Volume Two: The Mortal Realm Chapter Sixty-Eight: The Mist Clears

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“The highest in the world? Highest in what? Cultivation?” Song Mingyu furrowed her brows and asked.

“I don’t know. I only know this person lives in the highest place in the world,” Ye Mingke added.

“Then it shouldn’t be the one with the highest cultivation. That honor belongs to the Swordmaster of our Penglai Island. Though our Penglai Island floats above the Eastern Sea, its terrain is quite low. The immortal mountains on the island may be high, but they’re hardly the highest place in the world.” Song Mingyu lifted her chin slightly, her eyes bright.

Whenever she spoke of her own Penglai Island, her tone and demeanor involuntarily rose, clearly proud of her sect.

“You’re from Penglai Island—are you really powerful and famous?” Ye Mingke asked curiously.

“Of course. Where did you crawl out from, not even knowing Penglai Immortal Island?”

Song Mingyu widened her eyes and looked at him as if he were a wild savage.

“Is it really that strange?” Feeling somewhat scorned, Ye Mingke rubbed his nose innocently.

“In this era of universal cultivation, even villagers and fishermen by the sea know Penglai Immortal Island is the leader of the immortal path,” Song Mingyu rolled her eyes.

“Maybe it’s because the place I lived as a child was a bit remote—really, I never heard of it.” Ye Mingke laughed awkwardly.

At that moment, Jian Jiu slowly spoke to Ye Mingke.

“The highest place in the world—some say it is Tianyu Mountain in the southern barbaric Hengduan Range. Others claim at the edge of the Western Buddhist Lands stands a Lesser Sumeru, the mortal reflection of Mount Sumeru of the Buddhist realm, the highest point in the human world.”

“But those bald monks of the Buddhist sect are always secluded, rarely leaving the Western Buddhist Kingdom. I can’t be sure about the second claim.”

“However…”

He turned toward Ye Mingke, his tone solemn.

“Tianyu Mountain is a forbidden ground for the demon clans; Lesser Sumeru is a pure land of the Buddhists. Both are places ordinary people cannot set foot in.”

“I see…” Ye Mingke rubbed his chin, pondering, “That’s a bit troublesome. But since the distance is so great, I’ll just take it slow.”

“You’re just a mortal. Do you really intend to go?” Jian Jiu’s voice was cool.

“Didn’t you say I couldn’t possibly be a mortal?” Ye Mingke simply smiled.

“You are indeed very unusual. Even if you may not be able to walk the immortal path, don’t despair completely. Legend says the pinnacle of martial arts can also reach the heights of the world, though pure martial inheritance has declined for many years.”

Perhaps seeing the determination beneath Ye Mingke’s playful manner, Jian Jiu did not try to dissuade him further.

“It’s said that in ancient times, the Human Emperor ascended through martial arts. Martial arts do not grant immortality, but the Human Emperor’s power was unparalleled, leading humanity to dominate the Six Realms. Yet after ten thousand years, he returned to mortality, leaving only the Imperial Decree that now protects the mortal world.”

Song Mingyu, speaking of the Human Emperor whose name still resounds in the world, had eyes glittering with awe. Yet at the mention of martial arts, her expression became bored and uninterested.

“But… martial arts are not the great path like the immortal way. Its inheritance has surely been severed long ago.”

“Martial arts cannot grant immortality; can the immortal path truly do so?” Jian Jiu gazed at the mist ahead, his voice distant.

His words and Song Mingyu’s were clearly at odds.

Ye Mingke had no time to probe further, nor did Song Mingyu and Jian Jiu continue. For ahead, the mist surged toward them, and beyond it lay the clear blue sky they hadn’t seen for days.

Having braved countless life and death trials, light was finally within reach.

Only those who have endured long darkness know how precious sunlight is. Never had they felt such yearning for its warmth; joy shone on each of their faces.

“Swish!”

The flying sword cut through cloud and mist, heading directly for the radiant sun ahead.

The mist cleared.

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Yet as Ye Mingke left the fog, he suddenly felt his heart squeezed painfully.

“Boom!”

His vision went black. A tremendous cracking sound echoed in his mind, roaring like the moment a town was swallowed by the black tide, the sky torn asunder.

He remembered that night—an eye, invisible and terrifying, high above, staring down. Now, it felt as if that same eye was gazing at him through something unseen.

His blood seemed frozen. The wind whipped past as the sword sped on, and he began to fall from the sword toward the earth below.

At that moment he was still thousands of feet above ground—but fortunately, Jian Jiu caught him swiftly.

Ye Mingke’s body trembled, as if waking from a dream, sitting upright. The darkness vanished like a phantom, the roaring faded, and all seemed a hallucination.

He looked around, bewildered. The sky was washed clean and bright; the sunlight gentle and warm. There was no darkness, no cracking, no nameless eye watching him.

Yet he felt as though something new had appeared nearby, making him uncomfortable.

He couldn’t place it.

Sitting on the sword, his face was pale, almost frightening.

“What’s wrong?” Jian Jiu asked, puzzled.

“Nothing.”

The feeling was strange, and a sense of foreboding stirred within him. But Ye Mingke didn’t know how to put it into words—and instinctively, he didn’t want to tell others. So he simply waved his hand.

