In the tales, this world was originally shrouded in darkness. Forty-eight thousand years later, the great god Pangu split open the earth and transformed into mountains and rivers. Another forty-eight thousand years passed, and then Nüwa created humankind.
As the chronicles tell it, the first ray of light in this world was born from the darkest of places.
Zhang Fan felt a bone-deep chill wash over his entire body, cold seeping into the very marrow — a coldness that seemed to reach beyond flesh and blood, as though even his heart had gone cold. It was the feeling of someone on the verge of death.
Yet he felt no fear—not the slightest trace of it. There was only an exhaustion unlike any he had known before, as though he lacked even the strength to open his eyes. Strange as it was, at the very moment his body had grown so utterly weary and weak, his mind began, little by little, to clear.
It seemed as though something was enveloping him — gentle and tender, yet cold as ice — slowly drawing the warmth from his body, all while carrying a strange, soothing comfort that made him unable to resist the urge to simply close his eyes and drift off to sleep.
Were it not for the familiar yet icy presence stirring in his right hand, rising as though to guard its master; were it not for the sudden awareness that in his left hand, he still clasped a cool and soft hand.
Weighed down by exhaustion, he struggled to pry his eyes open — bit by bit, fraction by fraction.
It was a single beam of light, piercing through the eternal darkness!
In the endless, boundless darkness, a single glimmer of light quietly kindled itself before Zhang Fan's eyes alone — a faint, pale radiance that drifted and wavered through the black, winding itself around Zhang Fan like the gentlest of women drawing her beloved close, lingering with him in that tender embrace.
It was like a wisp of light smoke, carrying with it an air of the ethereal and intangible, drifting in midair beside Zhang Fan, gradually condensing into a face of haunting, desolate beauty—leaning toward the young man's lips, coming in for a kiss!
Upon those lips lingered a faint fragrance, a whisper of sweet confusion — yet what remained, in the end, was nothing but an icy chill.
An icy cold that seeped straight into the heart!
The fire-stoking rod shot up in an instant, its dark cyan radiance forming a barrier before Zhang Fan. The beautiful face conjured from that wisp of smoke-like white light seemed to recoil in fear, forced to retreat backward. Zhang Fan's body jolted; he flipped to his feet, and the moment clarity returned, he cried out in alarm: "A Yin Spirit!"
As ancient legend has it, men are born only to age and die, yet the soul alone is imperishable. When one's allotted years come to an end, the soul departs the body and passes into the next life—life after life, the cycle of reincarnation turning without cease. Yet in this world there exist spirits of resentment, who, bound by the three poisons of greed and seized by fear and dread, cling to the mortal world, linger amid the dust of former lives, and refuse to pass on to rebirth. These are known as "Yin Spirits."
Naturally, Yin Spirits were creatures of yin and shadow, and they favored dwelling in dark, damp places. That the Dead Spirit Abyss should harbor such ghostly entities—dark and waterlogged as it was—came as no surprise. Yet Zhang Fan had never encountered such things in all his life. As a child in Caomiao Village, he had heard the elders speak of ghosts walking the world; only later, on Grand Bamboo Peak, had he learned from his senior brothers that such beings were called Yin Spirits. The very name had lodged a quiet dread in his heart ever since. Now, to stumble upon one without warning—a chill swept through him from crown to sole.
His call traveled far out into the darkness, his voice seeming light and weightless against the surrounding pitch-black expanse. After a long while, a faint, indistinct echo drifted vaguely back to him. And with that single cry, it was as though something had been disturbed—in the darkness all around him, a silent flash of light flickered once more.
Zhang Fan felt his heart lurch — then it was as if the very heart in his chest had stopped cold. He held his breath, watching a wisp of pale, spectral light, nearly identical to the wraith from moments ago, flicker to life in the darkness ahead.
Then, a flash to the left, a flash to the right, a flash ahead, a flash behind—and when he tilted his head upward, even the space directly above him lit up, that dim, ethereal white light shimmering into existence all around him.
Countless shadow spirits, as if stirred from a deep and ancient slumber, sensed the warmth of a living human body—the first to appear in hundreds of years—and began converging upon this place.
Those wisps of white light, drifting and shifting like tendrils of smoke, manifested into countless faces—some male, some female; some old, some young; some beautiful, some ugly. Yet in that moment, there was only one sensation in Zhang Fan's eyes: cold.
