Volume Two: The Mortal World Chapter Eighty: Dripping Blood

Chapter Eighty: Bloodshed

(Translator’s note: In ancient times, a single stride was called a “kui,” and taking two strides made a “bu”—a “step.” A modern adult step is just over half a meter, so a hundred steps in ancient terms would be just over a hundred meters. A “zhang” is roughly 3.333 meters.)

The three-foot-deep snow suddenly heaved, cracked apart, collapsed, and surged upward in a whirlwind. Snow dust billowed and swirled.

In that instant, Ye Mingke’s vision was plunged into chaos. Even more terrifying, the snow itself seemed to come alive—two arms formed of snowflakes grasped his ankles without warning.

He stomped down fiercely, stamping a massive pit into the snow with a thunderous crash, shattering those snow-formed arms. His body tilted upward, wrenching free.

At the same time, he reached back, nocked an arrow, and drew his bow to a full moon. Though his eyes beheld only a vast, blinding swirl of snow, he loosed the arrow without a hint of hesitation.

Bang!

The white arrow blasted through the dense snowstorm before him, cutting a sharp, clear path. Its tip landed precisely three feet before the obese immortal.

“What is this monster?!”

Caught off guard again, the fat immortal let out a shrill scream, barely managing to conjure a thin shield of ice before his chest.

The ice mirror exploded. The arrow, having pierced layers of snow and ice, had lost much of its power and accuracy, grazing only the fat immortal’s shoulder.

“What is this monster? How does he still know where I am?” the survivor muttered in disbelief.

Before attacking, he had churned the entire field into chaos with his snow-manipulating art, precisely to defend against Ye Mingke’s ruthless, unpredictable arrows.

Now, he dared not be careless. Carefully, he raised ice walls around himself, using the snow to sense Ye Mingke’s location, but all he felt was a ghostly presence speeding through the storm, swirling around him like the wind.

Ye Mingke ran with his head turned aside, eyes tightly shut, racing at breakneck speed through the snow-shrouded chaos. Two crimson lines of blood trickled from his eyes.

Suddenly, a snow wall surged up before him, crashing toward him. He collided straight into it, shattering it into fragments.

Tumbling once in the snow, he stabilized himself on one knee, a trace of blood seeping from the corner of his mouth. Yet he wasted no time—he spun, drew his bow, and fired another white arrow, blasting through the snow toward the fat immortal.

He could always pinpoint the immortal’s position—not by his five senses, but by his spiritual vision. That was why he could shoot a willow leaf at a hundred paces, why no matter where the fat immortal hid—behind pine or boulder—his arrows found their mark.

But the immortal’s tactic of stirring up the snow and attacking with it was indeed lethal. Even if Ye Mingke could track the immortal’s movements, the dense snow severely slowed and weakened his arrows.

Snap! The vigilant immortal intercepted the white arrow mid-flight. This time, he delayed Ye Mingke only briefly; not even his skin was scratched.

Strength and weakness are not always divided by a clear, unmoving line, but whirl and shift like a violent vortex—changing at any moment, sometimes strong, sometimes weak.

This is because strength and weakness are shaped by many factors.

When Ye Mingke, with his bow, haunted the snow beyond a hundred paces, the fat immortal could not locate him, and his spells could not reach so far, while he himself was trapped within Ye Mingke’s range.

In the initial clash, he was driven to desperation, barely surviving. Even after regaining his footing, he could only defend himself.

But as Ye Mingke closed within ten zhang, the balance shifted instantly. Ten zhang was within the immortal’s spellcasting reach, while Ye Mingke’s arrows were suppressed.

Meanwhile, blood began to seep from not just Ye Mingke’s eyes but all his orifices—a sign of his spiritual vision and mind being pushed to the brink.

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During the battle with the Sea of Mist’s evil spirits, it had already been proven—when Ye Mingke opened his spiritual vision in a chaotic field, he had to endure a geometrically increasing flood of information.

As time stretched on, it became harder and harder to maintain his spiritual sight. Reaching back, he nocked another arrow—his senses told him only seven arrows remained in his quiver.

Time was running out!

Ye Mingke stomped down, sending snow flying, broke through the snow-palm striking at him, nocked another arrow, drew, and loosed—a shrill whistle cut through the storm, a white streak arrowing toward the fat immortal.

Six arrows left.

