Chapter 49: Recklessly Gazing Across the Sea

Fine threads of rune light shimmered around Wantong’s eyes, suffusing her black pupils with a silvery glow. Transparent talismans adhered to each temple, slowly burning away into colorless smoke that drifted into nothingness.

These were two Bright Sight Talismans, a miscellaneous auxiliary artifact that heightened visual acuity to its utmost. Qin Chuan, possessing a unique advantage within this domain, had detected the situation ahead through the resonance of energies—though only in a vague manner.

Fang Mu and his companions suspected nothing amiss. He was about to produce the Concealment Pills for the group when he suddenly recalled they had already taken them. His expression turned odd; he cast a sidelong glance at the calm and collected Qin Chuan, inwardly grumbling about luck—like a blind cat stumbling upon a dead rat.

He and Wantong had grown up together in the Green Mountain Sect—childhood friends, almost inseparable—and his secret admiration had slowly turned to rivalry when Qin Chuan began to outshine him.

“We must be careful not to let these people discover us,” Wantong warned. She was the most accomplished cultivator among them, always the leader, and the others deferred to her.

They had worked together for a long time; usually, such reminders were unnecessary, their teamwork seamless. But today, caution was heightened, for fear Qin Chuan might become a liability.

They stood in a mountain hollow; two steps ahead lay a valley. Towering cliffs rose on either side, pressing the dim sky into a narrow strip.

Already shrouded in darkness, this realm grew even more ominous and damp as they ventured deeper.

“This place is called Sky-Splitting Gorge, the most perilous of all. Watch your step—do not tread upon the grass. The shadow serpents lurking there bite at the ankles; the pain is imperceptible, yet their venom is deadly. By the time you realize it, not even the highest immortal could save you!”

Cold sweat trickled down their necks; the valley’s chill seeped up their spines, reaching their skulls. Teeth clenched, faces solemn.

Wantong whispered at their ears, and before they realized it, all had witnessed the scene ahead.

Three small figures stood with their backs to them. The Concealment Pills would last a while longer, so they wouldn’t be discovered immediately.

Aside from the grassland, the valley was barren save for a large rock just ahead to the left. The group crept low, moving along the blind spot in their line of sight.

The gray stone was just the right size to shield their bodies; beneath it lay crushed grass, and the wind carried a faint grassy scent to their noses, barely perceptible.

Yet Qin Chuan frowned slightly, sensing something amiss. Unlike the others, he did not hide behind the stone but instead stayed two yards away, crouched in the grass, keeping his head low.

Ordinary people would never dare do as Qin Chuan did, for the area teemed with insects and serpents, impossible to drive away by normal means.

Suddenly, a strange brilliance appeared in Qin Chuan’s eyes—like overlapping whites—and in the perception of the creatures around him, the area seemed empty, nothing but ordinary shadowed air.

At that moment, the voices of Shanglu and his two companions echoed from afar.

Their words resonated between the cliffs, fluctuating in strength, but the group’s sharpened senses caught most of the conversation.

“Shangqi, quickly deal with Kongqing and the other one. Wantong’s group will arrive soon, and the master’s thousand-year scheme must not be ruined by these minor characters!”

Shanglu’s companion, Shangqi, was half a head taller, dressed in black like himself, but held not a paper fan, but a pitch-black wooden cup.

The cup was unremarkable, so gloomy that even mortals would refuse to use it for tea.

“Brother Lu, don’t be impatient. Let Xiao Ba set the barrier behind, and with the ancestral secret techniques, we should be able to trap them for some time.”

Shangba spoke then—the youngest, yet his voice was the heaviest and raspiest. “That’s not wise. If they enter the barrier, they’ll be on guard. When we actually try to kill them, it’ll be much harder.”

He paused, then continued, “After all, our true purpose is…”

But as he spoke, the wind snatched his words, making them indistinct. Those hiding behind the stone strained to catch this crucial information.

The surrounding winds howled, like crows’ wails or the clatter of iron chains, but Shangba’s raspy voice eluded them.

After a while, confusion set in—why had things gone quiet? They slowly raised their heads to look toward the three figures.

Suddenly, a ghastly pale face pressed close to their noses, staring at them with dead, wide eyes!

A cry burst out; they jumped back a few steps, clutching their magical treasures, hearts pounding.

Recovering from the shock, they saw Shangqi holding his wooden cup, smiling at them. The ghostly face had emerged from the cup itself.

