Chapter Seventy-Four: The Mysterious Yin Sword Technique

Roaring, shouting, and explosions echoed from deep within the cave. Zhou Qian was startled; among the cacophony, one voice stood out—loud, familiar, unmistakable. With a quick recollection, he realized it belonged to his second uncle, Tu Yong.

He hurried his pace. The further he ascended, the fewer caves there were. After about half an hour, the flickering glow of fire could be glimpsed ahead, accompanied by a crescendo of human voices.

Tu Yong was the first to burst forth, followed closely by Master Wei. One after another, martial artists emerged, disheveled and haggard. Tu Yong’s bull-like eyes swept toward Zhou Qian, and he paused, bewildered. “Nephew, what are you doing here?”

“Uncle, you…” Zhou Qian was thoroughly confused.

“Run! What are you standing around for?” Tu Yong seized Zhou Qian by the neck, lifting him effortlessly like a chick. Zhou Qian dared not protest.

“Uncle, what’s behind us? Why are we running?” Zhou Qian asked as they fled.

“It’s a monster! Why else? If we don’t run, it’ll eat us!” Tu Yong grinned, teeth bared.

“A monster?”

“You’ll see soon enough, Young Master Zhou,” interjected Master Wei.

Indeed, a moment later, a beast wreathed in flames emerged from the depths of the cave. It was about the size of a strong ox, with fiery red eyes, a white tail, and savage fangs—a truly fearsome sight.

“Duji?” Zhou Qian blurted out.

“You know this creature?” Tu Yong was taken aback.

“Duji is a subspecies of the qilin, resembles a wolfhound, born in fire, cruel by nature, endlessly hungry, fond of eating people,” Zhou Qian recalled. “It’s recorded in the ‘Lu Medical Canon’ under exotic beasts.”

“How could old Lu’s medical book mention this monster?” Tu Yong roared. “Quick, think—does it have any weaknesses?”

“Duji detests water!”

“I remember there’s a deep pool in one of the caves to the right—” someone chimed in.

Zhou Qian turned to see a familiar face—Fei Yue, the deputy leader of the Tang Clan. There was no time for greetings; a crowd of “masters of the martial world” were fleeing in panic.

Fortunately, the Duji beast moved no faster than a common wolfhound. For martial artists adept in lightness techniques, it posed no major threat, though its keen sense of smell meant they could not shake it off.

“What on earth happened?” Zhou Qian was filled with questions.

“Ask your second uncle,” Fei Yue replied irritably.

It transpired that Tu Yong was the cause of their misfortune. Six days ago, the Dragon Gate opened; Tu Yong and Master Wei, bold and skilled, ignored the warnings of imperial generals and entered first, driven perhaps by ulterior motives. They braved several perilous spots, lost their way more than once, but their abilities saw them through—though they gained little for their troubles.

By chance, they stumbled upon the Duji beast. When asleep, this creature showed no heartbeat or pulse and was difficult to rouse. Tu Yong, finding what appeared to be the corpse of a beast resembling an ox, was delighted; their provisions were filling but tasteless, and his palate had long grown weary. Odd as it seemed, meat brought to his lips could not be refused. Master Wei tried to dissuade him, but seeing it was futile, he held his tongue—after all, if poison struck, it wouldn’t be him who died. Tu Yong sharpened his knife, preparing to butcher the creature, but this act stirred disaster.

Upon awakening, the Duji beast’s first instinct was to sate its hunger. The two men, quick-witted, fled early, but the beast’s sense of smell was so sharp that once it had sniffed them, it could track them anywhere. Familiar as it was with the terrain, escape was impossible. The more people they encountered, the larger the group of fugitives grew.

“Why don’t you all scatter and flee? Why gather together?” Zhou Qian asked, puzzled.

“It’s not our choice—the Duji beast is simply too terrifying,” said Qin Ji, the Flying Monkey, scratching his messy hair in frustration. “Once it’s seen you and caught your scent, it’ll track you down no matter where you run. There’s no hiding, and after several deaths, we learned to stick together—at least we can take turns keeping watch and buy ourselves a bit more time. Otherwise, you might die without even knowing why.”

Zhou Qian glanced at Tu Yong, who looked guilty, and understood. If it were him, he’d likely—no, certainly—have made the same choice. Who could resist the call of hunger?

“I haven’t slept in four days and nights! When will I ever get a proper rest?” wailed an elderly, disheveled man. Zhou Qian hadn’t recognized him earlier, but now saw it was Old Master Lou Yuxiao from Kunlun.

“Whatever happens, let’s get to the pool first!” everyone agreed.

The pool lay in a cave further down—opposite Zhou Qian’s initial route, leading toward the northern slope of Afang Mountain. They ambled along, stopping here and there, and after most of the day, finally reached the pool. Along the way, they encountered the Duji beast twice more; it seemed newly born, ravenous yet weak, and they escaped unscathed.

The cave was enormous, several hundred yards in length and width, with a pool tens of acres wide near the center-rear. Behind the pool, a waterfall crashed down, sending spray everywhere—truly a magnificent sight.

Everyone rejoiced, plunging into the pool; those skilled in swimming even floated atop the water to nap. Half an hour later, the Duji beast arrived, roaring furiously at the sight of the people in the pool. Red light flickered in its mouth.

“Not good! The Duji’s about to breathe fire!” Tu Yong shouted.

A crimson pillar swept across the pool, sending up thick vapor and steam, flames dancing upon the water. Zhou Qian had already submerged himself, unharmed, as had most martial artists. The beast spat fire two or three times more, to no avail; instead, its energy waned, black smoke curling from its mouth. Realizing its efforts were futile, the Duji wandered a while and finally left, prompting a wave of cheers.

