Volume One: The Emperor’s Sword Chapter 34: The Low-Key God of Wealth

As they ascended, the mountain rose ever steeper, and the fog thickened around them. At times, visibility shrank to barely ten feet, and the dense mist shrouded the world, making it seem as if they had crossed into another realm.

Wu Dachuan led the way, gripping the little dog’s leash tightly, his nerves taut as a drawn bow. He constantly glanced about, afraid that some monster might emerge from the swirling fog to swallow him whole.

Yun Que and Mu Qingyao walked side by side, while Luo Xiaoyu brought up the rear.

No one spoke. The only sounds were their footsteps and the faint clinking of bottles and jars bundled in Luo Xiaoyu’s pack.

“Did either of you notice anything about those vines when you were in danger on the mountain?” Yun Que broke the silence at last. “Anything odd about their origin or any strange objects nearby?”

“The fog was too thick at the time,” Mu Qingyao replied. “Apart from the mass of vines, I didn’t see anything suspicious.”

Yun Que pondered a moment before analyzing, “Don’t you find the vines strange? They’re plants, yet they seem to possess a certain intelligence.”

“That’s true,” Mu Qingyao agreed. “To trap and kill me, the vines wove themselves into a sturdy net, working together like an ant colony.”

“If it’s like an ant colony, then the queen is the key weakness,” Yun Que mused.

“Capture the thief by catching the king,” said Mu Qingyao, her eyes brightening. “Find the core of the vines and destroy it, and we’ll be free of danger!”

Yun Que slowly shook his head, disagreeing.

Mu Qingyao was taken aback, unable to see where her logic had failed.

“The vines aren’t like an ant colony. I think they resemble something else.”

“What do you mean?” Mu Qingyao asked.

Gazing into the thick mist shrouding the summit, Yun Que voiced his suspicion in a low tone. “Root tendrils.”

“Root tendrils?” Mu Qingyao fell silent, neither agreeing nor refuting his guess.

“Perhaps they share a single body,” Yun Que continued, “a walking spirit of grass and wood drawn by the bones hidden in the mountain’s heart. It might have arrived two or three months ago, rooted itself in the Misty Mountain, and now creates this perpetual fog.”

Mu Qingyao was stunned by the wild leap of Yun Que’s imagination. It took her a while to recover. “But what about the spiritual herbs in the mountain? If such a powerful wood spirit truly dwells here, it wouldn’t allow those treasures to remain—surely it would claim them at once.”

“They’re bait,” Yun Que answered. “All the spiritual materials in the mountain serve as lures for monsters and cultivators. Those drawn by the lure become prey for the spirit lurking here.”

Mu Qingyao’s brows knitted tightly in concern. After a long silence, she said gravely, “If the vines were like ants, the queen would be formidable but not insurmountable. But if they are indeed root tendrils, then the spirit’s true terror is beyond anything we anticipated.”

“I hope I’m wrong,” Yun Que replied, his voice heavy, a shadow of worry flickering in his eyes.

By this point, the four had made it halfway up the mountain.

The journey was eerily quiet. Not a single monster appeared, nor any sign of spiritual herbs—there wasn’t even a trace of another soul.

The silence was unsettling, almost suffocating.

Reaching a slightly level spot, Yun Que signaled for everyone to rest awhile.

The little dog, Fortune, circled a tree, occasionally barking at the trunk.

Wu Dachuan assumed the dog was simply marking its territory. “You’re the only dog here,” he grumbled. “The whole mountain’s yours, all right?”

Yun Que surveyed the terrain, then approached a massive boulder half-buried in the earth. He tried to pry it loose, but it wouldn’t budge. Satisfied, he nodded.

“Give me a hand,” Yun Que said, calling Mu Qingyao over. He then placed the last nine superior flying swords from his storage pouch upon the rock.

Mu Qingyao couldn’t fathom his intent, while Wu Dachuan was nearly floored—nine superior flying swords, produced as casually as a handful of coins! How wealthy must this man be? He’d taken Yun Que for a penniless novice, but now realized he was a quiet fortune in disguise.

Yun Que took one sword and, using all his strength, thrust it into the rock, leaving half the blade exposed, then removed the hilt. Mu Qingyao caught on at once. Channeling her spirit energy, she drove another sword into the rock, blade up, also leaving half outside.

Together, they soon embedded all nine swords side by side, forming a barricade reminiscent of a chevaux-de-frise. Though crude in appearance, it was an effective sword formation. Should anything rush down from the summit, it would be gruesomely impaled.

“A precaution—perhaps needless,” Yun Que said.

There was scarcely any sign of life on the mountain, and with the fog so dense, it was unlikely anyone would stumble upon the swords. Yun Que measured the direction with his hand to memorize the location.

“Smart idea!” Wu Dachuan gave a thumbs-up. This method was both effective and costly—no poor man could afford such extravagance. He felt much safer and leaned against the tree Fortune had circled, taking a well-earned breath.

A large knot, the size of a duck’s egg, sat on the tree just above his head, covered in irregular wrinkles.

“Let’s go,” Yun Que ordered, and the four resumed their climb.

As Wu Dachuan left, the knot on the tree slowly rotated, like a human eye.

The slope grew steeper, and their pace slowed.

The closer they came to the summit, the denser the trees grew. Fortune kept his nose to the ground, occasionally barking at passing trunks.

The dog’s behavior left the group disheartened. At this rate, finding Zhou Yuanliang and the others—or even a dead rat—seemed hopeless.

Wu Dachuan felt embarrassed and scolded, “We’re looking for people, Fortune, not trees! Living people, like me! Don’t you have a sharp nose? What’s wrong with you today?”

“Maybe Fortune is sick,” Luo Xiaoyu muttered quietly.

They walked further. Mu Qingyao activated her spirit energy, and her Flower Spirit Sword unleashed a surge of invisible sword force, sweeping away a swath of mist and revealing a clearing.

It was empty—nothing but weeds and trees.

“We shouldn’t be far,” Mu Qingyao murmured, her brow creasing in doubt.

She could roughly gauge the location where she and her fellow disciples had encountered danger; it should have been nearby. Yet there was not a trace of living souls, not even signs of a struggle.

It was as if, after she was dragged underground, the dozens of disciples from the Southern Wing had simply vanished into thin air.

For a moment, Mu Qingyao even wondered if her peers had escaped in advance and returned to Sword Palace.

Yun Que’s expression grew ever more grave. He had been deep in thought the whole way.

Wu Dachuan once again pulled Fortune away from a tree. Suddenly, he felt a chill crawl up his back, as if someone—or something—were watching him.

He spun around.

Nothing behind him but the tree.

A shudder ran through him, and he hurried back to Yun Que’s side.

“Brother Yun, don’t you feel like we’re being watched?” Wu Dachuan whispered, glancing around nervously, every hair on end.

The Misty Mountain was too strange. He felt less like a climber and more like a soul wandering the underworld, never knowing when the King of Hell might appear.

Luo Xiaoyu hunched her shoulders, feeling as though countless unseen eyes pressed against her from all sides.

Mu Qingyao’s gaze was sharp as a blade, sweeping the area, but she found nothing.

Just then, Yun Que walked to a tree, his back to the others. He examined a knot on the bark, then after a moment, uttered a startling declaration.

“I’ve found it.”