Liu Baijian froze upon hearing Shen Lanmao’s words. He instinctively turned his head to glance at Yuan Ziqiu, who stood some distance away hawking secret manuals and strategy guides. There he was, beaming with a cheerful smile as he chatted with someone nearby. His eyes sparkled with youthful vigor and radiance, showing not a trace of gloom. One would never guess the profound sorrow hidden behind that smile. “Ah, what a pity!” Shen Lanmao sighed. “If Yuan Ziqiu possessed spiritual roots, he would undoubtedly be a remarkable figure.”

“But it seems he hasn’t given up,” Shen Lanmao continued. “When he was first tested at the Wendao Sect’s recruitment assembly and found to lack spiritual roots, he didn’t abandon his pursuit. Instead, he returned year after year to participate in the Wendao Sect’s recruitment assembly—he came the year before last, last year, and again this year!”

Shen Lanmao paused, scratching his head. “Not that I have any objection, but it strikes me as odd—I just can’t fathom it. What’s he thinking? Clearly lacking spiritual roots, yet he refuses to give up. Is he just stubborn?”

Hearing this, Liu Baijian turned his gaze toward Shen Lanmao.

“Most people would give up in his situation, right?” Shen Lanmao remarked.

Liu Baijian replied in a flat tone, “That’s precisely why he isn’t an ordinary person.”

At this, Shen Lanmao froze in surprise.

Then, as if suddenly realizing something, he smiled with understanding. “You’re right. If he weren’t like this, he wouldn’t be Yuan Ziqiu.”

“Let me tell you something,” Shen Lanmao continued. “I heard that Yuan Ziqiu wasn’t always this relentless. While he was capable before, he certainly wasn’t hoarding spirit stones as he does now. Word is, ever since he was rejected at the Wendao Sect’s recruitment ceremony for lacking spiritual roots, he started desperately accumulating them. He’s amassed quite a fortune over the years, yet I’ve never seen him spend a single spirit stone. He’s incredibly strict with himself—not even a single coin is wasted.“ Shen Lanmao continued, ”That’s why everyone speculates he’s saving those spirit stones to find a way to change his fate. People support him wholeheartedly. Though they don’t say it openly, everyone in town looks out for his business.”

Liu Baijian understood the implication behind Shen Lanmao’s vague words. Yuan Ziqiu had never abandoned his pursuit of cultivation. He worked tirelessly to earn spirit stones, refusing to spend them, hoping to use this fortune to purchase rare treasures capable of allowing a mortal without spiritual roots to cultivate them.

Such legends had long circulated in the cultivation world—mythical fruits like peaches of immortality, divine pills, and ginseng fruits—sacred treasures said to instantly transform mortals, enabling them to ascend to immortality in broad daylight. The Spirit Root Grass was another such legendary artifact, purported to grant spirit roots to mortals. It was useless to cultivators who already possessed them.

Yet these are merely tales. No cultivator believes them—only mortals do.

The proof lies in the fact that the Spirit Root Grass is useless to cultivators.

Cultivators universally believe the Spirit Root Grass does not exist. They see it as a divine object conjured by mortals without spiritual roots or divine affinity—a comforting illusion, a fleeting hope clutched at by those resigned to their fate.

As a fellow cultivator, Shen Lanmao was certainly aware of this. Yet neither he nor anyone else had ever told Yuan Ziqiu something like, “Spiritual Root Grass doesn’t exist. Those without spiritual roots who wish to cultivate are merely deluding themselves. Accept your fate and give up!”

Because no one could bear to say such words to someone who had clawed their way out of despair, refused to sink into ruin, clung steadfastly to that faint glimmer of hope, and fought with every ounce of strength to live a life of optimism and determination.

Only the most heartless person in this world could utter such words—words as venomous as a death sentence.

Even Shen Lanmao, who initially disapproved of Yuan Ziqiu’s efforts after learning of his situation—arguing it was pointless and he should cut his losses—could no longer bring himself to ask him to give up upon witnessing Yuan Ziqiu’s relentless, positive, and optimistic drive. He gradually came to understand the mindset of the ordinary mortals, cultivators, and even the Zhenjians and Daojuns of the Wendao Sect within Wendao City.

Year after year, Yuan Ziqiu attended the Wendao Sect’s disciple assessments, but year after year, he was rejected for lacking spiritual roots. Yet the Daojuns of the sect never barred him from participating in their recruitment assemblies, nor did they ever treat him differently.

