Food Immortal Master, Section 12

He struck with his saber.

In the darkness, his hands and feet were icy, his whole body drained of strength. The wind bore down on him, and fear and despair climbed to their peak.

In that instant, Pei Ye finally grasped that glimmer of insight.

It had not been bad luck after all. The essence of this sword art was actually "harmony between heart and sword."

The realm those sword masters pursued so painstakingly after decades of immersion, after perfecting every stroke, was merely the threshold for entering this sword art's inner hall.

Only with the right state of mind could one truly wield it.

And only after his heart sank utterly into despair did Pei Ye finally understand what it was saying.

Pei Ye.

-You believe your talent surpasses others. While still young, you can cross blades with veterans in their forties and fifties. Everyone sings your praises, and you bask in your success. But have you considered that you are merely a frog at the bottom of a well?

-You think your resolve is firm, that you dare face hardship head-on and will never yield despite a hundred setbacks. But have you truly encountered an obstacle you could not surmount? Have you ever tasted complete and utter defeat?

-You pride yourself on your courage, your kindness and loyalty, facing powerful enemies alone for your friends and elders. But were you truly prepared to die? In the end, whom did you save? Given the choice again, could you still go forward without looking back?

-You pride yourself on your careful planning, your sharp mind, your talent for adapting in battle and defeating the strong with the weak. But when have you ever matched wits with a truly formidable opponent? Before this powerful enemy now, are you not laughably immature?

When everything you take pride in becomes worthless, who are you?

Peel these things away, layer by layer, from outside to within, leaving only that original, weakest "self," like a goose with broken wings on a snowy night. This was the state of mind in which the old man named Yue had created this sword art.

If, even then, you still have the courage to swing your sword.

Then this stroke will open its arms to you.

Emotion surged through Pei Ye. Darkness, fear, the taste of blood, the imminent blade-all receded. Life and death no longer mattered. He simply could not wait to unleash this stroke. Even if it was the last thing he saw before dying, he wanted to see what it looked like.

But where was the sword?

The sword was right beside his hand.

Pei Ye reached out and grasped it: a bronze rod a little over three feet long, one end indescribably sharp, the other fitted with a gourd.

In the silent, empty night, before the pitch-black curtain, countless white images suddenly came surging forth: snow, a white horse like jade, ice, frost flowers crusting a sword's gleaming blade, white, razor-sharp feathers drifting across the sky...

He thrust his sword.

Wu Zaigu seemed to plunge abruptly into darkness-true darkness.

No sight, no sound, no sensation. Even the saber in his hand seemed lost, as though he stood within the deepest dream, or had been buried in the darkest heart of the earth. The feeling of losing everything one relied upon was returned to him in full at that moment.

Only a keen wind raced past, roaring.

A tearing agony came from his throat. All five senses returned at once. Wu Zaigu slowly lowered his head, and his chin met a hard, cold bronze rod.

This was the first stroke of the Snowy Night Flying Goose Sword Form.

[Clouded Sky Obscures Eyes, Lost Feathers]

Chapter 21: Dragon

Pei Ye pulled out the long rod, and Wu Zaigu collapsed to the floor.

He formed that hand seal again, falling out of Quail Head and back into the real world. Exhaustion surged up from the depths of his mind at once, and his head throbbed with sharp, rhythmic pain.

Forcing himself to endure it, he took out the black talisman, dripped blood onto it, and pushed it down his throat. In an instant, his abdomen felt as though it had been churned to pieces, and the agony knocked him to the ground.

A fierce dragging sensation came from his belly, as though a hand had seized his stomach, along with his liver, lungs, kidneys, spleen, and a whole mass of organs, and was trying to haul them out through his throat. Pei Ye retched violently, spat the black talisman onto the floor, and rubbed his chest and abdomen with a breathless "hah."

The Little Flood Dragon Heart's two-hour limit applied to those with four meridians or more. An unprotected body of flesh and blood was nothing but a juicy piece of meat beside a wolf's jaws.

Forcing it out meant dying at once; leaving it meant dying slowly. Pei Ye had prepared himself for that when he swallowed it.

