This chapter includes visual illustration and cinematic scene.
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Seven days later.
Benji Kingdom. Central Prefecture. Hongshu Gate.
The mountain gate was imposing, the stone tablet suspended high above it. The three characters of Hongshu Gate were carved in an ancient, forceful hand, each stroke like a drawn blade. In days past, the Gate's disciples had moved in and out in a constant stream, their bearing proud and fierce, carrying an air of authority wherever they went in the jianghu. Now the gate was sealed shut, iron locks laid across it, every Formation activated — layer upon layer of Formation Inscription flickering across the gate's surface, though none of it could conceal the oppressive tension within.
The entire sect stood at war footing.
Disciples were arrayed in Formation around the main square, their faces drained of color, palms slick with sweat. Some of the hands gripping swords trembled slightly; some worked their throats, the sound of their swallowing audible in the silence. The air was stifling, as though an invisible weight pressed upon every chest.
Inside the central hall.
A middle-aged man in a crimson brocade robe paced back and forth. His steps were rapid, his hem sweeping the floor, fine sweat beading at his temples. This was Zhou Puan, Sect Master of Hongshu Gate.
He halted abruptly, pointing at an Elder to one side, his voice tight, "What else has been learned? Report everything."
The Elder's expression was stricken, his hands trembling slightly. "Reporting to the Sect Master — the message birds sent from within those Gates have returned with word... That person's Techniques are uncanny. He can seize a man from a distance and subdue him in an instant. Wherever he passes, gate defenses fall and Formations collapse. His mount is a colossal Ferocious Beast known as the Ink Fly. The creature's ferocity is extreme — its eyes are like great green lanterns set into well-mouths, and the sound of its wings bores straight into the mind. Mortals who behold it lose seven parts of their courage before they can act."
Zhou Puan's breath caught.
The Elder continued, "Furthermore, disciples who personally witnessed the event report that the Immortal carries a Cyan-Light Treasure Fan. A single light sweep sent three enormous whirlwinds sweeping across the mountain gate. The stone gate held no more than paper; halls collapsed; the wind scoured the earth with force enough to split stone. Zhongheng Sword School, Bili Cloud Sword Gate, Kuaishou Gang — none of them held out for even half an hour."
Zhou Puan spun around violently. "Is this certain? Is there even a single false word?"
The Elder set his jaw. "Our disciples took the risk of observing from close range with their own eyes. There is not a single false word."
Silence fell over the hall.
Zhou Puan's brow furrowed deeply, and he murmured to himself, "Could this be the Sect Master of Shu Sect, who dominated Benji Kingdom's Cultivation World five hundred years ago? The chronicles record that the sixteenth-generation Sect Master of Shu Sect was once the most outstanding figure in the Cultivation World — every Cultivator who encountered him had to yield three paces in respect. Yet that person vanished long ago... why reappear now?"
The Elder said quietly, "And yet that person appears no older than seventeen or eighteen. His appearance is unremarkable, his frame seven chi tall. At first glance, he looks no different from a young man who has come down from some mountain wilderness."
Doubt churned in Zhou Puan's eyes. "All three sects that were destroyed had pledged themselves to Shui Xingxiao. Now Hongshu Gate stands among that number as well... This calamity may be inescapable."
The Elder gave a bitter smile, "When the old Sect Master allied himself with Shui Xingxiao, he sought a supporting arm. Who would have thought that alliance would become the root of our ruin today."
Zhou Puan exhaled heavily, the tendons on the back of his hand rising. "There is nothing more to say. We can only hold the gate and pray for what fortune we may."
The words had barely left his lips.
From high above the hall outside, an ice-cold voice descended, "Pray for fortune? Laughable. You think huddling inside a hall will let you hide from Lin? Rather naive."
The voice was not large, yet it entered like a cold needle driven to the bone.
The two men inside the hall changed color at once, then exchanged a wry glance.
Zhou Puan drew a slow breath, smoothed his lapels, and spoke in a low, measured voice, "What must come will come. Let us go out."
Out in the main square.
Bluestone flags that had endured a hundred years paved the ground; stone-carved pillars ringed the perimeter. Several hundred disciples stood in Formation within — and that Formation was already fraying. Several raised their faces toward the sky; their pupils contracted sharply.
