Within Baidong Mountain’s spirit caves, there were places where mortal feet could not tread. Places where the region’s spiritual qi, that had once flowed freely though all of the mountains, valleys, and rivers, was gathered in such great quantities that even a cultivator’s body would be overwhelmed in little more than an instant.
Beneath the narrow passageways and ledges, in the darkness of a pit said to be bottomless, was the most rich, most powerful of all such places— a river of pure spiritual qi that flowed deep beneath the surface, nourishing the roots of the mountains and all that grew or walked upon them. Even the greatest of Baidong Mountain’s cultivators had never explored this place, and even the sturdiest spiritual tools, when lowered down to gather information, were brought back up broken, overloaded, and shattered.
Within this very spiritual river, Mo Yuan floated for three days and nights.
He should have died that day— and indeed, he had intended to die. It was a choice between capture and death or death alone— how could he not choose the option that allowed him a few final, precious moments of freedom, one last gesture of defiance?
As his body lay still, suspended within the shimmering spiritual current, his consciousness scattered amongst the mountain’s roots, following its ebb and flow, drifting and whirling on the river’s ripples before inevitably returning to his body. He forgot his past, his present, his name and identity, knowing only the rhythm of the mountains and the ever-rippling hum of the energy that surrounded him.
It manifested in brilliant ribbons of colored silk and bright flashes of fireworks, his senses alight without a moment’s rest. A work of art, a performance of a caliber beyond any that he’d ever witnessed before— and he too was a part of it.
If this were death, then death was indeed beautiful.
But he would not dwell within this ceaseless current forever— how his body survived, he had no idea. Perhaps it was the poison from the arrows he had been shot with coursing through his veins, draining and restricting the flow of energy, that also managed to prevent him from being overwhelmed by the force of this spiritual current too much, too quickly.
Perhaps it was willpower alone— for though he had chosen death over capture, he would still choose to live if he had the opportunity to do so.
Or perhaps it was a combination of the two.
Mo Yuan had learned to cultivate in his childhood and worked out more advanced techniques on his own in his youth. He had painstakingly toiled until he was able to establish his foundation, crushing spirit stones to powder and swallowing it or pressing it into his skin until his spirit veins were forcibly expanded, though it was so painful that he felt like a fire had been ignited within his veins.
This was simply the next stage of that toil.
As mind and body drifted freely upon the current, he allowed the flow to travel through his body, granting it passage from his hands to his heart, upper to lower dantian. Delicate he was, careful to keep hold of his awareness, yet not too delicate that he could be easily overcome and shattered.
Channel, divert, compress. Allow his meridians to be filled to burgeoning, then adjust, then push even further.
This was no death, but an opportunity— to live on, to surpass boundaries, to reshape the world just as he’d always hoped to do.
Mo Yuan would do whatever it took to achieve that goal. If Xiao-Lan could not live within this world, then the cruel world that now existed would be brought to an end, turned inside-out and laid to ruin and rebuilt from the ashes that remained.
And Mo Yuan, immersed within the very wellspring from which all of Yinshan’s spiritual power flowed, would be the one to make this happen.
The spiritual light that surrounded him, iridescent as a rainbow and bright as the sun, began to shift and change. The current near where his body was suspended turned blood-crimson as his influence over it gained dominance. It spread outward like blood in the water, his consciousness extended throughout the river’s flow, everywhere and nowhere all at once. In the center of his body, a brilliant light shone, first many-colored, then red as a burning pain raced through his veins, then gradually turning to golden— as though the sun itself had been kindled within him.
The earth shook around Mo Yuan. Through the ceaseless flow of the current, his consciousness reached the surface, and he perceived the way that the world’s spiritual flow had distended, heaping up and swelling over the peaks of Baidong Mountain. The light of the barrier array shone like a fine mesh overtop the mountain’s reaches, a great and impenetrable dome.
Those whose eyes opened to the Dao, who reached Ningqi stage, were able to surpass ordinary mortals. Those who established a foundation were capable of true greatness. When a cultivator reached Jiedan, however, they could bend the world to their will, and even someday reach the heavens.
And when one challenged the heavenly order, it was only natural that the heavens would respond in kind.
Many of those who reached the threshold of Jiedan stage would fall to the heavenly lightning that descended upon them before they could cross it— this, along with the lack of resources, was yet another reason that there had been no rogue cultivators to reach such heights for five centuries. If even those favored by the heavens, who had prepared for this their whole lives, could not endure a heavenly tribulation, then what hope would there be for one who walked in shadow, who struggled with every step along the way?
