Chapter Seven: The Underworld

The vermilion gates slowly creaked open.

Everyone held their breath, hearts pounding with a vague, unexplainable dread, as if the doors were the gaping maw of a ferocious beast poised to swallow them whole. The two great red lanterns hanging on either side seemed like the creature’s monstrous eyes.

They crossed the narrow courtyard path and reached the entrance to the main hall. The sun had not yet risen, and shadows lingered within; in the gloom, a figure could be seen seated in the place of honor, flanked by a burly man.

As the group entered, they saw a young man lounging in the chief seat. He wore a wide-sleeved robe of blue, reclining lazily in his chair, not so much as glancing at the newcomers, quietly savoring the tea in his hand.

Beside him stood a robust man dressed in coarse cloth, towering seven feet tall, eyes round as bronze bells, exuding an aura of formidable strength.

“Lu Qian, why is it you!” someone blurted out, recognizing the young man.

A wave of astonished murmurs swept through the crowd.

“Lu Qian, how dare you! You actually sit in the Daoist’s seat?”

“You must be mad—even the gods can’t save you now.”

“Aren’t you afraid of the Daoist’s wrath? Kneel, now!”

Angry voices filled the hall, with several even rushing forward to attack Lu Qian.

To them, Mo Liang was like a living deity—an omnipotent presence. To see Lu Qian usurp his place was intolerable, their fury beyond words.

The boy called Old Wu, who had spoken earlier, led the charge. In his eyes, Lu Qian was a pile of dazzling silver; if he beat this fellow first, surely the master would reward him handsomely.

But as he moved, the brawny man beside Lu Qian raised his foot and kicked.

Bang!

Old Wu was sent flying, crashing into the wall with a thud. His chest caved in, blood gushed from his mouth, and he lost consciousness.

The others met the same fate, kicked aside like rag dolls.

The rest, horrified, felt a cold sweat drench their backs. A chill ran down their spines—had it been them, they’d be the ones sprawled on the floor.

“How dare you! Don’t think you’re invincible just because you have a helper. Daoist Mo’s power knows no bounds—you’ll get what you deserve soon enough!” someone shouted.

The mention of Mo Liang brought them reassurance. The Daoist’s magic was vast; whatever backing Lu Qian had found, he was deluded if he thought it would see him through. He had no idea of the height of the heavens or the depth of the earth.

“Is this Daoist you speak of… him?” Lu Qian pointed to his right.

Instinctively, everyone turned to look.

There, atop a rosewood table, rested a porcelain plate. On it sat a human head, upright and intact.

The head was aged, mottled with black spots, its eyes wide with rage, black blood oozing from its orifices—a testament to the fury and resentment carried to the grave.

“Daoist!”

“The Daoist is dead? Impossible!”

“Could it be that boy killed him?”

Their first reaction was disbelief. How could such a timid man have slain the formidable Daoist Mo Liang?

Impossible!

Ssssss—

A faint hissing sound drew their attention. The noise came from Lu Qian’s sleeve.

Suddenly, a green-scaled viper slithered out, as thick as a teacup, with a jet-black tongue and eyes like ghostly green flames—pupils so verdant they seemed to embody the very essence of terror.

With a flash, the serpent’s body elongated, its jaws clamping down on a disciple in the front row. The eerie ghostfire in its eyes flickered and danced.

“Ah!” The disciple screamed, veins bulging, his body turning black before their eyes.

Before anyone could react, an even more horrifying scene unfolded: the disciple’s body melted like a candle, dissolving quickly into a reeking puddle of foul-smelling pus.

“A ghost!”

“Help!”

Terror seized the crowd, sending them fleeing in all directions, some so frightened they nearly wet themselves. A few fell to their knees, begging for mercy, hoping their former acquaintance might spare them.

But pleas were useless. Lu Qian killed without so much as blinking.

The paper-man strongman guarded the doorway, while the green-scaled snake hunted down its victims one by one.

The hall became a scene of slaughter.

