The Faxiang standing at the fore murmured a soft Buddhist chant. A moment later, a round bead flickering with solemn, golden radiance rose from his hand. At first the light seemed to linger close to him, as though reluctant to part, but as the Faxiang poured his power into it, the golden brilliance blazed up in an instant. With the bead as its center, the light surged outward in every direction like a flooding tide. Zhang Fan stood rooted to the spot—he almost imagined he heard a rushing roar beside his ear before the ring of golden light had already swept past him.
Every face present was cast in a faint golden hue, and a wave of ease swept through each heart; whatever tension had lingered was quelled in an instant. The vast space had brightened in the blink of an eye to rival broad daylight, and were it not for the jagged, grotesque rocks and the squirming bats, one could almost have believed they had arrived at a blessed Buddhist realm.
Li Xun, ever haughty and contemptuous of others, was seized by a rare flash of astonishment. Standing to one side, he exclaimed: "The Samsara Pearl!"
Fa Xiang glanced at him. "Good eye, Senior Brother."
Yet Li Xun's words had suddenly taken on a far more deferential tone toward Faxiang. "Senior Brother Faxiang, you are the one with truly profound Cultivation."
By the glow of the "Samsara Bead," Zhang Fan could now clearly see that he had indeed stepped onto solid, clean ground beneath his feet. He looked up, only to find that the black bats which had clung to the rocky ceiling of the cave overhead had vanished without a trace for some unknown reason—yet that soft rustling sound still lingered distinctly in his ears.
He looked again more carefully, and only then did he notice that at the top of the cave behind them, countless black bats still clustered at the ceiling—yet directly above the solid ground where the few of them stood, a thin red line traced across the cave roof, its appearance uncannily like veins running through the very rock itself.
With that thin red line as the boundary, countless bats crowded and jostled on the outer side, yet not one crossed over it; and within that scant distance underfoot, there was no trace of the reeking bat droppings from beyond.
Fazhi glanced around and said in a grave voice: "This place is full of strangeness. Everyone must take care."
How could anyone not know—but having finally stepped onto clean ground, and after checking that there was nothing unusual in the surrounding area, most people's first instinct was to straighten their clothes. Zeng Shushu, standing beside Zhang Fan, took off her shoe and poured out the disgusting contents inside, then said softly to him: "This is the first time in my life I've truly understood just how wonderful it is to walk on a clean road."
Zhang Fan smiled and quickly cleaned himself up, feeling somewhat more at ease. After a moment, Qi Hao saw that everyone had more or less recovered and said, "Let's move." With that, he took the lead and headed deeper into the cave.
Everyone followed after him, and soon, as their footsteps pressed forward, the path behind them fell once more into endless darkness.
Ahead, the darkness was like a demon beast spreading wide its arms, its hideous grin bared, welcoming their arrival.
A glimmer of light in the darkness, moving slowly forward.
They walked on, with no sense of how far they had gone. The ancient, profound cave seemed to have no end whatsoever—though it remained consistently spacious, it wound and twisted, turning this way and that, until it was nearly impossible to keep one's bearings, save for the vague impression that it sloped ever downward into the earth.
The rustling of the bats at the cave entrance had long since faded into silence. In this all-consuming darkness, no sound remained save for the footsteps of the group. Zhang Fan felt the dampness growing heavier and heavier all around him, with no way of knowing just how far underground they had descended.
The "Samsara Pearl" summoned by the Dharma Form continued to radiate a golden Buddhist glow, casting its light over everyone. At the head of the group, Qi Hao, taking no chances, had also summoned the **Mirror. The two artifacts shone in concert with each other as the group pressed on for a while longer. Then, without warning, Qi Hao—who had been leading the way—stopped and raised his hand toward those behind him. "Slow down."
Everyone stopped at once.
All around was a vast stillness, without the slightest sound.
