Volume Two: The Mortal Realm Chapter Sixty-Two: Reunion

Mortal martial arts cannot kill ghosts.

This was what Sword Nine said to Ye Mingke before attempting to kill a ghost without using spiritual power for the first time.

Even if one can walk upon waves, how can a mortal hope to slay a ghost that commands thunder and fire, a creature already dead? Thus, even Sword Nine relies on the Cold Silent Spiritual Sword, driven by life force, to kill ghosts. To slay a ghost, one cannot do without that sword.

When Sword Nine lay unconscious and the evil ghost drew near, Ye Mingke, who had just learned the art of wave-walking, and the equally anxious Ying Wei, engaged in a cordial and friendly dialogue with the spiritual sword. Their exchange included, but was not limited to, gentle persuasion, weighing advantages and disadvantages, threats, bribery, cajoling, even temptation and flattery.

In the end, the aloof and proud sword was convinced, but it chose Ye Mingke, not the fellow cultivator Ying Wei. As for the reason, Ye Mingke surmised it was because he was the second greatest swordsman in the world. But only the sword truly knows why.

Yet this was not good news. Sword Nine, as a cultivator, possessed a life force far more robust than any mortal, and even he began to exhaust his vitality after only a few uses. For Ye Mingke, a mere mortal wielding a sword capable of draining a cultivator dry, the consequences were obvious.

Ying Wei, with a sardonic estimation, declared that Ye Mingke was likely a disposable tool...

Yet, when this self-proclaimed great swordsman first held a true sword, he was so exhilarated that he... roasted fish on the deck.

While eating, he drank the ship’s small stash of wine under the sympathetic gaze of the others.

Alas, perhaps this was the last meal, the last revelry, in the life of this peculiar youth.

Watching his desolate figure facing the roaring sea wind, the others aboard felt a kinship with his fate, their hearts heavy with the sadness of life and destiny.

Yet, as the aroma of roasted fish wafted through the air, their philosophical musings were interrupted. They kindly tried to join the boy for his last meal, only to be chased away by Ye Mingke, who considered them all odd.

Ye Mingke bit into the fish, glanced sideways in disdain.

“How are you all greedier than me? Why can’t I finally have a meal to myself?”

“Especially this time—time is tight, and I caught so few fish!”

He cautiously glanced back at the group he’d just shooed away, still trying to look aloof and proud, then turned to count the neat rows of two or three dozen large fish before him.

Happily shaking his head, he sighed, “Is it much? Not at all, not at all...”

As Ye Mingke finished the fish in a whirlwind, the hideous evil ghost returned!

Draining the last cup of wine, his whole body blazing like fire, his blood surging, Ye Mingke set down the cup, turned, and with a single stroke, cleaved the possessed beast into the sea.

Then, leaping, he stepped upon the waves.

What followed was hardly worth describing. Ye Mingke, holding a sword for the first time, fought chaotically, driven entirely by instinct, like a madman—no match for the graceful Sword Nine.

Yet as wild blows can fell a master, Ye Mingke, wielding the sword imbued with a deathly aura, could cut down ghosts even with his reckless strikes.

In the end, Ye Mingke slew the ghost with random swordplay.

When he returned to the ship, having wielded the sword longer than Sword Nine ever had, his face showed no sign of exhaustion. It was flushed, and he wiped away a nosebleed—his vitality was overflowing, setting him aflame...

He had gambled correctly: his “overflow” was not a sickness. What overflowed was an excess of life force.

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Thus, each time he experienced overflow, though it brought immense pain, after the agony his constitution grew stronger.

It was not a disease but rather a terrifying gift, perhaps bestowed by heaven.

Yet why did Uncle and Aunt repeatedly insist he suppress the overflow, going so far as to make him endure dreadful hunger as a child, and force him to climb mountains and chop wood daily as a boy, burdened like Atlas?

“Uncle, just how much are you hiding from me? Is this yet another lie?”

Having just recounted the ghost-slaying to Sword Nine, Ye Mingke asked silently in his heart.

But he forgot that Uncle never said his overflow was a sickness; only that it was his fate.

“You’re saying you have an illness, that you can’t eat too much or your body will burst?” Sword Nine’s eyes showed rare confusion for the umpteenth time that day.

“Yes.”

Ye Mingke nodded as if it were nothing strange, making Sword Nine feel embarrassingly ignorant.

“Why else do I say I met your sword too late? If I’d had it since childhood, my quality of life would have doubled.”

Ye Mingke recalled with emotion.

Yet, when it came to his own oddities, Ye Mingke never revealed the whole truth to them.

