Volume Two: The Mortal World Chapter Forty: Ghosts of the Vast Sea

Beyond a stretch of sea shrouded in layer upon layer of mist, a group of white-robed cultivators stood aloft in the clouds atop their flying swords, gazing at the fogbound waters ahead.

“What on earth happened in the Sea of Mists today? It felt exhilarating. For a moment, I sensed as if the heavens themselves were collapsing,” remarked one cultivator, who had risen higher and moved slightly forward, peering into the hazy expanse.

His features were striking—finely chiseled with sword-like brows and bright eyes, long hair cascading loosely about his shoulders. Across his back, seven swords were strapped; he stood on one, and another circled him with the liveliness of a flying fish, occasionally brushing affectionately against his white robe.

“Hey, Sword Rack, don’t get too close to that mist. If you’re swept in, there’s no telling if you’ll ever come back out,” a charming young female sword cultivator called out worriedly as she saw him nearing the fog.

“Even local fishermen dare to enter these mists. What’s there to fear?” the young man, nicknamed Sword Rack, turned and flashed her a carefree grin. “Mingyu, you’re as fretful as Master. There might be danger in the depths of the Sea of Mists, but we’re only at the outskirts. How much trouble can there be?”

“If it weren’t for Master’s strict orders, I’d have ventured in myself.” He licked his lips, eyes burning with curiosity, excitement, and a hunger for the unknown as he watched the sea ahead.

“True, some greedy fishermen have gone in and made it out alive. But don’t forget, even powerful ascended cultivators have vanished at the edge of these waters,” the young woman pressed, growing anxious as Sword Rack’s interest only deepened.

“Even Master never enters without bringing an artifact linked to the Sect’s Sky-Pillar Tower as a guide. It’s certainly dangerous. If you disobey and go in, I... I won’t speak to you for a hundred years!”

She stamped her foot in agitation, raising a delicate finger at him.

“No, make that ten years!” But as soon as the words left her mouth, she recalled how seriously he took his promises and faltered, withdrawing her finger halfway, her voice suddenly much softer.

Sword Rack casually brushed her hand aside and patted her on the head. “You almost make me want to go in just to see if you could really keep away from me for a year, let alone ten. Who are you trying to fool?”

He rolled his eyes and snorted.

At these words, the young woman’s eyes brimmed with tears, her face trembling with sorrow, looking so pitiful that the other disciples felt their hearts ache for her. But the one she gazed at was too busy to notice, idly playing with his sword.

“Sword Nine, stop teasing the junior sister. This isn’t the time for jokes. If you run off and get lost, we’ll all end up locked in the Sky-Pillar Tower for ten thousand years,” chided another cultivator, older in appearance with his hair tied in a neat topknot—a man who looked every inch the responsible leader.

“The Sea of Mists may not be the most dangerous place in the world, but its terror lies in its unpredictability. Both mortals and cultivators gamble with their lives here,” he continued gravely. “Especially today—something has changed in the depths. Signs of this anomaly have been sensed across the Wildlands, the Western Lands, and the Central Continent. Whatever’s happening out there is unprecedented. I fear the sea is even more treacherous than usual—we must not take risks.”

“Understood, Senior Brother,” replied Sword Nine, the youth with nine swords, in an offhand manner, still toying with the lively flying sword at his side. Suddenly, the sword trembled violently, slashing his finger and drawing a bright line of blood.

Sword Nine’s head snapped up toward the mist. Through the haze, he discerned a colossal figure striding across the sea, barreling toward them with astonishing speed.

“What is that?”

Someone else had seen the figure too and cried out in alarm.

“Not good!” In the next instant, the cultivators felt the tranquil white mist ahead roar and surge toward them like a hundred-foot wave. They all turned and fled on their swords, but the mist expanded even faster, engulfing them in an instant.

They sped onward, convinced they’d flown hundreds of miles, yet when they looked up, it felt as if they hadn’t moved at all—the scenery remained unchanged, endless white fog on every side.

“It’s still coming! That thing is headed straight for us!” one cultivator shouted in terror, seeing not only the encroaching mist but also the towering figure striding atop the waves, now even closer—the sound of its footsteps rumbling through the sea, louder than before.

“Is this the legendary terror of the Sea of Mists?” another gasped, voice trembling with fear.

