Chapter Twenty-Eight: Enlightenment After Madness

Chapter 28: Enlightenment After Madness

Fang Junmei had long since lost track of time. All he could feel was an ever-growing thirst in his belly, as if he had not tasted a drop of water for seven or eight days. His throat and voice box burned and smoked with a dry, fiery sensation.

That feeling stretched from his throat down into his abdomen.

His stomach rumbled with hunger.

“Intense!” Fang Junmei croaked hoarsely. He could no longer distinguish whether this was reality or hallucination. His body felt neither pain nor itch, but the thirst overwhelmed everything, too strong to ignore.

He could no longer sit in meditation. This craving from within his body resisted all attempts at calmness or focus. No matter how he tried to meditate or clear his mind, he could not dispel it.

Rising unsteadily to his feet, Fang Junmei began to pace slowly about the empty cave, breathing long and deep in an attempt to soothe his growing impatience. The effort was little more than a comfort.

Time pressed on, and his thirst grew ever fiercer.

He swallowed again and again, but there was nothing left to swallow.

Not only did his throat and voice box burn, they began to itch—a dryness so intense that only the most extreme thirst could bring it about.

Unconsciously, Fang Junmei’s hands reached for his throat.

But halfway there, he stopped himself with sheer willpower.

“No scratching. Even if I tear my throat apart, it won’t ease the itch.”

His reason held, his mind racing for a solution.

“I need a distraction. Something—anything—to take my mind off this thirst, to dull it.”

His thoughts spun quickly for an answer.

With a metallic ring, Fang Junmei began to perform the Underworld Ghost Rain Sword Technique. His peachwood sword now hung at his waist for easy access, just like his old longing blade.

A gale rose with a roar.

Since his magical powers and spiritual awareness were sealed, Fang Junmei resorted to using his remaining inner strength to perform the sword technique. He could manage all but the moves that required the sword to fly from his hand.

Soon, the cave echoed with the howling winds of the underworld.

Fang Junmei had always loved swordplay above all, and as he immersed himself in the forms, his mind focused and the thirst receded somewhat.

First form: The Netherworld Wind Rises.

Second form: Sword Rain Rustles.

Third form: Ghost Shadows Follow.

...

Eighth form: Vanishing Like Spirits.

The Underworld Ghost Rain Sword Technique consisted of thirteen forms, and Fang Junmei remained stuck at the eighth. Of the final five, all but the last—Spirit-God Unfathomable—required him to enter a state of wild, ghostly madness, something his usual calm and steady nature could never achieve.

Again and again, from the first to the eighth form, Fang Junmei practiced tirelessly, but the ninth form, Ghosts Wail in Heaven’s Sorrow, always eluded him.

Time slipped by, moment by moment.

After a dozen rounds, Fang Junmei finally paused. The thirst he had managed to forget now surged back tenfold.

Dryness. Itching.

A feeling so maddening it could drive anyone insane.

His hands shot to his throat like lightning, scratching furiously, reason seemingly obliterated in an instant. His eyes blazed with a madness he had never known, bloodshot and bulging.

A metallic clatter rang out.

It was his peachwood sword falling to the ground.

The sound struck his mind like a thunderclap on a clear day.

“No! No scratching! That would be the end of me!”

The madness receded from his eyes, replaced by cold clarity. He told himself, “Neither Long Jinyi nor Gu Xijin—Fang Junmei will not lose to either of them. Ah—!”

He flung his arms away from his throat and roared with all his might.

Snatching up his peachwood sword, he resumed the technique, faster than before, his movements wild and frenzied like a sword demon’s dance.

Wind howled.

By the eighth form, turning back once more to the first, frustration seeped into his heart. Though he understood the meaning behind the sword forms, he simply could not execute the ninth.

Anxiety, disappointment, and the ever-growing thirst chipped away at his reason and composure.

His roars grew louder and more bestial.

“Absurd! Absurd! Why can’t I perform the ninth form?”

He began to mutter incoherently, forehead burning with fever, all calmness lost. His body and sword spun in a frenzy.

Once more, he reached the eighth form.

Sword energy slashed wildly, striking the cave walls with the sound of torrential rain beating banana leaves. The walls flashed with light but remained unmarked.

In a haze, Fang Junmei attempted the ninth form, Ghosts Wail in Heaven’s Sorrow. Normally, he would have stopped abruptly, left frustrated and forced to start again from the first form.

But something strange happened.

A piercing, sorrowful wailing erupted, echoing with an unsettling energy that agitated the mind.

Within the swirling winds around him, ghostly figures took shape—insubstantial, perhaps because they were formed from mere inner strength.

Seeing this, Fang Junmei froze, dumbfounded, his mind abruptly clear.

“I performed the ninth form, Ghosts Wail in Heaven’s Sorrow?”

A spark of joy lit his eyes. After a moment’s hesitation, he tried again.

Nothing.

Again and again he tried, with the same result.

“What is going on here?” he wondered, falling silent, searching his memory for what had been different. The act of focusing on this question diminished his thirst further.

Soon, his eyes brightened.

“Haha! I finally understand! From the ninth to the twelfth form, the method of execution is entirely different from before!”

He laughed heartily. As the laughter faded, madness flickered in his eyes once more, and he moved as if possessed.

Ninth form: Ghosts Wail in Heaven’s Sorrow.

Tenth form: Phantom of the Bowed Cup.

Eleventh form: Greedy Ghost Turns the Mill.

Twelfth form: Sword Wind Paints the Ghost.

With only brief pauses, Fang Junmei performed all four forms. Sensing his lack of mastery and brimming with excitement, he repeated them again and again.

In the cave, sword energy surged, underworld winds howled, and ghostly shadows danced.

For the moment, Fang Junmei once again forgot the thirst tormenting his body, losing himself entirely to sword practice.

...

Outside the cave, the “Medicine Sword Immortal” Chunyu Qian was also practicing his sword.

His figure flickered like lightning across the crisscrossing black chains, a slender silver blade in hand stirring up a mighty tempest. Even the lava below, usually calm, now roared and leapt like a fire dragon under his influence.

Had Fang Junmei emerged, he would have been astonished by the sight.

But just then, as if sensing the commotion within the cave, Chunyu Qian abruptly halted and looked toward the cave entrance.

“That sword technique again…”

Chunyu Qian murmured, “Last time, I helped Long Jinyi pass the trial. This time, it’s your turn? You two truly are born brothers-in-arms. But even this is not enough!”

A crafty and expectant expression appeared on the old man’s face.