Chapter Fifty-Five: If I do not die, you will.

As dusk gradually deepened, the group approached the second water source as planned. This site was considerably larger than the previous day's, boasting a waterfall that thundered ceaselessly as it cascaded down. Panting and exhausted, Yang Fan and the others gazed at the water’s surface. Xie Sihua, drained and disheveled, flung the silver wolf’s corpse aside and collapsed onto the ground, gasping for breath.

He was utterly spent; the silver wolf weighed at least six hundred pounds, and no one had lent a hand along the winding, forty-mile mountain path. The trek was arduous, the route twisted and treacherous. At one point, the GPS failed, and by the time it was restored, they had wandered miles off course. Retracing their steps and finding the path again had nearly broken them.

Yang Fan eyed Xie Sihua’s dog-tired appearance and sneered. “And you call yourself a second-grade martial artist?”

Xie Sihua, still panting, retorted, “Six hundred pounds, carried for dozens of miles—try it yourself!”

Yang Fan scoffed, “Six hundred? My blade weighs nine hundred pounds. Do you see me acting like you?”

The disdain in his eyes was palpable.

Xie Sihua fell silent. A blade, though heavy, was easier to carry than a bulky corpse. The silver wolf’s body hindered movement with every step. He’d endured countless hardships along the way, but now, Xie Sihua dared not argue with Yang Fan. If you can’t win, play the fool; no shame in that.

After a brief rest, the group began to wash up, especially Yang Fan, whose filthy state had made the journey unbearable. He plunged into the lake and unabashedly began to clean himself. Zhou Yiyi watched the five men in the water, helplessly. Did they really not consider her a woman anymore?

After a while, Mu Qingshan and the others came ashore, leaving Yang Fan alone in the water. Suddenly, ripples began to stir across the tranquil lake. The ripples grew, and soon the entire surface was undulating. Yang Fan’s expression changed. Fate was unpredictable—could even bathing be so perilous? Though the mountains were dangerous, who said every moment was a crisis?

“Yang Fan, catch!” The shout came from the shore.

Yang Fan looked up. Mu Qingshan hurled Yang Fan’s alloy blade toward the water. Seeing the blade arc through the air, Yang Fan’s face paled. What was this fool thinking, throwing his heavy blade into the water? If he caught it, he’d never make it back to shore, let alone surface.

Yet if he didn’t catch his F-grade alloy weapon, he’d lose it forever. With the turmoil in the water, Yang Fan dared not dive again. Hesitating, he instinctively reached out and caught the blade.

That sealed his fate.

His head, once above water, vanished in an instant, dragged toward the lakebed by the weight of the blade. As Yang Fan disappeared, Mu Qingshan thought he heard a final curse, “If I survive, you’re dead!”

Xie Sihua and the others stared, dumbfounded, at the churning lake where Yang Fan had vanished, then turned to Mu Qingshan. Zhou Yiyi kicked Mu Qingshan to the ground from behind.

“Are you out of your mind? Do you want him dead?” Zhou Yiyi’s face was furious. What kind of intelligence was this? How could anyone throw a blade in such a situation? It was basically sentencing Yang Fan to death.

Mu Qingshan lay on the ground, cold sweat pouring down. He truly never expected things would turn out this way.

The turbulent water meant trouble. He had wanted to give Yang Fan his weapon so he could defend himself, but the moment he threw the blade, he realized the folly—such a heavy weapon, could Yang Fan even wield it underwater?

Ignoring Mu Qingshan, the others grabbed their weapons and prepared for battle. After several minutes, the water calmed again, but Yang Fan did not reappear.

Meanwhile, Yang Fan, cheeks puffed and gripping his blade, was swept toward the lakebed by the current. The deeper he went, the stronger the underwater currents became. Normally, with such a heavy weapon, ordinary water wouldn’t move him, but as he descended, the pressure and turbulence intensified. Eventually, caught in a spiral current, Yang Fan drifted like a leaf, clutching his blade—his only solace in the dark water. Even if he wanted to let go and swim to the surface, the power of the current was far beyond anything he’d imagined.

There were no monstrous beasts, no imminent disasters—only a vast hole at the bottom of the lake, into which Yang Fan was swept.

...

On the surface, Zhou Yiyi and the others watched the water settle, uncertain and lost. Mu Qingshan’s face flushed, unsure what to do. If Yang Fan was unharmed, all was well; if not, he’d be the murderer. As he thought, Mu Qingshan began to wade into the lake.

