Chapter Twenty-Three: Why Seek the Next One
Chapter Twenty-Three: Why Seek the Next
Three days slipped by in a flash.
Fang Junmei entered the grand hall, took his seat, and once again swallowed a pill radiating with fiery light. The pill was identical in size and appearance to the previous ones, but the fire it contained was twice as fierce as before.
It burned Fang Junmei so badly he howled in agony.
It burned him until he questioned his very existence.
It burned him to the point that he wondered if Chunyu Qian, that old fox, was trying to do him in.
An hour later, Fang Junmei lay sprawled on the ground like a dead dog, motionless. If not for his open eyes and the faint breath from his nose, anyone would have thought him already departed from this world.
“This time, you have a month to prepare. Return after one month,” Chunyu Qian said, tossing him another ten spirit stones.
But these spirit stones brimmed with energy a hundred times stronger than the last batch, and they were noticeably larger in size. Clearly, these were ten mid-grade Sword Spirit Stones, equivalent to a thousand low-grade ones. At last, this transaction offered a glimmer of hope.
A spark lit Fang Junmei’s eyes.
He slowly crawled up, gathered the ten mid-grade Sword Spirit Stones, and left the hall once more.
...
Outside, the only soul in sight was still the statue-like elderly gardener; no one else was around.
Fang Junmei drew water from the well again and scrubbed himself clean. Afterwards, he fished out half a leftover roast chicken from his storage pouch and gnawed on it.
This storage pouch was wondrous indeed—food placed inside never spoiled.
He ate as he pondered.
A month was not a short span. It would be enough for Fang Junmei to return to the Immoveable Peak and even cultivate for over half that time, but there seemed little point in that. It would be better to find a spot here and train.
Without hesitation, he finished off the last bits of roast chicken in a few bites, then made his way to a secluded part of Medicine King Peak. He found a relatively open valley and began to cultivate, practicing the Yellow Springs Ghost Rain Sword Technique.
He had only grasped the first eight forms of this technique, but even these required much more time to master and perfect.
First form: Winds of the Yellow Springs.
Second form: Drizzling Sword Rain.
Third form: Ghostly Shadows in Pursuit.
...
Eighth form: Vanishing Like a Ghost.
He performed the sequence again and again from start to finish.
Fang Junmei was a born swordsman, his love for the sword bordering on obsession. Once he focused on cultivation, he quickly sank into a state where self and sword were forgotten, merged into one.
In the valley, his figure flickered like a ghost or deity, leaving only a faint white afterimage behind. Sword lights unfurled like dim blossoms, stirring the winds and clouds into a chaotic dance. As the Yellow Springs Ghost Rain Sword was unleashed, the world of the valley dimmed, as though dusk had silently descended.
Before long, fallen leaves and broken twigs were swept up in the air, scattering like fragments of jade.
Swish!
A leaf was sliced cleanly in two.
As the sound faded, Fang Junmei’s illusory form stilled amidst the swirling leaves and grass, lost in thought.
His white robes fluttered as the sword’s gleam vanished.
The winds in the valley continued to blow, refusing to settle.
“Techniques must not be rigid, nor can I be. The principles of mortal martial arts—do they still apply in the world of cultivation? Why does this Yellow Springs Ghost Rain Sword feel so grounded in worldly ways? What does a true, transcendent sword art look like?”
Fang Junmei frowned in contemplation, involuntarily recalling the look Chunyu Qian had given him—sharp as a sword. He thought with a wry smile that this old man must have lived for a thousand years or more.
“I’m still far off. With my current level, I’m only fit to wield sword arts akin to those of mortals,” Fang Junmei muttered to himself after a long while.
Whoosh!
With a rush of wind, he began to practice again.
...
Fang Junmei’s eyes grew sharp as an eagle’s, shining with brilliance. The peachwood sword in his hand moved ever faster, its blade tracing streaks of light so swift they blurred into lines.
If a true master had seen, they would have noticed that Fang Junmei, driven by his magic power, was causing the sword light to twist—not just in straight lines, but writhing like a serpent, though still somewhat stiff and forced.
Swish—
Leaves and twigs continued to be sliced apart with each careless swing of the blade.
One day.
Two days.
Five days.
Ten days.
As time passed, the serpentine sword light grew more agile, darting sinuously through the narrowest spaces. Fewer and fewer leaves and blades of grass were cut.
The technique was alive now.
So was he.
If Fang Junmei’s Yellow Springs Ghost Rain Sword had once been merely mechanically swift, now it brimmed with a spark of spirit—like the touch that brings a dragon to life in a painting.
“I understand now. Third Senior once said that those fire and lightning cultivators spend their days practicing spells just as I do, familiarizing themselves with the manipulation of energy. As sword cultivators, we channel this through our swords, making it more complex than casting spells barehanded.”
The more he practiced, the more insight he gained, and the clearer became the matters Linghu Jinjiu had once described about the cultivation world.
Swish!
Fang Junmei suddenly sheathed his sword, extended his left forefinger, and struck forward.
Whoosh!
A milky white sword essence shot from his fingertip, forming a tangible arc of sword light. It flew forward, not in a straight line, but curving and twisting like a living serpent.
Swish, swish—
Four or five leaves were sliced apart before the light vanished into thin air.
Fang Junmei gave a self-deprecating smile, but then laughed heartily, saying to himself, “So this is what those barehanded spellcasters do. Still—I find the sword suits me better.”
