Volume One: The Dragon Rises from the Wilds Chapter Thirty-One: The Hundred-Fathom Abyss of the Spirit Platform

Wind and rain raged without cease.

In the torrential downpour, more than a dozen horses circled restlessly. The riders brandished their blades, faces fierce with murderous intent. Old Hu and a companion stood guard outside the ring, each poised with a bow at the ready.

Within the encirclement, two figures stood.

Zhong Jian had lost his sword. His left hand dragged a wounded leg, while his right rested on Yu Ye’s shoulder. Whether from rage or pain, his rain-soaked body trembled ever so slightly. Yu Ye stood silent and still, his longsword pointed downward, unmoving. Only the blade carried rivulets of rain, as if savoring the taste of blood and slaughter.

The horses quickened their pace, the circle tightening ever smaller. Then three of them broke off, closing in on the two trapped men. The tempest’s roar, the pounding hooves, the clamor of weapons—chaos and bloodlust pressed in from all sides.

Zhong Jian shook the hair and rain from his eyes, bitterness in his voice: “Brother Yu, don’t blame me for this...”

But his companion did not reproach him; instead, Yu Ye raised his sword’s scabbard.

Zhong Jian, surprised, nevertheless seized the scabbard and planted it in the ground, supporting himself to stand unaided, if only for a moment.

The three horses came within twenty paces, circling tighter and tighter like a noose set to strangle them both.

Suddenly, Yu Ye leapt from the ground, pouncing toward one of their assailants. His sword flicked out with a gentle touch as he kicked upward, swift as a startled swan scattering the rain-mist. In that instant, the sword flashed and blood blossomed.

The horseman could not evade; a blade pierced his shoulder, and before pain could reach him, he was kicked from the saddle and crashed to the earth. The other two hurriedly wheeled their mounts, preparing to attack together.

Using the momentum of his fall, Yu Ye landed on a horse’s back, vaulted again, and with a graceful thrust of his sword and swift kicks, whirled through the air in a deadly dance. Another arc of his blade—once more, a spray of blood.

Both horsemen fell in agony. The now-riderless horses milled about, lost.

Yu Ye alighted beside Zhong Jian. The entire flurry had passed in a blink, and his sword bore not a trace of blood.

Zhong Jian looked on in shock. “Brother Yu, I never imagined you could...”

The other horsemen were equally stunned—some dashed to aid their fallen comrades, others shouted curses, still more brandished weapons in a desperate attempt to attack. Their formation fell into chaos.

Old Hu, observing the melee, realized the situation was dire. He shouted, “That boy’s swordsmanship is deadly—kill him together!”

But Yu Ye would not let the opportunity slip by. He seized a nearby horse, tossed Zhong Jian onto its back, and called, “Brother Zhong, go—!”

He slapped the horse’s flank. With a whinny, it shot forward, Zhong Jian clinging desperately to its back, unable to utter a word.

He had seen Yu Ye’s skill, knew escape alone would be no difficulty for him. If he hesitated now, he would only drag his brother down with him.

But as Zhong Jian fled through the confusion, his mount suddenly stumbled and collapsed. Unprepared, he was thrown headlong, tumbling through the mud. Looking up, all hope of survival faded. An arrow had pierced his horse’s skull; the beast still twitched in its death throes. Old Hu and his men closed in, iron hooves pounding through the storm, blades glinting, a suffocating death pressing ever nearer.

Yet, in that chaos, a familiar figure came racing to his aid.

“Brother Yu, watch out for hidden arrows!” Zhong Jian could not help but cry.

Yu Ye, intending to leave after his rescue, heard the twang of a bowstring. Zhong Jian and his horse had already crashed to the ground. If he left now, it would be abandoning a friend—so with light-footed skill, he rushed into the fray, dodging obstacles as he went. The warning of hidden arrows startled him; he knew well the deadly power of crossbows, and that such attacks were the hardest to defend against. Fortunately, with a few swift movements, he reached Zhong Jian’s side, hauled him up, but saw their escape blocked—horsemen bore down upon them.

“Brother Yu, head for the mountain in the rain!” Zhong Jian urged.

On the open road, not even the lightest footwork could outpace a galloping horse. Outnumbered and outmatched, fighting head-on was not an option; only by taking another path could they hope to escape.

Without time to think, Yu Ye hoisted Zhong Jian onto his shoulder and sped toward the direction of Mount Beiqi. At first, the burden made him slow, but soon he summoned his inner energy, his steps growing light and swift.

“How do we get up the mountain, Brother Zhong?”

“Fifty paces ahead, turn right—there’s the mountain gate.”

“Are you sure?”

“I’ve lived here for more than ten years, there’s nowhere I don’t know—ah, look out—!”

Yu Ye, unfamiliar with the way, questioned Zhong Jian as he ran. Suddenly, the bowstring sang again. Before Zhong Jian’s warning had finished, two arrows hurtled toward their backs.

Yu Ye neither dodged nor looked back, but swung his sword casually. With a twin clang, the deadly arrows were knocked aside.

Zhong Jian saw clearly and, astonished, exclaimed, “Brother Yu, you’ve cultivated spiritual awareness—are you a Qi-Refining cultivator?”

“Perhaps...” Yu Ye replied vaguely, leaping up a stretch of stone steps up the slope.

The stone steps climbed steeply, leading straight to the mountain gate of Beiqi. Old Hu and his men had chased to the foot of the slope, but now, forced to dismount, they scrambled up in noisy pursuit.

“Are you?” Zhong Jian pressed.

