Chapter 45: The Pheasant's Journey

“What are you still standing there for? Hurry up and follow me!” Xing Hua strode out of the room, growing anxious as he saw Qin Chuan still questioning Zhu Ran. Qin Chuan had wanted to ascertain Zhang Huai’s whereabouts, but only managed to glean a rough area. Seeing time was tight, he slapped his storage pouch, grabbed its contents, and handed them to Zhu Ran with a brief word of instruction before striding after Xing Hua.

Curiosity gnawed at him—how exactly did Xing Hua intend to send him on his way?

The art of flying with objects could only be learned after reaching the Post-Heaven realm; otherwise, it was a wasted effort. Qin Chuan had been on the immortal path long enough to know this well.

The two found an open space. Xing Hua produced a feather from his robes, roughly two or three inches long, clearly plucked from a bird. What struck one as odd was its ashen dullness, as if it had gathered dust from disuse. Only a few white filaments remained, and Xing Hua winced at the sight. Nevertheless, stealing a glance at Qin Chuan, he steeled himself.

Still, he strove to maintain an air of nonchalance. “Do you know that in this world, there is a divine bird called the phoenix?”

“It is said the phoenix is descended from the Ying Dragon, born with wings and the ability to soar. In terms of flight, it far outstrips even the most accomplished elders of the cultivation world.”

“And this feather I hold is from the brow of the first phoenix ancestor, imbued with power that can pierce the heavens and earth! Step back two paces—should I lose focus while casting the spell, I wouldn’t want harm to befall you.”

With that, he gently pinched a white filament between his fingers, tracing runes in the air. Gradually, a haze of clouds gathered around the feather, as if an auspicious bird truly soared among the nine heavens.

Onlookers atop Qingyang Mountain grew curious, craning to watch Xing Hua’s display.

Muttering an incantation, Xing Hua finally let out a shout—not the urgent tones of a spell’s command, but instead, “Phoenix, return to your place!”

With his last word, the white feather seemed to awaken mysterious powers. Wisps of red, yellow, blue, purple, and white intertwined, finally coalescing into a multicolored egg resting on the ground.

In moments, the egg began to tremble, as though something inside sought to break free. Qin Chuan, recalling his childhood dreams of seeing a phoenix, watched in anticipation. But as the egg cracked, a strange hue slipped through the fissure, drawing everyone’s gaze.

The onlookers were stunned, as was Qin Chuan. Even Xing Hua looked embarrassed, for the divine bird they had all imagined turned out to be nothing but a mountain pheasant!

Suddenly, Qin Chuan’s expression turned odd. The crowd quickly lost interest, sighing in disappointment and dispersing to their own affairs.

Xing Hua coughed awkwardly, disgruntled. This treasure he had obtained in his youth—each time he plucked a feather, it was one less in his possession. At this rate, two more uses and it would be spent.

The pheasant’s speed, while no longer matching his own, would surely be swifter than Qin Chuan’s. With no time to lament his loss or embarrassment, Xing Hua mounted the pheasant in a single bound. The bird was far larger than any ordinary fowl, easily accommodating two or three riders.

“Hurry up! If you miss the appointed time, you won’t get into the Wind-listening Domain!”

Qin Chuan wasted no time, leaping up and settling cross-legged on the bird’s back.

Once Qin Chuan sat in meditation, Xing Hua, knowing he was gathering his strength, said no more. With a wave of his right hand, the pheasant shook its five-colored tail, let out a clear cry, flapped its short wings, and dashed down the mountain.

The Wind-listening Domain lay at the furthest northern edge of the Qing Mountain Sect, though its location was exceedingly secretive. It bordered the outer rim of a great celestial secret realm—indeed, the entire Qing Mountain region was but this secret realm’s periphery. The dangers within defied description, and it was unclear what arrangements the sect had made for this opening.

Though deep in meditation, Qin Chuan remained aware of his surroundings. Under Xing Hua’s guidance, the pheasant suddenly veered, bypassing Jiawen Mountain—a landmark all travelers would ordinarily pass. The steward there was Wen Yuan, whom both men knew well. Curiously, Xing Hua preferred a longer detour over the most direct route.

Reflecting, Qin Chuan realized he hadn’t seen Wen Yuan during either of his recent returns to Qingyang, but with little time to dwell, he focused on nurturing his soul, which had sustained some damage.