The mere thought of countless yin spirits surging forward and surrounding him on all sides made his scalp crawl with dread. Fortunately, once the initial shock subsided, he quickly discovered that these yin spirits seemed to hold a deep fear of the fire poker standing before him, unwilling to draw near the dark azure radiance it emitted. But before Zhang Fan could so much as breathe a sigh of relief, the yin spirits drifting and wandering through the air apparently noticed something, and they scattered all at once, streaming toward his left.
Zhang Fan froze for a moment, then his face drained of color. The soft hand he still clutched in his left hand had by now grown gradually cold. He pulled sharply, a splash of water rising around him, and drew Lu Xueqi to his side. By the faint, ghostly light that lingered in the depths, he could see that her face was deathly pale and her eyes were tightly shut—yet when he checked her breathing, it was still relatively steady. A quick look over her body revealed no obvious wounds, and only then did he feel the tension ease from his chest. He turned and began to survey their surroundings, eyes moving carefully across the darkness.
He and Lu Xueqi—still unconscious—somehow found themselves at the edge of a body of water. In the darkness he could not make out how large the surface was, nor could he tell whether it was a pool, a great lake, or the vast subterranean sea spoken of in legend. Zhang Fan did not know why such a thought had suddenly come to him; and yet, standing in the water, he sensed that its surface was anything but still—wave after wave swelled with the tide and washed over his body like a pair of gentle, caressing hands.
However, this water was truly bone-chillingly cold!
Zhang Fan struggled to his feet. If they lingered any longer, even setting aside the threat of those yin spirits, the two of them would likely freeze to death in the water first. The moment he stood upright, a wave of dizziness washed over him, and his body swayed involuntarily.
While standing atop the platform, his back had been struck simultaneously by Elder Nian, Daoist Wild Dog, and Liu Hao — the injuries were truly grievous. At the same moment, the dark cyan radiance of the fire-stoking staff dimmed as if in sympathy. Almost in that very same instant, the ghostly lights of countless Yin spirits all around blazed to life at once, and upon those faces that had taken on the semblance of human form, boundless longing was laid bare.
Zhang Fan was startled. He quickly steadied his nerves, and the fire staff blazed back to life, its radiance holding those malevolent spirits at bay. With great effort, Zhang Fan dragged Xue Qi toward the shore. That short stretch of distance felt to him impossibly, achingly long.
At last, they reached solid ground. Zhang Fan dropped onto the earth and sat there, gasping for breath in great heaving gulps.
All around, countless yin spirits drifted and swirled beyond the dark-cyan halo cast by the fire stick.
Zhang Fan stared blankly at the drifting wisps of ghostly light, his mind drifting back to the last memory he held before losing consciousness — Lu Xueqi flying toward him, seizing his hand, and the two of them plunging downward into that boundless, fathomless abyss of darkness yawning beneath them. He even dimly recalled that in the last moments before awareness left him, a familiar invocation of the Buddha's name had rung out somewhere upon that platform.
That should be Senior Brother Faxiang and the other three arriving.
Zhang Fan repeated these words silently in his heart. With the four of them lending their strength, and Qi Hao and Zeng Fa alongside them, things should turn out fine. If Senior Brother Qi came through unscathed, then surely Senior Sister Ling'er wouldn't have to grieve either, would she?
But—but—almost in the same instant, Zhang Fan asked himself: if I were to die, would Senior Sister Ling'er grieve? Perhaps she would feel some sorrow. After all these years of living side by side, day and night, he knew all too well that this senior sister—beautiful and strong-willed on the surface—harbored within her heart a side that was tender and fragile.
If she were to hear that Zhang Fan — the junior brother she had grown up playing with — had met an untimely death, she would surely shed a few tears, would she not? She would surely grieve, would she not? And surely, even without a body to be found, she would erect a grave for him atop Great Bamboo Peak, would she not?
Who could say, in the years to come, how many times she would visit the grave?
If that were so, would he become like the wandering spirits all around him—bound by longing for her, unwilling to pass on, drifting endlessly among the graves, quietly yearning for the silhouette that lived only in memory.
In the silent darkness, the youth sighed — softly, unbeknownst to anyone!
"Ah."
She let out a soft murmur, slowly coming awake, and opened her eyes.
For a thousand years and more, there has been an age-old question passed down through the ages: if you were to wake from a long and endless sleep, who would be the first person you wished to see?
No one knew whether Xueqi had ever heard this seemingly pointless question — but at this moment, what was reflected in her eyes, amid the dim and ethereal white light, was Zhang Fan's look of concern.
That was the only warmth in the darkness!
Zhang Fan's face lit up with delight. "You're awake, Sixth Senior Sister!" he said joyfully.