Suspended in midair above them was a colossal Ink Fly.
Its eyes shone like two spectral green lanterns, cold light swaying within them. Fangs bared, emanating a bone-deep chill. Every bristle on its body stood erect; its vast transparent wings beat steadily, the hum— they produced piercing and relentless, like needles driving into the mind.
One glance alone sent a shiver down every spine.
Atop the Ink Fly stood a young man in gray robes.
He appeared to be around seventeen or eighteen, his frame seven chi tall, his robes snapping in the wind. His features were plain, yet his eyes were cold as blades. That gaze swept down from above, encompassing the entire Gate — all several hundred of its people — within a single glance.
One person. One sect. Held under.
The weight of it pressed down, nearly bending every back beneath it.
Zhou Puan stepped forward, forcibly steadying his nerves, and called out in a clear voice, "Immortal Elder, your arrival honors Hongshu Gate. I am Zhou Puan — forgive us for failing to receive you properly. The wind beyond the hall is fierce. Will you not enter and be seated? We would be glad to fulfill our duties as hosts."
The moment those words fell —
An invisible force surged up without warning.
Zhou Puan's body left the ground; his robes billowed. The young man in gray lifted one hand in a slight guiding motion, drawing him through the air to hover before the Ink Fly.
Less than a zhang away.
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The great green eyes were close enough to fill his vision; the glint of fangs reflected in his pupils. The hum— was deafening, threatening to shatter his composure entirely. Only by clenching his last reserve of will did Zhou Puan remain upright.
His throat had gone tight, yet he forced himself to speak, "Immortal Elder, let us speak plainly. Between Immortals and mortals there is a difference in kind, and the Iron Law of the Cultivation World stands above all — Cultivators may not take the lives of ordinary mortals..."
The young man in gray laughed softly.
That laughter was cold.
He raised his finger slightly, lifting Zhou Puan another half chi, and his voice dropped low, "Iron Law? You speak to Lin of Iron Law?"
His gaze went glacial; his words came like blades, "Lin's beloved wife has already perished. And the one person who remains dear to him now — she too was destroyed by Shui Xingxiao. You speak to Lin of rules? Of inscriptions? To Lin's eyes, they are nothing but filth and ash."
Across the square, every disciple had gone white.
The young man's voice grew colder still, " All those who previously presumed upon such words to embolden themselves—Lin sent each of them a gift that was, as they say, quite the Mood Blast. Now it is Hongshu Gate's turn. There is no use in pretending innocence."
He looked out over the entire square; his gaze swept across hundreds of figures.
In that instant, every one of those several hundred disciples felt their mind pressed flat, their very breath labored.
Zhou Puan's face had gone ashen. His lips trembled. No words came.
The Ink Fly beat its wings; the hum— swelled.
The wind rose.
Zhou Puan hung suspended by invisible force, the green eyes directly before him, the hum— filling his ears, his mind on the verge of fracturing. On the knife's edge between life and death, his throat clenched — and suddenly he shouted with every ounce of strength he possessed, "Hongshu Gate is not the same as those other three sects! We are willing to submit to the Immortal Elder, to acknowledge your supremacy, to obey your every command without wavering — never a second thought!"
His voice was hoarse, yet he forced it out with everything he had.
The young man in gray's gaze shifted. An eyebrow arched slightly. "Knowing when to yield. If you can satisfy Lin, perhaps your life will be spared."
At those words, an Elder of Hongshu Gate reacted without hesitation. He wheeled around and bellowed, "What are you all standing there for? Kneel!"
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Several hundred disciples dropped to the ground as one, foreheads meeting the bluestone flags in a rolling wave of dull thuds —
"We are willing to follow the Immortal Elder's commands for all our lives, without regret!"
The voices surged across the square, carrying in them a strange note of solemn resolve.
The young man in gray looked down at the prostrate forms, his expression cold and remote as frost. The Ink Fly's great wings beat; the wind pressure swept through; every one of the several hundred disciples had their robes sent flying — yet not one dared lift their head.
He turned toward Zhou Puan, voice low, "Where is Shui Xingxiao?"