“Just coming out of danger, relaxing my nerves. It’s a bit overwhelming.”

“Hang in there—a little longer and we’ll reach land,” Jian Jiu said.

He then accelerated the sword’s speed once more, he and Song Mingyu streaking across the sky like rainbows.

After the endless white mist, the blue sea, and vast skies, their eyes finally beheld not monotony but the vibrant colors of land.

Mountains and towns drew near, the smoke and earth gave reassurance to their restless hearts. Yet Jian Jiu did not venture deep inland, but chose a flat spot by the shore to land the sword.

Ye Mingke leapt off the sword, still feeling discomfort all around, coupled with dizziness from the flight, stumbling a few steps.

Jian Jiu then released Li Han and the others from his spatial pouch, his fingers moving like wind to press vital acupoints and infuse them with spiritual energy.

Soon, those whose wounds were not grave and had taken medicinal elixirs awoke, seeing the white-clad immortal saving them, realizing they had emerged from the foggy sea to familiar land.

Grateful for their new lease on life, they bowed deeply in thanks.

Yet Jian Jiu, having just saved them, turned coldly away to stand by Ye Mingke, as if the mortals’ gratitude were mere air.

Ye Mingke, exhausted, sat on the ground. Seeing Jian Jiu’s attitude, he recalled their first encounter with the white-clad immortals. His face, so amiable along the journey, now grew sour.

“If you saved them, why not even spare them a glance?” he asked coldly.

“Immortal and mortal are separate. They are not in my eyes, just as people seldom concern themselves with ants.”

Jian Jiu looked at Ye Mingke, his voice calm.

“I saved them because you had an agreement with them—I was to protect their lives.”

“And counting your discovery of the ghost’s pattern, and saving me from Li Guifan, I probably owe you two lives. Saving them counts as repaying one.”

“Ha.” Ye Mingke, amused rather than angered by Jian Jiu’s matter-of-fact attitude, laughed. “Your math is terrible—so many lives counted as one, aren’t you losing out?”

Jian Jiu ignored him, simply bowing his head in thought.

“I feel I still owe you a life. I never owe anyone, so…”

Jian Jiu lifted his head, and Ye Mingke suddenly saw a blur before him. He reached out, feeling the familiar cool touch.

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“The sword is yours now.”

Jian Jiu did not look back, turning to leave.

Ye Mingke gazed at the cold, ancient sword in his hand—the sword named “Nine,” the one he had said, “My sword is my life.”

For him, it truly was repaying a life.

Taking Li Han and the others as one life was because Ye Mingke had risked his own life for them. Ye Mingke’s life, to Jian Jiu, could be counted as one life—one equivalent to his own.

And the sword, especially this one sharing his name, was as much a life to him.

For a swordsman, his sword is his life. Yet some things are higher than one’s life—such as unavoidable responsibilities, persistent grudges, and… friends.

“What a supremely self-centered fellow.”

Ye Mingke looked at the sword in his hand, then up to see Jian Jiu really about to leave, and called out with a smile.

“Wait!”

Jian Jiu stopped, his face turned slightly. A gust of wind rushed by, and Jian Jiu caught something—it was the sword that fellow had always insisted was fated for him, the sword thrown back.

“Why?” Jian Jiu turned and asked.

“Well… because I already have a sword.”

Ye Mingke rolled his eyes, patted the wooden sword at his waist, and offered a clumsy excuse.

“I just don’t want it. Your sword is not my sword, so it’s not a life for me. You can’t trick me. You’d better keep owing me; who knows, maybe I’ll collect interest someday.”

Ye Mingke wore the face of a cunning merchant, speaking slyly.

Jian Jiu, having just offered his beloved sword, was silent for a moment, then looked at Ye Mingke.

“Fine. Stay alive—don’t die. I’ll repay you a life someday.”

“Ying Kui’s situation is urgent; I’m leaving.”

He sheathed his sword, turned without hesitation, and departed with Song Mingyu.

“Hey, just leaving like that? Not even a promissory note—what if you renege later?” Ye Mingke called after him with a smile.

But Jian Jiu and Song Mingyu were already a hundred miles away. Song Mingyu saw Jian Jiu, still sitting on his sword, take out a jade slip and seemed to be recording something, so she asked curiously,

“Sword-rack, what are you doing?”

“I owe someone something, so I’m keeping tally. Also organizing some information about that ghost, to report to the sect on return.”

He ignored Song Mingyu’s curiosity and continued recording.

After so many days contending with the ghost, they had actually learned much. Ye Mingke had even deduced a formula to predict the ghost’s strength changes.

Yet one aspect of the ghost remained impossible to quantify, and even the influencing variables were still guesses.

“Is a ghost’s intelligence linked to the number of people killed?” Jian Jiu muttered to himself, staring at the jade slip.

A heavy rain descended upon the Misty Sea, enveloping several small islands. On one, Li Guifan still lay silently on the ground, face up, letting the rain strike him and splash cold droplets.

A phantom figure, glowing with faint lightning, hummed a tune and slowly sat beside him, reaching out a hand that sent countless tiny currents through the rain to touch his face.

Lightning flowed over Li Guifan’s body. The man, silent as a corpse all this time, moved the little finger of his right hand ever so slightly…

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