Chapter Seventy-Three: The Pearl of Departing Flame

These dozens of large characters, though resembling seal script, were not truly seal script; the strokes charged boldly, as if scaling perilous peaks, twisting and turning like dragons and serpents, exuding an extraordinary spirit. Even more remarkable was that these characters were not carved onto the stone wall, but seemed to be imprinted within it, gleaming with a gentle black radiance.

Zhou Qian knew that the one who left these words must have been an immortal or someone of similar stature. Yet, after pondering them many times, he gleaned no understanding and had to leave. The cave above showed no end, but in the stone wall there were a dozen or so holes. Zhou Qian marked one of them and bent low to slip inside.

“…Four hundred ninety-nine…five hundred…five hundred and one.” When Zhou Qian counted to five hundred and one, he caught a glimmer of light and, overjoyed, hastened his steps, only to find himself in another vast stone cavern, some twenty yards high and wide. Above was a dome-shaped ceiling formed by stalactites; below, strange rocks and peaks were scattered haphazardly. Zhou Qian faintly heard a gurgling sound.

He approached, winding his way past the peculiar stones and hills, and found in the center of the cavern a fissure in the earth, half a yard wide, from which black smoke and demonic energy billowed. Suspended a foot above the fissure hovered a red pearl, radiating a crimson glow that formed a barrier against the black miasma.

The pearl was the size of a hen’s egg, perfectly round, blazing red as fire, spinning swiftly in the air.

“Could this be an immortal’s treasure?” Zhou Qian’s eyes widened and he swallowed hard, ninety-nine percent convinced in his heart.

At such a critical moment, Zhou Qian maintained his composure. First, he searched the surroundings and found nothing amiss. He circled the fissure three or four times and, by chance, discovered a line of small characters etched nearby.

“In the year two hundred sixty-six, after a disagreement with Chi Huozhi of the Way of Heaven Sect, I fought and slew him by design, seizing his Perfected Pearl of Departed Fire. Sadly, it does not suit my cultivation; I leave it here for a fated one—Extreme Yin of the Southern Pole Sect.”

“This predecessor seems quite interesting…” Zhou Qian muttered. From a person’s words, one could glean their temperament. To kill over a disagreement, and by ‘design’—who knows what schemes were involved; the man’s morals were hardly upright. Yet to say, ‘Useless to me, left for the destined,’ showed magnanimity. Since Chi Huozhi dared to feud with the master of the Extreme Yin, his strength must have been formidable, and his treasure precious indeed. The master of Extreme Yin, merely because the pearl did not suit his arts, left it for the fated—such generosity is truly rare.

Having marveled, Zhou Qian was yet troubled. He was not without experience and understood that the black smoke from the fissure was deadly yin energy from deep underground. Ordinary people would die upon inhaling it. If he took the Departed Fire Pearl, the yin energy would run rampant—treasure is desirable, but life is more precious.

He frowned and pondered for a long time. Suddenly, inspiration struck, and he devised a plan, though it was risky and would cost him the flying sword he had obtained from Ge Hong Temple, whether it succeeded or failed. This made Zhou Qian hesitate.

In the end, Zhou Qian gritted his teeth. “Anyone wandering the martial world risks death. Seeking immortality ought to be no less daring. Whether I succeed or fail, it all rests on this attempt!”

Zhou Qian could control his flying sword up to a distance of thirty yards; beyond that, it grew sluggish. The sword avoided water, dragons, and strong winds—almost more delicate than Zhou Qian himself. To maintain control, he stood twenty yards from the Departed Fire Pearl, took a deep breath, and spat forth a beam of white light.

The white light hovered in midair, revealing a short sword the length of a finger. With a thought, Zhou Qian sent the sword darting into a strange rock, burying itself to the hilt. Satisfied, he repeated the test several times—the sword struck wherever he directed.

“That’s enough,” Zhou Qian thought.

The short sword slowly approached the Departed Fire Pearl, then darted back and forth, accelerating to its utmost. Suddenly, it shot toward the pearl, struck it with force, and the pearl, thus propelled, flew in Zhou Qian’s direction.

