When Ji Lanruo’s name came out of Li Qihua’s mouth, everyone present gasped in unison.
Most of them had heard this name before.
The Sect Leader of Xishan Sect, Ji Lanruo, was a Tribulation Transcendence Stage powerhouse and one of the peak experts in the world.
With her overwhelming strength, she had forced the Xishan Sect—a tiny sect with fewer than 100 people—to become a household name throughout Zhongzhou.
For many years, Ji Lanruo had lived in seclusion, and the reputation of the Xishan Sect mostly came from Ji Qianlin.
Ji Qianlin was a renowned Soul Transformation Stage expert at over 400 years old, and she was considered the strongest sword cultivator among the younger generation in Zhongzhou.
She was over 400 years old.
Based on seniority, one wouldn’t even know how many “greats” to add before calling her Ding Nan’s great-grandmother.
Originally, if he had been engaged to Ji Qianlin, it would have already been a headline news story that shocked all of Zhongzhou.
But now, the mother of this ancestor-level figure had come to ask him to become the ancestor’s father…
As the man at the center of it all, Ding Nan’s mind was filled with one question: ‘Why?’
Why had they sought him out?
In all his years growing up, no older woman had ever said anything to him like, “Come to Mommy’s arms, little kitten.”
How had he suddenly become “tender grass” for an old cow today?
Absurd. It was simply too absurd.
If Li Qihua weren’t a Nascent Soul Stage expert, Ding Nan would have suspected she was a charlatan looking for a free meal.
Furthermore, Ding Nan didn’t know Ji Lanruo’s actual age.
If she were nearing the end of her lifespan and looked like a white-haired old hag…
‘A pear tree pressing down on a begonia… the very thought is terrifying!’
At that thought, Ding Nan’s face turned a sickly shade of sallow yellow.
The people around him looked at Ding Nan with gazes full of pity.
Li Qihua watched the reactions of Ding Nan and the crowd, knowing exactly what was going through their minds.
The matchmaker reached into her sleeve and pulled out a scroll.
“This is an imprinted portrait. It is an image recording that Sect Leader Ji personally imprinted before I departed from the Xishan Sect.”
She held the scroll out to Ding Nan with both hands.
Despite her respectful posture, Ding Nan didn’t dare to be arrogant.
He accepted the scroll with both hands.
The paper of the scroll was as delicate as silk, the rod was a pale gold color, and the wood lacquer featured patterns like drifting clouds.
Though Ding Nan wasn’t an expert on calligraphy or painting, this scroll looked far more exquisite than the ones hanging in his home.
He unfurled the painting, and the moment he saw it, his eyes widened.
“Whoa!”
Ding Nan couldn’t help but exclaim.
The image in the scroll wasn’t a manual painting; it had been imprinted from an Image Recording Stone using magic.
Consequently, the texture was as realistic as a photograph printed by a camera.
In the portrait, green mountains were shrouded in misty rain.
A cloud-pine tree acted like an umbrella over a high cliff. Standing atop that cliff was a graceful silhouette.
She was dressed in a lilac-colored cross-collar robe and skirt.
She stood elegantly, turning her head slightly to look back.
Her eyes were like the shimmering light on a lake, and her hair was gathered in a bun pinned with a single magnolia flower.
From behind her left ear, a few drooping tresses were visible, and her long, light sideburns curled naturally at the ends.
A pair of deep red, diamond-shaped jade pendants hung from her ears, and there was a small, faint beauty mark near the corner of her lips.
Her lips were pressed together into a faint, subtle smile.
If one were to define “dignity,” this would be the image of it.
Her tender skin looked as though it would break at a touch, resembling the face of a young girl.
However, the fact that her hair was not left hanging loose meant the woman in the painting was not a maiden.
She was a wife, a mature woman, yet Ding Nan couldn’t see a single trace of time on her.
“Was this really Ji Lanruo? Or, to put it another way, was she really the mother of a 400-year-old child?”
Ding Nan felt that the person in the painting was merely a young girl who had dressed up as a mature woman because she admired that aesthetic.