It was neither human nor true ghost, both corporeal and ethereal. It bent the grass as it walked, yet could peer out from the crack in the cup.

“Delicious terror! Ghost Seven can feast again!” The face belonged to Shangqi’s pet, nurtured by secret arts and named Ghost Seven.

Its hollow eyes suddenly gained a spark of spirit; it opened its mouth and inhaled.

The faces of the group instantly paled. Fang Mu, the weakest after Qin Chuan, screamed as foul black blood gushed from his eyes, ears, nose, and mouth!

“Quick, take the Mind-Calming Pill!”

Wantong instinctively bit her tongue, holding a shred of clarity in her mind. She raised her talisman sword and slashed between the two groups.

With that slash, the subtle connections—the hidden threads between them—were severed.

Shanglu stepped forward, gazing at the half-dead Fang Mu and the ashen faces of the others, and applauded softly.

“Worthy indeed of the Talisman Mountain’s pride. Senior Sister Wantong, you broke my brother’s little trick so quickly—I’m impressed!”

Shangqi glanced at Ghost Seven’s fading form, feeling the loss keenly. This creature was his painstakingly acquired exotic pet in these lands, even worthy of the ‘Seven’ name—a sign of its value.

The Shang family’s influence in the sect was limited, for their secret arts were suited only for the shadowed domain.

The domain rarely opened, so many of the Shang clan had no chance to seek fortune here and gradually fell into obscurity.

“Return, return!” Shangqi whispered in a tongue none of Wantong’s group could understand. He bit his finger, letting a drop of spirit blood fall into the cup, luring Ghost Seven back.

Yet Ghost Seven, with a human-like expression of struggle, continued to gaze at the grassland two yards behind the stone, as if waiting for something.

Suddenly, a gray thread landed between its brows. It stopped trembling, its expression firmed, and it was slowly drawn back into the wooden cup.

Shangqi was delighted rather than alarmed; his secret arts relied heavily on his pets for combat strength. Ghost Seven’s struggle had not escaped his notice—its human-like expressions set it apart from all previous creatures.

He had only caught Ghost Seven by chance the day before; such a creature was absent from all records, likely a newly evolved species.

Thus, he knew little of Ghost Seven’s habits. Had he known more, he might have noticed the anomaly.

“So you three are the traitors!” Wantong realized her side had been caught off guard and was at a disadvantage, so she tried to stall for time, hoping to recover.

Whether from confidence or calculation, Shanglu did not press his advantage, instead relaxing his guard.

“Oh? I’ve long known the sect was targeting the Shang clan, but I never expected ‘traitor’ would be the charge.” His words were tinged with regret, his eyes a little hazy, shimmering with unshed tears.

Wantong had expected ridicule or silence, maybe malice, but not such an expression.

“The sect is just, unwilling to destroy or wrongly kill—it is righteous indeed. If you three turn back now, there’s still time!” Wantong knew surrender was unlikely, but still tried her utmost.

Shanglu was silent for a moment, his eyes conflicted, but thoughts of his parents and kin brought anguish to his face. “Ah, such righteousness! Listen to the fate of the Shang clan!”

His voice quivered, then steadied, as if recounting a story not his own.

The Wasteland Province was once whole, until, in ancient times, a cataclysm shattered it. The details were unknown to minor figures like himself.

The southern Wilds and eastern Sea of Hope were separated by the Xiangliu Marsh. After countless wars, the myriad kingdoms, sects, and clans of the Wilds were formed.

The Shang clan’s ancestors survived by luck and the advantage of terrain. Then, a riot broke out in Xiangliu Marsh; monsters and evil cultivators appeared near the ancestral land.

Perhaps the evil cultivators knew the Wilds were in chaos and, while the cultivation world was still reeling, attacked the Green Mountain region.

The ancestors had cultivated in Green Mountain for ages; outside, they might have been outmatched, but with the home advantage, they suppressed thousands of evil cultivators and monsters.

In the end, the ancestors sacrificed themselves to send the few remaining clan members out and spread word of the invasion.

When the evil forces broke free, the combined armies of the Wilds fought them here—on this very land.

The Shang clan, long removed from worldly affairs, were pure-hearted and focused only on resisting the enemy, pouring all their strength into the battle. Their secret arts caught the eyes of others.

When the cunning rabbit dies, the hunting dog is cooked; when the birds are gone, the bow is stowed—so it goes.

After the war, the Shang clan finally found peace. The patriarch had fallen, but such was fate, and none could be blamed.