Volume Two: Mortal Realm Chapter Sixty: A Single Thread

“I don’t know.”
Ye Mingke, who was also standing there drenched from head to toe, replied hoarsely to Ying Kui beside him.
“It’s been two days, and I really… I haven’t the slightest clue.”
Li Han, with his trouser legs rolled up, and Zhugan came over to join them; these past few days, piloting the boat had fallen to these few men.
Having spent so much time on a vessel where their lives were tied together, mingling with people they regarded as immortals, their initial dread and unease had faded.
“We still haven’t found the maritime markers our ancestors left behind today. This place seems nothing like the route we took here,” Li Han said to Ye Mingke. “The Sea of Mists is strange by nature; the paths of immortals and mortals are never the same. It’s very possible we’ll never find the way back.”
“And this time, the Sea of Mists feels very different from my last two experiences,” he added.
Ye Mingke and Ying Kui fell silent.
Ye Mingke lifted his head, gazing into the distance where layer upon layer of mist shrouded the sea. Within the fog, his perception could reach thirty zhang, but in this vast, endless ocean, what use was a mere thirty zhang of sight?
Seeing the three of them huddled together in low-voiced discussion, everyone else on the boat, apart from Jian Jiu—who had again grown so weak as to lapse into unconsciousness—turned their anxious gazes upon them.
Every pair of eyes brimmed with anxiety, confusion, fear, and… the last dregs of hope.
Hope has weight.
Ye Mingke felt the heaviness of those gazes and lowered his head.
But in the face of this boundless sea, what could he do? The numerology and deduction Aunt Long had taught him were useless here, and his exceptional physique meant nothing at all.
He was facing the deep-seated malice of nature itself. Perhaps this sea was the greatest and most terrifying of all ghosts.
Time slipped away like sand that only escapes the tighter you try to grasp it; the time Jian Jiu had bought with his life flowed inexorably forward, irreversible and unstoppable.
Night fell.
The boat drifted in the darkness, and from within the cabin, the sleeping would sometimes emit soft sobs and terrified mutterings, making the night all the heavier and more oppressive.
A soft “splish” sounded not far from the little boat; out on the water, a figure harnessed the swell of the waves, leaping again and again from the surface, attempting to stride across the billows.
“Thud. Thud.”
That silhouette crashed into the water each time, only to leap up once more—falling back, repeating the same futile cycle.
It was Ye Mingke.
Ying Kui, leaning on the gunwale with both elbows, watched the figure flounder and leap, ridiculous and absurd, and could not help but laugh—a laugh tinged with mockery and self-deprecation.
He shouldered his spirit sword, stripped off his outer robe, flexed his wrists and ankles, and vaulted overboard after him.
With a slap, just as countless times before, the moment he hit the water, unable to use any spiritual power, he sank straight down.
Imitating the figure not far off, he tried to use the momentum of the waves to leap up, but—like the other—he could only fall, powerless, back into the sea.
Splash. Thud.
Up, then down.
The sea at night was icy, black, and bitterly salty; as seawater flooded his mouth, the bitterness spread to his whole body.
Bitter indeed.
The two of them repeated the same futile struggle over and over, bursting from the water only to plunge back again, like two hopeless flying fish yearning for the sky.

