A once-prodigy who had been a zither cultivator was struck to dust by lightning while undergoing a tribulation. He lay dead at the bottom of a cliff for three hundred years, year after year hoping a successor would descend, but all they had were sword cultivators! Three hundred years! Not even a cotton-fluffing sitter! Until one day, a handsome, long-haired man who was being hunted fell down. The genius was ecstatic: "Such aura! Such good looks! He's definitely one of our zither cultivators!" But then he was told: "You're a sword cultivator?!"