Chapter Sixty-One: The Valley

Withered blossoms, like dreams adrift, fall across the sky, scattering heartache, dancing through the dust, passing between clouds and water, silent and still. I keep my vigil in the mortal world, waiting for a promise.

Three cups of cloudy wine, a few heartfelt words. When will I return home, to share a laugh with her, to mourn the fallen petals in drunken song, to ask where dreams may lead? When my hair is white as snow and my face is worn with age, I wish to hold your hand and grant you a lifetime’s gentleness.

Step after weary step, parted from you by life and death. We are separated by thousands of miles, each at the world’s far end. The road is long and fraught with obstacles—who knows when we might meet again?

I should cut this song in half to brew with wine, to keep company with the falling snow, grateful you once braved frost and death for a lifelong vow. The clear flute should play through the night, its chilling notes resounding; let one cup be offered to the bright moon, illuminating the lonely path ahead.

A fine drizzle began to fall from the sky, the cool night stirring the heartstrings. At midnight, the rain grew heavier, drumming endlessly on the earth. Gradually, puddles formed across the ground. Raindrops pelted the trees, echoing with a constant drip.

Red blood mingled with muddy water and dead leaves, flowing along the ground. Following this current upstream, ten meters away, a figure lay sprawled in a pit about three meters wide. The blood was flowing from this very person.

A solitary blue sword stood planted beside him, like a silent guardian keeping watch.

Time slipped by, and dawn arrived in the blink of an eye.

The sky remained dim and sunless, clouds thick and oppressive. From time to time, lightning ripped across the heavens, thunder rumbling in its wake. The rain fell unceasing for three days and three nights, and the figure in the pit remained utterly still, as if lifeless.

During those three days, several wild beasts—tigers, bears, wolves, leopards—were drawn by the scent of blood. Yet the radiant blue glow from the sword held them at bay. Beasts have an innate wariness of danger; they bellowed at the blue sword, but unwillingly retreated.

Fortunately, the heavy rain kept the scent of blood from spreading, attracting only a few lesser creatures from nearby.

By the fourth day, no more fresh blood seeped from the pit, as if the body had been drained dry.

Though a few more beasts appeared, they lacked any true intelligence and were ultimately frightened away by the sword’s oppressive aura.

The wounds that marred the figure’s body were horrific, his face crisscrossed with healing scars that slowly began to scab over.

The fifth day dawned without event.

The rain ceased, a gentle breeze brushing the man’s white hair where he lay. The blue sword vibrated with a clear, ringing sound, as if cheering for some subtle recovery.

Though the wounds had begun to crust, the man remained motionless.

Not until the ninth day did his right index finger tremble faintly. After that single movement, he fell silent once more.

On the tenth day, all ten fingers slowly began to move, as though the man in the pit was consciously willing himself into motion.

Ye Wuyá slowly regained consciousness, a single tear tracing down his battered face. “The pain, unbearable, rending pain!” Even putting everything on the line, he could not prevent Ye Ruoyue and Ye Ruxue from being taken. In the eyes of those powerful figures, he was nothing but a petty clown. If not for some unknown scruple, that old man could have crushed him as easily as an ant.

His heartache was far deeper than the agony of his wounds.

Without strength, he could not even protect those he loved in this wild and ancient world...

Every attempt to move twisted his features in pain, leaving him paralyzed. But at least he was awake.

His body was a ruin of his own making. Every meridian inside him had been shattered, his flesh torn, his organs ruptured, even his core destroyed—there was no trace of spiritual power left within him.

He was pitifully weak, his blood already washed away by the rain, his face pale, his body covered in gruesome scars. The slightest movement sent lances of pain through him. Lying in the pit, Ye Wuyá gazed deeply at the sky.

He was looking toward the direction in which Ye Ruoyue and Ye Ruxue had been taken.

“Wait for me,” he murmured, closing his eyes. He did not know how far he had chased, how many mountains and rivers he had crossed; he only knew there was no going back to Ling City, nor did he wish to return. That direction was now the path he must walk.

Three days slipped by.