Master one art, and all others become possible.
Fang Junmei had learned this truth as a mortal warrior; he needed no instruction to adapt sword techniques for barehanded use.
Sword cries rang out as Fang Junmei resumed his practice.
...
A month passed swiftly. Without using the Three-Breath Divine Stone, Fang Junmei barely managed to reach the level where his sword energy no longer inadvertently cut leaves and grass—his control had improved greatly.
When he returned to the grand hall atop Medicine King Peak, Chunyu Qian, for once, spoke more than usual.
“Boy, you must have already heard the tales of the seventeen unlucky souls who failed before you. Of those left paralyzed or mad, two failed at this very stage. If the first two trials could be endured by willpower alone, this trial will test your ability to guard your mind. Lose your focus, and all your energy will run wild. Don’t think I’ll step in. The worthless deserve no sympathy.”
Chunyu Qian’s voice was severe and cold, making it hard to imagine how Song Shede could ever laugh and joke with him.
Fang Junmei, accustomed to the old man’s ways, nodded and parted his lips to speak.
Chunyu Qian said no more. He produced another jade vial, its interior gleaming green. Uncorking it, he flicked a verdant pill into Fang Junmei’s mouth—the color alone was enough to make one suspect poison.
The third trial had arrived.
Fang Junmei swallowed the pill, closed his eyes, and fiercely guarded his mind, not daring to be careless.
This pill was strange indeed. It dissolved instantly, but its power did not flow downward—it surged straight for his forehead.
Boom—
A dull impact echoed in his mind. Suddenly, Fang Junmei felt his consciousness plummet like a stone into endless darkness.
He fell faster and faster.
Below, it was no longer pitch black. Strands of green light appeared, not stationary, but moving, growing in number, weaving together into a dense mass that left Fang Junmei bewildered.
He drew ever closer.
His spirit shuddered as he finally saw what the moving things were: monstrous insects, half-centipede, half-spider, each radiating a sickly green glow. They measured four or five feet long, hideous, with razor-sharp fangs.
Each one crouched on the black earth with its head raised, twin savage eyes blazing with hunger and malice, fixed on the falling Fang Junmei as if awaiting the feast of a lifetime.
Yet Fang Junmei was bold at heart. He did not panic; his gaze sharpened as he reached for his storage pouch at his waist, intending to draw his sword. Yet his hand found nothing—the pouch was there, but he could retrieve nothing.
With a flash in his eyes, Fang Junmei struck downward with a finger, but no sword light emerged. In this illusory world, all spells and techniques were mere phantoms.
Bang!
He crashed heavily to the ground.
Screeching—
Before he could rise, the swarm of monstrous insects had pounced, sinking their fangs into his flesh, tearing at him.
“Ah—!”
At the first bite, Fang Junmei let out a cry of agony so wretched it defied description. It was not bodily pain, but as if his very soul had been seared. The torment was beyond words.
“Get off me!”
Without sword or spell, Fang Junmei could only fight with fists and feet—he was no stranger to unarmed combat—but even the bravest cannot fend off a pack of wolves. In moments, his body was crawling with the hideous insects, stabbing into his flesh, tormenting his soul.
More came crawling from the distance.
Soon, from afar, all that could be seen was a mound of green light, rising from the earth.
Buried deep within, Fang Junmei could no longer move. His body jerked and twitched endlessly in agony, his teeth clenched in torment—a sight that would chill anyone to the bone.
“It’s an illusion, all an illusion, don’t believe it!”
Fang Junmei kept reminding himself, but the pain was too real—impossible to ignore.
His screams, loud at first, gradually faded.
Weaker and weaker.
...
In the real world, Chunyu Qian was not occupied with his own cultivation as before but watched Fang Junmei’s face with piercing eyes.
That face was knotted and twisted, trembling, veins bulging like writhing worms, sweat pouring down.
Time passed slowly.
Bang—
No one knew how much time had gone by before Fang Junmei’s body suddenly slumped, his head striking the ground with force. His eyes remained closed, his body still twitching.
Chunyu Qian narrowed his eyes, scrutinizing Fang Junmei for a moment, but did not approach, as if the time had not yet come.
After the time it takes to drink a cup of tea, Fang Junmei’s convulsions slowly subsided until he lay completely still.
At last, Chunyu Qian rose and walked over, lifting Fang Junmei’s eyelids—there was no sparkle, his pupils were utterly unfocused, as if he had become an amnesiac fool.
“So this is all you amount to. I had some hopes for you, but it seems they were misplaced,” Chunyu Qian sighed and shook his head, picking Fang Junmei up and heading for the door.
With a flick of his finger, a door to a nearby house swung open.
Soon, Song Shede emerged. At the sight of Fang Junmei, he seemed to guess what had happened and managed a bitter smile.
“Shede, return him to the Immoveable Peak for me, and find the next candidate for medicine testing,” Chunyu Qian ordered coldly and imperiously.
“Yes, Master,” Song Shede replied, coming forward to take Fang Junmei.
At that moment, Chunyu Qian’s wrist was suddenly gripped by someone.
“...Senior... why are you looking for the next one? And you haven’t yet given me the reward you promised...” came a weak, yet curiously persistent voice from under his arm.
Both men started and looked down to see Fang Junmei had opened his eyes. Though the shadow of terror still lingered in his gaze, a smile was already stretching across his lips, his white teeth strikingly bright.