Chapter 92 — Dead End

The night was black as ink, cold and grim.

Suddenly, a ray of light streaked across the darkness, flying in from the distance with incredible speed—though seen from afar, that light seemed to tremble faintly, showing signs of instability.

On the ground below, Meng Ji was pacing back and forth in agitation. Behind him stood the surviving disciples of the Changsheng Hall—a rough count put them at fifty or sixty—each wearing a look of dread as they gazed toward the road by which they had come.

Until they saw that beam of light.

The ordinary disciples immediately stirred, and many cheered. But Meng Ji, watching that flying figure, only grew more anxious, his face darkening further.

The light swept close and stopped. Yuyang Zi drifted down to the ground, and at once the crowd cried out "Sect Master! Sect Master!" in unison. But before anyone could rush to him, Yuyang Zi's face went white, and with a great "Waugh!" he spewed a mouthful of blood that soaked the front of his robe.

Everyone paled.

Meng Ji darted forward and caught hold of Yuyang Zi. The touch was ice-cold—Yuyang Zi's whole body felt frozen, utterly unlike normal, and beneath his garments his flesh was still trembling faintly. Meng Ji could not suppress a look of profound alarm.

Sensing Meng Ji's shock, Yuyang Zi swept his gaze left and right. He saw the same terror written on the faces of his disciples and knew that these people were now like birds startled by the twang of a bow, their morale in complete disarray. If he himself could not hold out, it would be a case of the tree falling and the monkeys scattering.

So he forced his spirits up, pressed down the blood and qi churning in his chest, and said loudly, "There is no need for alarm. Just now I used my own cultivation to force out the stagnant blood within me. It is nothing serious."

In ordinary times, Yuyang Zi was regarded by the Changsheng Hall disciples as something akin to a god. Now that he had said this, it had some effect—many faces in the crowd eased somewhat, clearly much reassured.

Yet for all Yuyang Zi's words, his complexion was truly dreadful, white as paper, and the left side of his body was drenched in blood—even his sleeve had vanished without a trace. He was in a state of utter wretchedness. Fortunately it was deep night and the darkness was thick; otherwise, in broad daylight, with a hundred-odd pairs of eyes fixed on him, they would have seen at once that he was already at the end of his rope.

Meng Ji's brows knitted tightly. Then he turned and barked at the Changsheng Hall disciples, "The Sect Master is fine! Go rest over there for now. We will decide what to do after daybreak!"

The crowd gradually dispersed at his word. Once the Changsheng Hall disciples had moved some distance away, Meng Ji suddenly felt Yuyang Zi's body slump heavily against his hand. He hurried to steady him and looked over—and his heart nearly leapt out of his chest.

Yuyang Zi's face was utterly bloodless. He was gasping heavily; had Meng Ji not been holding him, he would have collapsed.

Meng Ji hurriedly helped Yuyang Zi sit down. Yuyang Zi sat cross-legged on the ground and slowly regulated his breath. After a good while, his gasping gradually quieted and his complexion improved somewhat.

Throughout, Meng Ji stood at Yuyang Zi's side, his expression tense with worry, while he kept glancing about in every direction.

The night was deep all around. Apart from the small campfire the Changsheng Hall disciples had built nearby, the darkness was so thick you could not see your own hand.

The night was hideous, as if it too were peering at this battered, storm-tossed remnant of the Changsheng Hall.

Yuyang Zi slowly opened his eyes.

Meng Ji at once said in a low voice, "Sect Master, are you all right?"

Yuyang Zi gave a bitter laugh. In his eyes, Meng Ji could not possibly be compared with those ordinary disciples. He sighed faintly and said, "Just now I was set upon by those whelps of the righteous path and spent a great deal of my vital essence. Then, of all things, a woman appeared and used the Canglan Sect's 'Divine Sword Summons Thunder True Art'..."

Meng Ji's expression changed drastically. "Among them there was actually a master of such caliber?"

Yuyang Zi said venomously, "More than that. I crossed blades with several of them—at least three or four whose cultivation and aptitude were shockingly high. In the end I had no choice but to invoke the 'Blood Curse' to force my way out!"

Meng Ji's expression shifted again and again. The Blood Curse was a famous true-art curse of the Changsheng Hall, capable of vastly enhancing one's cultivation in an instant—but the backlash afterward was terrifying. Not only would one's cultivation be greatly diminished; one's very lifespan might be shortened.

He was dazed for a moment before he came back to himself and said to Yuyang Zi, "Sect Master, what do we do now?"

Yuyang Zi's face was grave. He was silent a moment, then said with hatred in his voice, "The arrow is on the string; it must be loosed. After daybreak we go at once deep into the Dead Marsh, into the 'Inner Marsh,' to seek the treasure!"

Meng Ji's face changed drastically. He could not help saying, "Sect Master..."

Yuyang Zi waved a hand, cutting him off. "I know what you want to say. But if we withdraw from the Dead Marsh now, sooner or later we die at the hands of the other three great factions. Better to stake everything on this one throw!"

Meng Ji stared blankly at Yuyang Zi. Seeing the savagery in his face grow even more pronounced despite his pallor, he knew the man could no longer be talked around. Slowly he rose, lifted his head to the sky, and sighed softly in his heart.

This vast marsh of death, lying in the southwest of the Divine Land, stretched nearly eight thousand li in unbroken expanse, and since ancient times had seldom seen a human trace. It was divided into two regions: the Outer Marsh, where everyone now stood, which formed the periphery of the Dead Marsh and accounted for some seventy or eighty percent of its area. There the ground was riddled with bottomless mud pits and teemed with venomous insects—but to cultivators these were of little concern. So long as one was careful not to misstep, there was no great danger.

But in the deepest part of the Dead Marsh there was yet a mysterious place: a region perpetually shrouded in poisonous marsh gas, whose interior no one had ever seen. Even the occasional cultivator of high attainment who ventured in to explore had vanished without a trace. Thus both the righteous and the demonic paths alike were unwilling to enter rashly.

In recent days countless people had been searching the Dead Marsh for the treasure, but so far there had been no word of it. Yuyang Zi had long suspected in his heart that the treasure must lie within the Inner Marsh, most perilous and unfathomable of all. On any ordinary day he might still have weighed the risks, at the very least taken many days to prepare carefully. But now circumstances drove him, and he was like a gambler who has wagered everything, with no thought for anything else.

The night wind blew past.

Most of the Changsheng Hall disciples, exhausted from a full day of frantic struggle, had drifted into sleep. The flames of the campfires on the ground were gradually dying out. Yuyang Zi still sat cross-legged with his head bowed; Meng Ji, who had been standing beside him, had by now presumably gone over to the disciples.

Suddenly, Yuyang Zi's eyes snapped open, fierce and savage, and yet seeming to carry a trace of fear, as he looked all around.

The night was deep, the darkness pervasive.

Every muscle in his body suddenly tensed. Then, slowly, he rose to his feet.

His one remaining hand tightened on the Yinyang Mirror.

The wind was cold to the bone, blowing against his body as if the chill had reached his heart.

From deep within the darkness, the sound of footsteps gradually arose.

"Pat. Pat. Pat..."