Chapter Two: If Only Life Were as It Was at First Sight

Page 1 of 3

At this moment, the more pressing issue for Shen Lian was not to ponder such questions, but to contend with the force pulling at him from the white banner. He could distinctly feel its suction. The connection between his physical body and his spirit was growing ever fainter. Shen Lian could not help but feel keenly his deficiency in this respect—his body and soul were not in harmony. This made it easy for his spirit to leave his body, allowing him to master arts such as the Soul-Extinguishing Sword, but it also left him dangerously exposed.

If only his soul and vital essence were fused as one, he would not be so easily drawn from his body. At this moment, the sandalwood sword at his waist began to glow faintly, emitting a pull that countered the force of the soul-summoning banner. Shen Lian remembered what Master Su had once said—that he had, unintentionally, grasped the art of forging spiritual weapons.

During that period, the sandalwood sword had indeed become a unique artifact attuned solely to Shen Lian. It did not possess any remarkable power, but it was like a part of his own flesh, able to carry his spirit. In fact, the bond between the sword and his soul was even deeper than that with his own body. The sword was a blank slate, and as Shen Lian cultivated the “Qi of Mutual Genesis and Annihilation,” his own mark became deeply imprinted on it—it became a part of him.

The small boat drifted downstream, drawing ever closer, and the suction from the white banner intensified with the lessening distance. The sandalwood sword at his waist trembled, several times seeming as though it would fly off with his departing spirit. The white-robed figure, singing a dirge for the dead, appeared not to notice Shen Lian, shaking the white banner as a matter of routine, snatching the soul-fires of the remaining beings, and drawing them one by one into the eerie banner.

Only when the boat neared did Shen Lian realize why it was entirely white—it was made of paper. Under the pale moonlight, beside the solitary lantern, the white-robed figure had neither nose, ears, nor eyes, and no feet either.

Shen Lian and the white-clad figure were now almost face to face. If he could withstand this passage, the figure would simply float away downstream, growing more distant. If not, he would become like the rest—another soul-fire drawn into the white banner.

The ethereal, muted dirge was sung in a language Shen Lian could not understand. Several times, he tried to visualize that primordial deity to help him weather the ordeal, but each attempt was interrupted by the mournful song.

The pull of the white banner grew ever stronger; Shen Lian could barely endure. Summoning the last of his mental connection with the sandalwood sword, he managed to have the sword lift into the air, carrying his spirit within it.

Page 2 of 3

At the same time, it shot toward the white banner—but along the way, it traced a mysterious path, secretly echoing the opening movements of the “Qi of Mutual Genesis and Annihilation.” Shen Lian was staking everything, turning his very soul into sword energy for a final gamble. Only someone like him, who had never received orthodox training, would dare such a reckless act—transmuting his soul into a sword, hoping that by vanishing at just the right moment, he could evade the strange power of the white banner.

He had no idea what might happen as a result. When the sword energy of “Mutual Genesis and Annihilation” vanished, who knew where it would go or what would occur? He wasn't even sure if, by using only the opening form of the technique—without circulating internal energy through the meridians—his soul could truly disappear midway.

Suddenly, the sound of bells rang out, familiar to Shen Lian. It was the melodious chime from the bells worn by the woman in the purple robe earlier that day. The flowing water ceased, space itself seemed to freeze, and Shen Lian nearly lost all sense of self.

When he regained awareness, the night was once more bathed in moonlight and cool breeze. There was no paper boat, no solitary lantern, no white banner, nor the mysterious white-clad figure—only the sandalwood sword, still damp, lay before him.

He carefully reached out to pick up the sword. On touching the wet spot, a thin wisp of green smoke rose from his hand, and a wave of searing pain shot through him. The agony was not physical but originated from his very soul. Just moments ago, his spirit had actually been eroded slightly by the water left on the sword, causing such intense pain.

He had never tried to touch the water of that river, and had not expected it to be so terrifying, capable of dissolving the soul itself. Only after the wind dried the moisture did Shen Lian cautiously touch the sandalwood sword again. This time, nothing happened, and he could finally breathe easier.

However, the sword felt much heavier in his hand now, its color darker and more somber than before. The mental connection between them, though, was unchanged, as intimate as ever. The sensation of flesh and spirit merging was still vivid.

After this ordeal, Shen Lian did not linger by the river but hurried away from its banks. He had always acted with caution, and when he first sensed the river’s strangeness, he should not have let curiosity draw him on, nor sat by its edge at night to meditate. But he had ignored these instincts. In hindsight, it seemed the river held a subtle power, making him unconsciously overlook the danger.

Page 3 of 3

Once he left the river far behind, he sped southward. Before sunset the next day, he came upon a sheer cliff. The rock face was as though carved by blade and axe, crisscrossed with sword marks, as if some celestial sword had once split it open. The awe such a sight inspired could not be put into words unless witnessed firsthand.

Whether the cliff was shaped by human hands, immortal power, or the grandeur of nature itself, Shen Lian could not tell. Atop the precipice stood a solitary human figure—nothing else.

She was wrapped in a purple robe, the breeze stirring her sleeves, her long hair streaming out, a single lock brushing her perfectly curved lips. Shen Lian’s heart wondered: Was she human, ghost, immortal, or perhaps a demon disguised as a woman?

He could feel her gaze upon him, yet she said nothing. Of course, for a voice to carry down from such a height, across the mountain wind, would require astonishing power. Shen Lian, whose martial skills were already beyond the mortal realm, doubted even he could manage such a feat.

Yet, unexpectedly, the woman did speak, and Shen Lian was certain it was her, addressing him from the summit. Even across several hundred paces, her gaze seemed to pierce straight through to him.

Perhaps he would never forget this moment: beneath the setting sun, on the cliff’s edge, a young woman of ethereal beauty looked down at him with a gaze both distant and pure, devoid of any impurity.

What surprised Shen Lian even more, however, were the words she spoke.

“Whose child are you, wandering into the Nether River? Didn’t your family warn you not to go there?” Shen Lian, already a youth on the cusp of adulthood, was startled to be called a child by a girl who appeared no older than himself.

He would never have expected it, yet she spoke so naturally, as if it were the most ordinary thing in the world. Then the young woman let out a soft exclamation, her voice clear and carried effortlessly by the wind to Shen Lian’s ears. She continued, “You’re not from Nanke Town? Then how do you possess the Divine Foot Sutra? Ah, so it’s the season to open the mountain gates again, and the sect master’s nephew didn’t even inform me.”

From this final remark, Shen Lian detected a hint of annoyance in her tone. At the same time, her ability to identify the Divine Foot Sutra at a glance was enough to confirm she was intimately connected with Qingxuan.