“Sometimes I truly admire Yuan Ziqiu. He possesses a tenacity like wild grass—no matter how trampled, he grows resiliently, never giving up or despairing. Honestly, I couldn’t do that,” Shen Lanmao said with deep emotion. Though he often clashed with Yuan Ziqiu, he had to admit the young man was one of the strongest-willed individuals he’d ever encountered.

Shen Lanmao was a shrewd man, and shrewd men knew what choice served them best. Had he been Yuan Ziqiu, he would have abandoned the pursuit the moment Wendao Sect first rejected him for lacking spiritual roots—cutting his losses promptly, just as Shen Lanmao had advised.

Liu Baijian pondered his words before replying, “Have you considered… he might have known all along?”

At this, Shen Lanmao froze. “What do you mean?”

“Everyone should be the same, right? We all took spirit root tests as children,” Liu Baijian said calmly. “Especially those determined to cultivate—they would definitely test what kind of spirit root they possess.”

Testing spirit roots in the cultivation world wasn’t difficult. There were specialized testing centers; it just cost a bit of money. Guiyuan Realm was a world that revered cultivation. Anyone with spiritual roots, even just the basic five elements, would choose the path of cultivation.

Therefore, every household would have their child tested for spiritual roots after turning six, to determine their future path. Ordinary mortals in the Guiyuan Realm faced a harsh existence. Children from poor families grew up quickly, with no childhood to speak of, striving early on for their future survival.

For children with spiritual roots, families would send them to schools to learn to read and write. Cultivators couldn’t be illiterate, after all—they had to study and memorize the Daoist scriptures. Those without spiritual roots were directed early on to choose a trade, starting their apprenticeships from a young age.

In this world, survival is difficult for everyone. Whether cultivators or common folk, they are but insignificant ants struggling to exist beneath the vast heavens.

Thus, commoners yearn to cultivate, and cultivators aspire to attain the Dao—to break free from the Six Realms of Rebirth and sit atop the Heavenly Dao.

Major sects across the Guiyuan Realm established free academies in every city, enrolling students aged six to twenty. They provided tuition-free education and a complimentary daily meal. Admission is unrestricted—anyone aged six to twenty may enroll. Initially, this arose because over half the new disciples recruited annually by the major sects came from ordinary mortal families. Many of these children, too poor to attend school, were illiterate. Upon entering the sects, the major sects had to provide them with literacy education first. This late start meant these youth, deprived of early education, often lagged in comprehension and cultivation compared to their literate peers from wealthier backgrounds.

“It’s truly unacceptable for teenagers to be completely illiterate,” declared the head of the Wendao Sect, who ultimately made the decision. He convened a grand assembly with the heads of the other eight major sects to collectively deliberate on the bright future of the cultivation world.

The title sounded grand, but in essence, they were discussing the fundamental education of children.

It was at this very meeting that the nine major orthodox sects resolved to establish Daoist Academies. Each sect would contribute funds, labor, and personnel to found academies affiliated with their respective orders in every city across the Guiyuan Realm. These academies would freely admit children and youths aged six to twenty for instruction.

Thus began the sweeping campaign of literacy and foundational education for the Guiyuan Realm’s youth—a movement that continues to this day and will endure forever.

Admission to the Daoist Academy had only one age restriction: children too young were difficult to manage, while those too old should venture into society to learn its harsh lessons of survival. Beyond this, there were no other limitations—including spiritual roots. Regardless of spiritual roots, anyone who wished could attend the Daoist Academy for free education. To encourage ordinary families to send their children to the Daoist Academy for learning, the academy even provided complimentary lunches.

While the original intent was to lay a foundational education for recruiting new disciples for major sects—essentially cultivating and supplying disciples while fostering their sense of belonging and loyalty to their sects—it served a dual purpose.

However, during the actual deliberations, the head of the Daoist Academy, the leader of the Wendao Sect, waved his hand decisively and declared, “If we’re admitting students, then admit them all—regardless of whether they possess spiritual roots. Are those without spiritual roots incapable of learning to read and write? Are we not all human? Should we really divide people into tiers based on the presence or absence of spiritual roots and treat them differently?”

“If we dwell on such distinctions, we’d be falling short. How can one stand upright as a teacher if their own conduct is flawed? And how many of those disciples, chosen from childhood and elevated above their peers, truly possess benevolent hearts? How many cultivate gentle and humble virtues?”

Having said this, the head of the Wendao Sect declared with characteristic financial largesse, “Besides, we’re not short on funds.”

The equally wealthy heads of the other eight major sects unanimously agreed with this final statement, thus unanimously endorsing the Head of the Wendao Sect’s principle of educating all without distinction.

