Volume Two: The Mortal Realm Chapter Fifty-Three: A Sword Named Nine

Everyone’s heart was drawn tense, like a bowstring ready to unleash, waiting for the moment the ghost would appear.

But they waited until exhaustion overtook them, until the sky brightened and morning light spilled down—yet the ghost never appeared.

Time pressed on, soon surpassing the longest interval previously recorded between the ghost’s appearances—seven double-hours.

No one knew whether to rejoice or despair; all felt only fatigue. Even the timid Fang Wu had wept himself silent.

“What is going on?” Song Mingyu’s face was haggard as she drove her sword into the earth with a crisp thud and sat down, weary.

“Sis, do you think it’s possible the ghost was completely dealt with by Senior Brother Sword Nine’s formation?” Song Mingqing, who had already sat down, keeping an eye on the goat, leaned over with a mischievous grin, speaking quietly.

“Mmm... It’s not impossible. After all, it was our Sword Nine who struck, and the technique was so impressive!” Song Mingyu cupped her cheeks in her hands, her eyes sparkling, never forgetting her penchant for daydreaming.

“But you’re wrong again—it’s not Senior Brother Sword Nine, it’s Brother-in-law Sword Nine!” One moment she beamed with delight, the next her expression darkened. She jabbed an elbow at Song Mingqing, her voice dropping sternly.

“Ow!” Song Mingqing feigned a dramatic wince, loudly pleading for mercy. “Alright, Sis, I won’t do it again. From now on, I’ll call him Brother-in-law Sword Nine!”

They’d both kept their voices low, but Mingqing’s outburst was loud enough for even the ordinary folk to hear; everyone turned to look, amusement shining in many eyes.

Song Mingyu could feel their gazes, especially that of the one she liked. Her neck, white as jade, flushed all the way to her ears, her face burning.

With a thump, she pressed her forehead against her sword planted upright in the earth, blocking her eyes from view—as if to shut out the world. Through gritted teeth, she hissed under her breath, “Song Mingqing, you’re getting bold, aren’t you?”

Sword Nine’s gaze shifted, but his expression didn’t change. He said coldly, “Don’t drop your guard. That ghost could appear at any moment!”

“Mingqing, if you’ve rested enough, return to your post,” Li Guifan interjected with a gentle laugh.

“Alright. Haha, Sis, I was just buying you a chance!” Song Mingqing grinned, nudged Song Mingyu with his shoulder, then rose to fetch the goat, heading to the position prepared the previous day.

Throughout the night, Ye Mingke had not relaxed his vigilance. Though he could not devise a complete numeric model for the ghost, countless subtle clues in the data indicated time was undeniably a critical factor in the ghost’s transformations.

The fact that the ghost had not appeared within the previously observed intervals likely foretold some even more bizarre change.

But now, the oppressive tension that had gripped the field was punctured by the antics of Song Mingqing and Song Mingyu, as if the surface of an overinflated bubble had been gently tapped and burst.

Nerves too long strained, people couldn’t help but exchange a few words with their neighbors. The previously subdued atmosphere quickly became lively and noisy.

Just then, Ye Mingke, who had been sitting with eyes closed, suddenly tensed, his eyes snapping open.

It was as if a terrifying curtain of darkness had suddenly appeared in his mind.

“North position, one hundred and thirty feet!” His voice rang out, calm, loud, and penetrating.

Most were still too relieved to react, but Sword Nine had already moved.

With a resonant clang, the seven spiritual swords arrayed beside him soared up in unison, each drawing radiant arcs through the mist like blazing suns, then plummeting toward a single spot on the ground.

The moment they struck, fierce sword energy roared outward, rending earth and stone with thunderous force, sending dust billowing high.

The ghost was moving, and Ye Mingke’s calls inevitably contained some margin of error. Thus, their plan the previous night had been to favor wide-area attacks.

Dust surged, sword-light streaked, earth and stone exploded in all directions.

A chaotic, tumultuous field contained a thousand times more information than a tranquil one.

Ye Mingke, eyes closed once more, endured the pain of the tumultuous torrent of information pouring in, desperately searching for the ghost’s trace. The effort drew twin trails of blood from his eyes—the tiny vessels within had burst from the strain.

Moments later, amid the chaos, he found again that unchanging patch of darkness.

“It’s still there!” he rasped.

“North position, seventy-seven feet!”

Now Win Kui and Song Mingyu had also grasped the situation. Twin blades were drawn, the clear cry of a phoenix and the high-pitched roar of a flood-dragon resounding through the air.

Song Mingyu, flames blazing along her form, unleashed her sword. The sword’s energy was as fierce as fire, surging forth like a great fire-phoenix.

Win Kui directed his sword in flight—layers of sword-light rolling like waves, the dark green blade cutting through like a monstrous water-dragon toward the ghost’s approach.

