Chapter Twenty-Three: The Enchanting Phantom

Three days later, Lu Qian walked out the main gate, carrying a large bundle on his back.

He entered a primordial forest where sunlight never reached, countless cold crows flying overhead. A black crow with emerald eyes perched on the treetop.

“Who goes there? Show your token for descending the mountain,” the crow croaked hoarsely.

Lu Qian produced a jade pendant inscribed with the character ‘You’. On its reverse were the words: “On the seventh day of the seventh month, the Gate of Ghosts opens; cast yourself into the water to seek the path, and the true immortal will greet you.” Its style matched the token that had allowed Lu Qian entrance on that day. This was the token for descending the mountain. If Lu Qian were to die outside, whoever found it could use it to enter the sect.

After confirming its authenticity, Lu Qian was permitted to depart.

The Temple of Nether Paths was lax on the inside, strict on the outside. The swirling black mist enveloping the entire mountain range seemed to be some kind of formation. Only those leaving the mountain could pass through with the guide’s assistance. Of course, the fearless might try their luck, but when found, their bones would be cold.

He walked for a long time and arrived at a stream. The water gurgled, pitch black in color, shrouded by ominous clouds like the netherworld itself.

Soon, a willow-leaf boat drifted toward him. On the boat stood a fisherman, a giant of a man wearing a bamboo hat. With Lu Qian’s current insight, he suspected these guides were a host of ghostly beings.

Regrettably, it was not the guide who had once received him.

Without a word, the boat churned across the water and brought him to shore.

Stepping out from under the shadowed clouds of the stream, Lu Qian was suddenly dazzled by a burst of brilliant white light.

“It’s been ages since I’ve seen such fervent sunlight,” he said, raising his hand to shield his eyes. His skin was as pale as a ghost crawling out of the underworld. The Temple of Nether Paths was forever cloaked in mist and deep in the woods; most of its disciples looked just like this. The sudden sunlight filled his heart with a rare joy.

At the administrative office below the mountain, he was given a sweat-blood steed.

The horse was crimson from mane to hoof, its coat sleek, standing eight feet tall, majestic and spirited. In the mundane world, such a steed would be priceless, but at the Temple of Nether Paths, it was merely a common mount.

Rumor had it that the Spirit Transformation Pavilion boasted all manner of exotic horses—covering a thousand miles in a day was their basic ability. Those were truly priceless.

Lu Qian could only envy them; he hadn’t the means to buy one.

This steed was like the Porsches and Rolls Royces of his previous life’s memories—something for the poor to gaze at from afar.

Even among Daoists, there were classes.

Poor Daoists like him earned merit through their skills, laboring for others. Those from powerful families rode rare breeds, lived in blessed lands, and cultivated divine arts. They were born at the finish line others could only aspire to.

“Giddy up!” Lu Qian leapt onto the steed.

The sweat-blood horse neighed loudly, rearing its front legs high, and sped off like lightning.

Lu Qian lay low on the saddle, wind whipping his robes, scenery flashing past on either side.

Galloping through spring, carefree and exhilarated.

He hadn’t felt such freedom in ages!

The sweat-blood steed could travel five hundred miles a day. Baiyang Prefecture lay more than four hundred miles away; allowing for rest, it would take about two days to reach.

After riding for six hours straight, Lu Qian showed no sign of fatigue. His dantian brimmed with true energy, the dark true water constantly cleansing his acupoints, his constitution growing stronger.

The setting sun bled scarlet, night descended.

Clouds churned ominously overhead, as though rain threatened.

He was in wild country. The sweat-blood horse, being ordinary, might fall ill if caught in the rain, which could delay his journey.

Lu Qian followed the official road for a while.

Suddenly, a ruined temple appeared ahead.

“When storm and rain approach, there’s always a ruined temple. My memories from the past life never lie,” Lu Qian thought with a smile. “Dark night, fierce wind—perhaps something strange awaits.”

He pushed open the door; a surge of heat greeted him.

The laughter inside abruptly halted as everyone turned.

A pale-faced, beardless, weak-looking youth in Daoist attire stood before them.

As they sized up Lu Qian, he studied them in turn.

Around the bonfire sat more than a dozen burly men, sweat-soaked, cooking meat soup in a pot. One scar-faced man seemed to be their leader.

Off to the side, a poor scholar lay atop a pile of straw.

“Gentlemen, might I trouble you? Traveling by night is difficult, so I’ve come seeking a place to rest,” Lu Qian said with a courteous smile.

“No trouble at all. Out on the road, we look after one another. If you haven’t eaten, join us, brother,” the scar-faced man grinned.

Lu Qian led his horse to the back room and tied it up.

The men glanced at the steed, their eyes lighting up in awe.

What a magnificent sweat-blood horse!

“Boss, that horse is worth a fortune!” a monkey-thin fellow whispered to the leader.

The leader’s gaze lingered reluctantly on the horse before he spoke: “Dark night, fierce wind, and walking alone—either a greenhorn fresh from home or someone bold with skill. That bundle of his is heavy, probably full of silver. Xiao Liu, you try him tonig