Volume One: The Emperor’s Edict Chapter Forty-Nine: The Road to Instant Success Is Steep

A journey of a hundred miles is only half complete at ninety; those who follow the path of cultivation know well how arduous it is. Even when one walks steadfastly, step by step, it often brings little progress. After a harrowing battle, Liu Xiaoyi managed a breakthrough, arousing true envy among his companions. Their words of congratulations were heartfelt, for after leaving Wulao Mountain, there was still a long road ahead, and much would depend on Liu Xiaoyi’s skills.

Gradually, everyone began to center around Liu Xiaoyi; strength commands respect, and this law of the martial world held true even among Daoists.

“Once we get past Wulao Mountain, cross Grindstone Mountain, and forded the Qian’nan River, we’ll be before the sacred city of Seven Stars, right at the gate of the Celestial King’s Path. We must quicken our pace,” Guo Shuda said, fetching a detailed map and marking their route.

Though there were only a hundred miles left, they had lost three days along the way, unable even to move forward. The road over Grindstone Mountain was treacherous—a single, steep, winding path, impassable in any other direction.

After three days, they finally reached the summit. Meng Qiaoqiao insisted they rest there for the night and continue at dawn.

“I’m exhausted! My whole body is frozen stiff—don’t you all feel chilled to the bone and powerless?” she complained. She, too, practiced cultivation, but was no match for Liu Xiaoyi. After three days’ climb, he merely felt bored, not tired.

Although it was not yet December, snow was already falling atop Grindstone Mountain. With no trace of habitation, they had to cut some branches and find a cave for warmth.

As dusk fell, the snow outside only grew heavier, accumulating in drifts at the cave entrance, painting a world of white. “The snow’s early this year. It’s never been this cold before,” grumbled Guo Shuda, more accustomed to comfort, stamping his feet, rubbing his hands, and breathing clouds of steam.

The Celestial King’s Path provided winter clothing, but they’d left theirs behind. Of the four, Liu Xiaoyi was the most warmly dressed, his Daoist robe layered over his own tattered cotton coat. Even without a fire, he felt no chill.

“I’ll go find us some fresh game. I’m tired of dry rations,” Liu Xiaoyi said, confident in his cotton coat. Truthfully, he wanted to enjoy the snowfall—the tranquil forests under heavy snow were his favorite, and he would often spend days in the mountains whenever it snowed.

In the time it took to light a fire, the landscape outside the cave had already transformed. Only the tracks of wild rabbits disturbed the pristine snow; otherwise, all was still—a perfect snowy mountain night.

His breath hung in the air like morning smoke. Liu Xiaoyi scooped up a mound of snow with some branches, shaped it into a snowball, and flung it aimlessly.

He had seen many wild boars and deer on the way up, but none were to be found now. After circling the area for a while, he managed to catch only a few pheasants.

His Drifting Dragon movement was well-suited to darting among tangled branches; the pheasants, caught between wings and twigs, were easily snatched, tied with vines, and slung over his back.

Such tasks came naturally to Liu Xiaoyi, and he felt a sudden urge to sing. Yet as he returned to the cave entrance, he sensed a shadowy chill enveloping him. He quickly hid and scanned his surroundings.

The sky above the cave was unnaturally dark, the falling snowflakes larger and tinged with gray.

A few days earlier, Liu Xiaoyi would not have noticed anything strange, but now, with his spiritual root stirring in his dantian, he immediately sensed something amiss: as the snow fell, faint, almost imperceptible ripples of magical power accompanied it.

Inside, his companions sat by the fire, showing no sign of trouble. The closer he drew to the cave, the colder it became. He hid his catch in the hollow of an old tree, then leapt onto the rock face beside the cave, pressing himself flat and inching upward.

The cave itself was semicircular, more than thirty feet high, with a flat spot at the top. At that moment, someone sat there cross-legged in meditation—directly facing Liu Xiaoyi, who could see him clearly.

A broken blade jutted from the stranger’s chest, sheared off cleanly outside his robe. The cold radiated from this man, his body encased in frost, his face pale and bloodless. He was wholly engrossed in dealing with the broken blade, unaware of Liu Xiaoyi’s approach.

Having trained in the Heavenly Frost Sword Art, Liu Xiaoyi could endure cold far beyond the ordinary. But when he came within three feet, he realized his right foot had lost all feeling, frozen to the ground atop a pillar of ice.

He tried to withdraw, but could not move. Looking down, he saw his right foot fused to the ice below.

“Which venerable master is here nursing wounds? How did I blunder into this?” he thought with dismay. Helpless, he mustered his true qi to resist the chill.

Before long, the stranger clamped both hands on the broken blade—a flash of fire erupted, the clash of ice and flame making the temperature surge and plummet, tormenting Liu Xiaoyi.

The blade was made of a rare material, with grooves along its surface that heightened the pain as it was slowly drawn out. Blood froze instantly as it flowed. The surrounding cold nearly froze Liu Xiaoyi solid; only his spiritual root’s protection kept him conscious.

When the blade finally came free, the man collapsed, his soul rising from his body, drifting upward.

“He’s about to ascend!” If the soul left, the body would die. Liu Xiaoyi hastily formed a seal with both hands and shouted, “Return!”

Within a small area centered on himself, the soul was enveloped, its ascent halted. Guided by Liu Xiaoyi’s hands, it slowly sank back down.

The cold grew uncontrollable, biting deeper with every moment. “Master, if you don’t come back soon, I’ll freeze to death!” he cried inwardly, as wind and snow battered him, tearing his cotton coat and opening dozens of wounds, blood streaming down his body.

Fortunately, the sealing technique worked, holding the soul and guarding the spirit. Liu Xiaoyi used every ounce of strength to draw the soul back into its body.

He wanted to call out and wake the stranger, but found he could not even move his lips.

All he could do was wait in silence, bemoaning his ill fortune—was this how his journey would end, undone by calamity not of his own making?

His spiritual power was completely spent, but the soul did not ascend again. At last, the man exhaled, awoke, and with a wave of his sleeve, the wind and snow ceased.

It was impossible to tell from his features whether he was man or woman—his beauty was unearthly, hair falling past his shoulders, standing over eight feet tall. Approaching Liu Xiaoyi, he gently patted his shoulder, and all the ice and snow vanished as if they had never been, a wave of warmth flooding through Liu Xiaoyi’s body.

“Thank you, Master! Otherwise, I would have frozen to death!” Liu Xiaoyi hurriedly clasped his hands in salute.

“In truth, it’s I who should thank you. You just pulled me back—since you, too, train in the ways of cold, take this Ice Sword as a token of my gratitude.” With a gesture, the stranger conjured a chillingly beautiful sword and handed it to Liu Xiaoyi.

He also gave him an ice medallion, etched with mysterious patterns. “If you ever find yourself in Drunken Lord’s Sea in Westwater, I’ll thank you properly then. For now, I have urgent matters and cannot linger.”

With that, he drew up his wide sleeves and stepped into the air, flying away. Liu Xiaoyi called after him, “May I ask your name, Master?”

“Drunken Lord’s Sea, Yue Gongjin!” The master drifted away, vanishing without a trace.