Chapter 52: Turmoil Across the Realms

A group of five walked in silence, their expressions grave. The lingering ripples of a powerful formation still hung in the air, evidence that not long ago, a formidable array had been unleashed here—one even more potent than the Shadow of the Northwind Tower.

Scanning the scene, Da Yaoli took a deep breath. “This appears to be an illusionary killing array. I wonder where Shang Ba acquired such profound mastery over formations and restrictions.”

“The two from Azure Sky are likely already gone,” another added.

An illusionary killing array melds deceptive illusions with lethal traps. The valley was shrouded in gloom, and the lack of disturbance was unsurprising given the circumstances.

The four surveyed the carnage. Seeing no sign of life from the two on the ground, they shook their heads, preparing to leave. But just then, Qin Chuan stepped forward, intent on examining the two figures lying on the earth.

A flicker of surprise shone in Wan Tong’s eyes. She hadn’t expected the cautious, almost timid man she remembered to suddenly take such a risk. “Qin Chuan, be careful of the lingering force in the formation!” she called, seeing it was too late to intervene.

“He’s still alive!”

Qin Chuan knelt and dug one of the supposed Azure Sky men from the rubble, formed a hand seal, and unleashed the Water of Gui technique, channeling a cleansing stream over the body.

Fang Mu, watching from behind, couldn’t hide his astonishment. “You’re an alchemist?”

“A mere dabbler,” Qin Chuan replied.

The others said no more, simply watching Qin Chuan at work—though what he unearthed was more a charred stump than a man.

As the spring water surged from his sleeve, washing away the blackened residue, it became clear that this was no human form.

Marveling inwardly at the mysterious technique, Qin Chuan alone could perceive its subtleties, especially aided by the Yin Wind’s guidance.

His gaze burned with interest. Perhaps it was a quirk he’d picked up in Crooked Jujube Village, but Qin Chuan had always been unable to abide someone else's good fortune. Whenever he saw an unusual secret art, he would find a way—if only by observing from the shadows—to glean its essence.

These fine, web-like strands cocooning the body—was this not a secret technique itself?

“Senior Sister, may I borrow your talisman sword?” He realized he lacked a suitable tool and turned to Wan Tong.

Her eyes flickered, but she nodded and stepped forward, presenting the sword with both hands.

Among qi refining disciples, many would draw their treasures preemptively before battle, for without spiritual sense, their storage pouches required an inscribed formation to function. This extra step could cost precious moments—sometimes, not fast enough to avoid death.

Qin Chuan received the sword with both hands, inwardly praising its quality. With a flick of his left hand, he tapped the blade’s tip.

A clear note rang out, crisp and distant, like a zither beneath the moon.

Fang Mu looked displeased; when Qin Chuan had taken the sword, he’d inadvertently brushed Wan Tong’s slender fingers, and now he was playing the part—how irritating…

Wan Tong, on the other hand, was surprised. Her gaze wandered, and she couldn’t help but ask, “You understand the sword?”

“A small talent, nothing more,” Qin Chuan answered lightly.

The talisman sword moved with extraordinary grace in his hands, as if plucked by a maiden on a lute, painting a landscape with each motion. The four around him were entranced, their eyes growing hazy with wonder.

It was as if, within those mountains and waters, there was a hidden retreat, shrouded in mist, blue flowers and white streams entwined forever.

Qin Chuan felt a twinge of dismay. The influence of Sword Manor lingered in his movements, causing the tangled sword-intent to spill forth uncontrollably, resulting in this spectacle.

The sky, long devoid of thunder, was filled with nothing but the patter of rain—until, in a sudden burst, thunder rolled, as if in exuberant celebration.

Without further hesitation, trusting his instincts, he brought the sword down on the charred stump!

A butterfly must break its own cocoon, but Qin Chuan intervened, not to let the shell break naturally. The hard, black exterior finally gave way, revealing pale, web-like silk beneath, layered and dense.

Before the others could react, he slapped his storage pouch, whisking the cocoon away.

Had Wan Tong activated her secret technique earlier, she would have noticed that, with Qin Chuan’s stroke, those ethereal threads were severed by a force beyond comprehension.

With the outer strands removed, the withered Azure Sky figure was revealed.

His face, once that of a boy of seven or eight, now appeared wizened, as if in his forties or fifties. Slowly, he opened his eyes, scanning the group—his gaze briefly wary as it lingered on Qin Chuan, though the flicker went unnoticed.

“Where am I?” he murmured in confusion, but suddenly cried out in sorrow. “Brother! Forgive me!”

He collapsed onto the nearby withered corpse, grieving bitterly. His sobs echoed through the valley, mingling with the wind and rain, rising and falling like laughter and wailing intertwined.

His body shook uncontrollably, tears and snot streaming into his mouth, though he was oblivious.