The best moment came when Ye Mingke seemed to discover a trick, managing to run seven steps across the waves. But after that, he was back to stumbling after a single step.
As for Ying Kui, even as a cultivator, his best was barely a single stride.
The lightning and fire attributes of ghosts meant they could not risk confronting such a foe on the fragile wooden boat.
So they yearned for the ability Jian Jiu possessed—to fight upon the open sea. If they could do that, perhaps they could help the man already gambling with his life; perhaps things wouldn’t be so desperate for him.
Yet, for two men who had never touched mortal martial arts, to master wave-running in a mere day or two—even with Jian Jiu doing his best to teach them some tricks—was an almost impossible task.
The night flowed on, deep and quiet, and at last the two men, drenched and exhausted, crawled back aboard, slumping against the gunwale and gasping for breath.
The sky was growing pale. Side by side, they gazed at the light piercing the layers of mist. Their ragged breaths turned to hazy vapor in the chill of dawn.
“Why is it only Jian Jiu knows the martial arts of the mortal world?” Ye Mingke suddenly turned to ask Ying Kui.
Having spent two nights immersed in the same bitter cold sea, the tension between them had eased away.
“Cultivators typically practice only the arts of the Dao. Even among those of us from orthodox sects that value the basics, we only learned a few fundamental sword forms and steps upon reaching the Dajing realm.”
This time, Ying Kui did not respond coldly, but explained softly.
“The martial way has long fallen into decline. Who but a battle-madman like Jian Jiu would train in such difficult and powerless arts, when they can never match the might of immortal techniques?”
“But who could have known that one day such skills would become a matter of life and death?”
He gave a bitter, self-mocking smile.
“I’ve never felt so useless before. It’s the first time someone has risked their life to protect me.”
“That’s not the case for me. This is already the second time. But no matter how much you hate your own helplessness, you have to fight to survive, strive to grow stronger, and never give up hope—that’s the only way to be worthy of those who risk their lives for you.”
Ye Mingke looked into his eyes, the clear depths reflecting the first light of dawn.
Ying Kui met his gaze and felt the sincerity in his words. He was being comforted, though he wasn’t used to it.
He shook his head and changed the subject.
“So where did you really come from? With such a strange constitution, you can’t possibly be an ordinary mortal.”
“I’m afraid I can’t tell you that. Once we’re out of the Sea of Mists, you’ll still be my pursuer. I can’t afford to let down my guard around an enemy.”
Ye Mingke laughed, dodging the question with a mix of truth and jest.
“That’s fair.”
Ying Kui smiled wryly again, tilting his head to study Ye Mingke.
“I find you aren’t so disagreeable after all. It’s a shame…”
His expression was complicated.
“I’m a solitary, much-maligned man. I have few friends, and the deaths of the two I did have are both linked to you. And I’ve said I would take your life.”
“And I keep my word.”
His eyes flickered, a mad, blood-red gleam surfacing in their depths.
“You really are insufferable.”
Ye Mingke’s right hand unconsciously tightened into a fist, but his face remained relaxed and unconcerned, weariness softening his features. He shrugged.
“Anyway, you promised not to harm me or the others in the Sea of Mists. Just remember that for now. As for what happens after… we’ll see when we make it out.”
“Out!”

Ye Mingke was in the midst of saying “out” when a low, hoarse roar echoed from the cabin—weak, yet burning with pain and fury.
“What happened?” Startled by the sound, Ying Kui struggled to his feet.
“It’s Jian Jiu and Song Mingyu.”
Ye Mingke, ever alert to his surroundings, had already sensed the situation in the cabin and hurried inside with Ying Kui.
Within, Jian Jiu, face gaunt and hair white as frost, leaned weakly against the table, his bloodless visage frozen with icy indifference and anger.
Song Mingyu, pushed aside, sat slumped on the floorboards—her own face haggard, eyes red-rimmed, gazing at Jian Jiu with a grief-stricken, pained expression, sorrow and anguish swirling in her gaze.
“Jian, you can’t keep carrying this alone. Let me give you my life force. I promise, truly, it will only drain a little spiritual power. It won’t make much difference to the ghost.”
Having been pushed away once, Song Mingyu spoke softly, tenderly, inching on her knees to approach Jian Jiu once more.
“It won’t affect the ghost much, but if you lose too much life force, you could die!”
Jian Jiu lifted half his face, answering coldly. He didn’t face her directly, knowing how monstrous he must look now.
But Song Mingyu cared nothing for that. Weeping, she pressed close to him, wrapping her arms around him, her warm cheek pressed to his icy, wasted face as she broke down in sobs.
“But your life force is almost gone. You’ll die.”
“I’m fine. I won’t die, and neither will any of you.”
Jian Jiu dropped his head, whispering the words again and again.
His mind, blurred by weakness, was fading, yet his bloodshot eyes—fixed on the ocean beyond the cabin—burned with a feverish, fiery light.
“The way—the way out—find it!”
His gaze suddenly snapped to Ye Mingke, those bloodshot eyes blazing as he rasped,
“I will.”
Ye Mingke lowered his head before those mad, unyielding red eyes, his voice thick with tears.
“Good.”
“I’ll hold that ghost off. I can still hold on.”
Jian Jiu turned his gaze from Ye Mingke, pushing Song Mingyu away as he fixed his eyes on the sea beyond the cabin, muttering his vow over and over.
What little consciousness he had left was forged, by sheer force of will, into a single steel thread.
Suddenly, a beast outside the cabin stirred, and that thread of will was plucked taut.
Blood gushed from the beast’s wounds, so much that not even a trace of blue-green fire flared up. Jian Jiu, who had been so weak he could barely sit upright, suddenly moved.
Like thunder crashing into a mountain, like a wave smashing against a cliff—
He hurled his cold, lonely sword, driving it through the ghost’s body, and his own wasted form followed after, man and blade together crashing into the ghost and hurling it from the boat.
Tumbling into the surging sea with the ghost, Jian Jiu fought it with crazed ferocity, his face twisted and savage as a demon’s.
If becoming a ghost meant guarding those dearest to him, what fear could death hold?
The icy sea, the searing heat of lightning and fire—his mind grew ever fainter, but he knew only one thing:
He must not stop swinging his sword.