The radiance of the Reincarnation Beads gradually brightened, and before the eyes of all present, the cavern ahead suddenly split into two branching paths—deep, winding, and pitch-black, with no way of knowing where either led, like the gaping maw of some demon yawning wide. And at the center of the road, which was also the midpoint between the two branches, stood an enormous stone stele fully six men tall, upon its face carved four blood-red characters:
The Dao is within me!
※※※
Li Xun of Burning Incense Valley let out a cold snort and snarled, "You demonic cultist—how dare you presume to speak of the Dao!"
Fa Xiang furrowed his brow and cast several more glances at the stone stele. Before setting out, he had heard his master, Venerable Puhong, speak of this: eight hundred years ago, the Demonic Sect had indeed kept such a stone stele within this cave, but at that time a righteous immortal had cleaved it asunder with a single stroke of tremendous divine power. Yet now, seeing it again — how could it be completely intact?
At that moment, Yan Hong of Fenxiang Valley, who had kept silent all along, suddenly spoke up: "Do you all see that crack at the point a quarter of the way down the stone stele?"
Her voice was soft and alluring, stirring something in the hearts of all who heard it. What made it all the more striking was that none of the Qingyu Sect disciples had ever heard Yan Hong speak before, and a ripple of mild surprise passed through them all. They stepped closer to look carefully, and sure enough, there was a faint crack in that very spot — running diagonally upward, splitting the entire stone stele in two. The stone texture along the crack showed a dark, dusky red, yet unless one looked with care, it would have been utterly impossible to detect.
Qi Hao nodded and said to Yan Hong, "Junior Sister Yan, what a meticulous mind you have."
Yan Hong smiled faintly, then lowered her head once more, saying nothing further.
Qi Hao cast one last glance at the stone stele, then turned to face the group. "Since this stele has been restored by someone, it is clear that the demon cult fiends are most likely here, engaged in some unspeakable scheme. It seems we have come to the right place after all."
Faxiang then said: "Senior Brother Qi makes a valid point. This cave is riddled with danger at every turn, and already a problem lies before us — these two forking paths. Which one should we take?"
Qi Hao paused briefly in thought. "Senior Brother Xiang, you said just now that your master, the Venerable Monk Puhong, had spoken to you of this place. Did the elder ever mention this fork in the road?"
Faxiang nodded. Master had indeed passed through there, though he himself had only learned as much from the mouth of the previous-generation Patriarch — that during the great war between the righteous and demonic factions in those years, both of these branching paths had housed lairs of demon-sect fiends. As for the current situation, he could no longer say with any certainty.
The crowd fell silent. After a moment, Qi Hao glanced at the other three members of his sect, then addressed Faxiang and the others: "In that case, I propose we split into two groups. The four of us from Green Cloud Sect will take the left fork, while Senior Brothers Faxiang and Fashan and the two from Fragrant Incense Valley investigate the right fork. Should anyone encounter demon cult fiends, give a long whistle as warning. What do you say?"
Faxiang said nothing. Though he knew full well that splitting up like this was far from ideal, the cave ran deep and there was no telling how long those two forks might stretch — if they took the wrong path and had to double back, too much precious time would be lost. Besides, those gathered here were the finest from their respective sects; they were hardly incapable of holding their own. He turned and glanced at Li Xun and Yan Hong of Burning Incense Valley, and seeing no objection from either of them, said: "Then we shall do as Senior Brother Qi suggests. Everyone, please take the utmost care."
…he cast yet another glance at Zhang Fan, whether intentionally or not.
Zhang Fan felt a stir in his heart. It seemed Senior Brother Faxiang truly did hold him in special regard—yet he kept a smile on his face all the same.
Qi Hao gave a nod, cupped his fists toward Faxiang and the others, then led Zhang Fan and the remaining two into the left-hand fork. After only a few steps, the glow behind them swirled once and slowly faded — it seemed Faxiang and his companions had taken the right-hand fork as well.
Qi Hao walked at the forefront, raising the artifact above his head and channeling his immortal power. Pale yellow rings of light spilled down from the mirror, enveloping all four of them within.