Time flew by. If Qin Chuan had traveled alone from Qingyang to the domain, sparing no spirit stones or pills, he might have made it in half a day, though he would have arrived utterly spent. The pheasant, however, required only a single replenishment of spiritual energy from Xing Hua, and raced ahead at astonishing speed.

They arrived near the domain with time to spare. Qin Chuan, meditating to heal his soul with the Profound Breath Dust Technique, found that while his spirit was nearly fully restored, the last trace of damage remained stubbornly unresolved—likely only time or some rare elixir could cure it. Regretful but resigned, he stood and gazed ahead.

They were descending a mountainside when he saw, sprawled across the plain, an immense city.

Unlike ordinary cities, its walls were not square or round, but a perfect octagon, like a bagua linking heaven and earth. The center teemed with throngs of people and closely packed houses; the rest was shrouded in formation-induced mist.

Qin Chuan’s brow furrowed. The walls were imposing, as if guarding a vital strategic point. Yet north of here lay only perilous wilds, while the sect lay to the south. Why the need for such fortifications? And if this was a military post, why fill it with so many mortals? Indeed, all visible inhabitants were ordinary people.

Xing Hua, seemingly familiar with the place, sighed. “Poor souls...”

“Our destination lies beyond this Mirage Abyss City. Remember: unless absolutely necessary, do not approach it. Death awaits the unwary.”

Seeing Xing Hua’s grave face, Qin Chuan firmly stifled his curiosity.

Xing Hua pressed his palms together, sending a wave of spiritual energy into the pheasant. With a sharp cry, the bird surged forward, skirting wide around Mirage Abyss City.

At the domain’s threshold, many people had already gathered in loose clusters. At the center, a three-legged cauldron floated three feet above the ground, grey vapors curling into it, radiating potent spiritual energy.

Most assembled were disciples Qin Chuan’s age, though some middle-aged Daoists were present. As they eyed the newcomers and their pheasant, their faces remained neutral, but a hint of disdain flickered in their gaze.

These were all inner disciples—whose masters were at least Foundation Establishment cultivators—far above Xing Hua’s own standing.

“I recall that over a decade ago, a lucky outer disciple came by a Wind-listening Token. That must be him.”

“Indeed. Such a token is so rare there should be only one in a thousand years...”

Ignoring the whispers, the pair bowed to the official in charge.

“Disciple Qin Chuan, unfamiliar with the rules, nearly missed the hour and delayed the elders and fellow disciples. Please punish me.”

The official wore the grey Daoist robe reserved for elders, his cultivation unfathomably deep—even Qin Chuan sensed it clearly. As soon as Qin Chuan finished speaking, the elder opened his eyes, ancient and weary. For a moment, a vision flashed through Qin Chuan’s mind: a solitary stone stele standing in the wilderness for millennia.

This elder’s cultivation was far beyond any steward’s. If he bore killing intent, Qin Chuan would not survive even a blink.

He bowed even lower, his respect absolute.

The old man’s gaze swept over them, seeming to pierce their very souls. “No matter. Stand up.” Only then did he withdraw his gaze.

“The appointed time is still half an hour away. On your own, you could never have kept us waiting.”

Relieved, Qin Chuan realized this elder was not one of those eccentrics of legend. Since there was no delay, Xing Hua whispered a few parting words in his ear—mostly trivial advice—then bowed to the elder again and departed.

Half an hour passed swiftly. Qin Chuan reviewed his knowledge, adjusted his breath, and observed the others.

As the time drew near, a timid-looking girl stepped from the crowd, clutching her sleeve, and walked toward Qin Chuan. He was puzzled—why, just as the portal was about to open, had he become the focus of attention? As she approached, he noticed several others frowning.

He understood then: the disciples here seemed to be split into three factions. To the left of the portal, three stood together; the girl’s group, four in all, was closest to the portal; on the right, two more.

The three on the left were all short, the leader especially so—barely reaching Qin Chuan’s chest, with an unremarkable face. None wore Daoist robes or inner disciple uniforms, instead dressed in black long tunics, the leader holding a folded paper fan.

They looked less like cultivators and more like young gentry.

The two on the right were of average build, but their faces were odd. One had a soft, childlike face, looking no older than seven or eight, but with the stature of a twenty-year-old—an uncanny sight.