6 Xueqi did not answer immediately. She seemed to blank out for a moment, but quickly recovered herself, her expression shifting from the initial trace of bewilderment back to a cool, frost-like indifference. Yet as her gaze swept across her surroundings, she couldn't help but be moved once again.
"A Yin Spirit!" Xueqi cried out, just as Zhang Fan had a moment before.
Zhang Fan nodded and comforted her, saying, "Yes, but don't worry—they seem to be a little afraid of my f-fire stick. We should be safe for the time being."
Xueqi noticed at this moment as well — the countless drifting yin spirits surrounding them had indeed not rushed forward, merely wandering at the outer perimeter, as though deeply fearful of Zhang Fan's black short staff. Once she steadied herself, she couldn't help but ask: "What is this Artifact of yours called? How can it be so formidable?"
Zhang Fan's face flushed red. "I call it... a Fire Poker. Besides, I have no idea why it's so powerful either."
Xueqi asked in bewilderment, "A fire-poking stick?"
Zhang Fan gazed at the woman before him, bathed in the soft, faint white light. Her skin was white as snow—pale, yet all the more beautiful for it. He lowered his head involuntarily. "Back at Dazhu Peak I'm usually in charge of cooking. I use it as a fire-stoking stick."
6 Xueqi was at a loss for words. She stared blankly at the ugly black stick hanging in mid-air, and after a long moment finally murmured in a low voice: "A fire poker! I received the teachings of my master, cultivated through hardship, and even wielded the Ya Divine Sword — yet I was defeated by a fire poker?"
Zhang Fan's heart gave a sudden lurch. He could see that Lu Xueqi's complexion had grown yet paler in that brief moment, drained of almost all color. Unable to hold himself back, he said: "Senior Sister, you *did* win back then—and besides, from what I heard, had you not spent so much vital energy during the bout with me, you might not necessarily have lost to Senior Brother Qi Hao in the final match either…"
He had grown louder and louder, until at last his voice faded gradually into silence—for Xueqi had silently lifted her head and fixed him with a cold, unwavering stare, and somehow it stilled him completely. A faint white light fell over the shadows of them both.
6 Xueqi lowered her head again, breathing deeply. "How could they have escaped by sheer luck?"
Zhang Fan was momentarily stunned, his mind filled with confusion. Then, as if recalling something, he pointed toward the bend in the water. "When I first came to, we were both lying by the water's edge. Could it be that we were lucky enough to fall into the water — and that's what kept us alive — and then the current washed us ashore?"
Xueqi looked in the direction he indicated. Against the faint, ghostly luminescence of the yin spirits, she could indeed make out water in the distance, and faintly hear the soft hushing of waves washing against the shore. She glanced down at herself—her clothes had dried for the most part, yet were still somewhat damp, clinging to her body with a bone-deep chill. One could only imagine: had Zhang Fan not pulled her ashore, she would likely have frozen to death before she ever regained consciousness.
"Thank you," Xueqi suddenly murmured in a low voice.
Zhang Fan was momentarily taken aback, then quickly waved his hand with a smile. "It's fine, it's fine—"
Suddenly, both of them froze.
Between the two of them, between their hands — until this very moment, they still held on tight.
As though flesh and blood bound them as one, as though it had been this way for years on end — yet neither felt a thing, as though it were simply how things ought to be, as though both had long since forgotten.
Xueqi slowly withdrew her hand. Zhang Fan gave an awkward smile, his hands swaying left and right at his sides, with no idea where to put them.
After a moment, it was still Xue Qi who broke the silence: "Before you fell, you had taken a heavy blow from one of the Demon Sect's fiends. How are you feeling now?"
Zhang Fan felt as though a pardon had been handed down from on high. Hearing that the frosty young woman seemed to have no intention of blaming him, he quickly said, "I'm fine, I'm fine."
Xueqi said, "Can you still ride your sword?"
Zhang Fan circulated his energy ever so slightly, only to feel a stabbing pain lance through his body like a thousand needles. He gave a wry smile and shook his head.
"Xueqi just looking at him was no good either. 'Let's get up and scout the surroundings—see if there's any way out. Otherwise, if we keep sitting here waiting like this, hemmed in on all sides by these shadow spirits, sooner or later they'll drain us into husks.'"
Zhang Fan drew a sharp breath and nodded. "Yes."
Xueqi rose to her feet and checked herself over. There were no significant external wounds, but her inner Meridians and qi-blood flow were in some disarray, and her entire body was drained of strength — evidently the result of trading blows with the Shanhe Fan, whose rebounding force had been far too powerful. What concerned her most, however, was the Yashen Sword, which at this moment had returned intact to the scabbard on her back.