He learned this from Uncle: never lie, always speak truth—but just speak less...

“Extraordinary intuition, able to sense peculiar spiritual energy in the Misty Sea, but totally ignorant of spiritual apertures? Overflowing vitality, but so abundant that eating too much causes you to crack open?”

Song Mingyu, nearby, curiously counted Ye Mingke’s oddities on her fingers, even miming the act of splitting apart.

“You’re truly strange.”

“But in the Misty Sea, you’re adorable—able to scout and fight.”

Now familiar with the group, Ye Mingke raised an eyebrow in pride.

From powerless against hostile immortals, to watching Sword Nine fight for everyone, now he could protect those aboard.

He liked this feeling—the sense of security in safeguarding himself and others.

He truly didn’t wish... to ever again helplessly watch his whole world collapse.

The path was found, and Ye Mingke’s unique condition made long-term resistance against ghosts possible. Those once at their wits’ end now felt renewed hope.

Though perhaps it was premature, for they still sailed the treacherous Misty Sea, famed for its dangers—no one knew what awaited them.

Their wooden boat pressed through vast, mist-shrouded seas, ceaselessly forward, unaware that a figure wandering the fog for days was drawing ever closer.

Ye Mingke’s life now became a cycle of eating and then stepping upon waves to slay ghosts.

It was far from easy—he had to carefully calculate the timing of ghost appearances, his eating speed and quantity, lest he, as before, fall into days of unconsciousness when overflow occurred.

Fortunately, Sword Nine’s condition improved after Song Mingyu transferred life force to him and with several days’ rest; at least, he could now fight ghosts, so Ye Mingke needn’t be so anxious.

Still, best to avoid mistakes.

Ye Mingke’s swordsmanship improved rapidly through real combat with ghosts, becoming ever more refined and fierce, his speed in slaying them increasing.

One day, just after killing a newly appeared ghost upon the ocean’s edge, Ye Mingke sensed something and immediately returned to the boat.

He went straight to Sword Nine, Ying Wei, and Song Mingyu, speaking quietly.

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“Li Guifan is coming.”

“Where?” All three started, looking at Ye Mingke, their eyes shining with bright, complicated light.

“Behind our boat, not fast. He must have found traces of our passage, but likely can’t see us yet. In the mist, my vision is farther than yours,” Ye Mingke said, gazing astern.

“What does he want?” Ying Wei said coldly. “To see if we’ve died?”

“Don’t know. He’s still approaching,” Ye Mingke frowned. “What should we do when we meet him?”

Sword Nine and Song Mingyu exchanged complex glances, still silent. Ying Wei answered coldly.

“Kill him, of course.”

“We can’t kill him yet. If we act, we’ll have to use spiritual power, and the ghosts will trap us in an endless cycle. We still don’t know how long until we leave the Misty Sea—we can’t risk it,” Sword Nine said calmly.

“He’s here. Astern, to the left,” Ye Mingke suddenly said, leaping to the cabin roof. The others followed, watching in his direction.

Mist enveloped everything—even on the open sea, visibility was limited.

At first, Sword Nine and the others saw only fog; after a while, a familiar figure appeared, approaching.

At the same moment they saw him, he noticed them, stopped abruptly, seemingly shocked and terrified, then retreated rapidly, vanishing into the mist.

“So he knows fear?” Ying Wei remarked with his usual sarcasm.

“He probably was just following the boat’s trail, never expecting to run right into us.”

Ye Mingke watched ahead, sensing Li Guifan’s presence, frowning.

“He hasn’t retreated far—wait, he’s coming back.”

Li Guifan’s recently vanished figure reemerged in the mist. This time, he didn’t flee but stood still, watching those on the cabin roof from afar.

“What does he want?” Song Mingyu whispered in confusion.

Li Guifan stood for a moment, then quickly retreated into the mist again.

“He’s clever, very good at reading people,” Ye Mingke said, watching the disappearing figure.

“But when dealing with ghosts, he never seemed so smart.”

“He dared to return—he must have deduced much of the current situation,” Sword Nine said, gazing thoughtfully after Li Guifan.

“What’s that bastard planning? Hasn’t he hurt us enough?” Ying Wei’s voice seethed with suppressed rage.

“What does he want? Maybe ask you three,” Ye Mingke turned to them. “According to your sect’s rules, how should his abandonment of you be punished?”

“To abandon fellow disciples in danger, especially as the leader, is a greater offense. Using the sect’s life-saving talisman for personal escape, a second offense.”

“By law, at best his cultivation would be abolished and he expelled. At worst, he’d be executed at the Spirit-Slaying Platform.”

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