This side passage was far narrower than the cavern he had been walking through moments before. Jagged rocks jutted out on both sides, sharp and treacherous, and Zhang Fan nearly drew blood from a moment's inattention. The one thing it shared with the path behind was the absolute darkness that surrounded him—here, it seemed as though not a single ray of light had ever existed.
None of the four from Qingyun Sect were in the mood to talk. Qi Hao, who walked at the very front, was especially focused, every sense alert to the unknown dangers ahead.
They had been walking for quite some time now — long enough that Zhang Fan couldn't help but wonder inwardly: even if he were to run into demon sect fiends on his end and let out a long whistle, whether Senior Brother Faxiang would actually hear it was still an open question.
At that very moment, the unexpected struck. In the passageway where everyone had been advancing, the surroundings—so seemingly locked in eternal darkness and silence—suddenly erupted with a tremendous, droning wail, a ghostly "wuwu" that was deafening to the ears and chilling to the heart.
The four were caught off guard. Qi Hao had barely opened his mouth to call out a warning when a tremor ran through his body—from all directions in the boundless darkness, strange radiances of every color blazed to life, hurtling simultaneously toward where the four stood in the passage and crashing against the **Mirror Light Halo**.
Such was the magnitude of that force that even the \*\*mirror swayed violently, and Qi Hao's body shuddered fiercely — he could no longer find words to speak, and hastily steadied his mind, pouring more power into maintaining his protection.
The ghostly wails grew ever louder, enough to set heads spinning and eyes reeling. Zeng Shushu, Lu Xueqi, and Zhang Fan closed in around Qi Hao, shielding him at the center. They watched as countless beams of light were hurled back by the mirror artifact — each one arcing through the air, banking sharply, then surging forward again in a renewed assault. In the darkness, none could tell how many enemies lay concealed; overhead, none could count how many artifacts were wheeling through the void.
Qi Hao's face was deathly pale, his hands locked tight around his hand seals. Though besieged on all sides by enemy Artifacts, he was gradually steadying himself, the halo around him growing ever brighter. Just as the members of the Qingyu Sect were about to breathe a collective sigh of relief, Zhang Fan suddenly felt the hard ground beneath his feet give a tremor.
His mind had barely stirred when, before he could even process it, he heard Zeng Shushu cry out sharply: "Xin, under your feet—"
Before the words were finished, a tremendous explosion rang out—drowning even the howling gales. In an instant, everyone felt the mountains shaking and the earth heaving; a massive force erupted suddenly from beneath their feet, blasting the ground into fragments. The four members of the Qingyun Sect were hurled in all directions. The mirror could shield against threats from the sides, yet was powerless against what came from below. This strike detonated from within, and the protective radiance shattered instantly, its scattered light crashing back down upon the tumbling figure of Qi Hao as he was flung away.
Countless beams of light screamed through the darkness, as if releasing gleeful, triumphant laughter, each one hurtling toward the four who had split apart.
Zhang Fan was standing near the front. A tremendous force surged up from beneath his feet and launched him involuntarily through the air, yet his years of cultivation at Qingyun Sect had forged his composure—startled but unshaken, he pressed the fire-stoking staff already gripped in his hand against his chest, and that familiar, icy sensation spread through his entire body. The fire-stoking staff cast a faint, dark-cerulean radiance in midair, leveled squarely at the several streaks of light closing in swiftly from behind.
A moment later, one of the dark-red rays of light surged forward first, rushing straight toward him. Zhang Fan immediately caught a reeking stench of blood—nearly retching, he hastily held his breath and channeled his fire-stoking staff. A dark cyan radiance swelled forth, pushing back against that dark-red ray. Beneath the staff's glow, for reasons he could not fathom, that dark-red radiance suddenly dimmed considerably.
From somewhere unknown within the darkness, a low murmur of startled disbelief suddenly arose.
