Volume Two: The Mortal Realm Chapter Fifty-Seven: The Tide

“Is there any way to find Li Guifan again?” Ye Mingke asked.

“No. He’s turned off his communication talisman. In the forest, he left many traces, so I could track him. But to find someone riding a sword over the Misty Sea—I can’t do it. No one here can,” replied Jian Jiu.

“So, have you calculated the next strength value for the ghost’s appearance? Can we handle it?”

Ye Mingke exhaled deeply, as if a massive stone pressed upon his heart, trapping a surging fire beneath its weight.

It had been so difficult, so incredibly difficult to find a way out of this desperate deadlock, only for it to dissolve into nothing because of a deserter none of them had foreseen.

“Sixty-two. All of us together couldn’t defeat that ghost,” Jian Jiu said, delivering an even more crushing blow. “The only thing that could stand against it now is the Spirit Awakening Talisman.”

Which meant, when the ghost appeared next, it would be their annihilation.

Had they reached a dead end after all?

This time, despair was complete and absolute.

There was nothing left to be done.

Everyone, even Jian Jiu and Ye Mingke, felt the chill of hopelessness.

“Let’s go. We’ll set out to sea.”

Ye Mingke gazed at the deep, gloomy sea under the night, his face pale and weary, yet his words carried a calm composure.

“Now? What’s the use?” Jian Jiu looked up at him, puzzled.

“Listen—the tide is coming.”

Ye Mingke suddenly smiled. He tilted his ear toward the sea, listening intently.

There was a soothing power in his calm voice, and as his companions followed his lead and listened, their restless hearts gradually stilled.

Then, they heard it too.

Bang.

Whoosh.

It was the sound of the night tide, again and again crashing against the coastal rocks and receding—a song as ancient and serene as time itself, sung from the distant past to the present.

It was monotonous and repetitive, yet, like Ye Mingke’s gentle words, it carried a profound tranquility.

The tide—faithful, ever-returning, thousand-year, ten-thousand-year eternal tide.

The world, spinning in its steady orbit through millennia.

In the shadow of the ghost, those who had felt the world darken to the brink of ruin now lifted their heads from the overwhelming terror, as if surfacing for air.

The world was still so tranquil. It always had been. Steadily, reassuringly moving forward.

The confusion, anger, and despair on Jian Jiu’s face faded. If death was coming, perhaps it was just a necessary scene along this tranquil path.

“When we met you yesterday, we were waiting for this tide. Once it came, we would drag the boat from the shallows, sail into the vast sea, and head home.”

Ye Mingke spoke softly, his gaze steady and warm as he looked at Li Han, Bamboo Pole, Zhao Yuan, Old Liu, Fang Four, and Fang Five.

“Even if we die in the sea, even if the ghost is destined to kill us, we’d rather not perish on this desolate, meaningless island. We’d rather die on the way home, out in the boundless sea.”

“Your home isn’t here either. What do you want to do?”

He looked from Jian Jiu, to Song Mingyu, to Ying Kui.

“Does it matter?” Song Mingyu asked, her voice barely a whisper as she stared into Ye Mingke’s clear, unwavering eyes.

“I don’t know what to do to escape the ghost. I just know I must do what I can—do what is right.”

Ye Mingke answered her calmly.

At the brink of true despair, he feared death, wished to live, and yet managed to keep his mind steady and bright.

That was the light within him, shaped over sixteen years by Uncle Jian and Aunt Long—nurtured in the deepest darkness, word by word, act by act.

“Let’s set out to sea. Even if, barely leaving the shallows, the ghost strikes us down—he’s right. Since we’re not dead yet, we must do something.”

Jian Jiu’s cool, even voice sounded once more. He looked at Ye Mingke, the two of them often at odds, yet always working together in silent understanding—their eyes equally clear and calm.

“You’re a true swordsman,” Jian Jiu remarked.

“Of course. Even if I only have a wooden sword.” Ye Mingke shrugged, as if it were the most natural thing in the world.

He always found his words more spirited when speaking to Jian Jiu—talking to a kindred spirit was indeed more enjoyable.

“You have a sword case as well. I like it. One day, maybe you’ll let me borrow it. I have too many swords and not enough cases.”

“You think too much. Honestly, your swords look nice—maybe someday you’ll let me play with a few.”

Unfortunately, these two could never quite see eye to eye, and before long, their banter turned into bickering again.

Yet… the fact that there might still be a ‘someday’, no matter what it held, was a blessing for those whose lives hung by a thread.

The boat was moored on the nearby shore, the water rising fast. Li Han and a few men, pant legs rolled up, untied the ropes and hauled the boat into deeper water.