At that instant, the black miasma in the fissure contracted and expanded, flooding the cavern in a blink. The sword was flung back several yards by the recoil, its white light flickering, before the black miasma surged upward like a volcanic eruption, resounding with the wails of ghosts and demons. The flying sword was instantly engulfed, losing its spiritual power and falling to the ground—its power dwarfed by that of the Departed Fire Pearl.

With a snap, Zhou Qian snatched the Departed Fire Pearl, then performed the Flowing Cloud Feather Step—his legs bent, and in nearly a single stride he crossed the two-yard span, shrinking the earth beneath his feet. Black smoke surged behind him, drawing within a foot of his back at the most perilous moment.

Fortunately, the black miasma’s initial surge was swift; thereafter, it slowed. By the time Zhou Qian bolted from the cave’s mouth, the black smoke had ceased its pursuit and slowly receded.

In the short distance of a hundred yards, Zhou Qian was drenched in sweat, his throat burning with pain. It took a long rest for him to recover—unusual indeed for his robust body, or perhaps a sign of utter exhaustion.

Clutching the Departed Fire Pearl, Zhou Qian soon fell into a heavy sleep, not knowing how long he slumbered.

“So hungry…” Zhou Qian sighed. Since awakening, he had explored four or five cave entrances, all to no avail. Thankfully, there was water to be found, but the gnawing hunger was hard to bear. “To think I am a chef and a swordsman, now without my trusty sword and half dead with hunger—what a disgrace. Were my second brother here, who knows how he’d mock me!” Zhou Qian thought wryly.

This cave differed from the previous dead-ends; here, the passage forked into two tunnels.

A slapping sound startled Zhou Qian. From the left fork, faint noises emerged. He crept over, and with a clang, his foot struck something.

He reached out—familiar shape, familiar feel. Gazing closely, he was overjoyed.

“Hahaha! My good brother, my trusty companion—you ended up here as well! It’s fate, we are destined never to part!” Why? When the flood swept into the Dragon Gate, it carried in mud, fish monsters, and Zhou Qian’s Ghostmaster Sword, which by chance was deposited in this very cave. Now, man and sword reunited—not only Zhou Qian, but even the Ghostmaster Sword seemed to glow with deeper darkness.

With his sword in hand, Zhou Qian’s confidence surged, his fatigue temporarily forgotten. After several turns, he came upon a strange beast as thick as a bucket, with the body of a fish and the wings of a bird, its wings flapping helplessly on the ground.

“A Yingyu!” Zhou Qian gasped, then gloated, “Brother Li always said a plucked phoenix is no better than a chicken—now a grounded Yingyu is the same. No matter how fierce you were in the water, what use is that now?” So he said, but inwardly he admired the creature. He had survived four or five days in this dark cave, and so had the Yingyu; that it still had such vigor was a testament to its monstrous lineage.

“I wonder how Yingyu tastes?” Zhou Qian couldn’t help but swallow, his eyes glinting with hunger.

The scales of the Yingyu were hard, but fortunately, its belly had a soft white line. Slitting it open and cleaning it, Zhou Qian placed the meat into a stone pot he had carved out himself. Water was easily found, and as for firewood, Zhou Qian had his ways.

He fingered the Departed Fire Pearl. Over the past few days, Zhou Qian had discovered its rudimentary use: by infusing it with immortal energy, the pearl glowed red, and with a thought, a fire would ignite beneath the stone pot, as large or small as he wished. If the immortal Chi Huozhi knew his treasure was being used to cook fish, perhaps he’d be angry enough to return to life.

“To make a truly white fish soup, you need a rolling boil and then a gentle simmer. Ideally, I’d use a twin-handled pot from the Quiet Fragrance Pavilion—but alas, I have none. For fish soup, you need ginger and scallions to remove fishiness—again, none. The best water would be from the Four Great Living Springs near Luo City—also absent. I can’t even fry it in oil…” Zhou Qian grumbled discontentedly.

But the Yingyu was a fish monster with seventy years’ cultivation. Though it could no longer stir waves or ride clouds, it had absorbed the essence of sun and moon into its flesh. Ordinary fish soup took little time to cook, but Zhou Qian simmered the Yingyu for two whole hours, making his mouth water uncontrollably.

