Volume Two: The Mortal Realm Chapter Ninety-Six: Elegy for the Departed

"There is no Human Emperor physique left in the world. Brother Liu, how much longer do you intend to continue spinning that prophecy of the Human Emperor that has already deceived so many hot-blooded fools?"

Amidst the heavy snow, the white-jade youth with brilliant golden pupils punched repeatedly, driving the old beggar backward into the wind and snow.

Meanwhile, Ling Chen held his puppet cabinet, stepping forward in rhythm with the white-jade youth. A mocking sneer remained on his face as his other hand tapped lightly against the wooden box, producing a dull, thudding sound from within.

He reached out and gently opened the third tier of the cabinet. The swarm of small wax figures that had appeared earlier at the mountain pass once again surged out, chattering as they tumbled onto the snowy ground.

Once they hit the snow, the wax figures quickly scrambled to their feet and began sprinting toward the old beggar and the white-jade youth. Their pupils were no longer the size of rice grains, but had turned into points of bloodthirsty red.

As these eerie, sinister wax figures ran, every snowflake that drifted near them was drawn in and absorbed. The ground they passed was no exception; patches of snow rose up as if pulled by some unseen force, adhering to their bodies.

The size of these small wax figures began to increase rapidly. During their dash, they hunted and devoured one another; every wax figure that consumed a peer doubled in size.

They grew larger and larger, then were devoured by their own kind. Their once-great numbers dwindled sharply, but the survivors grew to monstrous proportions.

One zhang high, three zhang, ten zhang...

By the time they converged on the old beggar and the white-jade youth, only a single snow-giant remained, twenty zhang tall, striding with earth-shaking force. The towering giant let out a shrill, piercing roar, swung a fist that tore through the blizzard, and slammed it toward the old beggar with a whistle that sounded like the heavens collapsing.

The old beggar’s eyes remained filled with a murky, blood-red hue. He crossed his arms to withstand the blow, but was blasted over a hundred zhang away by the sheer magnitude of the terrifying strike. He crashed deep into the snowdrifts, leaving a wavering ribbon of blood mist in the wind as he flew.

The giant formed of snowflakes slowly retracted its fist and stood in the storm like a small mountain. But that was not the limit. The snow-giant suddenly opened its maw, roared once more, reached out, and scooped up the white-jade youth—who stood motionless in the snow—tossing him into its mouth.

The surrounding wind and snow roared as they surged back toward the giant, as if a massive tornado had suddenly erupted on flat ground.

Half a quarter of an hour later, a massive hand made of snow tore through the vortex, and a giant head emerged. A pair of brilliant golden pupils, like the rising sun, looked down upon everything small beneath them.

Finally, a fifty-zhang-tall snow-giant tore the cyclone apart completely, stepped out, and let out a soul-shaking, thunderous roar toward the heavens.

Atop the giant’s head stood the immortal Ling Chen, his white Daoist robes fluttering in the wind, his hands behind his back as he smiled down.

"You call me a fake of the Tongyuan Realm? It is only with my puppets that I reach the complete, grand Tongyuan Realm. Brother Liu, you may go ahead and die now."

His self-satisfied, grating laughter echoed through the blizzard.

...

Ye Mingke had, of course, noticed the massive spectacle on the other battlefield. But he had no energy left to care.

Before him, the dark green sword energy was like a tidal wave, nearly drowning him and making every breath a struggle. His heavy sword could not defend against the sword energy that scattered and then converged from all directions to shred him.

The heavy sword was indeed an excellent tortoise shell, capable of dissipating and insulating spiritual power, but there were always angles he could not guard.

Yi Er’s gaze was icy. His green spiritual sword moved with rapid, methodical precision, weaving the sword energy like a spider web trapping an insect.

Ye Mingke’s face was pale, yet his eyes remained fixed intently on Yi Er. His heavy sword, which had become a wall of black iron, remained precise and flawless.

But it was not enough. He did not want to be a mere insect struggling in a web. If he did not want to be preyed upon, he had to burn his bridges and fight with everything he had.

He gripped the heavy sword again. This time, he did not release it after a moment; he held it for ten breaths, the weight of the sword stacking with each passing second.

With each breath, it gained ten jun in weight. After ten breaths, the sword had nearly doubled in mass.

Ye Mingke stared maniacally at the cocoon of sword energy, veins bulging on his right hand, blood seeping from burst capillaries due to the immense strain.

He lunged forward, sword in hand. A torrent of information surged through his mind, and the heavy sword let out a resonant hum, transforming into a fierce iron screen that plunged directly into the thick cocoon of sword energy.

The sword was named "No Yield." It could slice through steel without hesitation. And now, in Ye Mingke's hand, it was the Human Emperor’s heavy sword, possessing the innate effect of "spirit-breaking."

