Chapter Forty-Two: Surviving the Catastrophe

The ancient, towering sword, with its austere blade and dense aura of slaughter, swept across the sky like a primordial beast, cleaving toward Su Fan. Sensing the impending danger, Su Fan hastily grasped Fan Ruoyu’s hand, racing forward at full speed. At the same time, he channeled his spiritual power into the Phoenix Feather Crossbow. With the surge of his power, the golden crossbow shone with an intense light, turning pure black. Su Fan spun around sharply, tapped his finger lightly, and a fiery red phoenix silently soared out. When the colossal sword struck the phoenix, it began to melt away, and in a matter of moments, the entire sword had transformed into molten iron.

Suo Rongcheng’s expression changed drastically as he stared at the fiery phoenix flying toward him. A sense of annihilation and utter destruction washed over his heart, leaving him dazed and hollow-eyed. Suddenly, the clouds in the sky turned red, and the surrounding mountains seemed to suffer a devastating blow, exploding apart as the deep snows rapidly melted. Instantly, the melting snow flowed toward Suo Rongcheng, gathering into a wall of water. The fiery phoenix, on the verge of pouncing, was blocked by this sudden barrier. The Daoists standing nearby were dumbfounded, watching the ever-shifting scene in complete bewilderment.

The phoenix crashed into the water wall, caught in a deadlock. Yet under its relentless assault, the watery barrier was gradually eroded, though the process was slow, it was inexorable. Behind the water wall, Suo Rongcheng muttered, “Could it be the Ancestor has come to save me? No, the Ancestor would surely punish me for this.”

Su Fan braced himself with one hand on the ground, his face pale, lips cracked and bleeding. He sucked in the blood, his icy gaze fixed on the wall of light. Fan Ruoyu’s own complexion was ghastly; the pressure from the colossal sword had been so overwhelming that even her cultivation had not spared her from internal chaos.

Suddenly, a thunderous roar split the air. The ground before Su Fan cracked open, revealing a bottomless chasm. A wailing, piercing cry echoed from its depths, chilling the soul as if the underworld itself lay beneath. Even the Daoists shivered uncontrollably.

With all eyes fixed on this sudden change, the molten iron, once the great sword, flowed into the rift. Su Fan quickly got to his feet and whispered, “We must leave—there’s danger.” Fan Ruoyu, eyes brightening, supported Su Fan as they retreated rapidly.

A heart-rending scream sounded behind them. The water wall, now pierced by a huge hole, allowed the fiery phoenix to dart through, lunging at Suo Rongcheng. At that moment, the wailing from the chasm abruptly ceased, followed by a sword’s cry, ethereal and distant, drifting down from the nine heavens.

Amazingly, the sword that had melted reformed and shot out of the abyss, thrusting straight toward Su Fan. The overwhelming force and the sharp tip, gleaming crimson in the reflected light, split the earth and shattered the rocks before it even struck.

Facing the incoming sword, Su Fan’s face seemed to contort. The blade was about to fall; if it landed, he would be utterly destroyed, body and soul. The world fell silent. The Daoists stared slack-jawed at the sword, while Suo Rongcheng, struck by the phoenix, lay motionless, his life or death uncertain.

Only the mournful roar of the sword’s descent could be heard—a harrowing sound, slicing through the stillness.

Suddenly, a soft voice rang out, “Su Fan, you must live.”

A slender hand gently pushed Su Fan aside. A pink figure stepped in front of him. A blood-red flower—an otherworldly blossom—drifted upward. Its brilliant petals scattered in the wind, falling onto the cracked earth, sinking into the soil under the sword’s pressure, releasing a wave of fragrance.

On the black stem, three dark green leaves grew; one slowly withered and turned to ash. The raging sword, with a sharp crack, snapped in two. The pink figure collapsed softly before Su Fan.

From beneath the chasm came a faint, curious sound. Suddenly, the clouds above churned, and a huge vortex appeared in the void. An elder, his hair and beard pure white, stepped out, his expression grave, commanding respect without anger.

The old man snorted coldly and flicked his finger. The gaping earth sealed shut at a visible pace, a shrill scream echoing from within. Then, glancing at Fan Ruoyu on the ground, his eyes filled with sorrow. With a sweep of his wide sleeve, he took Su Fan and Fan Ruoyu up into it, and with his hands clasped behind his back, walked into the vortex.

A thousand miles away, it was snowing in Luo City as well. The rooftops of both grand towers and humble homes peeped out from beneath the snow. The streets bustled with people, their hair dusted white, exchanging greetings and gossiping for amusement.

