Volume Two: Mortal Realm Chapter Seventy-Nine: The Chill of the Blade

Ye Mingke spun around and leapt up in an instant. Moving soundlessly through the forest, he quickly left Li Han and his captors far behind.

In the distance, the fat immortal and his party gradually escorted Li Han away, until even Aru’s crying faded into silence.

The world lay hushed beneath heavy snow, only the lone pine tree where Ye Mingke had hidden standing in solitary vigil amidst the wind and flurries.

After a short while, it was as if a great mass of snow silently settled atop that pine, weighing its branches with a gentle tremor. Suddenly, that “snow” leapt away, landing nimbly upon another pine ahead.

The “snow” flitted forward like a specter, gliding noiselessly from tree to tree, trailing in the direction the fat immortal had taken.

Li Han’s arms were tightly bound with rope, a faint bruise at the corner of his eye. Stumbling, he followed behind the fat immortal. Two burly men kept a close watch on him from behind, while Aru was carried in the arms of another.

The fat immortal walked at the head of the group, eyes perpetually narrowed, his gait slow and his indifferent gaze tinged with impatience.

He hadn’t expected the boy he’d wanted to capture to be so slippery. In this heavy snow, the youth seemed to have vanished into thin air, leaving only footprints from the cabin to the forest—no other trace.

He had only caught two others who lived with the boy, but what use was that? Did the youth truly have the nerve to come back in a fit of recklessness to rescue them? He almost wished for such a foolhardy display.

Otherwise, would he really have to spend the night searching this snowy wilderness for someone who might not even be gifted with innate abilities?

Hmph, those two senior brothers, always sitting snug and cozy in the cabin, basking in comfort, while he slogged through these bitter mountains.

Alas, he had joined late, his cultivation lagging behind theirs; if he wanted to earn merit, he had to lead the charge himself.

“By seniority, I’m actually the youngest, even later than that short-lived Seventeen, ranking as Eighteen. But now I’ve climbed to Fifteen.”

“Heh, Yi Fifteen—if I really achieve something this time and gain a treasure, I might break through to the Spirit Orifice Realm, reach the Meridian Tempering stage, and finally reshape my body, shedding this wretched fat.”

“Perhaps I’ll even rise directly to Yi Ten, surpassing that sarcastic Yi Eleven. Let’s see if he still dares to mock me then.”

Yi Fifteen, the fat immortal, gave a cold snort. But at the thought of returning empty-handed and facing his tall, mocking senior brother, his mood soured further.

Meanwhile, dragged along and watching her father bound in ropes, Aru broke into loud sobs again.

The fat immortal’s irritation grew. The face he so often wore as a smiling mask before his seniors now darkened, nearly dripping with suppressed anger.

Aru’s heartrending cries echoed through the snow and wind, while in the forest, just outside their sight, a white phantom flitted over the snow, darting past trembling branches, circling silently all around them.

“Silence!” the fat immortal finally roared, unable to bear Aru’s wailing any longer.

No sooner had his angry words left his lips than his left eyelid twitched involuntarily toward the forest’s edge.

A flash of glare—something catching the light.

A shrill whistle split the air, and in the midst of Aru’s cries, a razor-sharp arrow hurtled toward his chest.

Cultivation instinct saved him; at the last instant, he twisted aside, the arrow just grazing his robe and slicing past his chest. Yet, instead of relief, a tidal wave of terror surged through him—a warning as fierce as an ocean storm.

Because the whistling in the air was not one, but three arrows!

Camouflaged by the snow, two more pure white arrows followed the first, arriving within thirty feet of him, the lead arrow’s tip already brushing his robe—its chill biting to the bone.

The fat immortal let out a wretched shriek, his entire body shuddering as he drew in the surrounding spiritual energy. His garments billowed as if caught by a fierce gale.

The first arrow was deflected an inch by his robe and the protective force it gathered, but still plunged deep into his padded shoulder, its power knocking him flat to the ground.

But even more terrifying was the third arrow, aimed directly at the spot where he fell, flying straight for his face.

