He is the 137th generation descendant of Qingyun Sect.
The sect had been inherited for nearly ten thousand years, but when it came into his hands, there was only a leaky main hall, two side rooms that were about to collapse, and three acres of spiritual fields in the back hill that were almost withered. The glory of the three thousand disciples in its heyday can only be found in the ancestral history he memorized since childhood.
What he practices is the most orthodox "Qigong".
Get up at Yin o'clock every day, first worship the portraits of the ancestors of all generations, and then sit cross-legged on the futon and breathe for two hours. He practiced this set of exercises for twenty-three years without stopping for a day. As for the effect... It's barely in the middle of the pack among fellow monks. But he firmly believes that this is the embodiment of the righteousness, peace, and accumulation in the practice.
He is the only descendant of the sect and the only leader.
Therefore, he concurrently serves as the administrator of the Sutra Pavilion, the cultivator of the spiritual field, the cleaner of the main hall, the external liaison officer, and - as he has named himself - the guardian of the Qingyun Sect's orthodoxy. His daily routine is to put on his only unpatched Taoist robe after dealing with the pests in the spiritual field, sit upright at the head position, and study the classics that he can recite by heart.
He had nothing else.
Except for this mountain, this ruined palace, these books, and the rules and beliefs that have been deeply rooted in my bones for twenty-three years. Until that day, the payment from the Righteous Alliance was delivered to the mountain gate, until a group of weird creatures calling themselves "players" emerged from a failed summoning of forbidden arts.
An orthodox little leader who adheres to orthodoxy × a group of lawless fourth natural disasters.
His nemesis is here.
