At the third quarter past noon, the Ghost Ship set sail.
The hull rose and fell with the sea. Each roll sent the crates and burlap sacks in the hold grinding into one another, producing a dull, rhythmic thump—thump, slow and heavy, like the heartbeat of some enormous creature.
Ji Bokchuan leaned against the corner of the cargo hold, eyes closed, breath long and controlled.
But he was anything but relaxed.
Every sense stretched outward like a spider's web, catching fragments of life from the deck above—
Boots creaking across planks.
Short, clipped commands.
Canvas snapping violently as sails filled.
Muted conversations, spoken low, as if the sea itself were listening.
"…Heading east by south, thirty degrees. Full sail."
"Wind's weak, boss. At this speed, we won't reach the anchor point before dark."
"Then we sail through the night," the leader replied coldly. "The safe window in the Storm Belt lasts three days, no more. Miss it, and we drift another month waiting for the next opening."
"But boss—雷鳗, thunder eels. They follow lightning at night—"
"Better thunder eels than wasted time!" The leader cut him off. "Tell Old Ghost to keep his eyes glued to the compass. If that needle drifts even half a degree, I'll gouge his eyes out and use them as bearings."
Footsteps faded.
Ji Bokchuan slowly opened his eyes.
In the dim light of the hold, he spread his palm. Three thin scars crossed his skin, already scabbed over, faintly red at the edges—souvenirs from the invisible wind blades guarding the Wind-Singing Bamboo.
A thought stirred.
Pure spiritual energy flowed through his hand like cool water.
A faint itch followed. Warmth. The flesh tightened and knit together.
The Heart-Refining Art had reached the stage where it began nourishing the body as a byproduct. Nothing miraculous—no regrowing limbs—but steady, reliable healing for ordinary wounds.
The internal injury in his chest, left behind by the Azure Feather Pavilion's arrow wind, had eased as well. Deep breaths no longer burned like hot needles. That was thanks to the Dao-pattern sigil embedded in his core, constantly optimizing energy circulation, squeezing every possible benefit from his pills and bloodflow.
Still—
The real danger hung overhead.
The Karmic Mark of the Nether Illusion Palace pulsed in his awareness.
63%.
Slow. Steady. Rising.
Like a tightening noose.
The disguise talisman would last less than two hours.
Once it faded, his true appearance and aura would flare into the open. The karmic mark's signal would burn like a beacon in the dark.
He needed an answer—fast.
His gaze drifted to the towering stacks of wooden crates.
Maybe… there's something here.
He moved soundlessly.
One crate. Ordinary iron nails. No lock, but sealed tight.
Ji Bokchuan drew his short blade and slid the leaf-thin tip into the seam. Slow pressure. Patient leverage.
Creeeak…
He froze.
Held his breath.
Only wind and waves above.
He continued.
After nearly half an incense-stick's time, a nail loosened with a soft pop. The lid lifted slightly.
Metallic tang. Faint fire-aspected energy.
Inside: dark ore, veined with blood-red lines like arteries.
The World Record responded instantly:
[Blood-Vein Iron Ore — Mid-grade, Fire-Demonic origin. Used in blood-aspected artifacts and certain pills. Contains weak baleful energy. Prolonged contact destabilizes the mind.]
Useless to him.
The second crate held dried purple vines, twisted like sleeping serpents.
[Serpent-Pattern Vine — Common toxic plant. Ingredient for hallucinogens and corrosive poisons.]
The third was heavier.
Broken weapons. Shattered shields. Cracked talismans. A graveyard of discarded tools—loot stripped from some forgotten battlefield.
He sifted carefully.
Most were dead metal.
Then his fingers brushed something warm.
A fragment of jade.
Only a third of a pendant remained, torn apart by brute force. The jade itself was pristine—sheep-fat white, still luminous.
At its center, amid cloud patterns, was a single character, sharp and commanding:
玄
Xuan.
The emblem of Heavenly Vault Sword Pavilion.
Ji Bokchuan's pulse spiked.
This was no ordinary disciple's token.
Why would such an identity seal be shattered—almost erased—and end up on a smuggler ship?
Unless…
This ship dealt in more than contraband.
Murder. Robbery. Erasure.
The thought was ice-cold.
A metallic scrape sounded at the door.
Key. Lock.
Ji Bokchuan reacted instantly—jade fragment vanished into his clothing, crate resealed, body rolling back into shadow. Eyes closed. Breath even.
Click.
The door opened.
Not the leader.
A young crewman entered, pale and thin, carrying a wooden food box.
He hesitated when he saw Ji Bokchuan "asleep," then set the box down.
"Boss says eat," he said flatly. "Afterward, you're on deck."
Ji Bokchuan "woke," thanked him quietly.
Soup. Hard bread. Crude—but warm.
The crewman didn't leave.
His gaze fixed on Ji Bokchuan's right hand.
The calluses.
"Those aren't a fisherman's hands," he said suddenly.
Ji Bokchuan tore bread calmly. "They are."
"You don't get knuckles like that pulling nets. That's ten years gripping blades."
Ji Bokchuan sighed. "Escort work. Long ago. Caravan life died. Took to the sea."
The crewman smiled thinly. "First voyage, shipwreck, and you drift into Spiritwind Cliff—Azure Feather Pavilion territory? Bad luck."
Meaningful silence.
"What do you want to say?" Ji Bokchuan asked.
The crewman leaned closer, voice barely breath.
"Whatever you are—play dumb. Boss sending you to Thunder God Ruins isn't mercy. It's a test stone."
"Why warn me?"
"…Too many die lately," the man whispered. "This ship feels cold at night."
He left.
Ji Bokchuan ate slowly.
The Ghost Ship wasn't just dangerous—it was desperate.
By dusk, he stood on deck.
The storm wall loomed ahead.
Black clouds towered like a living thing. Lightning writhed inside, purple-white veins splitting the sky.
"The gap," the leader said. "You go first. Land. Light the signal."
A suicide scout.
Ji Bokchuan nodded.
Night fell.
The small boat was cut loose.
He triggered the lightning ward.
Then the speed talisman.
The skiff shot forward—
And as it plunged toward the storm gap—
The jade at his chest burned.
The World Record screamed warnings in blood-red text:
[CRITICAL — Extreme Lightning Dao Resonance Detected]
[Resonance with Dao-Spirit Jade confirmed]
[Instability risk: UNMEASURABLE]
Too late.
The skiff vanished into light.
Thunder swallowed the world.
Gou Dao Maxim
When sailing through thunder, keep one eye on the path—
and one eye on the sky.
The first finds survival.
The second decides how you get struck.