49. Chen Dansheng? (Asking for monthly votes)

The red moon hung high in the night sky, the wailing wind rustling the withered trees.

At the gates of Yuqiong Mountain.

Song Qiuyue and the other cultivators had been lying prone on the ground for more than half an hour, like worms. From time to time, raindrops fell. During this period, none dared to move in the slightest. Even if real insects or venomous snakes crawled over them, they pretended to feel nothing.

Truly worthy of being Nascent Soul True Lords—each with a resolute Dao heart, able to endure much.

Yet, even after enduring so long, there were still some whose minds, initially at peace, began to stir.

After the strange phenomenon of sun and moon sharing the sky vanished, those countless divine and demonic phantom shadows standing behind the Pure Immortal Temple disappeared as well. As for the white mist, it had long since dissipated.

The only reason they did not dare move was pure fear.

“So much time has passed. Perhaps that old Daoist has already left,” someone whispered.

“He might not be some sinister being—just mad. Otherwise, he would’ve eaten us by now.”

“My lady, what do you say?” Zhao Hai and the other cultivators passed the question to Song Qiuyue. In speaking together, they were actually reminding this noble lady that if they did not leave soon, they truly could endure no longer. Servants are servants, but life is life, is it not?

Song Qiuyue hesitated—she, in fact, was the one most desperate to leave. She had considered it the moment the old Daoist departed. Yet, the sixty deities continually warned her: ever since the appearance of that white mist, their incense offerings had been vanishing at an inexplicably rapid rate.

They had suspected the old Daoist’s involvement. Though they had never heard of any sinister entity capable of devouring incense offerings, in the vast Ten-Thousand Mountains, what strange things might not exist? Who could say what mysterious power could accomplish such a thing?

Yet, none of this truly mattered. Even if it wasn’t the old Daoist, it changed nothing, for after he left, their incense offerings continued to vanish without pause, as if the one devouring them still lurked in the shadows. Or perhaps, the old Daoist was siphoning them from afar. Either way, it seemed there was no escape.

Song Qiuyue could not help but ask the sixty deities, “If we leave now, would there still be a chance?”

“You may leave, but we cannot,” the deities replied.

Song Qiuyue fell into despair. Though dawn was not far off, the outside world remained shrouded in darkness. Without the protection of the deities, what were they—mere Nascent Soul cultivators—worth? Should they encounter one or two sinister entities, perhaps they could withstand them, but if they fought back, they would only draw more and more of these beings, and death would be inevitable.

Reluctantly, Song Qiuyue proposed a compromise: “Could you at least send word to the Song Manor, informing them of my circumstances?”

This time, the deities agreed. “After dawn, we shall send the message to your household.” Without the strange white mist, during daylight the deities needed but a single thought to send word across the Ten-Thousand Mountains to anywhere, no matter how distant.

“My lady...” Zhao Hai opened his mouth, looking at Song Qiuyue with pleading eyes.

“After dawn, we shall leave,” Song Qiuyue sighed helplessly. “The deities cannot go, so neither can we.”

Seeing her resolve, the cultivators could only bury their own anxieties. There was no other way—they could prod the noble lady, but could not decide for her. In fact, their very lives were in Song Qiuyue’s hands. No matter how weakened the sixty deities might be, they were not beings these cultivators could withstand. Nascent Soul—was the end of the path of cultivation, and the deities had built a bridge over that broken road. The two were not even on the same level.

How could they possibly resist?

The cultivators anxiously awaited daybreak, each moment dragging on in torment.

Finally, a pale light appeared on the horizon.

Song Qiuyue and her companions were overwhelmed with excitement.

“It’s dawn! We can leave now!”

“Let’s go—if not now, when?”

“Hurry, hurry!”

They were so eager that they all rose into the air, ready at the first sign of full daylight to flee at once.

But just then, a voice from above sent a chill down their spines.

“You’re leaving, are you?”

Everyone looked up. There, floating midair, crouched the old Daoist in purple robes, drooling, holding a plate filled with fruit and pastries in one hand, the other hand digging at his head. He looked down on them, gaze condescending.

In that instant, everyone realized with horror that the “raindrops” they’d felt earlier were actually the old Daoist’s drool. In other words, while they’d been prone on the ground all this time, he had been watching them—who knew for how long? Not even the deities had noticed.

“Se—senior...” Song Qiuyue tried to recall the fawning expressions of her servants, but could only manage a forced, awkward smile. “We... we’re... not leaving...”

“Oh? Not leaving,” the old Daoist tilted his head, drool pouring forth as he said, “If you’re not leaving, then why did you get up? Down, get back down!”

All the cultivators immediately dropped to the ground.

The old Daoist’s figure flickered and he appeared before them, still holding the plate of offerings, back to them, head lowered, muttering to himself, “I watched them for so long, thought they were going to leave. I wanted to jump out and scare them, make their meat more tender, but not one of them was frightened.”

At this, Song Qiuyue and the rest felt their bodies tense to the utmost.

