to Zai Ai, giving a respectful bow of the head. “Forgive him. He’s… spirited.”

Zai Ai huffed, brushing nonexistent dust from her shoulder. “He’s lucky I’m feeling generous.”

“Lucky you,” I muttered, rolling my eyes. “I’d erase you with the flick of my finger…”

Okay, I should turn off the bratty impression a bit.

Still, I took a step back and resumed sucking on my candy stick. Maybe I pushed that one a little far. But I could feel it… Zai Ai wasn’t the kind to lash out randomly. She was testing me. Measuring something.

And I’d passed, somehow, by being the world’s most annoying child.

Then, Nongmin raised a hand. “There’s no need to burn our cultivation for travel,” he said, casually brushing aside the invisible weight of awkwardness. “I’ve had something prepared.”

Jia Sen scoffed. “What, you planning to use a teleportation formation large enough to transport all of us? Our existence… is too big for a teleportation formation. It would cost a fortune. To borrow your words, it’s inefficient!”

“I don’t like inefficiency,” Nongmin said, voice smooth with that smug imperial confidence.

He raised one foot and stomped lightly. It didn’t shake the ground. There was neither a dramatic earthquake nor a shockwave, but the response was immediate. The floor beneath us lit up with a pulse of golden light.

Lines, glyphs, and runes ignited, unfurling like blooming lotus petals across the stone tiles. They curved, twined, and folded in on themselves, creating complex loops that pulsed with qi so dense I felt my skin buzz. It was a masterstroke of formation craft, the kind that didn’t just scream xianxia, it sang it like an opera chorus.

I didn’t even bother pretending I wasn’t impressed. My jaw might’ve hung open for a second. I’d seen Ren Xun use formations before—his had an elegance born from intuition, almost like he danced with the symbols. I’d seen the Formation Specialists we brought to the Promised Dunes too, all scrolls and dust and sweat.

But this? This was next-level.

The entire scrummy manor shook. Then it lifted.

We rose slowly, the structure humming around us as the formation glowed brighter. I stepped back, almost bumping into Zai Ai, and turned to look out one of the open walls.

Yellow Dragon City spread beneath us like a painting, lanterns flickering like fireflies in the dusk.

“You’re levitating the house?” I asked.

Nongmin smiled. “The structure was always a ship. Just disguised.”

As we lifted higher, the roof peeled back with a hiss of escaping spiritual pressure. Panels unfolded from the sides, reshaping themselves like petals of a metallic lotus into sleek hull plating. The interior warped and rearranged: walls shifting, furniture folding flat, and wood becoming silver and white jade alloy.

Jia Yun hurried in, pulling her sleeves close. Jia Sen followed with the careful steps of someone trying not to admit they were impressed. Zai Ai said nothing, but her eyes roamed the interior with the quiet attentiveness of someone updating a mental dossier.

When the transformation was done, we were standing in what looked more like a floating palace than a flying ship.

I whistled. “This thing got a name?”

Nongmin folded his arms behind his back. “Usually, it’s Sikao Biaoji who names the ships…”

I blinked. “Wait. So there’s someone whose job is just… naming them?”

He gave a small nod. “Among other responsibilities. But yes, he believes names define the spirit of a vessel.”

“Damn,” I said. “That guy’s got a nice gig.”

Then, without thinking, I added, “Let me name it.”

He arched a brow. “You sure you won’t regret it?”

“Nope,” I said, with the unshakable confidence of a man who had definitely played too many online games and watched too much anime. “Call it… Megatron.”

There was a long silence.

Even Jia Yun blinked.

Nongmin gave a faint, polite chuckle. “Very well. From now on, this ship shall bear the name Megatron.”

Zai Ai squinted at me like she was trying to figure out if “Megatron” was some kind of ancient beast or demonic incantation. Jia Sen snorted.

I patted the nearest silver railing. “Good girl, Megatron. Let’s fly.”

And just like that, the most advanced flying artifact in the Empire took to the skies, powered by the peak of xianxia engineering and named after a Saturday morning cartoon villain.

It was beautiful.