He struggled to his feet and pulled away the black cloth covering the flame. Eerie light filled the cellar again.

Pei Ye picked up the sword from the floor and turned back. Wu Zaigu was still breathing.

Pei Ye walked over to him with uneven steps. His bloodshot eyes bulged as his mouth opened soundlessly, his limbs twitching faintly.

Pei Ye stared for a while at that face, which kept bubbling bloody froth. Then he suddenly raised his foot and stamped down hard.

Without words or technique, silently, explosively, with every ounce of strength, he stamped on that face again and again, as though beating a dull old drum in the quiet cellar. Only when it had become an unrecognizable mess of flesh and blood did Pei Ye stop, panting. Then he pinned it beneath his foot, raised his sword, and sawed off the head.

Only after his breathing steadied did he turn toward the rustling behind him-the monster leaning against the wall on the other side of the room had already risen.

The way it repaired its body once again displayed that almost intelligent instinct. Though gaping wounds still remained, its limbs could already move. Where its arm had broken, the bones and tendons had reconnected first, while no flesh had grown at all. It was restoring its ability to fight as quickly as possible.

Yet when he truly regarded it as a terrifying opponent, it displayed an intelligence scarcely beyond instinct. Unable even to walk steadily, it was already trying to attack him, half crawling and half walking.

Pei Ye stared steadily at the monster, so like a lizard or an alligator. He now understood how all this had happened, and that left him even more speechless.

"Dragon Tongue..." Pei Ye lowered his head to look at the pointed rod in his hand.

Then he looked up at the monster without expression. "Is this the delicacy you cooked from human beings, Supreme One True Dragon Immortal Lord?"

The monster lunged, clearing the cramped space in a single leap. Pei Ye twisted aside and thrust his sword.

The sharp bronze rod pierced its hideous body. The monster suddenly stiffened, like a snowman melting in fierce heat. Its hard scales, its sharp bone spurs-everything softened, turning into a viscous, spectral-blue paste that raced up the bronze rod and was drawn into the Dragon Tongue, stored in the gourd-shaped vessel at its end.

At last, the cellar fell utterly silent.

But another change occurred.

Before Pei Ye could react, spectral-blue light had climbed onto the hand holding the rod. The blood vessels throughout his forearm seemed to have been replaced by this energy, glowing an eerie blue, as though blue cracks covered his skin.

Cold and power arose together within his forearm. Through this connection, he seemed to feel the Dragon Tongue's hunger directly.

Perhaps, to it, absorbing this first, insufficiently delicious offering meant the ritual had formally begun. It could not wait to seek a second delicacy.

If he could not provide one, perhaps he would suffer the same "backlash" as the black-robed man last night.

Pei Ye gave a faint scoff. What did a dying man have to fear from backlash?

He raised his hand to throw the rod away, but the moment his forearm lifted, it slipped beyond his control. Like a ravenous, vicious snake, the rod bit savagely into his abdomen.

Pei Ye truly dared not imagine what the inside of his belly looked like now.

First, his old injury had flared under the pressure of true qi. Then the Little Flood Dragon Heart had spread through him like a parasitic web. Now a bronze rod less than two fingers thick had stabbed into him and was sucking freely.

Pei Ye clenched his teeth and curled one corner of his mouth. He was dying anyway, yet still had to suffer more torment.

But he soon realized something was wrong. Though the pain was vivid and real, and a constant sense of "loss" came from his belly, that "loss" made him feel increasingly relieved, as though a shadow pressing down upon his life was fading little by little.

He suddenly understood-the Little Flood Dragon Heart. The Dragon Tongue was devouring the Little Flood Dragon Heart!

This magical artifact sent by the prefectural office likewise turned into a viscous, spectral-blue paste, only far more concentrated, enough to acquire a faint purple tint. The paste climbed along the dense engravings on the bronze rod and soon filled the gourd at its top.

A sensation of satisfaction reached him.

An ominous premonition arose in Pei Ye's heart, for he felt another vague impulse from the Dragon Tongue in his hand-it was about to perform the ritual's final step.

Before he could think any further, twelve spectral-blue tentacles burst forth and bound his body.