Just then, two more beams of light—one yellow, one gray—came surging forward, both striking the fire-stoking rod at the same time. By the glow they cast, Zhang Fan could finally make out what they were: the dark-red beam from moments ago was a dark-red trident, its surface thick with old bloodstains; the yellow light was a three-foot sword; and the gray light was something far stranger—the enormous fang of some unknown wild beast.
Zhang Fan was still suspended in midair, having barely steadied himself, when the three Artifacts slammed into him. Though his Burning Stick braced against the assault from the air, the sheer force drove him straight backward with unstoppable momentum. He lost all control and crashed heavily into the stone wall beside him, half his body buried into the rock, stone shards flying in every direction.
Stars burst before Zhang Fan's eyes, and the pain searing through his back cut straight to his core. Yet knowing this was a life-or-death moment, he gritted his teeth with everything he had and forced himself to endure it. He hit the ground—and looked up just in time to see those three death-dealing objects wheel about in midair and come hurtling back down at him with savage ferocity.
In the darkness, there was no way of knowing where those who controlled the Artifacts were hiding.
Zhang Fan was hard-pressed on all sides. He tightened his grip on the hand seal and let out a sharp cry; the fire stick shot skyward and clashed mid-air against the charging yellow flying sword—fangs of a lunging beast—with a thunderous crack that sent both weapons careening apart. He immediately hurled himself forward in a rolling dive, but a dark-red trident hurtling close behind had no time to arrest its momentum and slammed with a deafening boom into the stone wall behind the spot where he had just been standing. Rubble exploded in all directions, and to his astonishment, the strike had punched a gaping hole clean through the rock.
At that moment, the Gray Fang came hurtling back and smashed down squarely upon him. The fang-tip gleamed with cold light, strikingly conspicuous in the darkness. Judging by its momentum, Zhang Fan needed no deliberation to know the consequences of letting this bizarre Artifact connect with his body.
Zhang Fan clenched his teeth and swept both hands through the empty air. The fire-poker staff stirred at his will — a flash of blue-green light — and it appeared overhead, slamming into that great fang. In midair, a low, muffled thud rang out, and a crack split visibly across the surface of the fang.
From afar came a startled cry, heavy with anguished grief and stunned disbelief.
But Zhang Fan had no time at all to savor that meager scrap of joy. In the blink of an eye the yellow flying sword came surging back at him. With no chance to react, sweat broke across his brow; in that desperate instant he let out a shout, his hands shook, and his whole body rose into the air—dissolving into the dark azure radiance of the fire-stoking staff.
The yellow flying sword showed no mercy whatsoever, veering in midair and surging upward from beneath his feet. With fangs above and a flying sword below, Zhang Fan's entire body trembled. Left with no time to think, he curled inward, chanted an incantation, and the Firestarter Rod blazed with a brilliant azure light, wrapping him completely within its radiance.
Two tremendous blasts rang out almost simultaneously—one above Zhang Fan's head, one beneath his feet—as the enemy's two Artifacts reversed and came hurtling back. The Fire-Stoking Staff shuddered in midair. Zhang Fan gasped desperately for breath, his heart nearly stopping in that instant. In that fleeting moment of illusion, he almost instinctively believed he had seen the Fire-Stoking Staff shatter to pieces.
Fortunately, though the fire poker—whatever material it was made of—looked crude and ungainly, it proved to be extraordinarily hard, emerging completely unscathed. The flying sword Fang, by contrast, had dimmed in its luster and was most likely damaged. Even so, the heavy impact had scattered the azure light that had surged up to shield Zhang Fan.
Zhang Fan was overjoyed and was about to recall his fire staff when a searing pain suddenly tore through his shoulder. Half his body went limp, his mind a sudden blank. He looked down — and there, piercing clean through his chest and shoulder, jutted a dark-red trident, crimson blood surging from the wound in an unceasing torrent.
It was that dark-red fork from moments ago—seizing the instant Zhang Fan let his guard down, it had launched a sneak attack and dealt him a grievous blow.