Mo Yuan, though, was in a particularly special situation. He surely would not have survived a direct hit had he been standing above ground, but right now, he was suspended within Yinshan’s spirit veins, his consciousness stretched from the depths of the earth to the highest mountain peaks.
When the first bold of heavenly lightning descended, it struck not Mo Yuan, but instead the great barrier array of Baidong Mountain— shattering it and, unbeknownst to him at the time, allowing Qiu Wei and the forces of the Nameless to gain entry. The second bolt struck the ground, piercing earth and stone until it reached the spirit veins. Its energy dispersed throughout all of Yinshan, overcharging the Qin clan’s spiritual tools and burning them out in an instant, causing some to detonate and kill those who wielded them. When at last the energy from the heavenly lightning reached where Mo Yuan’s body rested, the greater part had already dispersed. Nonetheless, when it entered his meridians, he was nearly torn apart as he desperately struggled to harness what he could and dispel the rest. His body convulsed, his skin burning.
Rushed and unstable though his cultivation may be, however Mo Yuan had woven himself and his consciousness deep within Yinshan’s spirit veins, drawing upon their power to shield his vital organs.
In that moment, there was a flicker in the back of his mind— and he saw before him a mirror, small and unassuming, its surface clear as crystal. Within that mirror, his own face was reflected, his form illuminated in bright spiritual light. Though his clothes were tattered and his body damaged, he nonetheless hovered there amid the endless current, near-endless spiritual power at the tips of his fingers like vermilion puppeteer’s strings. Seeing himself like this, Mo Yuan could not help but think that he truly had surpassed all that sought to destroy him— and that not a single one of Baidong Mountain’s cultivators could hope to stand against him.
As he thought this, he reached out to touch the reflection of himself within the strange mirror, here in this place that seemed at once the depths of the sea and the void of the night sky. The vermilion strings attached to his fingers connected to those within the reflection, stretching out and criss-crossing like a spider’s web around him. The moment his fingertips touched his reflection’s, a light shone bright silver from within the mirror’s depths, and he felt as though he were being drawn inside.
It was then that the final bolt of heavenly lightning descended— this one, though, found its target. It struck toward Mo Yuan’s body with full force.
When the blow landed, though, it instead struck that silver mirror. Fractals criss-crossed it’s surface, the mirror’s power contending with the heavenly lightning as both intertwined together. It traveled along the vermilion strings, which burned to ash from the sheer force of that power, and Mo Yuan could only remain helpless as it laced into his fingers, lacerating his body with a thousand cuts, burning him from the inside out—
In this moment, he knew he would surely be destroyed. But instead, when that energy reached his core, a clear, resonant sound rang out through the spirit veins, like a smith’s hammer striking the anvil, or like the ringing of a great bell.
Mo Yuan had breached that impossible boundary.
A golden light shone from within him, refined spiritual qi coursing through his meridians. In an instant, the wounds on his body were healed. Every scar upon his body shone brightly for a moment, then faded away— all save the pair of small entrance wounds from the poisoned arrows. These instead turned bright crimson as the dawn before a storm, while the shafts of the arrows were burned away by the sudden influx of energy. The arrowheads, though, remained within his body— traveling along his meridians to be absorbed within his newly-formed jindan. The poison within his body, which would have ultimately felled him before now, was no match for the power of a Jiedan-stage cultivator. In a matter of moments, it was neutralized.
This tale has been unlawfully lifted from Royal Road; report any instances of this story if found elsewhere.
Mo Yuan felt himself transformed, his mind and body alike consumed by the sudden rush, the unbearable pressure upon him suddenly lifting as he broke free from the flow of the spirit veins, still shining brightly from head to toe.
Bit by bit, the light that wreathed his form began to withdraw, flowing into his body like a spring returning to its source to gather together into the orb of spiritual power that nestled within his dantian, once blazing like a sun but now radiating warmth like a candle’s gentle flame.
Once the glow had faded, Mo Yuan ceased to hover above the ground, body relaxing as he descended. When his now-bare feet touched the cool stone floor, he at last opened up his eyes.
He was standing within a small cavern. Though it was nearly dark as midnight, crossing this boundary had further enhanced his already prodigious spiritual sense— now, he hardly needed to use his physical senses at all.