Ye Mingke went into the woods to catch a few more wild animals to serve as stand-ins for the ghost.

Jian Jiu, Song Mingyu, and Ying Kui found themselves at a loss for what to do.

Because the ghost grew stronger the more spiritual power they used, Jian Jiu had ordered the three remaining cultivators to avoid using any more spiritual power from now on.

They didn’t know if it would make a difference in the end, but it was the right thing to do.

And yet, without spiritual power, they were unsure what they should do.

Ye Mingke hunted quickly. In less than a quarter hour, he returned with several wild beasts, large and small.

By then, Li Han and the others had dragged the boat into deep enough water. The group climbed aboard the tiny vessel—so small against the vast, night-shrouded sea—and set sail into the boundless ocean.

Four hours had passed since the ghost’s last appearance; it could strike any of them at any moment.

Yet, as they looked upon the dark vastness, though their nerves remained taut, no one despaired enough to break down in panic.

Because each one was doing what was right, and those around them did the same.

Doing the right thing steadies the soul, so that even among tossing waves, one’s feet feel as solid as if on dry land.

But perhaps those who do the right thing are also a little luckier?

Ye Mingke and Jian Jiu stood together at the bow, both hoping—hoping for the same thing, even if it could only buy them a little more time.

Even in this cruel world, those who do wrong should not be luckier than those who do right—should they?

Li Guifan sped across the sea, disoriented in the fog and unable to tell direction. He only knew to seize every moment, to search every possibility—maybe then he would find a way out.

He landed on a lonely islet, paused to catch his breath, and muttered curses in his heart, praying the ghost would find Jian Jiu’s group first. That would buy him more time.

“Li Guifan, you won’t die.”

But the silent chanting in his heart no longer sufficed to vent his terror and frenzy. He muttered to himself again and again into the lonely night, his face twisted with madness.

His cheeks were flushed and distorted by the overuse of spiritual power, nothing like his usual calm, affable self.

“Your luck has always been so bad—this time, you should finally catch a break.”

“And Jian Jiu—why? Why was he the one favored by the sect, when I entered first? Why do I have only one spirit sword, and he, nine? Why am I the senior disciple, yet everyone blindly reveres him?”

He burst into wild laughter under the night, as if picturing his master left with only him as a disciple, and all the resources of their line his to command.

“My master, oh my master. I was born a commoner, clawed my way up with flattery and effort, finally became your disciple, finally became a cultivator.”

“And yet you named me ‘Guifan’—Return to the Mortal World—so I’d never forget my roots. Hah! You never liked me, just wanted to drive me back to the mundane. But I won’t let you. I obey the rules, get along with my peers, curry favor with the elders, leave no mistake for you to seize. What more can you do to me?”

“This time, all your disciples, even Jian Jiu, will die. The only one who’ll survive is me. It should only be me!”

He laughed madly in the night, as if seeing his teacher’s lineage left to him alone, the glorious future his for the taking.

But suddenly, he felt a weight in his hand. His laughter stopped abruptly as he hurled the bloody animal he carried away from him.

With a thud, the beast hit the ground, blood seeping out, and pale ghostly thunder-fire slowly rising from its body.

The ghost’s chilling laughter echoed all around him.

“Why?”

“Why me, again?”

He stared, half terrified, half furious, at the beast rising in the thunder-fire, his roar desperate and wild.

No answer came. The ghost’s aura grew stronger, thunder-fire erupting violently.

Its laughter swelled, filling earth and sky, hemming him in.

A torrent of thunder-fire struck first; he barely had time to raise his sword before being blasted hundreds of meters, crashing through a dozen trees.

In that first exchange, he knew—without his brothers to help, he was no match for this ghost.

The Spirit Awakening Talisman—he needed the Spirit Awakening Talisman.

He struggled up in panic.

“Li Guifan, you will not die!”

Fueled by terror and rage, he charged at the ghost, casting a talisman of dazzling light.

The explosion hurled trees through the air, shattered the ground, engulfed the ghost, and swept away everything before it.

Coughing from the aftershock, Li Guifan stood, disheveled and bewildered, among the rubble.

“Ha… why? A fifty-fifty chance, and it never falls to me, does it?”

Amid the dust, he laughed—bitter, pitiable, ugly.

Blinded by jealousy and self-deception, he never considered: if the ghost had found Jian Jiu’s group first, then when he encountered it, it might be a ghost that had already killed them and grown stronger—perhaps even the Spirit Awakening Talisman would not help.

In that case, he might not have survived even a single attack.

He was incredibly lucky—and might continue to be lucky…

Fate’s knocks seldom test morality; like the tide striking stone, they come without reason, without answer.