“If you’re a cultivator, how could you let yourself be harried by a pack of petty thugs? Put me down, and let’s slaughter our way out!” His excitement grew. “You should have killed to set an example—then Old Hu would have dared nothing!”

Yu Ye neither set him down nor paused. “I’ve never killed a man,” he said.

“Have you killed a chicken?”

“My family didn’t keep chickens, but I have killed a wolf.”

“Wolves are fiercer than men. You’ve killed a wolf but not a man?”

“There’s a difference between man and beast.”

“Yet men can be more savage than any beast.”

“Your words ring true, Brother Zhong.”

“If you won’t kill, you’ll be killed. Ah, forget it—after the gate, turn left...”

Zhong Jian tried to persuade Yu Ye to kill for intimidation, but the latter would not yield, and so he gave up.

Two stone pillars stood at the top of the steps, carved with patterns and the words “Beiqi Spirit” and “Northern Xuanwu”—the mountain gate of Beiqi.

“Turn left for a hundred paces; there’s a narrow mountain path. Difficult in the rain, but easy to defend from enemies.”

Yu Ye passed through the gate and turned left.

“Thud, thud—” The rain made the ascent treacherous. Old Hu and his men slipped and fell repeatedly on the wet steps, cutting a sorry figure.

“Haha—” Zhong Jian finally vented his frustration, gloating, “May those ruffians break their necks.”

A hundred paces to the left, a three-foot-wide stone stair wound up the mountain. Yu Ye climbed swiftly, three to five steps at a time, ascending over a yard in two strides, yet each step stable and light.

Old Hu and his men reached the narrow, steep stair, forced to ascend in single file and, fearing a misstep, slowed their pursuit.

Yu Ye glanced back and, with a casual sweep of his sword, sent a boulder weighing dozens of pounds crashing down the steps.

Cries of alarm rang out as those on the stair scattered in panic. Two men failed to dodge—one was struck and spat blood, another tumbled down the steps. Stricken with fear, Old Hu and the rest retreated.

With no enemies in pursuit, Yu Ye moved more easily.

Half an hour passed; the mountain grew ever steeper. The drizzle abated, but dense mist rolled in, soon obscuring the stone steps and trees below. Within this veil, it felt as if they walked among the clouds, the world falling away beneath their feet.

“A single thought at the Spirit Terrace, the sky a slender line—one misstep, and it’s a hundred-fathom abyss.”

Though Zhong Jian rode on Yu Ye’s shoulder and did not have to climb, he watched carefully, for only he knew the path. Sensing Yu Ye’s footwork grow unsteady, he warned, “This is a perilous place—be ever watchful!”

Yu Ye nodded to himself.

Though Zhong Jian had no cultivation, his decades on the path of Dao had given him insight beyond the ordinary. Even his sayings carried hidden meaning. Fortunately, Yu Ye had read the classics and understood the gist.

The texts spoke of the Spirit Terrace—a term used by mortal Daoists, akin to the Purple Mansion, Upper Dantian, Mud Pill, Jade Chamber—all names for the sea of consciousness. Above the Spirit Terrace lay the Hundred Meetings, the High Platform, the Road to Heaven; a single careless thought, and the great Dao is lost, plunging into the abyss.

“Wait, look there—” Yu Ye slowed his pace.

The stone stair ended in the mist. Beyond, nothing could be seen. A few steps to the right lay a cliff, with two iron chain bridges spanning the chasm. Carved into the rock were the words: “Spirit Terrace, a single line to the sky; one misstep, a hundred-fathom abyss.”

Zhong Jian added, “Beyond the Spirit Terrace’s abyss, you’ll see the Xuanwu Sutra Pavilion.”

Yu Ye gazed at the inscription and the iron bridge, realizing he had been overthinking; Zhong Jian had only been guiding the way, while he himself had lost himself in the mountain rain and mist.

Yet the words were fitting, and upon reflection, brought insight.

With Zhong Jian slung over his shoulder, Yu Ye stepped onto the iron bridge. At once, the chains swayed beneath his feet. A fierce mountain wind whipped the rain and mist into a frenzy. Below lay a hundred-fathom chasm—one slip, and bones would be broken to dust. Holding his breath and focusing his spirit, Yu Ye advanced slowly and carefully, and after a dozen yards, reached the far side.

“Brother Yu, put me down now,” Zhong Jian said, propping himself with the sword scabbard and standing on one leg. Surveying Yu Ye—his slight build, calm demeanor—he shook his head in disbelief.

This youth, neither tall nor strong, had single-handedly fended off a horde with his sword, carried a grown man up a mountain hundreds of feet high, and now stood here, composed and unruffled. All the while, his true skill remained concealed.

“Brother Yu, I’ll remember this kindness,” Zhong Jian said, filled with emotion.

Yu Ye smiled faintly.

Did one save a life merely for reward?

From the moment they began the ascent, he had been secretly gathering his energy, but now, danger past, he felt utterly at ease.

His heart relaxed, and the true energy he had restrained flowed freely within. He stretched, his damp Daoist robes billowing in the breeze.

Zhong Jian, leaning on his scabbard, limped forward, peering through the rain and mist before sighing in regret. “Ah, the Sutra Pavilion is gone...”

But before he could finish, there was a sudden burst—water vapor exploded around Yu Ye, his robe swelling, hair flying, and his sword flickered with a faint aura.

Zhong Jian stared, murmuring to himself—

“Body protected by true Qi—the mark of a Qi-Refining cultivator. Brother Yu, is it not so...”