The spiritual qi within this chamber was nearly as dense as it was within the spirit vein itself, but instead of flowing freely, the greater part of it was contained within the powerful arrays and inscriptions that covered the floor, walls, and ceiling. On another day, in another situation, Mo Yuan might have liked to spend some time examining them. But today, his attention was drawn elsewhere.
In the midst of the chamber was a pedestal, and upon that pedestal was a small silver mirror. As inconspicuous as could be, yet beckoning with a quiet, welcoming light.
Mo Yuan felt as though there were strings wound up inside of his body, drawing him gently yet firmly toward this mirror. His steps moved forward one after the other, as though he could even imagine stopping or waiting. The mirror’s call was persistent as it was potent, and before long he stood before it, gazing into his reflection— within the mirror, though, he could see his face pale and ashen, his eyes bloodshot as his cheeks gaunt. The face within the mirror did not fully match what he now felt— vigor restored, cultivation improved, a light of fierce determination in his chest. Even as he thought that, though, he could feel the thrum of the fibers of spiritual power that connected him to this mirror, and the image before him rippled like the surface of a pool of water, shifting and changing to match the vision he had of himself.
In that moment, Mo Yuan was struck by a profound sense of awe.
He had not grown up within one of the great clans, learning their teachings and histories, sifting through their vast libraries of knowledge. The library at Mengshan Temple, though, was far from worthless even though it could not be called comprehensive. Within some of the volumes stacked in the shelves, of course, had been tales of the world that came before, of its end, and of the beginning of this one— that is, the Great Demonic War.
This mirror, locked away deep within Baidong Mountain’s spirit caves in a sealed chamber lined on all sides with complicated arrays… could it truly be one of the five demonic tools, which had once contended with the heavens themselves?
Mo Yuan slowly, carefully reached out and took the mirror from its pedestal. Looking down at his reflection, which had now fully changed, he realized that this was the same mirror he had seen during the heavenly tribulation.
With something like this, he had managed to achieve what was said to be impossible… what more would he be able to accomplish if he used it?
Even as he thought this, though, he could feel the threads that connected him to the mirror retreating, the shine fading from its surface as it became, once more, an ordinary mirror, perfectly innocuous in every way. He tapped on its surface with a finger, but there was no response, only his own reflection. Why had it suddenly gone dormant again?
Perhaps it was not so easy to use as he thought— still, it mattered little in the end.
Before, Mo Yuan had been poisoned and defeated, not a match for Baidong Mountain’s forces. Now, though, he had crossed the Jiedan boundary, and his blood and spiritual flow were smooth once again— and far more vigorous than before. He slipped the mirror into the stolen qiankun pouch he wore at his waist, then looked around the chamber he’d somehow found himself inside.
There was no door that he could see, nor any passage in or out— but in one corner, some of the inscriptions seemed to have been torn away as though something had burst through them. Mo Yuan stepped toward that place and rested his hand against the wall. Beneath it, he could feel the hum of Baidong Mountain’s spirit veins, which resonated easily with the energy of his newly-formed jindan… as it ought to. Mo Yuan had just been submersed entirely within this spirit vein, his meridians washed through, burst open, and rebuilt. For now, at least, he might as well be considered a part of these mountains, and the spirit veins flowing through the earth no different from the meridians that wove through his body.
He shut his eyes, extending his consciousness toward the spirit vein, connecting it to himself, and with nothing more than a thought, he had been absorbed into it once again. This time, he was not overwhelmed, though— instead, he felt quite at home, his consciousness traveling along its flow as fast as lightning from the heavens, heading ever upward, flowing through the spirit caves, rippling along the underground rivers, winding about the roots of trees, until at last he emerged from the mouth of a bubbling stream, his body turning back to physical form as he landed on the bank.
Mo Yuan raised his head, looking around, shielding his eyes and squinting at the sudden daylight after spending so long trapped within the darkness of the spirit caves. He was in a valley, thickly wooded with a stream that cut through and trickled down toward the plains beyond the mountains. The sky above was filled with heavy, dark clouds, though there was no rain, and the scent of blood was on the breeze.
Not a single one of Baidong Mountain’s cultivators could stand against him.
He recalled the thought he’d had when he felt the mirror’s power winding about him, and all at once he realized something— could this mirror, no doubt the legendary Zhiming Mirror that could rewrite the fates of those who used it, have made it so?
