Chapter Fifty-Five: The Third Time

By now, Chen Jin finally understood why his family had managed to tread such a steady path. The main reason lay in his father’s earlier years: when he was young, he had served as a driver for a senior officer during his time in the army. After five years in that position, his father was discharged from service.

Upon returning to his hometown, his father began dabbling in business. At first, things did not go smoothly—he lacked the necessary connections. But then, he learned that his former commander had taken a post in Jiao City, and at that time, the commander was working with the current top leader of Huaxia.

From then on, everything fell into place. If his father hadn’t been so attached to his hometown, he might very well have followed his old commander to the capital to do business. However, in recent years, his father’s contact with the old commander had dwindled—after all, the top leader enforced strict discipline—but the bond between the two families persisted.

It was like this time with the Great Tidal Wave; although the old commander hadn’t informed his father in advance, he still called this morning to pass on some advice, urging him to prepare early, to keep pace with the nation’s direction, and even suggesting that he open a Vitality Pill processing plant in Xia Lake. Supposedly, this was due to the special circumstances of Gehong Mountain in Xia Lake County, and so his father was given special consideration.

“Dad, isn’t this collusion between officials and businessmen?” Chen Jin joked.

“Nonsense! I’m paving the way for the people. Don’t you see how many jobs I’ve created?” his father countered with a string of lofty arguments.

In this respect, he truly inherited the wisdom of those above.

It seemed, however, that neither his father nor his mother intended for Chen Jin to further interact with the higher-ups. They never stated their reasons, and Chen Jin didn’t bother to speculate.

With years of doubts resolved, Chen Jin felt much lighter at heart. Now that he understood his family’s background, his walk… remained exactly as before.

After all, he was already on the path of cultivation, his mind steady as a rock. How could he become arrogant or lose his bearings over something like this?

As always, he rode his electric scooter back to the specialty store for work, with due caution.

By now, the store had lost the bustle of recent days. In fact, the whole street seemed subdued, as if everyone was still reeling from that world-shattering news.

Though all the clerks had arrived, their minds were elsewhere.

Clearly, their old perceptions had been shattered and were still being pieced together.

Chen Jin did not reprimand them. Today, he would let them heal the wounds in their minds—there would be time enough to teach them a lesson tomorrow.

For now, he would let them have an easy day.

Chen Jin entered his office, with Li Han following close behind.

She knocked, and Chen Jin told her to come in.

“What’s wrong?” Chen Jin looked at Li Han’s dejected appearance. He knew the cause, but feigned ignorance.

“Chen, do you think Zhang Hui might also be a cultivator?” Li Han asked.

“How would I know?” Chen Jin shook his head.

He was browsing the news on his computer. He hadn’t read much that morning; his daily routine was morning exercise, then breakfast in the city, then work. He usually caught up on news during work hours.

“Now that I think about it, he really seemed like a cultivator—so carefree, so poised, always with that air of detachment. And he cooked so well, too. I wonder if he could fly on a sword. Imagine him holding me and soaring through the sky—how romantic…” Li Han had started daydreaming right in front of Chen Jin.

“No way… You’ve watched too much TV,” Chen Jin thought the girl was hopelessly smitten.

“But in this morning’s video, that old Taoist actually floated up into the air and hovered for a long time!” Li Han retorted.

“He’s the vice president of the Cultivators’ Association, you know,” Chen Jin rolled his eyes.

“Maybe Zhang Hui is just as powerful,” Li Han pouted.

“He’s disappeared, his shop is under new ownership, and no matter how much you pine for him, he’s not coming back. Maybe he went to find his wife,” Chen Jin said helplessly.

“He wouldn’t… die, would he?” Li Han remembered Zhang Hui had a deceased wife.

“The police have already listed him as missing. In another four years, the state can officially declare him dead. Don’t wait for him—go live your life, be your old self again,” Chen Jin continued, bluntly urging her to move on.

“I’ll cultivate and wait for him to return.” Li Han shook her head.

Well, clearly, Chen Jin and she were not on the same wavelength.

In the first few days after Zhang Hui’s disappearance, Li Han had been in a daze. After some encouragement from Chen Jin, she’d perked up a bit, but today’s blow—one that reverberated across the entire country—left her worldview in ruins. Yet in the aftermath, she seemed to gain clarity, piecing together memories of Zhang Hui and speculating that he was a cultivator.

Chen Jin couldn’t help but think she’d make a fine Sherlock Holmes.

Li Han muttered to herself in his office for quite a while. Chen Jin half-listened as he browsed the news.

Online, stories about the resurgence of spiritual energy were more popular than ever—already a hit before, now they were all the rage.

Many hoped to glean some practical wisdom from these tales.

But fiction was fiction, and reality was reality; the gulf between the two was as deep as the Mariana Trench.

Meanwhile, the internet was awash with videos supposedly recording recent sightings of cultivators, and stories of ghosts and spirits were being edited into all kinds of clips.

It made for entertaining viewing, and Chen Jin was amused.

He passed the day idly—without a single sale—and left work when his shift ended.

That night’s duty roster was canceled; Chen Jin told everyone to go home and rest.

Over the following days, everyone’s spirits gradually recovered.

Life returned to normal. The state’s “Universal Cultivation Guide” began appearing online, with no restrictions placed on its distribution. It was specifically designed for those in society who lacked resources or opportunities, but who might possess talent.

As for cultivation methods for middle and high schools, those hadn’t been released yet. Preliminary exercises, similar to physical training routines, were being rolled out instead.

According to online rumors, half a year earlier, the state had launched youth cultivation pilot classes in Beijing—children of high officials, taught by top members of the Cultivators’ Association.

Naturally, this sparked yet another wave of online controversy.

But the world was never fair, and internet crusaders could do little more than vent their frustrations. The state would proceed with its plans, and the people would follow.

Chen Jin simply watched from the sidelines, content to be an onlooker.

His thoughts were elsewhere—not on these developments, but on his next journey through time and space.

He still had no idea which era or alternate world he might end up in next, so he spent his time reading myths and legends from various regions, and nurturing his body, so that he would be in the best possible condition to adapt to whatever lay ahead.

On the night of February 12th, at ten o’clock, the black book finally turned a page, and a line of text appeared:

"A heart with seven delicate apertures, a borrowed beauty beneath the painted skin."

…