For the first time, the heavy sword was not a shield but a strike. It cleaved through the thick cocoon of sword energy, whistling with soul-shattering force toward Yi Er, who watched him with a strange, eerie smile.

As Ye Mingke swung, his expression suddenly shifted. In his perception, the green-clad swordsman, who had shone as brightly as a torch, suddenly extinguished all his light, becoming as dull as wood.

But he could no longer stop the heavy sword, which now weighed several hundred jun.

The unstoppable sword continued forward, but the hairs on the back of Ye Mingke’s neck suddenly stood on end. A figure, bright as a torch, suddenly appeared in his perception behind him.

At the same time, the whistle of a sharp blade piercing the air came toward his back—the very back where the fragile, sleeping A-Ru was strapped.

Ye Mingke let go of the sword he was swinging, used every ounce of his strength to twist his body in mid-air, and used his own chest to block the incoming dark green spiritual sword.

"Pfft."

A spray of blood bloomed in the air.

Ye Mingke clutched his pierced chest and was thrown backward. That strike had not only impaled him but left multiple intersecting wounds from the fierce sword energy, severing the cloth straps that bound A-Ru to his back.

A-Ru, who had been tightly bound to him, was separated. She fell into the snow before he did, rolling several times until the coat wrapped around her loosened.

Ye Mingke followed, slamming into the snowy ground and carving a blood-stained trench until he collided with A-Ru and came to a stop.

He lay helplessly on his back in the heavy snow. The wound in his chest had missed his heart, but the deep puncture was causing massive blood loss, draining the last of his strength.

"Boom."

Out of the corner of his eye, Ye Mingke saw his discarded heavy sword strike Yi Er, whose eerie smile shattered along with his body into countless fragments. The sword continued forward for a distance before embedding itself deep into the snow nearby.

A fragment flew over and landed in front of Ye Mingke. He reached out and touched it; it felt dry, hard, and brittle—like wax.

What kind of strange technique was this? Ye Mingke wondered, but he had no time to ponder, for Yi Er’s dark green sword was already upon him once more.

Nearly drained of all strength, Ye Mingke growled in desperate defiance, raising his hands to grab the spiritual sword. But how could his weak hands stop such a fierce blade? As he stared, pupils wide, the sword continued its steady, inevitable advance.

Ye Mingke felt as though he were screaming, yet he could no longer hear his own voice. Before his eyes, there was only the spiritual sword, slowed down infinitely by his surging thoughts.

His world fell into silence. Only the scenes etched deep into his life flickered past: the bonfire under the great banyan tree, the chessboard in Aunt Long’s room, the silhouette of his uncle, standing as immovable as a mountain against the firelight.

Am I dying? Did I break my promise? Uncle, I finally understand how difficult it is to uphold a vow for a lifetime, how hard it is to truly do it.

In the silence, a breeze seemed to pass. He felt as if he heard the chime of an ancient, ethereal wind bell.

It was as if someone were singing an ancient ballad from deep within a dark, silent well.

Suddenly, he felt the irresistible force of the sword disappear. A small, ice-cold hand brushed against his cheek from behind.

Ye Mingke’s fading consciousness snapped back. He turned his head and saw that A-Ru, who had fallen into the snow, had awakened. Like a small beast, she was hunched over, one hand shielding Ye Mingke, the other pressed against the snow. Her pupils, swimming with an intense, eerie cyan light, were locked onto Yi Er.

"Die."

A-Ru’s ethereal voice carried a strange rhythm, a long, melodic note that rose and fell like an ancient chant.

The sword Yi Er had thrust forward froze in place at her whisper.

His wide eyes were filled with terror and disbelief. Ye Mingke could clearly see Yi Er’s right hand, which held the sword, beginning to wither at a visible rate.

A surge of cyan light erupted from Yi Er, rushing toward his withered hand, and it partially recovered.

But the eerie cyan light in A-Ru’s pupils continued to swim like fish, and in an instant, his hand began to wither once again.

The cyan light on Yi Er grew dimmer and dimmer. He was frozen in place, unable to move, as more and more of his body withered away.

But Ye Mingke, through the hand A-Ru had pressed against him, suddenly felt her body begin to sway. Her delicate, beautiful face was also beginning to wither, and her wide, cyan eyes were slowly, helplessly drifting shut.

Ye Mingke lunged up, reached back with a blood-drenched hand, and grabbed his black heavy sword. Fresh blood trickled down the blade.

"Bang." A-Ru’s swaying body could no longer hold up and collapsed backward. Yi Er, who had been frozen, began to move, but before he could react, Ye Mingke, bathed in blood, swung the heavy sword in a desperate, final strike.

The sword was named "No Yield."

The sheer magnitude of the sword intent brought the blizzard to a momentary halt.

Yi Er’s body suddenly arched backward and split into two blood-soaked halves in mid-air.

(Note: One jun equals thirty jin.)