Chapter Eight: The Messenger of Reception

Over the course of more than a month, his proficiency had risen considerably. The Profound Ghost Breathing Method directly inherited the skill from the Nameless Heart Technique, and the pitch-black ring’s scale had increased to two hundred. The other spells varied in their gradations. It seemed the different techniques corresponded to distinct scales.

Lu Qian took out a jade pendant. Under the sunlight, it gleamed with a dark, mysterious luster. The character for "Ghost" appeared as some enigmatic rune, and he could sense the terrifying energy within. In his right hand, he held five copper coins. Made of bronze, they were engraved with winding, twisted cinnabar runes. These were the currency used by cultivators—spiritual coins. Practitioners drew runes and infused them with true energy. Such coins could replenish true energy, be used to set up formations, cast spells, and more. Generally, they served as currency, their value determined by the purity and quantity of energy within. In the mortal realm, these coins were exceedingly rare; even the lowest quality was worth a hundred pieces of gold. Since spiritual coins were forged from a cultivator’s energy, the legends of Taoists turning stone to gold were not entirely baseless.

“The seventh day of the seventh month, three days from now,” Lu Qian murmured to himself. He planned to visit the so-called Immortal Gate. The Profound Ghost Breathing Method was merely a complete practice for the Embryonic Breath stage; beyond that lay the Qi Refining stage, the Spirit Nourishing stage, and others, echoing the mythic phases of refining essence into qi, and then qi into spirit. Cultivation was like study; to advance further, one must undergo systematic training within a sect.

In ancient times, sages who first touched upon cultivation divided realms only crudely: refining essence into qi, refining qi into spirit, refining spirit and returning to the void. After countless generations, these stages were meticulously defined, each with its own systematic techniques. Lu Qian had no wish to shut himself away, or become some petty tyrant on the mountain. True, with his current strength, he could easily replace Mo Liang and become the honored guest of local dignitaries. But that would be his fate, nothing more.

The pursuit of immortality was like braving thorns, rowing against the current—one must always move forward.

Three days later.

The moon was bright, night deep, and clouds gathered ominously. It was the seventh day of the seventh month, the traditional Ghost Festival. Legend held that on this day, the gates of the underworld opened and spirits wandered the mortal realm. The sky was shrouded in dark clouds, the wind howled, heightening the eerie terror of the night.

Deep within the forest, a stream murmured its way through. Moonlight, as delicate as gauze, filtered through the branches, casting shadows upon the water. A breeze stirred, ripples danced across the surface, and the branches swayed as if bewitched.

Lu Qian, carrying two large bundles, stood beside the stream.

Behind him, in the shadow, stood a tall, brawny man. Lu Qian took the jade pendant and tossed it into the water. Plunk! At the moment the pendant sank, Lu Qian’s expression grew tense; his right hand gripped a sheet of white talisman paper hidden in his sleeve, ready to unleash ghostly fireballs and venomous snakes at any sign of danger.

Glug, glug...

The water below seemed to boil, bubbles rising incessantly. Strands of fluorescent green light bloomed at the heart of the stream. Buzz, buzz, buzz... An eerie vibration echoed all around, and the entire stream became a glowing emerald. The surface grew dense with black mist, writhing slowly as if alive. Lu Qian’s face turned a pale green, resembling a ghost from the underworld.

Splash!

A faint sound of water caught his attention. Lu Qian looked toward the source. On the distant water’s surface, a shadow shaped like a willow leaf appeared. Upon closer inspection, it was a boat, overturned beneath the water. A tall figure stood on the submerged vessel, moving a wooden oar through the stream—the source of the sound.

The scene was bizarre, as if the worlds above and below the water were two separate realms.

Splash!

Suddenly, the boat flipped upright. In an instant, the world spun, the scenery transformed, and Lu Qian found himself in a realm illuminated only by glowing green light. Dense, eerie mist, a luminous stream, and a sky of phosphorescent glow surrounded him. Before him, a boat had appeared at some unknown moment. Onboard stood a figure, exceptionally tall. This person stood nine feet high, with legs accounting for most of that height, wearing a straw hat and rain cloak, standing rigidly on a willow-leaf boat meant for two.

“Name, age, cultivation, who recommended you?” The voice was male, rough and echoing.

“Greetings, envoy. I am Lu Qian, seventeen years old, cultivating Embryonic Breath. No one recommended me, I obtained the jade pendant by chance,” Lu Qian replied, bowing respectfully.

The envoy seemed not quite human; there was no warmth, only a sinister aura. With such a peculiar entrance, Lu Qian dared not be careless. This must be the legendary envoy of the Immortal Gate. Yet, the envoy’s manner was exceedingly strange—not like a righteous sect at all. One would expect the gates of the immortal realm to open amid auspicious clouds, or at least an immortal riding a crane. But then, the seventh day of the seventh month was hardly ordinary. Having come this far, he might as well see for himself. He was here now; he could hardly excuse himself, claiming affairs at home. Who knew if they would take offense?

“Call me the Guide Envoy. Board the boat,” the envoy said.

There was even a touch of human emotion to his words, Lu Qian noted. Lightly tapping the ground, he leapt onto the boat; it rocked gently, ripples spreading.

“Guide Envoy, please accept this token of my respect.” Lu Qian reached into his robes and produced three green bronze spiritual coins. A breeze swept by, and the coins vanished. The envoy nodded slightly, his attitude easing.

With a flip of his wrist, the Guide Envoy revealed a peachwood token in his gloved palm. On the front was the character “Third Rank,” and on the back, “Profound Ghost.”

“This is a Peachwood Dao Token. Keep it safe.”

Lu Qian accepted the token and asked, “May I inquire, envoy, what is its use?”

Perhaps due to the coins, the envoy replied in a muffled tone, “It is a badge by which the mountain’s ghost soldiers distinguish friend from foe. Without it, all outsiders are slain without exception.”

“You are over sixteen, possess cultivation, but are not from an orthodox sect, nor recommended by an internal Taoist—your background is unclear. Hence, you receive the Third Rank.”

Lu Qian wanted to ask how his rank differed from the others, but the envoy fell silent.

At that moment, the boat began to move. A slender craft glided over the radiant waters; the scene was breathtaking. The long stream wound toward unknown depths. The future was uncertain, and Lu Qian’s heart was uneasy.

Suddenly, the Guide Envoy spoke: “Let me warn you—no matter what strange sights you encounter, do not make a sound, do not stare directly, keep your mind steady, and remain unmoved.”

“Thank you for your guidance,” Lu Qian replied earnestly.

After an indeterminate time, the boat stopped.

Ahead lay a chain of mountains. The trees were immense, the thinnest requiring three people to encircle. Dense foliage blocked the moonlight. Leaves fell in droves, and the calls of countless birds and beasts filled the air.

Lu Qian looked around and was startled to find dozens of identical boats nearby, each carrying men and women in varied attire. Some appeared poised and confident; others glanced about nervously. Some, like Lu Qian, were silent, quietly observing their surroundings.