Chapter Fifty: After the Great Wind, Someone Committed Adultery

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The immense tornado, shrouded in a web of green energy and roaring like a primordial beast, swept up Zhou Yu, the old man, and Nan Fenglang, before engulfing every other cultivator as well. The thick ice covering the great lake shattered completely.

In the instant he was devoured by the tornado, images flashed in Zhou Yu’s mind, sent from Du Niang: a glimpse of a snow-white little beast that vanished almost immediately. From its shape, it was unmistakably the holy Qilin—though its body had shrunk to the size of a kitten, the chill radiating from it was even more intense.

The floating ice, drifting with the waves of the lake, collided and scraped against each other, emitting a persistent creaking. Slivers of ice fell into the water, and before they could melt, a new thin layer of ice swiftly froze them over. When the water surged again, the floes resumed their grinding dance...

At last, everything returned to stillness. A west wind from afar dispersed some of the lake’s chill; the moon, half-hidden behind clouds, revealed a pale cheek, casting its ancient light down upon the world as it had for countless ages.

In the frigid waters, a corpse lay silently. The cold had entombed it in a casing of ice, but the face was serene, as if finding peace in death.

He was the first to fall tonight—a young C-rank Guardian of the Spirit Realm. Originally, he should not have died. Among his generation of disciples, he was a paragon, ranked third in strength. Even across the world, few his age could match his power; he ought to have had a future full of promise. Yet such a brilliant young cultivator had perished.

He had been waiting on the lake’s edge when he noticed the ice sealing its surface. Sensing that those who had ventured to the center—like Hua Queyue—were in trouble, he led the Spirit Realm disciples to aid them. But halfway there, they were ambushed by a surge of powerful, freezing energy—the second time the holy Qilin opened its eyes. Facing the might of a sacred beast, he did not retreat. Instead, he used his body to shield his companions, taking the brunt of the icy blast and saving the others.

The Spirit Realm’s supremacy among the world’s sects was not built on deep foundations alone. It was this willingness to sacrifice oneself for one’s companions that made them truly powerful.

He died without regret, for he had fulfilled his duty: to protect his comrades.

Now he floated in the cold lake, moonlight rendering his frozen face ghostly pale. Suddenly, his brow seemed to twitch.

In the cold moonlight and icy waters, this scene was especially eerie and terrifying. Yet there are always those drawn to such things—bold men, or evil spirits who delight in the macabre.

One such being was the black-robed demon who accompanied Liu Wujian.

A swirl of black mist skimmed the surface of the lake, pausing and descending in fits and starts, until it reached the corpse. The demon’s withered, branch-like hands emerged from the folds of his robe, black vapor coiling around his fingers like twin venomous snakes.

“Tsk tsk… still in the growing stage… what a pity. Still, it’ll make a fine specimen,” he croaked in an uncanny voice. The black vapors slithered from his fingers, snaking toward the icy corpse. When they reached the body, the two streams of black mist split into seven, slipping into the seven orifices of the corpse.

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The black mist around the demon surged. He began to chant—an incantation long and convoluted, his voice hoarse and inhuman. At length, the murmuring ceased.

The corpse floating in the icy lake suddenly opened its eyes...

No one knows how much time had passed before Zhou Yu awoke. The sky was bright; he found himself lying on a vast grassland. Most of the lush, waist-high grass was flattened, every blade encased in ice, and patches of snow and frost were scattered everywhere.

Struggling to his feet, Zhou Yu twisted his body, and his clothing crumbled away, turning to black ash that flaked from his skin.

A careful self-examination revealed no serious injuries. He tried to call out to Du Niang in his mind, but there was no response.

After pondering for a moment, Zhou Yu looked up to see the sun almost overhead. All around him, the endless grassland stretched to the horizon. He felt a headache begin—where had the tornado deposited him? Was he still within the Spirit Realm’s territory?

He moved about a little to loosen up, then decided to follow the direction in which the grass was flattened—surely a trail left by the tornado. Yet the grasses lay in wild disarray, making it difficult to discern which way led back to the great lake. There were only two possibilities: either he would return to the lake, or he would wander further away from it.

If he reached the lake, he could find his way back to the Spirit Realm. If he moved away, he might encounter other cultivators who, like him, had been swept away and deposited elsewhere.

He wondered if the old man had survived. Though worried, he could do nothing about it. Still, if even a rookie F-rank like himself had made it, the old man—despite being nearly spent—ought to have survived too. After all, a dying camel is still larger than a horse.

Zhou Yu walked for half a day along the trail left by the tornado, feeling the air grow ever colder. This convinced him he was heading toward the lake, and he quickened his pace.

After another hour or so, the great lake finally appeared before him. Its surface was still strewn with floating ice—no doubt it would remain so for some time.

He circled the lake for half a day, eventually arriving at the place where everyone had gathered before entering the lake. This spot had been spared the tornado’s wrath, so he could clearly make out signs of human activity.

Just as he was about to follow the original path back to the Spirit Realm, Zhou Yu stopped and glanced at his naked body. He began searching the area, and before long, found the corpse of a Spirit Realm disciple. He remembered seeing many such bodies soon after entering the lake; after last night’s chaos, the water must have carried them to shore.

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As Zhou Yu stripped the outer robe from the corpse, a sudden chill gripped him. He thought of the Guardian who had frozen to death, standing like an ice sculpture in the middle of the lake.

He wrung the robe dry and put it on. It was a bit large for him, hanging like a windbreaker, but it covered his nakedness well enough.

Carefully, he covered the corpse with wild grass and snow, then bowed respectfully before turning to leave. Zhou Yu felt no particular awe toward spirits or gods, but he always showed respect for the dead—unless, of course, the deceased was an enemy.

Thinking of enemies, Zhou Yu recalled Zuo Hao’s head, gleaming like a lamp. Throughout last night’s ordeal, he had caught no sight of Zuo Hao—a cunning fellow, no doubt hiding from the powerful wherever he could.

His Wind Talisman had vanished—whether blown away or reduced to ash like his clothes, he did not know. His body still ached, so Zhou Yu made his way back to the Spirit Realm at a slow, steady pace.

By the time the sun was sinking in the west, the clouds aflame with sunset, the grass around him was growing green and vibrant again. Just then, a roar reached his ears.

He stopped and listened intently. In the distance, the sounds of fierce combat echoed. Among the voices, one was shouting again and again—it was Abuli.

Zhou Yu hurried toward the commotion. The noises grew clearer, and then a tremendous explosion shook the air, followed by something heavy crashing to the ground. Zhou Yu’s heart leapt; he was about to rush forward when he heard Abuli’s weak voice.

“Why... attack us?”

“Hahaha! I’m going to torment you! Not only will I beat you, I’ll have my way with this little girl, too!” came a brazen, arrogant voice. It was Zuo Hao of the Beast Sect!

Nan Fenglang’s cry was followed by Zuo Hao’s lecherous laughter and the sound of clothes being torn.

Zhou Yu clenched his fists.