The aura radiating from the figure was overwhelming, like a black sun, demonic and radiant at once, so powerful that even from afar, it crushed their will to resist.

Sword Nine’s eyes swept the fog. Years of surviving deadly trials gave him sharp intuition—he was the first to sense the real danger. He shouted, “Get out of the mist—down, to the surface!”

The others sensed the strangeness too and dropped swiftly, heading for the sea below. They finally alighted on a floating island.

No sooner had they landed than the immense figure in the distance suddenly collapsed, sending up a thunderous crash. Everyone froze, watching the giant struggle futilely to rise.

“Don’t just stand there! Now’s our chance—go!” barked the senior disciple, jolting them into action.

The cultivators sped away along the sea’s surface.

“Sword Nine!” the older cultivator called, seeing him glance back once more.

Sword Nine hesitated for a heartbeat but ultimately followed the others.

Thunder rumbled in the sky, and the calm sea grew wild, waves mounting ever higher.

A peal of thunder split the heavens, and with it, a storm descended alongside the deepening night. Wind, rain, and mist engulfed the entire sea.

In the torrential darkness, Ye Mingke stood motionless for hours at the beach where Da Bai had vanished, his clothes soaked through.

What did he feel? Pressing a hand to his chest, he realized he wasn’t sure. Everything had happened so quickly, catching him utterly unprepared; after blow upon blow, there was no room left for sorrow, pain, or fear—these emotions remained trapped and heavy, suffocating him, weighing him down with exhaustion so deep he wanted only to collapse and never rise again.

“Which one is you?” he murmured to the stormy sea, echoing the words his uncle had once asked him by the fireside.

It was as though his uncle still watched over him.

“Survive!”

A lightning bolt split the night and fog, illuminating Ye Mingke’s face, twisted with determination and anguish.

“Survive,” he repeated, for his life was no longer his alone—it now bore the burdens of countless hopes and lives: Da Bai, Old Wang, Master Liu the mason, the familiar souls of the little town, the hundred-thousand demon soldiers, and perhaps Uncle Long and Aunt Long, who might already be gone.

However weary, however weighted, he had to keep moving forward.

He could only slay the weaker part of himself. When he opened his eyes again, only a fierce will to live burned within them.

He did not yet know what path awaited him, but he knew he could not die—not now. He had to survive.

“Ye Mingke, you are not allowed to die!” he growled, dragging his numb legs away from the heartbroken shore toward the dense woods of the island.

He didn’t go far—venturing deep into an unfamiliar forest at night would be dangerous. Instead, he built a simple shelter beneath a tree not far from the beach, shielding himself from some of the wind and rain. With his knife, he fashioned several wooden tubes, setting them out to gather fresh water from the storm.

After all, he was a child of the islands, well aware of how precious fresh water was at sea, even if the town and island of his childhood had been nothing but an illusion.

He listened to the hurried tapping of raindrops on the wood, eyes slowly closing as the tension of days finally eased.

His mind, at last unbound, drifted through memories: scenes of the little town flashed before him.

Were they truly false, no more than a dream?

What is real?

The bonds between people are real.

He recalled nights under the great banyan, listening to Da Bai’s tales; he remembered shouting up to Tao Yao at the top of his tower; he remembered Qiao Qiao sleeping by his side on the banks of the clear stream.

He remembered their first night drinking and singing under the banyan, the sunrise after days spent chopping wood, the countless games of chess with Auntie under the lamplight.

At least, the joys and sorrows he had once felt were real.

The makeshift shelter leaked, letting icy rain soak his already drenched clothes. Yet the lingering warmth of those memories eased the cold, letting him curl up and drift slowly into sleep.

Exhausted, he failed to notice the huge shadow gliding through the dark waters nearby, a pair of ghostly green eyes silently watching him from the shore…

Not far away, the group of white-robed cultivators, drained and weary, landed on another island. All day they’d flown at full speed, tried countless methods, but could not escape the strange sea.

On the storm-tossed waters, a crude wooden boat was tossed about like a toy in a giant’s hand. Amid the howling wind and crashing waves, the passengers—roughly dressed in hempen clothes—cried out in terror. Only one man stood firm at the helm, a middle-aged man with a face of iron resolve, holding the rudder with all his might, eyes fixed on the darkness and the monstrous waves ahead, as fierce and solitary as a wolf.