With a scream, he summoned his strength, raising his flesh-and-blood hands to shield himself.

A spatter of blood blossomed in the air as the force of the arrow threw him to the ground. A drop of warm blood splashed into his wide, terror-stricken eye, stinging sharply, but he did not dare close his gaze.

For the third arrow had pierced through his left palm, with his right hand barely managing to catch it—the icy, lethal tip stopping just a hair’s breadth from his eye.

Cold sweat instantly drenched his body.

Yet fear had not fully conquered him.

That terrifying archer was still out there!

Survival instinct drove him to roll behind the nearest pine. As he disappeared behind its trunk, another arrow thudded into the snow just a foot away, burying itself so deep even the fletching vanished.

But before he could catch his breath, another white arrow pierced straight through the pine he leaned against, heading for his head. Only his constant vigilance and sharp reflexes saved him; sensing the vibration as the arrow split the tree, he jerked aside just in time. Still, the arrow took with it one of his fleshy ears.

The fat immortal shrieked, fleeing from the tree to a nearby boulder, using it as cover.

But his panic only deepened: soon after hiding, arrows that had previously flown from behind the boulder now came from another direction, as if the unseen archer surrounded him on all sides.

At last, he could not help but scream in rage, a pale blue aura flaring at his feet. The snow exploded upward, forming walls of ice that sealed him in on every side.

The deadly whistling finally ceased. Yet at that moment, the bewildered men outside were thrown into chaos as a single arrow pinned one to the ground by his foot.

The air filled with the hiss of arrows; seven or eight men screamed in pain, feet and legs transfixed. The survivors, seeing this merciless rain of arrows, lost all will to fight and scattered in panic toward the woods.

The man carrying Aru tried to flee with her, but an arrow pierced his shoulder. With a howl, he dropped Aru into the snow and bolted for the forest.

As the others scattered, a white phantom crawled swiftly over the ground toward Li Han and Aru.

It was Ye Mingke, now clad entirely in white.

In the brief time since leaving Li Han’s group, he had smeared himself with white tree sap and rolled in the snow until he was a living snow-ghost. He had camouflaged his arrows and bow in the same way.

Thus disguised, he had trailed the group like a white wraith.

Though skilled at calculation, he could not truly gauge the fat immortal’s strength without a first exchange. He had waited for the perfect moment.

When Aru’s sobbing and the immortal’s impatient scolding overlapped, he knew it was time. When one is focused on a voice—especially their own—they instinctively tune out other sounds. Using the shouting and crying to cover the telltale whistle of arrows, he loosed three in rapid succession.

His timing was near perfect. Had the first arrow’s glint not alerted the fat immortal, the man would not have escaped the subsequent deadly shots.

Still, it was enough. The fat immortal, driven to desperation by the sudden, deadly archery, was now utterly demoralized.

Ye Mingke had hesitated before acting, for he had witnessed the likes of Jian Jiu’s prowess in the Misty Sea. Against such true immortals, he would stand no chance save in the most extraordinary circumstances.

But this fat immortal was unexpectedly weak—and Ye Mingke’s own archery more formidable than even he had realized.

So much for so-called immortals.

Now, having silently glided to Li Han and Aru’s side, Ye Mingke could not help but feel a surge of contempt for the fat immortal.

He was now extremely close.

But at that moment, the fat immortal, barely recovered from his terror, finally regained his senses and spotted Ye Mingke's swift approach over the snow.

A mere mortal—a frail, insignificant mortal with a hunter’s bow—had dared to humiliate an immortal.

And had nearly killed one!

Did mortals truly believe they could stand equal to immortals?

After the depths of fear, fury surged.

The fat immortal’s previously squinted eyes flew wide as he shattered the ice wall before him.

Suddenly, the world in Ye Mingke’s senses was awash in blue. An icy chill bristled the hairs on his neck.

Yet he pressed on, slashing the ropes from Li Han with his dagger and thrusting Aru into Li Han’s arms.

“Go!” he whispered urgently, turning to face the immortal.

A thunderous roar—an immortal wove a spell, a youth bellowed, and the snow all around exploded in a howling torrent.