The heads of the Guiyuan Realm, including the Wendao Sect, were deeply invested in the establishment and development of the Daoist Academy, placing great importance upon it. When the head of the Wendao Sect first proposed establishing the Daoist Academy, the heads of the other eight major sects recognized the immense significance and merit inherent in this endeavor. Yet it was also an extraordinarily complex and arduous task, fraught with hardship.

Even with the combined efforts of the nine major sects, it took a full century to successfully establish the Daoist Academy.

“Building a single Daoist Academy is simple,” the head of the Wendao Sect remarked. “Even filling the entire Guiyuan Realm with them would be straightforward—merely a matter of wealth. But getting the common folk to accept it, to grow accustomed to it, to send their children to study there, to have those children step through the Daoist Academy gates, to have the academy’s teachers perform their duties… these are the true challenges.”

As the Wendao Sect leader stated, establishing Daoist Academies was a straightforward and not particularly novel idea. Yet no one had ever proposed it until the leader of the Wendao Sect did so. Was it that the other eight sect leaders hadn’t thought of it? No, that wasn’t it. They simply didn’t want to invite trouble upon themselves.

Cultivation clans throughout the Guiyuan Realm established family academies. Beyond educating their own offspring, they often recruited outstanding students from outside, providing them with education, meals, lodging, and training. Naturally, this wasn’t free. Those who received cultivation training from these clans pledged their service to them, becoming retainers.

It was essentially selling one’s labor, yet many in the Guiyuan Realm were more than willing to do so—or rather, many actively sought this arrangement. After all, it amounted to securing a well-paying job that provided room and board, education, and compensation.

Each year, these cultivation families snatched up a significant portion of the Guiyuan Realm’s student pool. The number of eligible youths with spiritual roots capable of cultivation was fixed annually. With such limited resources, even the Nine Great Sects couldn’t secure enough students, and the major cultivation families claimed the lion’s share. Moreover, due to geographical advantages and the existence of family academies, these cultivation families held a distinct edge in recruiting youth with suitable cultivation aptitude into their clans. Local talent was essentially monopolized by them.

This led to a prolonged period of severe student shortages for the Nine Great Sects. The situation only improved after the establishment of the Daoist Academy.

Exceptional talent remains perpetually scarce and in high demand, fiercely contested by all parties—a universal truth across any world.

Liu Baijian never attended a Daoist Academy. He studied under Liu Yanzhen, receiving direct instruction and mentorship from the master himself—a top-tier Mahayana cultivator and foremost master of the Artifact Dao. Shen Lanmao likewise never attended a Daoist Academy. Born into a prestigious family, he received meticulous cultivation from his clan. Yuan Ziqiu, lacking spiritual roots, did attend a Daoist Academy. These institutions, accepting all eligible youths regardless of background, enrolled him at age six. He remained there until his departure at fourteen.

At fourteen, he first attended the Wendao Sect’s disciple recruitment assembly. He passed all assessments smoothly, only to be rejected in the final, seemingly simple test—spiritual root detection—due to his lack thereof.

After his rejection, Yuan Ziqiu returned to Wendao City and never set foot in the Daoist Academy again. Even when the academy’s elders later sought him out, urging him to return to continue his studies—“With your aptitude, you could remain at the academy as a teacher once you turn twenty”—he refused.

This was an enviable position—a leisurely, well-compensated role at the Daoist Academy. The Wendao Sect was notoriously wealthy and generous with its own people. The status was prestigious too: not only did it command respect, but with the backing of the Wendao Sect—the foremost sect in the Daoist world—one could walk with confidence, fearing no unjust oppression.

It was a coveted position, one people would fight tooth and nail to obtain.

Yet Yuan Ziqiu refused without hesitation. He looked up at the Daoist Academy master who had come for him and declared firmly, “I wish to cultivate the Dao.” His gaze met the master’s as he continued, “Did you not often say that teaching knows no boundaries? Does having no spiritual root mean one cannot be taught?”

“…”

The master was rendered speechless by this question. Staring at Yuan Ziqiu’s resolute expression, he opened his mouth but remained silent, thinking: But without spiritual roots, cultivation is impossible… Those without roots are forsaken by heaven.

In the end, the master held back those words. He felt it wasn’t his place to say them; sooner or later, this child would understand. Reality was this cruel. In this unjust world, survival wasn’t achieved by ideals and effort alone.

Children must grow up, becoming wise and rational adults.

Finally, the master sighed and said only, “It’s rare to be foolish! To be truly happy in life, one must be foolish for a lifetime.”

“Too much persistence, too much clarity—both bring suffering.”

The world speaks of the bliss of immortals, yet immortals know not the hardships of mortals.