Chapter 105: Face the Gale!

Wen Jinge had been worried for them from the start; no matter which way they turned, it was a dead end. Unable to find a solution, she could only sit down on the ground, observing carefully while racking her brain.

Then, inexplicably, her body suddenly felt much lighter.

It was as if the hooks of the Black and White Impermanence spirits were pulling at her soul, an unsettling sensation that made her uncomfortable.

“Acai! Was this your doing?” she asked.

There was no response from Acai; it seemed he had fallen asleep. She understood then—this place was clearly incompatible with him.

“I have an idea,” she said. “Not long ago, I found a few torn pages of the Soul Clan’s ancient scrolls in the hands of an old beggar. The Soul Clan was annihilated over ten thousand years ago, and those fragments are useless for practice. But I seem to be different.”

She didn’t care if Acai was listening or not; she just wanted someone to talk to.

Wen Jinge considered herself someone who could endure loneliness. In her previous life as a writer, she would stay indoors for two or three months at a time without stepping outside. This habit had left her with a tendency to talk to herself.

At the Xuanyun Sect, the disciples were always chattering away, and over time, she had grown accustomed to it. Her master was aloof and cold, so she had to find things to say, or rather, pick fights, partially to build her own image.

On the towering peak of the sect, she rarely spoke first. The disciples were too gifted; one word from her could trigger a thousand wild imaginations. If she wasn’t careful, it could escalate, and she’d have to restrain her cultivation to keep things in check.

“Acai…” she said, staring at the jade walls with greedy eyes. “How much do you think these stones are worth in gold coins? How about spirit stones?”

Cultivators used spirit stones as currency, while ordinary civilians still relied on gold and silver coins—metal coins of various kinds. Most of the time, the two were mixed in use.

Acai, seemingly disdainful of her greedy nature, transformed into a streak of light and slipped into the spatial ring on Wen Jinge’s finger before she could even give an order.

“Sigh! You think I’m wasting these treasures, huh? Forget it, forget it. There are enough hands; we can just store them all.” She closed her eyes resignedly, quickly forming hand seals. “Today, I’ll show you the speed I’ve honed over a hundred years of solitude! Face the gale!”

“The burden of the gods!”

“The will of the gods!”

“The divine judgment is about to commence!”

“Gods are unstoppable!”

“The gods will lead us toward...”

Yang Wennan’s fingers froze mid-gesture. It must be his imagination.

Yet, he felt a voice whispering in his ear—it was Ji Alao speaking—and a terrifying soul force enveloped him from behind. Cold sweat broke out across his back.

A whooshing sound broke the wind, like something shattering.

Then came a tumultuous crashing noise. Lu Wei glanced at Yang Wennan in surprise, sensing a familiar aura just moments before.

The Soul Clan.

When he rose to fame, the Soul Clan was already despised and hunted like rats. This ancient aura could not be mistaken, yet why was it so intense?

It was as if he were transported back tens of thousands of years.

Nowadays, spiritual energy was nowhere near as lush as before. Yang Wennan knew his own limits, but why did he carry such a profound aura?

His legs suddenly gave way, and he knelt on the ground, glancing behind him. Earlier, he had sensed a gaze fixed upon him. Now, he could see clearly.

“Master?” he called uncertainly, recalling the cold eyes of Qi Yun in his mind. “Is that you?”

Wen Jinge slowly opened her eyes. The Soul Clan’s aura had not yet dissipated. She looked at Lu Wei and gave him a meaningful glance, but received no proper response.

“Are you seeing things?” she rolled her eyes dramatically, took off her shoes, and flung one imbued with soul power toward Lu Wei, who reflexively caught it.

Wen Jinge: ...

“You’re probably seriously ill!” she exclaimed, hopping as she ran. The jade disks had shattered; all the passages were now open, forming a vast, bright plane.

Ling Yi saw the desperate look on his master’s face and, thinking of something, carefully looked at her. He couldn’t help but say, “Master, the Holy Son was just behind you. He ran away.”

“...” Lu Wei almost cried from his own stupidity.

He glanced at his reddened hand. The Soul Clan’s mark was a curse usually implanted through direct contact. Wen Jinge was able to affix the mark onto objects in a short time—her ability was terrifying.

“I’ll go after him!”

“Amitabha, well done, well done!” The monk resumed his habitual chant, “Goodness, wonder, enlightenment.”

“Is there something you need?” Wen Jinge displayed her fist.

Her hands were pale, wrists slender, fists small—a pair of hands that wouldn’t feel pain no matter how much they were struck.

If only the black-gray aura enveloping her fist could be ignored—that was the soul mark, a curse rooted deeply in the soul.

As long as the soul endured, so would the curse.

“What’s wrong with your leg?” Wen Jinge looked puzzled at Yang Wennan kneeling on the ground. “You’ve been a disciple for some time now. Have I ever punished you physically? You haven’t done anything wrong, so why kneel?”

“No, the physical punishments always come from the master,” Yang Wennan replied seriously. But his gaze toward Wen Jinge remained strange. Out of respect for the monk Bi Xi Fo, an outsider, he said no more.

“My leg feels strange too. Probably injured by the sword qi earlier. Luckily, the Taoist friend helped me avert this calamity. Otherwise, I might not have been able to see the master again.”

He knew the monk was cunning. When the master woke, the great master was likely awake too, secretly listening nearby. Otherwise, how could the sword qi have been blocked so promptly?

The monk had behaved well along the way but was ruthless when it came to exploiting opportunities. Most likely, he had a favor to ask of the master and saved Yang Wennan to indeb him.

Though uncomfortable, Yang Wennan could only play along, pretending to be an innocent child easily manipulated.

This was an open scheme he could not refuse.

Ling Yi sighed for some unknown reason, then helped Yang Wennan up. “Senior Brother, you can lean on me, though I’m small and might not be very steady.”

“Thank you, junior brother.”

“You’re welcome.” Ling Yi was still struggling to support him. “Master, if the great master went after him, what are we to do now?”

Before he could finish speaking, he suddenly stumbled, dragging Yang Wennan down with him.

“What’s the matter with you?” Yang Wennan asked.

He knew it wasn’t intentional, as Ling Yi’s face was drenched in cold sweat and pale as porcelain.

“Eh?” The monk exclaimed in surprise, then pretended nothing had happened, folding his prayer beads.

At that moment, the shattered jade disks seemed to flow like water, slowly gathering together.

After a rumbling upheaval, Wen Jinge saw a massive beam of light. Inside a cavern about the size of three or four basketball courts, a door appeared.

Carved onto the jade door was a painting—a mountain valley.