Outside the city, in a dilapidated temple, a young man knelt before an elder, whispering, “Senior, can you truly save Ruoyu?” The old man replied impatiently, “How many times must I tell you, I can. But you, your overuse of spiritual energy—if you don’t replenish it soon, you’ll never make another breakthrough.”

Blowing his beard, the elder continued, “You’re a man, aren’t you? Why must you weep so easily? Wipe your tears and go meditate. Your presence here will only distract me from my spellwork.”

With that, he helped Su Fan up. Seeing Su Fan’s hesitation, he smiled, “Don’t worry. The Otherworldly Flower is wondrous indeed. It has three leaves, meaning it possesses three lives. That sword may seem fearsome, but to this flower, it is nothing at all.”

Su Fan’s expression softened. He glanced at Fan Ruoyu, who lay floating above the ground. After shedding one leaf, the red blossom reformed, its crimson petals as vibrant as ever.

Su Fan gazed at her for a long while, sighed softly, and walked out of the temple.

Perhaps the cold weather was to blame, but the Mortal World Inn was bustling. Several great hearths glowed within, the hall full of patrons. Even the teahouse’s famed connoisseur had been drawn over, serving tea and water. Cheers rang out at intervals.

In the center sat a plump, middle-aged man. He raised a celadon cup and sipped with poise. Suddenly, he grew solemn, clapped the table, and spoke in a clear, resonant voice, “Today, I shall recount the great battle in Cold Mountain Valley between the two major powers of Luo City’s cultivation world: Qingyuan Pavilion and the Ran Suo Sect.”

As the crowd listened with rapt attention, none noticed a shadowy figure slip into the rear courtyard. A vortex appeared and vanished a moment later.

Meanwhile, Su Fan sat cross-legged in his cave residence. He tapped his storage pouch, and a crystalline soul appeared before him. He had once asked the white-bearded elder if his mother could be revived. The old man had replied that even a true immortal from the Ninth Heaven could not save her; this was fate, and mortals cannot escape the calamities destined for them.

Once again, tears streamed from Su Fan’s eyes. He knelt before the soul, weeping and whispering, “If I had not cultivated the Dao, Mother would not have suffered such a fate. My father is still missing, and now my mother has been killed. What is the Dao I’m truly seeking?

If only I’d been ruthless that day and killed Ling Yuan, perhaps things would not be as they are now…”

Unconsciously, Su Fan wept blood and tears together. Suddenly, the crystalline soul flickered with a bright white light. Alarmed, Su Fan tried to examine it, but the soul slowly shattered. He reached out to stop it, but caught nothing but air. In a flash, the soul transformed into a white light and entered Su Fan’s brow.

A gentle, familiar voice resounded in his ears:

“Fan’er, are you well out there? Just the other day, I took out the clothes you wore as a child and washed them again. Maybe it’s my age, but seeing those little garments makes me miss you dearly. I even made you a new set, though I don’t know if it will fit. I’ll give it to you when you return.

By the way, a few months ago, I passed by the ferry and saw your father. He’s doing well, so there’s no need to search for him anymore. If things are hard for you out there, just come home. I know you yearn for immortality—if you truly have the chance, follow your path. I am old now, and perhaps we may not meet again.”

Each word etched itself into his heart like a chisel. Su Fan felt his blood and breath roil painfully within him. Suddenly, he leapt up, spread his arms, and roared, as if that outcry could vent all the sorrow and grief pent up inside.

After regaining some composure, Su Fan sat cross-legged, spiritual energy flowing into him. Suddenly, he opened his eyes and murmured, “Why does it seem there are fewer souls in my storage pouch?”

With a flicker of thought, he took out several more souls. At that moment, the gray aura in the dragon shadow on his shoulder trembled violently. Su Fan willed it, and the mist pounced, devouring a soul in one gulp. Then it circled him, as if seeking to please him.

Startled, Su Fan produced more souls from the pouch, and the gray mist eagerly consumed them all. These were the souls Su Fan had gathered from the Three Sovereigns’ Stronghold. Seeing how fervently the mist devoured them, he took them all out at once.

The gray mist, as if greatly stimulated, surged upon the souls and devoured them greedily.

Su Fan watched with fascination as the mist fed. In the process, it seemed to become more solid. He wondered to himself, “What is the origin of this gray mist? The old man from the Dusty Fate Inn gave me the soul, yet this mist appeared without my noticing.

And where is Ran Hua’s soul?” Su Fan muttered in confusion.