At last, the Yingyu soup was ready.

He lifted the stone slab covering the pot, and a rich fragrance wafted forth, so intoxicating it seemed to revive the dead. The taste of the soup defied description; the flesh melted in his mouth, tender and fresh, nearly causing Zhou Qian to bite his tongue.

“Delicious! Delicious! The Hundred Fish Soup Master Hei boasted of back in Hutting couldn’t compare to this!” Zhou Qian rambled, nearly incoherent with joy.

“If I ever become an immortal, I swear I’ll hunt down every monster beast in the world, then fry, roast, stir-fry, boil, steam, stew, pickle, and braise them all—just to try each flavor!” At this moment, Zhou Qian’s resolve to pursue immortality was stronger than ever, as if a lustful man glimpsed a beauty, or a miser laid eyes on a mountain of gold—he would not rest until he achieved the Dao!

He devoured the entire pot—over a hundred pounds of fish and soup—his belly round and full, then lay down, soon snoring away.

It was not that Zhou Qian’s stomach was as vast as a boat, but that the fish’s flesh transformed into surging essence the instant it entered his belly, repairing and strengthening his muscles, organs, and meridians. Nor was Zhou Qian simply sleeping; he had fallen into a state akin to pre-birth, like a newly hatched chick.

The countless scratches and bruises on his back, the sword wounds on his legs, arms, and waist, the hidden injuries to his organs, old wounds from his wanderings—all healed slowly and steadily. His blood coursed audibly within him; each breath spanned dozens of heartbeats, like an old ox snoring, each cycle growing longer. Not only his organs, but his very bones crackled like firecrackers, while the Departed Fire Pearl hovered in midair, casting red light over his entire body.

Zhou Qian’s pores gradually closed, fine hairs fell away, and beneath the skin, one could faintly see bones, flesh, and sinews.

Refined within the Golden Core, his fate and nature bordering on the immortal!

Zhou Qian, without realizing it, had reached the highest level attainable by mortals in the martial world. Perhaps it was the strengthening from the red apricot, the patient teachings of Zhou Xun, his own ceaseless training and insight, the countless battles and lessons, or the powerful essence of the aged Yingyu. Perhaps there were still other reasons. But ultimately, Zhou Qian had succeeded—he had taken the final step.

He awoke at some unknown hour, his eyes flashing with vigor. He could hear the rushing of his own blood, feel every movement of bone, every contraction of organ and muscle, every elastic pull of sinew with each exertion.

“So this is it!” Zhou Qian breathed out. “Absolute mastery over one’s body—the realm that Master spoke of.”

Zhou Qian moved forward, slow yet swift, savoring each change. His eyes narrowed slightly; in the darkness, he no longer needed his sight. His entire body could serve as his eyes.

Following the cave, Zhou Qian soon set foot on a stone stairway leading upwards—a sure sign that the First Emperor’s Tomb lay overhead.

Suddenly, in the darkness, a pair of pale hands shot out, reaching for Zhou Qian’s eyes. Yet Zhou Qian seemed to have anticipated this; he sidestepped, his sword striking at an uncanny angle. With a flick of the wrist, the sword’s point multiplied—one became two, two became four, four became eight—hundreds of sword blossoms bloomed in the night. The owner of the white hands transformed the grasp into a single point, tapping the sword tip with a finger—a metallic clang rang out.

Seizing the moment, Zhou Qian changed tactics, his feet moving in rapid succession as sword light surged like waves, one after another, until the ninth move poured forth like liquid silver, forming a mass of sword light that enveloped his foe. The stranger merely joined hands in a gesture of Buddhist prayer, feet unmoving, then vanished eerily into the darkness.

“The Little Sword Immortal’s reputation is well-deserved! This humble monk is impressed! Amitabha!” Solemn Buddhist chants echoed all around.

“Amitabha—”

“Amitabha—”

“Rotten Lotus Finger, Lotus Step, Celestial Dragon Zen Chant—from the Esoteric Sect of old!” Zhou Qian exclaimed in surprise. “Wasn’t your sect exterminated long ago by Senior Linghu?”