Chapter Sixty-Two: Sacrificing the Pawn to Save the King

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The night was as dark as ink. Clad in black and white Daoist robes, Cang Erzi moved like a phantom, his very presence melting seamlessly into the shadows. He trailed far behind Zhang Yuan-yi, the two of them leaving the city, one after the other.

Yet the farther he followed, the more uneasy Cang Erzi became. The path Zhang Yuan-yi took grew ever more desolate, less like a route for seeking a physician for a child, and more like a place well-suited for murder and silencing witnesses.

Just as Cang Erzi puzzled over this, Zhang Yuan-yi suddenly halted ahead. He gently laid the child, Guo Yuanlin, upon a large boulder, then unfastened the ancient sword from his back and turned around.

“Not good!”

A blaring alarm exploded in Cang Erzi’s mind, a chill coursing over his scalp. He immediately flung himself backward, summoning all twenty-four streams of true qi and magical power, which coalesced into a dense, inky-black ghostly mist. This mist blended perfectly with the night, enveloping him as he fled toward the city.

But from behind, a murderous intent as sharp as a blade locked onto him, even across the distance. In the next instant, a brilliant arc of sword-light tore through the sky.

“A grandmaster? How is that possible!”

Cang Erzi screamed. The sword-light sliced his ghostly mist in two. The distance between them and the protective mist saved him from immediate death, but the threat was all too real.

Zhang Yuan-yi hovered in midair, sword in hand, his will in perfect harmony with heaven and earth. Drawing upon the might of the world itself, he prepared to unleash another strike to finish off this shadowy stalker.

But then Cang Erzi roared, threatening, “Do you want the child’s soul to perish?”

At these words, Zhang Yuan-yi instantly understood the man’s identity. His gaze turned icy, killing intent thickening the very air.

Hesitation flashed in his eyes—he could not risk Guo Gong’s sole heir for the sake of vengeance.

“Return Yuanlin’s soul, and I’ll spare your life,” Zhang Yuan-yi said coldly, eyes fixed on Cang Erzi.

Cang Erzi coughed up blood, terror etched across his face. How could this martial master, in less than half a month, have broken through to the realm of grandmaster? Even the Imperial Preceptor would take such a threat seriously!

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Thoughts raced through Cang Erzi’s mind as he desperately searched for a way out. But escape under the gaze of a grandmaster was all but impossible.

He drew forth a golden soul-banner, reluctance flickering in his eyes. The three souls within it were the fruits of more than a decade’s painstaking effort. To surrender them now would be to waste all those years.

Yet, seeing the growing impatience on Zhang Yuan-yi’s face, he steeled himself. Channeling his true qi, he wrapped the soul-banner tightly, then hurled it far away. At the same time, he unleashed another blast of magic, as if to destroy the banner.

“Evil sorcerer, how dare you!”

Zhang Yuan-yi’s eyes blazed. Forgetting all thought of pursuit, he sent a sword-light flashing to intercept the blast aimed at the banner. Like lightning, he lunged toward the golden soul-banner.

All this transpired in but a heartbeat.

By the time Zhang Yuan-yi seized the banner, Cang Erzi had vanished into the night, leaving behind only a faint pool of blood.

...

Wounded, Cang Erzi fled swiftly through the darkness, disappearing into the forests within moments. He dared not return to the city; for now, he could only hide among the mountains and seek help from the Six Plague Daoist, a fellow servant of the Imperial Preceptor.

His twenty-four streams of true qi were nearly exhausted—painfully so, for they had taken ages to cultivate. Without enough spiritual energy to recover, even his cultivation level might soon decline.

Worse yet, even the soul-banner lent by the Imperial Preceptor was lost. If word got out, he feared he’d be used as an ingredient for alchemy himself.

Fortunately, the soul-banner still bore the Imperial Preceptor’s soul-mark; not even a martial grandmaster could refine it. He still had some time to find help and reclaim what was his.

“Damn that martial grandmaster! Truly damnable! I must seek out Six Plague for a solution.”

Six Plague Daoist was no ordinary figure—he had attained the seventh level of Qi Refinement. With his spiritual treasures, he could contend with a grandmaster. If only the soul-banner could be recovered, Cang Erzi would gladly give up the soul of the latent dragon within and offer the merit to Six Plague. Such a feat would surely win his favor.

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Buoyed by this hope, Cang Erzi gathered his strength, swallowed several pills, and set off in haste toward Jiangzhou.

...

At the foot of Mount Chisong.

Zhang Yuan-yi cradled Guo Yuanlin in his left arm and held the golden soul-banner in his right, anxiety written plainly on his face as he hurried through the woods. Upon reaching the foot of the mountain, he did not rush in, but called out, “Disciple Zhang Yuan-yi, requests an audience with Master!”

No sooner had the words left his lips than the wind began to whisper all around. A gentle breeze circled him in several slow, deliberate turns.

Now that Zhang Yuan-yi had achieved the rank of grandmaster, his martial will could commune with heaven and earth. He sensed, almost in disbelief, that this wind truly possessed a spirit.

He recalled the day when a wind spirit had blocked his path; then, he’d sensed something unusual, but dismissed it as a trick of some adept or a formation. Now, he could not help but marvel at his master’s mysterious abilities.

He tried addressing the wind spirit, “Brother Wind, I’ve come to visit my master today—might I trouble you for passage?”

Anyone seeing Zhang Yuan-yi speaking to the wind itself would surely have thought him mad, but he alone knew that this breeze could understand his words.

Perhaps his request had pleased the wind spirit, for Zhang Yuan-yi suddenly felt a force gently lifting him up the mountainside. This power was gentle and harmonious, nothing like the soul-scouring wind he’d once encountered.

Moved, Zhang Yuan-yi tightened his hold on Guo Yuanlin and did not resist, letting the breeze enfold him completely.

As his vision rose, his feet left the earth behind, and an exhilarating sensation filled his heart—it was not like flying through force of arms, but as though he were riding the wind and ascending toward immortality.

Only now did he realize why the Dao Palace disciples he’d seen by day could ride the wind: it was all thanks to this spirit of the wind.

Awestruck, he pondered further. Such a primordial spirit, willingly serving at his master’s command—who was his master, truly? Could it be, as Guo Gong claimed, that his master was a true immortal adept, one unlike any other from the sects of the Taiyuan Order?

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