Zhou Puan swallowed, and answered rapidly, "Reporting to the Immortal Elder — Hongshu Gate's allegiance to the Hundred-Water Swordsman was sought for the sake of backing, nothing more. We were never as thoroughly bound as those three sects. His stronghold is in Kan Prefecture, in Hundred-Water City — the Hundred-Water Kiosk."
The young man's gaze went razor-sharp in an instant, cold as a naked blade, "Are these words true?"
Zhou Puan said hastily, "Every life in Hongshu Gate is held in the Immortal Elder's hands. If you gave me three times my courage, I still would not dare to speak a false word!"
A moment of silence.
The young man in gray let his fingers relax slightly. His arm shifted and Zhou Puan was lowered back down. The invisible force released him. Thud— he landed on the ground, his knees nearly buckling, but he braced himself and held upright by sheer will.
The Ink Fly erupted into motion, sweeping skyward. Its black shadow circled once above the square. The hum— was thunderous; the wind pressure drove every person in the square nearly to the ground. All several hundred of them bowed their heads, trembling, cold sweat coursing down their foreheads, not one daring to meet the creature's gaze.
From high above, the young man's voice was cold and measured, "If Hundred-Water Kiosk is indeed in Kan Prefecture, Lin will not return. If it is not — the Ink Fly has already committed your presences to memory. Flee to the ends of the earth, and you will not escape Lin's reach."
The words were calm. Yet each one struck like iron.
Zhou Puan pressed his forehead to the ground. "We would gladly serve the Immortal Elder — we would never dare flee!"
The Elders and disciples echoed together, "We swear to give our all in the Immortal Elder's service, and ask for nothing in return!"
The young man in gray gave a cold snort. The Ink Fly spread its wings; the black shadow shot forward like an arrow and vanished through the clouds.
The wind in the square gradually died.
Zhou Puan's legs gave way. He dropped heavily onto the bluestone, his brocade robe soaked through, cold sweat streaming from every pore. That encounter had lasted no longer than the burning of a single stick of incense — yet it felt as though he had passed through the gates of the underworld twice over.
The Elder stumbled to his side, voice shaking, "Sect Master... we are alive."
Zhou Puan gazed at the empty sky and gave a hollow smile. "Yes... Hongshu Gate still stands."
As those words left his mouth, they carried with them a note of desolate relief that only those who have brushed the boundary between life and death can know.
A hundred li away.
The young man in gray stood high in the open sky. Beneath his feet, the Ink Fly's massive wings churned through the air, that hum— thundering all around, the sea of clouds beaten into broken swells. His robes snapped and billowed; his gaze was cold as a blade turned toward the direction of Kan Prefecture.
He knew clearly, he was no more than a Foundation Establishment Stage Cultivator — still at the very threshold of the Cultivation World.
Yet even the weakest Foundation Establishment was an unbridgeable distance above the mortal world.
The martial world of mortals, in his eyes, was nothing but a mass of dust.
A Core Formation Stage Cultivator like Qiu Shengshui — that was a foe he could not yet match today. But the inability to match was no reason to retreat.
He closed his eyes for a moment.
When they opened again, Killing Intent lay across them like frost.
His fingers found the Fortune Pouch at his waist without thought, and drifted over it lightly. As his fingertips met that soft woven texture, his touch went suddenly gentle.
The wind howled around him. And yet his voice, when it came, was barely above a breath, "Xiang'er... Xiu'er..."
That voice held none of its earlier chill. Instead, it carried something quietly suffocated — warmth pressed beneath sorrow.
Images from the past rose and turned in his chest. The lantern-glow of the Dyehouse; the bonfire in the Ruined Temple; bamboo swaying in jade-green light; walking together through the clouds; laughter still warm at the edges of memory — all of it, now, was only silence.
His gaze grew certain again. Slowly, he gave voice to a vow, " One day—Lin Dalu will break through to the Core Formation Stage, stride into the Nascent Soul Stage, and forge onward until he reaches the Divine Transformation Stage. Every one who has stained your blood, wherever they may be, will be brought to account."
The hum— deepened.
He lifted his face toward the distance, his gaze cutting like a blade, "Hundred-Water Kiosk... Shui Xingxiao. You will not escape."
The Ink Fly spread its wings. The black shadow pierced the clouds.
A blood-stained road of vengeance stretched ahead, aimed straight at Kan Prefecture.
——(End of Previous Chapter)