He studied the image closely and finally noticed the parts that weren’t “girly”: her eyes and her figure.
Those gentle, inclusive eyes couldn’t possibly belong to a wet-behind-the-ears little girl whose brain wasn’t fully developed.
As for her figure—as a man from a modern society who had seen women in tube tops and miniskirts, Ding Nan considered his level of appreciation for breasts to be far superior to that of an average man in this era.
As everyone knew, athletic school uniforms had the function of reducing attractiveness, and women’s suits or coats had the powerful ability to flatten terrain.
A robe and skirt, especially the cross-collar variety, naturally compressed the chest.
Under such conditions, Ji Lanruo still possessed the scale of cantaloupes.
It might be a bit vulgar to say, but Ding Nan judged that nine times out of ten, her “assets” were huge—at least as large as honeydew melons.
How could that be the “strength” of a young girl?
She had the youthful face of an older sister but the mature temperament of a mother.
Ding Nan had to admit that this woman was incredibly attractive to him; he happened to like smart, beautiful women.
Even though he knew the age gap between them was at least 400 years, Ding Nan suddenly felt that marrying such a woman wouldn’t be bad at all.
For a moment, he couldn’t help himself.
Famous phrases started racing through his mind, things like: ‘When young, one doesn’t know the value of a rich woman, mistakenly treating a loli like a treasure,’ ‘Cao Cao’s spirit can never be killed,’ ‘Madam, I like you,’ and ‘I can’t let her remain a widow any longer.‘
‘A married woman is just fine. Married women have their own ways to play. This is what your heart is screaming,’ a narration sounded in Ding Nan’s head as if he were possessed by evil thoughts.
“What do you think?”
Li Qihua looked at Ding Nan’s raised eyebrows and spoke as if adding fuel to a fire.
“Uh…”
Ding Nan’s train of thought was interrupted.
His gaze fell upon the purple hair in the painting.
Another woman flashed through Ding Nan’s mind.
“A full moon. A rooftop. A black-haired girl shrouded in the hazy light.”
She had been dressed in black with a gourd at her right waist and a long sword at her left.
Her black hair was thick, tied into a high ponytail that fell like a waterfall, while the hair reaching her waist was gathered with a red string.
Above her piercing gaze were a pair of lively, upturned brows, and while the corners of her eyes were slightly tilted, there was no hint of coquettishness.
Her lips were pink and moist, her teeth were straight and white, and she had a beauty mark under her left eye.
When she smiled, she looked heroic and confident.
That was Ji Qianlin, the leader of the 3,000-man recruitment team from Nanyang Academy.
Looking closely at the painting and comparing it to his memories, Ji Qianlin’s eyes and brows were indeed very similar to Ji Lanruo’s.
Furthermore, both of them had beauty marks on their faces.
“Why is her hair purple?”
Ding Nan asked.
Was it some kind of cultivation technique or a special constitution?
“Oh, she dyed it.”
“Huh?” Ding Nan was stunned.
‘They have hair-dyeing technology here too?’
“I’m not sure why either. I just heard her say something like… uh, purple is very sophisticated?”
‘She’s just my sister, but my sister says purple is very sophisticated?’
Ding Nan’s heart skipped a beat. He thought to himself, ‘Such an old meme is crawling out? Is there a transmigrator senior here? She couldn’t be a transmigrator, could she?’
Thinking about it seriously, Ji Lanruo probably wasn’t.
Unless a transmigrator’s memory had been wiped, even if they were beaten down by traditional etiquette, their behavior and speech would still carry a bit of “frivolity” once they were out of control—just as someone who has been away from home for years still prefers the taste of their hometown.
Besides, purple really was very sophisticated.
Ji Lanruo’s reserved and dignified temperament—that “sophistication”—wasn’t something even an award-winning actress could fake without experience.
Ding Nan hurriedly collected his thoughts and looked up to ask Li Qihua, “Senior, may I ask how old Sect Leader Ji is?”
“Roughly 461 years old. She is exactly in the peach and plum years of her youth,” Li Qihua said.