The Road is Difficult

The official road after the autumn rain was a muddy mess, wheels squelching through puddles with a sticky gurgle.

Chen Ping reined in the horse, the green-canopied carriage slowly pulling to a halt by a bend in the road.

A few paces away, beside a clump of shrubs, several corpses lay scattered haphazardly. Vultures flapped and pecked at them, not even startled by the approaching human, only letting out hoarse, threatening cries.

Chen Ping jumped down, his boot soles sinking into the mire, and walked over with a blank expression to inspect.

The bodies were long past recognition, but one glance was enough for him to see the signs.

Their throats and chests had been torn open by brute force—not the marks of fangs. The wound edges showed an eerie purple-black, identical to the dried corpses he'd seen that night at Anping Post Station.

"This thing again..."

Chen Ping narrowed his eyes, his fingers unconsciously rubbing the short knife hidden in his sleeve.

In this mortal realm, the closer one got to the Cultivation World, the more of these inhuman Evil Spirits appeared.

He didn't linger. Turning back to the carriage, he lifted the heavy curtain.

Inside, Yun Niang was wrapped in a thick fox-fur coat, yet still curled into a ball, her face pale as paper.

Days of bumpy travel and exposure to the elements had worn down this mortal woman, already frail from a pent-up heart condition.

"Ping Lang, outside..."

Her voice was faint, trailing off hesitantly.

"Just a few stray dogs fighting over scraps. Don't look."

Chen Ping climbed in, shedding his cold-ridden outer robe at the entrance before sitting beside Yun Niang and taking her icy hand in his.

Within his Dantian, the precious thread of Everlasting Spring Technique mana trembled slightly, splitting off a thin, warm current that flowed slowly through his palm into Yun Niang's body.

As the mana traveled, her furrowed brow relaxed, color returned to her pale cheeks, and her breathing steadied.

Chen Ping gazed at the fine lines at the corners of his wife's eyes and a single Silver Thread at her temple, a bitter hatred for the frailty of mortal flesh welling up inside him.

He himself was nearing a hundred years of Lifespan, strong and healthy, while the woman in his arms was like a candle flickering in the wind.

Yet he held her hand even tighter.

The carriage moved on. After about two hours, a ragged group of figures suddenly appeared in the middle of the road ahead.

There were over twenty refugees, their eyes gleaming with hunger, clutching rusted hatchets and sharpened wooden poles.

Their leader was a one-eyed brute, his face a mass of scarred flesh, drooling as he stared at the sturdy draft horse.

"Stop! Leave the horse and the food, and you can get lost!"

He swung his hatchet, his roar carrying the desperation of a cornered man.

Chen Ping sat on the driver's seat, his bamboo hat pulled low, his face hidden.

He said nothing, not even stirring a shred of mana.

The one-eyed man had just taken his third step when Chen Ping's wrist moved with near-invisible speed.

Shiiing—

A sharp-edged pebble shot through the air with a brief, piercing whistle.

Thud.

The one-eyed man's roar cut off abruptly. A bloody hole appeared in the center of his forehead, red and white matter spraying from the back of his skull.

His single eye wide, he toppled backward stiffly, splashing into the mud.

Dead silence fell around them.

The remaining refugees stared in terror at the motionless figure in the bamboo hat on the driver's seat, as if looking at a god of death.

"Scram."

Chen Ping's lips barely moved, spitting out a single word laced with the penetrating force of an internal martial master, rattling their eardrums.

With a shriek, the refugees dropped their weapons and scrambled into the dense woods on either side, vanishing in an instant.

Chen Ping's expression remained indifferent, as if he'd casually swatted a fly. He cracked the whip, and the carriage rolled forward, wheels grinding over the one-eyed man's corpse.

By dusk, the sky had turned a grim, heavy gray.

A dilapidated mountain village appeared ahead. Chen Ping intended to ask for shelter, but the moment the carriage reached the village entrance, that familiar chill made him rein in the horse.

The entire village was eerily silent—no roosters, no dogs, no cooking smoke.

By the old well at the entrance, a faint wisp of black mist coiled, barely visible.

Chen Ping closed his eyes and extended his weak Spiritual Sense toward the well.

In an instant, a bone-chilling cold from the deepest abyss crept along his perception. At the bottom of the well, it felt like countless vengeful eyes were staring back up.

"Yin energy gathering into a killing ground. A dead zone."

Chen Ping's eyes snapped open, cold sweat beading on his back.