Thanks to his formidable power of recovery, Ye Wuyá could now move with difficulty. Leaning on his sword, he walked slowly. After a long while, he came to his senses and looked out at the distant, undulating mountains, the endless green forests, ancient trees towering to the sky, massive vines as thick as basins twisting about, a boundless expanse of wild grasses and fragrant flowers. The whole world brimmed with life.

His steps faltered. After ten minutes, Ye Wuyá parted the brush before him and beheld a strange, menacing old tree, about a meter tall, its branches laden with bright red fruit the size of eggs, exuding an intense, tempting fragrance. Nearby, a clear spring, three meters wide, lay still and undisturbed, its surface rippling in the breeze.

He licked his parched lips and, supporting himself on the blue sword, hurried over, scooping up the crystal water in his hands and drinking greedily.

The water was cool and sweet, its flavor lingering, refreshing him to his core. He drank deeply, then sighed and wiped his lips, his eyes shining a little brighter.

Ye Wuyá studied the fruit on the tree, picked one, hesitated briefly, then ate it. He desperately needed the energy—his body was weak beyond measure. The moment he bit in, juice burst forth, and a fragrance many times richer than the spring water filled his mouth, a cool current sweeping through his limbs with unparalleled delight.

Starving for days, he devoured a dozen fruits and then collapsed beneath the tree, patting his stomach.

With a little food inside him, Ye Wuyá waited quietly for his body to absorb the energy. He eyed the nine remaining fruits, licked his lips, and quickly ate them all.

After eating the fruit, he felt much better, though hunger still gnawed at him. He knew his appetite would not be satisfied by so little.

After a short rest, Ye Wuyá leaned on his blue sword and gazed at the endless mountains, strange peaks rising in all directions. Choosing a route, he began his descent, always alert for signs of wild beasts—he was keenly aware of his hunger.

Though his cultivation was crippled, his sword intent remained, and he could still wield it to some extent. In his current state, he only hoped not to encounter a truly fearsome beast, or he would stand no chance.

After half a day, he found the forest lush and full of wild fruits, though none as delicious as the ones he had eaten before. He bit into a bitter fruit and tossed it aside.

Ahead, beneath a great tree, he saw a mess of footprints the size of his own head, and claw marks scored deep into the trunk.

“Bear tracks?” Ye Wuyá grinned wickedly. “Looks like tonight’s dinner is settled.”

Standing beneath the tree, he felt something drip onto his head. He reached up—sticky and fragrant. Looking up, he saw a swarm of bees buzzing around a hive, with a gaping hole torn in its base.

He needed no further guesswork; clearly, this was the handiwork of the bear.

The bear tracks stretched off into the distance. Leaning on his sword, Ye Wuyá followed them cautiously.

After a few minutes, a ravine appeared before him—towering peaks, monstrous stones, tangled vines clawing at the air. There was no sign of other beasts—this was clearly the bear’s territory.

Every beast is fiercely territorial, never tolerating intruders. They mark their domain with droppings and scent, warning rivals away. Any who trespass are fiercely attacked.

A heavy thud echoed from the ravine, the ground shaking as if two colossal creatures had collided.

“Judging by that sound, it seems two great beasts are fighting!” Ye Wuyá mused at the ravine’s edge. “I’ll take a look, but carefully—so long as I’m not discovered.”

He climbed up the side of the ravine and peered down. Within, broken stones lay scattered, and rows of statues lined the walls. An ancient tree lay toppled across a massive stone platform. The platform was immense, flanked by grotesque, demonic Buddhist statues that exuded a sinister chill. In rows of caves along the cliffs, more Buddha statues stood vigil. Atop the stone platform loomed the ruins of a thousand-year-old monastery, a faint candlelight flickering within.

A thunderous crash erupted from the platform.

Looking down, Ye Wuyá saw two colossal beasts—an enormous bear four or five meters tall and a wild boar three or four meters long locked in battle. The boar’s half-meter tusks gleamed coldly, its body armored in scales. The bear’s claws struck sparks off the boar’s hide without leaving a mark.