Ghostly green flames cast an eerie light across the chamber. Lu Qian’s face remained perfectly calm, as if he were the monarch of some netherworld hell.

Since awakening to his past life’s memories, Lu Qian was no longer the man he had been. Half a year on the mountain had revealed the full spectrum of human nature, and he had nearly been murdered by Mo Ling’er. Now, his mind was resolute as steel.

He clung to his immortal aspirations with unwavering resolve.

The disciples bore old grudges against him; even if he exposed Mo Liang’s misdeeds, no one would have believed him. There was nothing for it but to kill them all.

A wisp of cyan smoke drifted by, and the green-scaled snake turned back into a bloodstained sash.

Lu Qian wiped the blood from his hands and gazed out the window.

Outside, servants and maids hurried past, unaware.

“My apologies,” a cold glint flashed in Lu Qian’s eyes.

These people were orphans raised by Mo Liang from childhood, fiercely loyal to him—so devoted they would have gladly died at his command.

Another wave of bloodshed followed.

Clouds gathered overhead; wind and rain threatened.

By the end, Lu Qian was the sole living soul in the temple.

He collapsed heavily into his chair, drinking tea, hands and feet trembling slightly.

His nerves, taut for more than ten days, finally relaxed.

Only he knew the magnitude of the pressure he had faced—so great that he could no longer even recall what it felt like to take a life for the first time.

But it was all worth it.

This time, he had gained two spells, a continuation of his cultivation method, a longevity technique, a blood-replenishing tonic recipe, and several treasures whose purposes he had yet to discover.

“I’ll stay on the mountain and cultivate for a while,” Lu Qian thought to himself.

The mountain was deserted; the guards halfway down and at the foot of the slope were not Mo Liang’s own, but men sent by the elite in hopes of currying his favor. Unless ordered, they rarely ventured up.

He could spend two or three months here undisturbed—ample time to digest all he had acquired.

In the days that followed, Lu Qian devoted himself entirely to cultivation. Aside from eating and sleeping, he trained relentlessly, mind focused and unyielding.

He practiced his internal arts, then moved on to other disciplines, resting a night before cycling back to internal cultivation—over and over, tireless, losing all sense of self.

…

In a quiet chamber, a man in a dark Daoist robe sat cross-legged on a woven mat.

His skin was deathly pale, veins faintly visible beneath, and his figure was shrouded in a subtle, wavering haze of black mist.

With each breath, the mist seemed almost alive.

Within his mind’s eye, Lu Qian visualized a complex image: a world of utter darkness, a sky of blood-red hue.

Amid the demonic clouds and mists, a yellow sacred river flowed like liquid mercury, coiling across the black earth like a dragon. Countless monstrous shadows blotted out the sky; layer upon layer of ghosts and demons wailed and drifted, all caught in the endless cycle along this river.

This was the Meditation of the Nether Breathing Method, commonly called Nether Breathing. Through visualization of the Yellow Springs of the Underworld, he cultivated his power.

Now, having successfully integrated the advanced technique, his inner energy bore a cold, yin-like quality.

His very presence turned icy as death, shrouded in a spectral aura—especially when his power was in motion.

Of course, the benefits were equally extraordinary.

Whoosh!

His figure seemed to dissolve into black mist. In the darkness, he darted more than ten yards with the swiftness of a phantom.

Through the forest, the mist-shrouded shape moved with ease, occasionally casting out white talismans that became ghostly green fireballs, incinerating trees as thick as a man’s embrace to ash.

Three venomous snakes slithered alongside, appearing and vanishing as they stalked for prey.

At last, Lu Qian gathered his power and stood still, a pallid bow-bearing guardian at his side.

Nether Breathing Method (Minor Achievement: 92/200)

Paper Spirit Summoning (Minor Achievement: 26/100)

Venomous Green-Scale Serpent Transformation (Minor Achievement: 30/120)

Emerald Flame Poison Art (Minor Achievement: 20/50)

Such were the fruits of his cultivation after more than a month.