Volume Two: The Worldly Chapter Chapter Fifty-Eight: Sword Offering

The daylight had long since broken, yet on the sea shrouded in thick fog, the path ahead remained as dim and uncertain as ever.

For Ye Mingke and his companions, it had now been far longer since the last appearance of a ghost than the usual interval between hauntings, even longer than that rare gap after which a ghost could split.

“It seems our luck is holding—likely the ghost found Li Guifan first,” Ye Mingke said, still standing at the prow of the boat, turning to Jian Jiu beside him.

“My luck has always been good,” Jian Jiu replied, standing with his sword slung across his back, hair streaming in the sea breeze, white robes billowing—elegant and unruffled, his words free of any boast or pride.

“Sigh, that I can believe. If you weren’t lucky, how would you ever have run into me?” Ye Mingke curled his lip, giving up the posturing with this naturally dashing fellow. He squatted down, rested his chin in his hand, and gazed bitterly at the sea ahead. “Still, I was born unlucky. Otherwise, how would I have come across you?”

“Fair enough,” Jian Jiu replied, as unruffled as ever, missing entirely the teasing in Ye Mingke’s words.

He, too, stared into the mist-wreathed sea, and suddenly memories began to surface.

“I’ve always believed in my good fortune. I was born with spiritual sensitivity—by seven I’d opened my senses, by eight mastered the basics. With that conviction, I traveled boldly through perilous lands once I’d achieved some skill, and my progress grew all the faster.”

“But there was someone who always lamented his own poor luck.”

His voice grew soft as he spoke into the wind.

“He trained harder than anyone, yet among our peers he progressed the slowest. He started before me, but I became the Sword Disciple. Each time we ventured out, he led the group, yet my name always outranked his on the merit boards.”

Ye Mingke turned to him with a smile. “Li Guifan?”

“Yes. I’ve always wondered why he took the Spirit Initiation Talisman and went off alone.”

Jian Jiu faced Ye Mingke’s clear gaze. “After I joined, he guided me for ten years. After that, I became the Sword Disciple and studied under our master. He was always both brother and mentor to me. So why did things turn out like this?”

“Perhaps he’s someone deeply insecure?” Ye Mingke asked suddenly.

Jian Jiu thought for a moment, shook his head, then nodded. “Our senior brother came from humble origins, and he’s always been sensitive about it—often sighing over his misfortune. But in his dealings with others, he was neither servile nor overbearing, and led many teams.”

“Then perhaps he’s someone whose insecurity bred jealousy, yet he couldn’t face those feelings directly,” Ye Mingke mused, drawing a deep breath and shrugging. “Truth is, many people harbor insecurities. Seeing someone more fortunate, more beautiful, it’s natural to feel a touch of envy.”

“It’s not a pleasant emotion, so some people hide it, suppress it, or twist it into hate or anger to dull the pain. In the end, they warp themselves and the world around them.”

“He resents this world, believing it’s unjust to him. So he feels he can’t succeed by ordinary means. In desperation, who knows what such a person might do?”

“After you became the Sword Disciple, did he grow distant?”

Ye Mingke’s question was smooth and natural, almost as if he spoke his own mind.

“Yes and no,” Jian Jiu replied, still gazing at Ye Mingke. “He was still good to me, but it wasn’t the easy camaraderie of before—more like a deliberate effort to please.”

“Then his affliction runs deeper. Suppressing himself, seeing everyone as a tool for success, even those he resents or envies.”

Ye Mingke added, a hint of self-mockery on his face.

“Why are you so sure? How can you so easily guess his thoughts?” Jian Jiu asked, curious.

“Because I, too, am unlucky. I too am insecure. I, too, can feel jealous,” Ye Mingke replied with a self-deprecating smile.

“But I am a swordsman! I know a sword technique called ‘Never Yield!’”

He looked at Jian Jiu, his eyes bright with a clear, sharp light.

Jian Jiu regarded Ye Mingke’s luminous gaze and said, with a hint of regret, “You truly have the makings of a top swordsman in the mortal world. It’s a pity you can’t cultivate. Otherwise, perhaps there would be a place for you among the Sword Immortals.”

Ye Mingke’s sharp look faded, his face falling. “Hey, Sword Rack, am I really what they call a useless vessel—completely unable to cultivate?”

He cocked his head and pulled a face. As he grew more familiar with Jian Jiu, his feigned indifference had faded, and the youthful spirit from the rainy day in the small town began to return.

“By all rights, you can’t. There are many methods under heaven, but all require spiritual energy to enter the body. Your constitution, though strong, has all seven hundred and twenty apertures sealed. Without spiritual energy entering, cultivation is impossible.”