With a clatter, the bronze rod fell to the floor, all its light extinguished. The gourd at its top detached, resembling a spider or octopus with twelve long legs. Under Pei Ye's horrified gaze, it crawled into the bloody hole in his abdomen.

A searing heat like steaming or boiling immediately spread through his belly. He had no idea what would happen next.

Pei Ye bent down and picked up the mangled head. Gritting his teeth, he walked forward, pushed open the door, and entered another cellar room. The six people who had left earlier were all unconscious on the floor, the spectral blue on their foreheads slowly fading.

Pei Ye crossed this room and emerged aboveground. Rain was still falling. Wind laced with rain brushed his body, and he drew a deep breath of cool, damp air, but the scorching heat in his belly did not abate at all.

Pei Ye stood where he was for a moment to get his bearings, then staggered off into the distance.

His chest and abdomen felt as though they were burning, yet he could no longer feel the pain of his various injuries. Those hundred cold iron needles seemed to have melted in the heat.

But his body's exhaustion and the stabbing pain in his head had not lessened at all. In the dark, rainy night, Pei Ye looked like a ghost as he held up the Netherfire and struggled onward.

Out of the woods and across the fields, he finally drew closer. Dim silhouettes of buildings emerged from the curtain of night ahead.

Pei Ye arrived before that familiar door. The beast-headed knocker still sat quietly upon it. The scene from last night seemed to repeat itself, but this time, he already knew no one would answer.

With his remaining strength, he climbed over the courtyard wall. The courtyard was deserted, and two coffins stood in the open hall.

Head lowered, Pei Ye dragged his feet toward them.

The wind moaned, the rain lashed, and white mourning banners billowed and curled. Wind swept through the hall, sending the eternal lamps flickering wildly. Its mournful sobbing sounded like a dirge sung by heaven and earth.

Before the two departed souls, a ghostly figure slowly raised the head in his hand and smashed it down hard upon a coffin lid.

Chapter 22: Tiger

The story did not unfold solely in the small town of Fenghuai.

Let time shift back a little, to the third day of the eighth month, when rain bore down upon the town.

Then let the view rise higher, draw farther away, and move into the vast, verdant Firewood-Cang Mountains behind Fenghuai.

Here stood steep cliffs and towering trees, deep valleys and long abysses. Looking up, one could see only a narrow sliver of sky.

Dark clouds grew heavier. A rainstorm waited in heaven's mouth, a thin wind leaking between its lips and teeth, gradually strengthening until the woods began to rustle and sway.

A figure staggered onward at a run.

Mo Wu forced down the blood rising into his throat, but the wound on his left arm had split open again, and a few drops inevitably fell to the ground.

He stopped, scooped up the blood-soaked dirt, and swallowed it. Then he tore off another piece of his trouser leg and hastily bandaged the wound.

A downpour was coming. In his decades of experience, rain would conceal tracks and wash away the scent of blood, rendering every means a wild beast had of tracking prey useless. He would no longer need to trouble himself with hiding his trail.

But this time was different. Remembering that beast's uncanny ability to sense blood, he could not set his mind at ease.

Rain would wash over his wound, and his blood would inevitably spread. This storm might not be on his side.

But he had no choice. He had already discarded his bow and axe, leaving only a small dagger at his waist. All he could do was run a little faster, faster still.

They had ventured far too deep into the mountains this time.

When they first discovered signs of that thing, he had wanted to retreat. He had spent half his life hunting and had killed several tigers and leopards, but he had never seen a feline with such a long stride.

But the young men were hot-blooded. They said Uncle Wu had grown older and more timid. However big the tiger was, surely a dozen men could handle one beast?

Gangzi was with them, too. His father was a dead soul in that beast's belly. How could anyone persuade him to turn back?

The most pitiful was Yunsheng. Yunsheng was a clever lad, and Mo Wu could tell he had believed him. But he would not leave alone, and in the end, he had gone along with his brothers.

But hunting did not depend on courage, and that thing was no prey.

A raindrop struck his parched lips. Panting heavily, Mo Wu raised his head. Clearly visible, bean-sized raindrops plunged straight toward his eyes. He closed them and took the impact; even his eyelids felt a faint sting.