A moment later, the Daoist suddenly turned and grinned, “Ah, did I scare you? Did I?”

Then, swaying like a madman, he ran towards the Pure Immortal Temple, laughing all the while—a laugh half-crazed and half-clear.

“Huang Pi’er, your master is back! I brought you something delicious!”

No matter how it was heard, it sent chills through the soul.

“My lady...”

“Let’s go.” Song Qiuyue clenched her sleeve, forcing herself to follow.

This old Daoist in the purple robe seemed different from the wild figure they’d seen in white robes by day—not so insane, not threatening to eat them at every word, not even forbidding their departure. But everyone knew that the moment they left the mountain would be the hour of their death.

Now, the sun was up in full, its heat dispelling the chill of the night. Yet all the cultivators felt as if they’d been plunged into an icy pit.

Fortunately, with daylight, the deities had already sent word to Xuzhou City. Perhaps there was still hope of survival.

...

Chen Huangpi felt as if he were dreaming.

In his dream, his body kept shrinking. No sooner had he grown a little than he reverted to an eight-year-old child. His skin turned sallow, his frame grew frail. Smaller and smaller, until he could no longer even wear his tattered Daoist robe.

Eventually, he became an egg—a large egg, spanning arm to arm, chest-high. Strange golden-black characters, like birds, flowers, beasts, and insects, swam across its surface—identical to those of the Divine Refinement of the Five Viscera and the Yin-Yang Transmutation Technique. But the characters moved too swiftly to be read.

Trapped within the egg, Chen Huangpi could not make out what was written. He tried to break free, but something felt amiss.

“I am clearly human. If I hatch from this egg, wouldn’t I truly become ‘Chen Eggborn’?!”

He thought to himself, “This nightmare is too much! It must be Master’s last words that frightened me, so that even in dreams I see myself in an egg—clearly I am human. That sinister being revealed my true form, and I saw it plainly.”

The sinister being had transformed into his likeness—a half-formed infant curled in a placenta, no different from an ordinary child.

Well, Chen Huangpi could not deceive himself. For on the membrane encasing the placenta, golden-black characters were beginning to form. But he and the mutated idol had struck together, giving that being no chance to complete its transformation before smashing it to pieces.

Had it been allowed to continue, it might truly have turned into an egg.

Thinking this, Chen Huangpi felt utterly uneasy.

Anger welled up in him. Displeased at the eggshell, he instinctively formed a sword-finger, trying to mobilize his essence between his kidneys into the Demon-Slaying Sword, and break out.

But as he moved, he discovered something strange: his essence was gone. Instead, from his fingertip oozed a jet-black, sinister, shadowy sword aura.

The doors to his kidney temple were shut, and his essence had not returned—it seemed utterly vanished.

Startled, Chen Huangpi wondered, “Where is my essence?”

The Divine Refinement of the Five Viscera had never mentioned such a change. That black smoke had always originated in his kidney temple: before, it was just a wisp mingling with his essence; now it had wholly replaced it.

Which meant that if he continued to use this black smoke, the gates of his kidney temple would soon be blasted open again, and his mind and body would lapse into a delayed state as before.

“Is the path of cultivation truly so inconvenient? Essence is qi—smoke is also qi!”

So thinking, Chen Huangpi struck the eggshell with the black smoke sword aura.

The sword aura struck, but did no harm—instead, it bounced back and hit him.

“Why has my sword aura become so feeble?”

Feeling no pain, Chen Huangpi tried again, this time forming the sword aura but not releasing it. Pinching it between his fingers, the jet-black sword aura turned to smoke and dispersed.

Suddenly he understood.

“My black smoke is powerful, but when shaped into sword aura alone, it loses its sharpness. I cannot use it as a direct substitute for essence.”

With just a little thought, he saw through the principle.

“If not the sword, I know some boxing too!”

He drew back his fist and struck the eggshell.

His punch was like a dragon’s roar.

With a crack, he put a hole in the shell.

A ghostly wind howled through the opening.

Chen Huangpi’s eyes widened; peering out, his face turned deathly pale.

Outside, countless lifeless eyes, dense as a collapsed mound of sand, surged through the hole in the egg toward him.

In a blink, Chen Huangpi was submerged in eyes—all blinking, brimming with malice.

“Ah!”

Chen Huangpi jerked awake.

At last, he saw he was back in the main hall of the Pure Immortal Temple.

A brass oil lamp floated to his left. To his right, the old master in purple crouched, one hand holding a plate, the other picking at his head, watching him with drooling anticipation.

When Chen Huangpi awoke, the brass oil lamp exclaimed excitedly, “Master, he’s awake! He’s awake!”

“Huang Er, Master?” Chen Huangpi was bewildered.

The next instant, a plate piled high with offerings was placed before him.

“Huang Pi’er! You’re awake! I brought you your favorite offerings!” The old Daoist in purple pointed proudly at the plate, boasting, “Now you know how much I love you—more than Second and Third! They’re bad, but Master is good! Don’t ever let them eat you again.”