Zhang Fan watched as the fork, its surface until now a dull dark red, seemed to brighten at that very moment — as though it had caught the scent of blood and roused itself from slumber. He let out a low groan and instinctively reached to pull the fork free, but in that instant, as the blood-colored markings on the dark-red fork deepened, a shadow within the darkness seemed to materialize from nothing, rising from the fork before latching itself tightly onto Zhang Fan's back.
The master of this dark red fork appeared to be, astonishingly, a parasite dwelling upon the Artifact itself.
Zhang Fan felt the world spinning around him, too weak to shake off the fiend behind him. Beyond the pain radiating from his wound, a numb, crawling itch had begun to seep through—most likely the creature's touch carried a lethal poison as well. He stole a glance from the corner of his eye, but could make out nothing of the fiend's face—only the pair of hands clamped tight upon his shoulder: withered and filthy, reeking with a putrid stench that was almost unbearable.
In the distance, a burst of wild laughter rang out, while from behind came a sinister voice: "You little whelps of Qingyun Sect, you've brought this upon yourselves — now be good and hand over your essence blood to me!"
Before Zhang Fan could even process the meaning of those words, the man's actions made everything clear. From within the shadows, the demonic figure suddenly opened his mouth wide and sank his teeth into the left side of Zhang Fan's neck, drinking greedily of his blood. At the same moment, the dark crimson trident grew even brighter, as though it too were feeding on the blood being spilled.
Zhang Fan was gripped by overwhelming terror. He felt as though all the blood in his body had surged toward his throat, leaving him light-headed and hollow, his strength draining away bit by bit—even the fire poker held aloft in midair he could no longer keep suspended, and it fell clattering to the ground.
In this moment, amid this very scene, a sudden dizziness swept over him — and for an instant, he felt as though he had traveled back to a time long past, to that secluded valley.
Inside that nightmare!
The fire poker tumbled from above his head. As it landed before him, it emanated a faint cyan glow, as though summoning something. Zhang Fan seized it in one swift motion, and in that instant, the icy cold radiating from the poker surged through him in torrents, wild as unbridled fury.
Blood poured ceaselessly from his body, drawn away by that demon's feeding. In that moment, Zhang Fan could no longer hear a single sound from the outside world — he summoned the very last thread of strength within him and, like a cornered beast fighting for its life, drove the fire-poker rod — flickering with green light — forcefully into the demon crouched behind him.
The fire poker was flat and blunt, without edge or point — yet in that moment, it treated flesh and blood as though it were tofu, driving straight through with the unstoppable force of splitting bamboo.
The demon cultivator behind him gave a shudder and ceased his blood-draining, as though unable to believe what had happened. He turned his head to look at Zhang Fan — and Zhang Fan met his gaze at the same instant.
In the unseen void, it was like the low, cold laughter of demons from the Nine Nethers—or perhaps the heartbeat of some unseen presence lurking in the dark. Zhang Fan's hand, clutching the fire poker, felt wave after wave of that pulsing beat, as though blood surged through ancient veins, as though demons were crying out in jubilation.
The radiance upon the dark red cross swiftly dimmed, and behind it, endless darkness came surging forward.
In the instant that darkness swallowed Zhang Fan and that demon whole, Zhang Fan—his mind teetering on the edge of unconsciousness—glimpsed a sight he would never be able to forget for the rest of his life.
The demon cultivator's face—once lined with wrinkles yet still full of flesh—shriveled in an instant, blood and muscle withering into dry, papery skin that clung to the bones beneath.
The next moment, darkness surrounded him.
What had been lost was reclaimed. Endless power surged forth from the fire-stoking rod, flowing into him and dissolving into his body.
Zhang Fan came back to himself, yet stood frozen where he was. The wound on his shoulder still throbbed with pain, and the blood that had been pouring freely had already been staunched by that unknown force—but the young man was entirely unaware of any of this. His mind churned with only one thought:
What have I done? What have I done?