Explosions rocked the earth, stone and dirt flying, pits gouged deep into the ground, dust shrouding the field.

Ye Mingke’s head throbbed, sharp as needles. He drove his fingernails deep into his palm, using the pain to remain conscious, to keep his mind racing.

“Still there, still there,” he muttered, the desperation mounting in his hoarse voice. “North position, thirty-six feet!”

The ghost was upon them—its progress unchanged by all their ferocious attacks, neither speed nor size affected, not even its direction.

Li Guifan stepped forward, unleashing another wave of sword energy.

But Ye Mingke had lost hope in these measures; he shouted instead, “Abandon the goat!”

The cultivators faltered—the order meant their attacks had no effect on the hidden ghost, that all their efforts must be forsaken, forcing the ghost into a possession state.

“Abandon the goat!” Only Sword Nine accepted Ye Mingke’s judgment without hesitation, echoing the command.

“North position, sixteen feet!” Ye Mingke cried again.

Song Mingqing, clutching the remains of the goat, stood right on the spot. Hearing how close the ghost was, his face drained of color, every hair standing on end.

To increase the chance of collision, he swung the carcass, shoving it straight ahead. The goat tumbled through the air, bleating in a thin, forlorn wail.

Suddenly, the goat’s cry sharpened, piercing their ears like an array of needles.

The tumbling carcass abruptly froze in midair, as if defying all reason.

Its bloodstained head turned slowly through an unnatural arc, fixing the crowd with a grotesque, eerily human smile.

Song Mingqing, seeing that horrific smile, actually felt a moment of relief. But just as he relaxed, Ye Mingke’s bloodstained eyes snapped open and he shouted in terror, “Run! There are two ghosts!”

Song Mingqing had only time to glance over his shoulder at Ye Mingke when a frigid, wicked darkness enveloped him. He felt the blood in his veins turn to ice, the world before him spiderwebbed with bleeding cracks.

Then everything shattered.

In the horrified eyes of those around, Song Mingqing’s gaze—just turned—abruptly froze. His eyes swelled and suffused with blood, then burst, leaving two crimson cavities. The veins under his skin bulged and burst one after another.

From all over his body, blood gushed and sprayed, covering him entirely in a crimson silhouette—like the cultivator who’d died on the beach the day before.

Yesterday’s nightmare, the day before’s nightmare, endless nightmares, one after another, layer upon layer, descended upon them, smothering them in despair.

“Mingqing!” The anguished wail, tears streaming down her face, came from Song Mingyu.

“Mingqing!” The roar of rage was from Win Kui, who had just been swapped out by Song Mingqing—and now lost another friend.

A bitter curse escaped Ye Mingke, blood still dripping from his eyes, as he pounded the earth in regret and fury.

Cries and screams broke from Fang Wu and the other terrified mortals.

The blood-soaked goat, blue flames smoldering in its pupils, strode step by step through the air to stand above Song Mingqing’s head. The horrifying, evil, humanlike smile remained fixed on its ghastly face.

Below it, the blood-smeared remains of Song Mingqing’s once-handsome features also twisted into a mocking grin. Lips quivered, and that chilling, sharp, unnatural laughter rang out through the mist once more.

In that moment, mortals and cultivators alike were gripped by a mingled fury, terror, and despair.

Terror, when stretched to its limit, becomes despair; despair, when it can go no further, ignites into wrath.

Song Mingyu and Win Kui, all fear forgotten, charged madly at the ghost, their hearts ablaze with anguish and rage.

Sword-light crisscrossed, crimson flames flared, the dark green flying sword and the ghost’s thunder and fire clashed with a deafening roar.

“Go to the second plan!” Li Guifan was still clinging to their previous strategy, shouting from where he stood. But now, both ghost and men were mad, and the field itself trembled and cracked with their frenzy.

Sword Nine no longer moved with mechanical calm. He swept his long hair back from his face, then slowly drew the sword he had carried on his back—one that had never yet left its sheath.

His gaze was icy cold.

Unlike the seven flying swords, this newly drawn blade was iron-grey, silent, as if an ordinary sword dulled by earthly dust.

Yet as Sword Nine drew it inch by inch, his aura rose, higher and higher, until he seemed a divine sword poised to cleave the heavens.

He strode toward the ghost. Passing Ye Mingke, he paused a moment and asked coldly, “Is it the same ghost?”

“Yes, only one—it’s not two,” Ye Mingke replied, his face still streaked with fresh blood, staring at the twin apparitions.

“I will kill one, and leave one alive.”

His words were like ice bound with flame—chilled, yet seething with suppressed fury ready to erupt.

He pressed forward, striding into the storm of thunder, fire, and sword-light, his iron-grey blade now fully drawn.

This sword—

Its name is Nine.

Nine, the ultimate number.

Nine, his name.

He stands as the pinnacle of the world.