Though curiosity gnawed at him about what lay in that well—perhaps some cultivation material—reason crushed greed in an instant.

Right now, he was nothing but a rookie at the first layer of Qi Refining. Any hint of curiosity could drag him into eternal ruin.

"Turn around. Take another route."

Ignoring Yun Niang's confusion, he decisively turned the horse's head, preferring to detour thirty extra miles of mountain road rather than set foot in that village.

Nightfall, deep in the mountain forest.

The campfire crackled, driving off some of the chill.

Chen Ping sat cross-legged by the fire, palms and soles facing heaven, circulating the Everlasting Spring Technique.

With each breath, he was surprised to find that the spiritual energy in this wilderness was actually two or three parts richer than in Qinghe County.

[Everlasting Spring Technique Proficiency +1]

[Everlasting Spring Technique Proficiency +1]

Watching the numbers flicker across his retina, Chen Ping's cold, hard face finally showed a hint of relief, with a glint of greed in his eyes.

This was proof of the theory of "Spiritual Veins"—the closer to the Cultivation World, the denser the spiritual power, and the brighter his hope for the path to longevity.

"Mm..."

A pained murmur came from the carriage behind him.

Chen Ping's expression tightened. He quickly withdrew his technique and stood, ducking into the carriage.

By the firelight, he saw Yun Niang's face flushed crimson, her forehead burning hot—she must have caught a chill, with a fever that wouldn't break.

"Cold... so cold..."

Yun Niang, half-conscious, clutched at Chen Ping's sleeve.

Without a moment's hesitation, Chen Ping once again drew on the hard-earned spiritual power he'd stored in his Dantian, the very lifeblood he treasured.

Simple warming was useless now; this time, he would use spiritual power to forcibly flush through her blocked Meridians and expel the cold.

This drained his spiritual power heavily, even risking a regression in his cultivation.

A pale green glow lit the dim carriage. Chen Ping's face grew paler as his power ebbed, but watching Yun Niang's brow relax, his eyes held only deep affection, not a trace of regret.

Spiritual power could be rebuilt; a wife lost would leave this long road to immortality shrouded in solitude.

Three days later, at the border of two provinces, One-Line Sky.

Sheer cliffs rose on both sides, piercing the clouds, leaving only a narrow gap wide enough for a single person—a carriage could never pass.

The wind howled through the gorge like the wailing of ghosts.

Chen Ping untied the draft horse from the cart, patted its rump, and let it go.

Then he bundled the most valuable Gold Leaves and dried rations into a pack strapped to his chest, and crouched down.

"Get on."

Yun Niang looked at the perilous mountain path, tears in her eyes.

"Ping Lang, I... I'm just a burden."

"Nonsense."

He hoisted her onto his back, binding them tightly together with a cloth strap.

"Hang on tight."

Chen Ping took a deep breath, pushing the Longevity of Pine and Crane technique to its peak. The muscles in his legs tensed abruptly.

"Up!"

Like a nimble ape, he leaped a full zhang into the air, his toes tapping a protruding rock on the cliff face, propelling himself higher.

The perfected Light Body Movement Technique was on full display.

Carrying a person, Chen Ping still moved as lightly as a swallow, leaping and weaving between the steep cliffs.

Every landing was precise, every burst of strength perfectly timed.

Sweat dripped from his forehead, splattering on the rocks, only to be whisked away by the wind.

Yun Niang clung tightly to his neck, burying her face in the crook of his shoulder, afraid to look down at the bottomless abyss, hearing only her husband's steady, powerful heartbeat.

After what felt like an eternity, Chen Ping finally scrambled over the last rock.

The view opened up before them.

He stood atop the peak, gazing into the distance.

Ahead, there were no mortal cities or villages. Instead, a range of mountains lay shrouded in perpetual mist. As the clouds churned, strange peaks and jagged rocks appeared faintly, like a celestial realm, yet exuding a chilling pressure.

That was the natural barrier between the mortal world and the Cultivation World.

The "Golden Sun" token, which had lain dormant in his bosom, now began to warm slightly, vibrating and pointing toward the depths of that thick fog.

Chen Ping untied the cloth strap, set Yun Niang down, and instead took her hand firmly.

The mountain wind howled, whipping his clothes.

Though he was still a mortal, carrying a pack and leading his ailing wife, his silhouette standing on the peak, gazing at the sea of clouds, already carried the solitude and resolve of a seeker of the Dao.

"Yun Niang,"

Chen Ping said, his voice low and steady, as he stared into the unknown mist, "We've arrived."