After days of flight, exhaustion weighed heavily on them. Now, at last, they could rest in peace; snores soon filled the air.

Zhou Qian crept over to Tu Yong, who was lazily sprawled on the water. Tu Yong turned his head, eyes twinkling. Zhou Qian nodded, and the two retreated to a secluded spot.

Zhou Qian told Tu Yong about his battle with the Sword Sect disciple and the ambush by the Secret Guards of Tiance, convinced that the old veteran’s experience would aid him.

True enough, upon hearing Zhou Qian had bested the monk, Tu Yong laughed heartily. “Back then, they couldn’t defeat my elder brother. Now, they’ve lost to my nephew—a legacy passed down through the generations!”

But when Zhou Qian described the ambush by the Secret Guards, Tu Yong frowned deeply for a long while before replying, “This isn’t the imperial court’s doing, nor Li Guangzhi’s. I know Li Guangzhi well; he wouldn’t do such a thing. Besides, you only slaughter an ox after it’s ground the beans—there’s no sign of the treasure yet, so why would the court act now? I suspect something’s happened with the Secret Guards.”

“The Secret Guards?” Zhou Qian was astonished.

“I’ve investigated. These imperial killers are forged from the nation’s resources, using Immortal Dao sorcery. But the sorcery isn’t orthodox—it’s a corpse-refining method from the more sinister sects of the Immortal Dao, quite fiendish.”

“Are there evil ones among the sword immortals?” Zhou Qian was dumbfounded.

“I don’t know much about it—your master would. Legend has it, due to differing beliefs, sword immortals split into two factions: one led by the Seven Great Sects, the other by the Five Demon Sects.”

“The Seven Great Sects? Five Demon Sects?” Zhou Qian was amazed.

“I truly don’t know. The Immortal Dao has long withdrawn from the world. As for the imperial corpse-refining technique, my secret source tells me it’s derived from fragments of the Yin-Yang Sect of the Demon Gate. And as for the Mausoleum of the First Emperor, it’s said to be the cave dwelling of a southern branch of the Demon Gate—the Polar Teaching. Since both factions belong to the Demon Gate, there may be a connection. And now, the Secret Guards are here—who knows what might happen?” Tu Yong was rather gleeful. After all, the people of the Six Gates had hounded him in the martial world like rabid dogs—this was poetic justice.

“Mausoleum of the First Emperor, Polar Teaching of Extreme Yin, Secret Guards, Yin-Yang Sect…” Zhou Qian muttered. Could it be that the First Emperor’s past life was an Extreme Yin immortal? Or perhaps he was the immortal himself?

“There’s a passage behind the waterfall!” came a distant shout.

Everyone paused, then erupted in joyous excitement. A hidden tunnel—could this be the true location of the First Emperor’s treasure? Until now, nothing within the mausoleum had matched its legendary status.

Gold mountains and silver seas, swords tempered a hundred times, rare elixirs, even rumored Immortal Dao techniques—any one of these would set nerves alight. All fatigue forgotten, the crowd surged toward the secret passage.

The passage lay beneath the waterfall. By the time Zhou Qian entered, his clothes were thoroughly soaked. Looking around, he saw that the passage was wide enough for four or five people to walk abreast, and about ten feet high.

Many impetuous martial artists had already vanished into the darkness. Zhou Qian, Tu Yong, and their close companions pressed forward together. On either side of the tunnel, bronze torches had been set up at some unknown time, their flames fueled by an exceptionally rare oil—mermaid fish oil—that burned for ages.

The passage gradually brightened until the scene before them left even the most worldly among them speechless.

Grand palaces and pavilions soared from the ground, with carved beams and painted rafters, eaves reaching high. Palaces rose one after another, here were white jade shrouded in mist, there jade carvings resembling green mountains, golden trees and silver flowers, strange rocks and stones, tiles of gold and jade…

Splendid and magnificent, as if a celestial paradise on earth. Tu Yong muttered, “No wonder I used to dream of being emperor. If this is what it’s like, dying is nothing—think of the spectacle while alive!”

They moved on, occasionally seeing martial artists leaping from roofs and darting through alleys, arms full of gold, jewels, famed swords, their faces alight with joy.

Tu Yong’s hands itched. He turned to Zhou Qian, “Nephew, you amuse yourself here. I’m off to try my luck—been ages since I picked a pocket, let’s see if I’ve lost my touch.”

Tu Yong departed, as did the rest of the Beggar Clan, and others too—who could leave a treasure mountain empty-handed? Soon, only Zhou Qian remained, wandering among the palace buildings.

Zhou Qian cared little for material riches, but if he found any books on cuisine or recipes, that would be another matter. He also kept an eye out for anything related to immortals.

The characters “Palace of Extreme Yin” drew Zhou Qian’s attention. He was familiar with the name and hurried inside.

The palace was austere and ancient, the most humble and plain among them. Empty, save for paintings, tables, chairs, and incense burners—no one else was present. In the painting, an elder with a three-foot beard and stern features carried a jet-black sword, riding clouds and mist, with black clouds and lightning swirling around him—so lifelike it seemed real.

Zhou Qian paused, thinking this must be the Extreme Yin Immortal. He owed the immortal some spiritual debt, so he lit incense and bowed three times.

The elder in the painting, originally facing southeast, suddenly chuckled, turned his head, and nodded. “A reward for the one who bows!”

With a sweep of his hand, countless characters floated in midair.

Zhou Qian was amazed. Looking up, he saw four enormous characters formed of black mist—

“Mystic Yin Sword Manual”