“Brother Kong…”

Those behind could not help but feel a surge of sorrow. Qin Chuan’s heart was unsettled.

He had grown accustomed to life and death, believing he would remain detached when faced with it—yet now, some chord was struck within him. Were human joys and sorrows truly shared? He felt more uncertain than ever.

Before he could resolve his feelings, Kong Qing stood, dug a shallow grave, and buried his brother’s remains with a mound of earth. After a moment’s silence, he turned back to the group.

Reading the questions in their eyes, he began to explain.

“My Kong family was once a branch of the Shang clan. Long ago, the fourth patriarch bestowed upon us the surname ‘Kong,’ allowing us to break away.

Because of this, the Kong family was entrusted with a great responsibility: to serve as a check on the Shang clan. Over time, we inadvertently discovered one of the Shang family’s deepest secrets—one that concerns the realm itself.

But when the cunning hare is dead, the hound is cooked. My ancestors knew this well, so we kept much from the sect. Though the Kong family never prospered, our bloodline endures—that is enough.

But recently, Shang Lu came to me. He claimed the Shang bloodline was fading; if it weakened further, their family would face extinction. If the Shang clan fell, the Kong family, having lost its purpose, would be purged by the sect as well.

Left with no choice, I agreed to his request.

Shang Lu lured me with talk of a treasure within the realm, a place where one could increase cultivation and break through to the postnatal stage. But he said it required both families to unite against a common foe.

Yet before we even glimpsed this treasure, Shang Lu laid a formation on the road and trapped us, intending to kill us both.

When death was imminent, he revealed the truth: his real purpose was that hidden secret.

But he hadn’t counted on the fact that my brother and I had cultivated the Rebirth Technique, which could sustain one life at the cost of the other’s sacrifice. Thus, my brother gave his life to save me.”

As he finished, Kong Qing lifted his head, hatred burning in his eyes, inky and spreading like dye on rice paper. “I will find that place and slaughter them all!”

Qin Chuan’s face remained composed, but his suspicions only deepened. Something still seemed amiss.

Meanwhile, Wan Tong and the others felt immense relief—were it not for Qin Chuan’s attention, Kong Qing’s survival and these vital secrets would have gone unnoticed. They were now certain that Shang Lu was the sect’s traitor, though the tale was tangled indeed.

From a party of five, they now numbered six with Kong Qing’s addition.

They did not depart immediately, instead seeking shelter in a mountain cave. Channeling spiritual energy into the Wind Listener’s Talisman, a warm glow spread, forming a protective barrier around them.

Those who needed healing did so; others rested.

Only Qin Chuan sat with the talisman in hand, his mind turning over every detail.

From the very beginning, there seemed to be holes in the narrative—what had he overlooked? But now, caught up in the game, it was even harder to see the truth.

A sudden flash of insight lit his mind. Glancing at the others in the cave, his gaze shifted once more.

Unnoticed, the long night passed amid unceasing rain.

When Qin Chuan opened his eyes again, clarity filled his gaze. The others, too, awoke in turn. After a quick preparation, they set out under Kong Qing’s guidance.

The so-called Xuanchen Grass was merely a pretext set by the sect; its true purpose lay elsewhere. Of course, finding the grass would be a boon, but it was not their main concern.

The reason the Wind Listener’s Domain was designated as a legacy ground by the sect was because within its bounds lay countless inheritances—no fewer than a thousand.

Ten thousand years ago, this was a battlefield, the war raging for decades, even a century. Countless righteous and demonic cultivators, facing death, left behind their legacies in hopes of making a mark on the world.

Over the millennia, disciples of Green Mountain had explored and claimed many inheritances, but it was estimated there were still a thousand left!

What Qin Chuan did not know was that the Thunder-Pressing Viper Sword had once been retrieved from such a legacy by a predecessor a thousand years ago.

Leaving Split-Sky Valley behind, the group pressed deeper into the realm.

As they hurried on, the vegetation thinned. Gray and withered grains of earth appeared, as if the spiritual energy of this land had been gradually drained away, leaving the soil to sand.

“This realm is far from as simple as it appears. Shang Lu’s destination is a legacy site—he acted first to stop our interference.”

“But in the end, he underestimated us…”

Kong Qing’s words were cut short as a sudden beam of light shot up ahead, transforming in a blink into a pillar that connected heaven and earth.

Ripples radiated from the pillar, becoming an overwhelming pressure, like a taut string snapped, a flood bursting its dike—crashing into the group before sweeping on, passing through Split-Sky Valley and drifting toward the distant horizon.

The shockwave was immense—unavoidable. Staggering back a step or two, the group recovered quickly, suffering no harm.

But then, the wave reversed course, like a homing dove. Caught off guard, it struck from behind, bursting into a whirlwind that dragged them all forward.

At first, the pull was slight, but within a few breaths it strengthened, pulling even fist-sized stones along the ground, drawing them all inexorably onward.