Chapter 80: Nine Dragons (Part 1 of 2)

Hearing the total, I was stunned—5 plus 8 plus 12 plus 20… that's 45 whole years of lifespan gone!

There's a saying: "Few live past seventy." I'm only 22 now—add 45, and I'd only reach 67. In the grand scheme of life, that's not much time left at all.

A bitter emptiness filled my chest. Words couldn't describe how I felt. But at least—at least—the Night Patrol God came to see me. He wouldn't have done that if I were completely beyond saving, right?

I swallowed hard and steadied myself. Then I asked with urgency,"Immortal Sir, may I ask how many years of life I have left?"

The Night Patrol God seemed reluctant. I could feel that directly revealing someone's remaining lifespan broke celestial protocol. But we were alone, and clearly, he had something he wanted to say. So I pressed on:"Your humble junior knows his blessings are shallow and his luck meager, but I am eternally grateful that a celestial such as yourself would come see me. If I survive this, I will find a place of fortune to honor and worship you with incense and offerings."

It's always wise to flatter the one in front of you. After all, my ancestors weren't immortals, and aside from the ancestral masters of Sanqing Temple, I had no one else up there to plead for me. So the more detailed and respectful I was, the better.

And sure enough, the moment I said this, the Night Patrol God's demeanor shifted. Gone was the coldness—he now smiled like a spring breeze."Ah, good nephew," he said warmly, "It's not that I didn't want to tell you… but honestly, you really overstepped this time. That golden weasel's lineage was connected to the 'Kui Wood Wolf' of the twenty-eight celestial mansions. And besides, killing must be answered with killing—it's heaven's law. I saved you once already, and yet you disobeyed."

He called me "nephew"—which meant my gamble had worked.

I quickly bowed and said, "Uncle, I had no choice. Those people were my classmates—more than twenty lives were at stake. I couldn't just let them die."

"You think I don't know they mocked and humiliated you?" he replied.

His words hit me hard. He was right. They had mocked me, scorned me. But I followed the Dao—if I stood by and watched innocents be slaughtered, could I still call myself a cultivator? Sure, if the yellow weasel had only killed the true culprits, I might've stood back. But he clearly wanted to massacre everyone. And truth be told, I did have a bit of a personal stake.

Sensing my silence, the Night Patrol God continued:"But your actions earned you the admiration of some higher powers. And then there's the Feng Shui job you did recently at the Hidden Dragon Acupoint—that gained you merit. Saving the black-furred weasel also pleased a few observers. Even your fight with that monk Yicheng impressed someone."He said this last part in a low voice.

I knew it! There was hope after all. The "some people" he mentioned must include my temple's ancestral master, Kui Wood Wolf, and… someone else I dared not name.

"Uncle," I asked quietly, "Given all that, how many years do I have left?"

He raised two fingers and said, "Two years."

I nearly collapsed. Two years?! That's it? I'm only 22—with my whole life ahead of me. I felt a wave of despair rise in my chest.

But just then, the Night Patrol God glanced around and whispered,"Someone asked me to pass you a message. You have two choices.The first—someone is willing to lend you ten more years of life. Don't worry, they'll take care of the karma. That gives you twelve years in total."

I looked up, intrigued. He continued:"But these twelve years are not ordinary. They are called Years of Blessing. During these twelve years, whatever you do will prosper. No money? Buy a lottery ticket and win. Start a business? You'll become a tycoon. Go into politics? You'll rise to the top. Whatever you pursue, you'll reach the pinnacle—wealth, power, beauty, all within reach."

It sounded… amazing. Twelve years of unimaginable success. Most people spend decades chasing glory and come up short. But I knew better. As a practitioner of the Dao, I understood that all borrowed things must be repaid. Ten years lent from heaven—there's no telling what the price might be later.

And besides, he said this was just one option—there had to be another.

"Uncle," I said cautiously, "Twelve years is nice, but it still feels a bit short. What's the second option?"

He snorted, "You little brat, always greedy."

But then he went on:"The second path—save people. Heal the living. Accumulate merit. Walk the righteous path. If you gather enough, you may become a local earth-bound immortal, and eventually ascend to the celestial registry."

Merit, in Daoist terms, refers to yin virtue. Every soul has a divine merit ledger. Good deeds are recorded. So are bad ones. The ledgers are managed by celestial officials—like the Night Patrol God himself.

I thought it through. Living gloriously for twelve years sounded tempting. But what happens afterward? Let's say I get married, have a beautiful wife, and a child still in diapers. Then I die at thirty-something. She remarries. My child calls some other man "Dad." No matter how rich or powerful I was—it would all go to waste.

And don't get me started on funerals. With cremation now the norm, I couldn't even roll over in my grave. One sip of the Underworld's Memory-Erasing Soup (孟婆汤), and it would all be gone. I'd die with deep regrets.

I made up my mind—for the sake of my future child not calling another man "Dad," I stood tall and declared:"Uncle, I choose the second path!"