Mo Yuan did not waste another moment, leaping from the ground into the skies, surrounded by a glow of crimson light as he shot off toward Baidong Mountain’s stronghold. If it was true, then he would surely be able to stain Baiyu Palace red with the blood of Mo Lan’s murderers— and even if it wasn’t, Mo Yuan still had to test his theory. After all, he had already planned to die, and now he had reached Jiedan Stage. If he were to die today, he would surely be able to take quite a few of his enemies with him.
The stronghold at Baidong Mountain was in chaos when he arrived, battle raging fiercely along its slopes, corpses lying all around in pools of their own blood. Mo Yuan was a bit taken aback— he’d not expected to find, when he arrived, that Qiu Wei had brought their people up here for a full scale attack after his disappearance. He had expected even less to see that they were doing so well, managing to stand firm against the Qin clan and their vassals despite the mounting casualties.
He didn’t have much time to assess the situation, though, before he heard the whistling of an arrow. He darted to one side to evade it, his speed imbued by a rush of spiritual power— but the arrow was no ordinary one, and after it had passed him by, it turned sharply to continue its flight, mercilessly seeking to embed itself within his heart.
Suddenly, there was a flash of red from the scar in Mo Yuan’s shoulder, and a brilliantly-shining red blade, shaped like a lotus petal, materialized out of his body. It sliced the arrow in two before shooting off and tearing through the abdomen of the one who had fired it and sending him falling to the ground.
Mo Yuan’s eyes went wide, and experimentally he flicked his fingers. The blade spun through the air now to hover just above his palm as he took a closer look at it.
This must be his vital weapon— formed from the arrowhead that had been embedded within him, coated in the poison that drained and suppressed his spiritual power. Now, it had been galvanized by his blood and spiritual power and turned to a razor-sharp blade. Mo Yuan willed it to move once more, and was delighted to find that the blade answered his every whim. He turned toward the archer he had struck down, approaching with a curious gleam in his eyes as he looked down at the wounded man.
He could feel a pull between himself and his fallen enemy… or rather, between himself and the enemy’s wounds, as though a silken thread connected this his newly-forged vital weapon of his to the wound it had dealt.
Mo Yuan couldn’t help but wonder… what would happen if that thread was unraveled?
After considering it for a moment, he formed a seal with his fingers. The invisible thread turned visible now, at least within Mo Yuan’s powerful spiritual sense, and he could see that it connected from the crimson blade directly to the wounded man’s meridians. Mo Yuan caught that spiritual thread between his fingers and, almost nonchalantly, gave it a tug.
The wounded man screamed in sudden pain. Blood poured from his wound into a deep pool on the ground, and he began to hemorrhage spiritual qi as well, unable to resist the draining effect of the crimson blade.
“Who are you— what is that?!” A cry rose up from somewhere behind Mo Yuan.
He didn’t even think twice before sending out the crimson blade once more as his victim crumbled to the ground, dead. Another group of Baidong Mountain’s cultivators had come upon him now. Quick as a flash, the crimson blade darted out and sliced back and forth across their bodies, leaving minor wounds behind while Mo Yuan exerted his will and summoned forth the second blade— the second arrowhead. With each wound he left, from a puncture to a graze, he could feel another one of those invisible threads forming, and with a mirthless smile gradually stretching across his lips, he allowed his enemies to charge toward him, only leaping up at the last moment.
In that same instant, he connected the threads and activated them.
A chorus of shouts of surprise and screams of agony rose up as the wounds were torn longer, wider, and deeper into the bodies— it was exactly like unraveling a bolt of woven fabric. Though he could not kill them instantly with mere cuts to the arms and legs, he could render those cuts deep enough so that they quickly began to bleed out, and drain their spiritual qi so that they would not be able to heal themselves fast enough to survive. The arrowheads that prevented escape now bound his victims to his will, the poison that once tainted his blood was now something he could turn on his enemies.
So this was the power he had gained, the one that Baidong Mountain’s cultivators wouldn’t be able to stand against!
If that was so… then there was nothing that would stop him from avenging Mo Lan.
He was tired of playing with these fools, who shook and trembled when faced with a newly-risen Jiedan stage rogue cultivator, who died with nothing more than a snap of the fingers. The one most deserving of Mo Yuan’s rage was someone far greater than they were, who dressed in fine silks and jewels and enlisted a torturer so as not to get his own white robes bloodied.
Without paying any more heed to the ones he had struck down, Mo Yuan turned and shot off like an arrow toward the mountain’s summit— toward Baiyu Palace.