“What are you doing?” Xie Sihua’s face changed as he saw Mu Qingshan step into the water.

Mu Qingshan’s expression shifted rapidly, his eyes reddening. “It’s my fault. I have to find him.”

“Find him? If he’s fine, he’ll come out on his own. If something’s wrong, what can you do by going in? Die with him?” Jiang Chao, usually calm, was now anxious. Mu Qingshan was about to do something reckless.

“If dying together is what it takes, so be it. It’s my fault—I must atone!” Mu Qingshan kept moving into the water, half-submerged already.

Zhou Yiyi leaped into the lake, blocking Mu Qingshan’s path. Her leg broke the surface, and she kicked Mu Qingshan squarely in the chest. He flew backward, landing with a thud on the shore. Zhou Yiyi jumped again, landing precisely beside him, and began kicking him furiously.

“You bastard! You’re a complete idiot! One person’s already in trouble and you want to go as well? How will we explain ourselves when we return? Don’t you ever use your brain? Without Yang Fan, you’d have ended up in that wolf’s belly, and now, with him gone, you want to make things worse? I’ll beat you to death!” She kicked and cursed.

Mu Qingshan lay on the ground, silent, his eyes growing redder as tears welled up.

After the others pulled Zhou Yiyi away, Mu Qingshan squatted on the ground, clutching his head. The rest didn’t know how to comfort him. The accident had come too swiftly; none could fathom what had happened beneath the lake.

Once Zhou Yiyi calmed, she gazed at the lake, thinking, “Survive. You must survive!”

...

At the lakebed, when Yang Fan regained consciousness, he found himself in a pitch-black space. There was no light, water beneath his feet, and his outstretched hand vanished into the darkness. Standing, Yang Fan assessed himself. Not bad—aside from a pounding headache, he was intact, and his blade was still in hand.

When the current dragged him into the lakebed cavern, Yang Fan’s drifting body slammed against a rock, knocking him out. Awakening now, he found himself in utter darkness.

Feeling along the rocky wall, Yang Fan moved forward, blade held protectively before his chest. In this black void, only his blade offered a semblance of safety.

He walked for an indeterminate time until his hand, pressed against the wall, sensed something unusual—a protrusion.

The mountain walls had been smooth, mirror-like, but here was a bump that caught his attention. He pressed it—it shifted slightly. Applying more force, he pushed down.

A mechanical click sounded. Suddenly, faint orange light flooded the space. Yang Fan squeezed his eyes shut; after so long in darkness, even the weakest glow was blinding.

After a moment, he adjusted and opened his eyes.

A vast cavern appeared before him. Sparse candleholders lined the walls, some flickering with flames. Yang Fan looked to the spot he had pressed—a square stone adorned with patterns.

“What is this? An electric switch? No, a mechanical trigger? A light switch?” Yang Fan mused, surprised. These items clearly had age. Dust coated the candleholders, most unlit, only a few emitting light. And this was but a fraction of the stone cave.

Far ahead lay a lengthy corridor. Yang Fan advanced, estimating it took him nearly half an hour to reach the end.

Cold sweat broke out across his brow.

Before him stood a massive bronze gate, as large as the entrance to the Cultivation Academy in the metropolis. Two stone pillars, each five meters thick, flanked the gate. Chains stretched from the pillars, ending at two enormous beasts.

One beast resembled a serpent, but its head bore a single horn and long whiskers, and by Yang Fan’s estimate it measured over thirty meters long. The other was a gigantic tortoise, smaller than the serpent but its shell alone spanned ten meters. Chains pierced the beasts’ tails, anchoring them to the pillars.

The two creatures crouched, lifeless as stone.

Yang Fan, still two hundred meters from the beasts, dared not move. Their sheer presence, even motionless, made him feel a hundred times weaker. This was the impact of a strong soul upon a weak one; even in stillness, the powerful commanded submission.

After a long while, Yang Fan steeled himself and pressed forward, deciding he’d go no more than another hundred meters—if either beast stirred, he would retreat at once.

But as he neared within fifty meters, neither beast reacted.

“Could they be dead?” Yang Fan wondered, stepping closer.

Finally, at twenty meters, he stopped.

He focused on one side of the bronze gate, scrutinizing it. There were inscriptions, but the script was unfamiliar, never seen before. Still, Yang Fan committed them to memory for future investigation.

Once he had memorized the inscriptions, he turned his gaze to the beasts. At this range, he could sense their condition.

“Dead,” he thought.

No breath, only pressure remained. Such oppressive force could only be left by a powerful being after death.