Astonishingly, Ye Mingke’s speed increased even further. Each step sent snow billowing high, and wherever he passed, it was as if a white dragon soared through the storm.

Unknowingly, his blood surged and boiled once more, melting any snowflake that landed on him in an instant.

His gaze, sharp as a blade, pierced the white chaos. He reached back; three arrows were in his hand.

Ssss—

An arrow sliced through the air, shooting at the immortal’s flank.

Bang!

The immortal formed a snow-palm to block it.

Swish! Swish!

Two more arrows came—one from the front, one from behind. The immortal twisted aside, barely dodging the one before him, conjured an ice mirror just in time to block the one from behind.

Ye Mingke drew again—another arrow sang through the air.

Now, spiraling as he moved, he closed within five zhang of the immortal.

Hiss—

At this range, the arrows, though weakened by the snow, came from every direction—their shrieks filled the immortal with terror.

He dodged the fourth arrow with all his might, but the fifth broke his ice mirror, stabbing into his shoulder.

Now, even through the blizzard, he could feel Ye Mingke’s threatening presence closing in—between two arrows, Ye Mingke had already advanced within two zhang.

A heavy sense of danger pressed against the immortal’s brow like an arrowhead; he gave a fierce yell, and the pale blue aura at his feet expanded with all its might.

Countless snow-formed arms surged from the ground, grasping for Ye Mingke.

Ye Mingke stamped down one last time and leapt high, soaring above the grasping snow hands. The final arrow was nocked—the bow bent into a perfect circle, a full moon rising above the tide of snow.

Suspended in midair, Ye Mingke lowered his eyes, focusing his mind.

A piercing shriek split the air—the final arrow burst through the storm and shot forth.

A scream.

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The fat immortal’s eyes blazed red. Spiritual power surged forth; an immense ice wall formed before him.

The last arrow sank deep into the ice wall, fissures spreading out from the point of impact.

But the wall did not break; the arrow halted a foot before the immortal, stopped cold.

But this was not the end.

Behind the arrow came the heavy iron bow—Ye Mingke himself, leaping two zhang through the air, descending with a fist thrown with all his might.

Bang!

Ye Mingke’s fist crashed into the thick ice wall. Bones shifted, blood seeped from his knuckles, but his fist did not falter—it shattered the ice wall, sending the gigantic immortal flying backwards.

For strength and weakness do not sit unmoved on either side of a line—they whirl and shift with circumstance.

Beyond a hundred paces, I suppress with my bow; within ten zhang, you dominate with your arts. But here, face to face, in the space between heartbeats—let us see if the so-called immortal body, which even a weakened arrow can scar, can withstand my fists!

As the fat immortal was sent flying, Ye Mingke ignored his bleeding hand, pursued relentlessly, closed in body-to-body, and threw another savage punch.

The immortal, driven by the shadow of death, ignored the blood pouring from his seven orifices—spilled by excessive spiritual exertion—and conjured ice mirrors before him and a snow-formed arm, shaped into a fist, to strike at Ye Mingke’s back.

Ye Mingke did not retreat or evade. His fists smashed the fragile ice mirrors, he strode forward, broke through the immortal’s defenses, and struck heavily at his chest.

In close combat, life and death are decided in a breath—the courageous live.

The immortal let out a miserable cry, blood spattering, and was sent flying again.

Ye Mingke was struck in the back by a snow-formed fist; a mouthful of hot blood sprayed forth—but he did not pause. Instead, he used the force of the blow to pursue the immortal, that very blood arcing purposefully into the immortal’s eyes.

Hot as flame, the blood blinded the immortal just as he needed his focus most; his magic faltered for a moment.

That moment was all Ye Mingke needed—he caught up with the airborne immortal, crashing into his chest.

In that instant, Ye Mingke’s potential erupted—his whole body became a weapon.

Fists, elbows, knees, and feet struck in a blur, each blow thundering onto the immortal’s body.

That massive body quaked and shuddered, blood spraying like rain, as Ye Mingke’s relentless assault nearly tore him apart.

Bang!

The two bodies, locked together, fell at last, crashing into the snow and carving a vast pit.

The howling blizzard that had raged over the field gradually stilled.

Heaven and earth returned to clarity and silence. Only the distant sky continued to release its slow-falling flakes.

Ye Mingke, bloodied from head to toe, knelt in the snow pit. He turned his head to look at the shard of ice that had pierced through his chest—and at the equally blood-soaked hand still gripping the ice...

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