She turned to look at Zhang Fan once more, only to see him rising to his feet with some difficulty, his movements still stiff and unsteady — clearly still hampered by his wounds. She also understood, in that moment, how much effort and inner strength it had cost him to pull her from the water just now.
"How many layers of Cultivation have you reached in the Taiji Xuanqing Dao?" Xueqi suddenly asked Zhang Fan.
Zhang Fan was briefly stunned into silence. Xueqi, however, took his silence for a deliberate refusal to answer. She turned her head away and said coolly: "Never mind if you won't say. Still, I once heard Master mention that your cultivation had only reached the fourth level — that what happened that day was all down to the power of some strange Artifact. I never quite believed it at the time. Having seen it with my own eyes today, if your cultivation weren't advanced and your Meridian foundation weren't solid, you'd have fallen under the hands of those devil-cult fiends long ago and never gotten up."
Zhang Fan scratched his head, momentarily at a loss for what to say—he was rather muddled about his own cultivation himself at that moment, so he let the matter pass with a vague reply. In truth, how could Lu Xueqi have known that if one spoke only of his progress along the Tai Chi Xuan Qing Way, Zhang Fan was genuinely no more than a practitioner of the Fourth Layer, the level at which one had only just gained the ability to wield Artifacts. Yet within Zhang Fan's body dwelt another power entirely—a supreme Buddhist dharma known as the *Maha Prajna*—and that was the true crux of the matter.
The Buddhist path of immortal cultivation has always placed greater emphasis on perceiving one's innate nature than the Daoist school. Over five years of cultivating the Mahā Prajñā, Zhang Fan's practice was still shallow—yet the solidity of his Meridian foundation, tempered through day and night of training in the supreme arts of both Buddhist and Daoist traditions, far surpassed that of fellow disciples at the same cultivation level. It was precisely this that allowed him to survive the devastating blow dealt by the demon cult fiend: the Taiji Xuanqing Dao's protective technique absorbed one layer of the strike, while the Mahā Prajñā simultaneously absorbed another, and only through this fortunate convergence did he narrowly escape with his life.
The two of them rose to their feet. Zhang Fan recalled the fire poker into his hand, and a dark azure radiance spilled outward, wrapping around both their silhouettes. Xueqi paused in brief thought, then pointed in the direction opposite the water's edge, and together the two walked off into the boundless depths of darkness.
They walked on, with no way of knowing how long they had been at it. The path in this direction seemed to stretch without end; after a great while, the two still found themselves crossing the same vast, open ground. Here beneath the Abyss of Dead Souls, besides its sheer, staggering scale, there was not the slightest sign of any living creature.
Some there were — yin spirits that swirled and drifted around them, clinging greedily of their own accord to the savour of blood and flesh, floating up and down in utter silence.
As Zhang Fan and Xueqi pressed forward, their expressions grew increasingly grave, and both felt the yin energy surging around them like a rising tide. Zhang Fan, for his part, felt his qi and blood churning violently within him, wave after wave of dizziness washing over him. Though his foundation was solid, his cultivation was still not high; having taken simultaneous blows from Elder Nian, Wild Dog Daoist, and Liu Gao, the damage to his Meridians was severe indeed.
A moment later, Lu Xueqi also noticed that something was not quite right with Zhang Fan, and said in surprise: "What's wrong with you?"
Zhang Fan forced a smile. "It's nothing, let's go."
Xueqi glanced at him. "Don't rest..."
Her words of rest had yet to leave her lips when she saw Zhang Fan suddenly stagger, his body going limp—and he crumpled to the ground. The fire stick in his hand swiftly dimmed along with his falling form.
Xueqi was startled, and quickly reached out to steady him—his skin was ice-cold to the touch. With a jolt of alarm, she realized that Zhang Fan had fallen unconscious. In that instant, even she—long renowned among her fellow disciples for her exceptional composure—could not help but feel a trace of panic.
Immediately, she thought of another, far more terrifying problem.
The fire poker had lost its power — so what was left to hold back the countless yin spirits closing in from all sides?
Almost at the very moment Xue Qi thought of this, the countless wraiths drifting all around her—each emanating a faint, ghostly white glow—seemed to pause as one. And then, before their eyes, two living bodies of flesh and blood stood there without the slightest shred of defense.
In the darkness, it seemed as though countless voices erupted all at once—laughing triumphantly, howling with rage; countless shadow spirits appeared to hang suspended in midair for a brief moment, and then, like ravenous beasts, they surged toward the two helpless figures standing alone in the dark.