Seeing Ye Mingke’s confusion, Jian Jiu kindly explained further. “The number of spiritual apertures determines one’s talent for cultivation. For instance, I was born with three hundred and sixty-one unblocked apertures. After tempering, I now have six hundred and twelve. That’s why my progress is so much faster than most practitioners.”

“I don’t even know what spiritual apertures are—what’s spiritual energy, anyway?” Ye Mingke scratched his head, still utterly lost.

“You don’t even know about spiritual energy? Then how did you sense the ghost? That night, when it attacked, you kept your eyes closed the whole time,” Jian Jiu asked.

Ye Mingke hesitated, recounting only part of the truth. “I can sense certain points of light between heaven and earth, and in the places where ghosts are, I can’t sense those lights. So it’s by not seeing the ghost that I discovered it.”

“Points of light? What color are the lights you sense?” Jian Jiu asked, surprised.

“I can sense some gray points of light in the fog,” Ye Mingke replied, still not revealing everything—he instinctively felt that his ability was highly unusual.

“Gray points of light—similar to the five elements’ spiritual energy I sense. That must be a special kind of energy unique to the Sea of Mist. But to directly perceive the presence and color of spiritual energy—your sensitivity rivals my own.”

“For someone with sealed apertures, your spiritual perception is truly extraordinary.”

Jian Jiu’s gaze grew even more curious.

“Is there really no way to salvage a body with all apertures sealed?” Ye Mingke grumbled.

“As far as I know, apertures are set at birth—especially the main ones, which can only be inherited. But while you’re worrying about your future cultivation, have you thought of a way to deal with the ghost?”

Jian Jiu’s curiosity mounted.

“I’m hopeless—I’ve got no ideas at all.”

“Then it’s up to you. Since you’re still fretting about your future, you must have a plan for the ghost.” Ye Mingke’s words were teasing, but his gaze remained tense, his senses keenly probing their surroundings.

The fact they could chat so calmly meant they no longer faced the ghost with utter despair. When Li Guifan fled with the Spirit Initiation Talisman, they’d truly been left to wager their lives. But now, having won that bet, they’d regained the initiative.

“I have a plan, but it’s risky—a gamble with our lives. Lose once, and we die,” Jian Jiu said, his gaze fixed on the churning waves ahead.

Though his spiritual power was sealed, the sword aura about him was still so intense that few could meet his eyes.

“It’s fine—as long as we still have lives to wager, it’s not all bad,” Ye Mingke replied, seemingly unfazed, patting Jian Jiu’s shoulder in comfort.

Such sword intent was nothing—mere drizzle. Only after meeting Jian Jiu did he realize that the pressure he’d felt in the hills after that rainy afternoon in the small town was a form of sword aura.

“It’s coming!”

His hand, which had been patting Jian Jiu, suddenly froze. He whipped his head toward a wild deer tied to the cabin.

The deer was oozing blood from every pore. Jian Jiu instantly reacted, striding forward, grabbing the animal, and hurling it into the vast sea.

With a mighty splash, the deer vanished beneath the waves, crimson blood bubbling to the surface.

Then, faint thunder-fire arose—a blood-soaked, spectral stag wreathed in lightning emerged from the churning waves, its ghastly laughter echoing as it glared at those aboard.

The demon had appeared again, and panic threatened to break out among the group.

Only Ye Mingke and Jian Jiu noticed this ghost was particularly weak, its thunder-fire flickering uncertainly with the swell of the sea.

“Seems Li Guifan used the Spirit Initiation Talisman right away, without exhausting the ghost’s energy in a fight,” Ye Mingke remarked to Jian Jiu.

“So—without your spiritual power, can you handle it?”

“I don’t know. I’ll have to fight to find out,” Jian Jiu replied, eyes cold and sharp.

He unstrapped the eight other spirit swords from his back, keeping only the iron-gray blade named “Nine.”

“Wait—the ghost’s out at sea. How do you fight it without spiritual power?” Ye Mingke suddenly asked.

“There is more than Daoist magic—there is martial arts as well,” Jian Jiu answered coolly. “However, martial arts alone won’t be enough for this ghost!”

He slapped the rail, leaping into the air and skimming across the water.

Waves surged and crashed as Jian Jiu, sword in hand, raced across them like a swift sea swallow, agile and fearless, charging straight for the demon.

This time, the ghost ignored Jian Jiu, sensing no spiritual energy, and roared as it charged him.

Jian Jiu turned aside, gazed coldly at the ghost’s twisted face, and in a single motion drew the long sword from his back—his hair, streaming in the wind, bleached visibly to gray and white.

He had no spiritual power left.

He drew that cold, silent sword as an offering to the years he had lived.