Zhao Layue carried Yin San's corpse toward the outskirts of town, her steps light upon the green grass.
The bright light from the sky cast an exceedingly long shadow of her petite figure across the ground, which gradually faded beneath still brighter light.
The most important event on the entire continent was taking place, yet she did not turn to look. She only watched the shadow before her grow darker and lighter, as though this were more interesting than the strange phenomena in heaven and earth.
No one noticed her, so naturally no one saw the change that finally came over her expression.
The corners of her lips rose slightly. She was smiling.
Cheers gradually rose among the peaks.
There seemed to be cheering in town.
As heaven and earth grew brighter, the cheers grew louder, and her smile broadened until shallow dimples appeared in her cheeks, making her look rather cute.
She was truly happy, and felt some regret as well.
How wonderful it would have been to live in the same era as a genius like her granduncle-master.
Whether to study and seek the Way, or for anything else.
The cheering among the peaks abruptly vanished.
Nothing unexpected had happened.
The silence now represented their heartfelt wishes.
Just like the light illuminating the world.
Of course, in the end, there would still be some wistfulness.
Granduncle-master Jingyang had ascended.
Zhao Layue finally turned and looked up at the sky.
As she watched the gradually disappearing rift and the sword light that was almost out of sight, her eyebrows lifted slightly for some reason.
She looked at the corpse she carried, her smile gradually fading, somewhat puzzled and uncertain.
Clouds and mist held endless moisture, and streams often accompanied them.
Not far from Yunji Town ran a stream, trailing thin mist as it wound around high cliffs and low hills. After flowing several dozen li, it entered the rock face of another mountain.
An unknown distance into the rock face, the waterway gradually widened and the light grew brighter. There was actually a stone chamber, its walls inlaid with luminous jade rarely seen in this world.
The stone chamber was simple, containing only a stone bed joined to the mountain wall, with two rotted meditation cushions before it.
A boy stood with his hands behind his back, his head tilted as he looked at the stone bed. Now and then, a breeze stirred, lifting his white robes.
Someone lay on the stone bed, covered in blood and wounds, some narrow, some wide, some deep, some shallow. It was impossible to distinguish what weapons had caused them. His clothes were so tattered that no one could have recognized the fabric as woven from heavenly silkworm silk. His belt was still intact, an exceedingly faint murderous aura flickering in and out of existence around it. It was actually made from Nether Flood Dragon sinew. A waist token hung from it, though it seemed to have been carved from ordinary black wood.
This person had no breath at all and had long since died. Strangely, a layer of mist perpetually shrouded his face, unfathomably deep, making his features impossible to discern.
The boy stood before the stone bed, looking at the man in silence. There was no telling what he was thinking.
After an unknown length of time, he finally spoke.
"What a... bother."
His voice was clear but somewhat dry, and he spoke very slowly, as though he rarely spoke.
Light fell into his eyes.
His eyes were like an ocean, seemingly calm and clear, yet incomparably deep and vast, concealing countless storms and waves.
There was bewilderment, anger, regret, some weariness, and a weathered air utterly at odds with his age.
A moment later, every emotion in his eyes vanished, leaving only calm.
Like clouds and mist disappearing among the Nine Peaks, or the liquid light falling from the heavens finally dissolving into nothingness.
"I envy you a little. You can rest properly, while I still have to spend so many more years keeping busy."
The White-Clad Youth spoke to the dead man on the stone bed.
The dead man's belt stirred slightly, and the wooden token abruptly vanished.
A streak of cold light left the stone bed and flew swiftly around the boy, casting an ever-shifting radiance through the chamber. Only after a moment did it stop before his eyes.
It was a flying sword, about two feet long and two fingers thick. Its blade was smooth as a mirror, with nothing else remarkable about it, yet it gave an impression of being anything but ordinary.
The White-Clad Youth raised his right hand. The flying sword descended on its own and, with a soft snap, coiled around his wrist, gradually dimming until it resembled an ordinary bracelet.
Turning and walking to the stream, the White-Clad Youth suddenly remembered something that man had told him back then.
-No one can step into the same river twice.
Was that truly so?
Pondering this question, he stepped into the stream.
The stream traveled an unknown number of li through the mountain before emerging on the other side, forming a slender waterfall over a hundred feet high, quite lovely to behold.
The White-Clad Youth descended along the stream from the cliff, intending to walk upon the water, but his feet had already broken its surface and sunk into the lake.
Only after he drifted into the depths of the lake and his feet touched the bottom did he roughly understand what had happened. He was somewhat taken aback.
But he seemed not to know what expression he should use to convey surprise, so he looked rather blank.
The slightly chilly lake water had little effect on him. He looked around with his eyes open and saw a rock on the lake bed.
He lifted the rock from the lake bed into his arms and followed the rising ground, drawing ever closer to the surface until he walked out of the lake and onto the shore.
A dull thud sounded, the ground shook, and small ripples stirred in the water by the shore. He had set down the rock in his arms; one could imagine how heavy it was.
He was soaked through and felt somewhat uncomfortable. With a thought, he prepared to dry himself with sword fire, only to discover that nothing appeared.
His dripping hair and the wet clothes clinging to his body reminded him that he should build a fire now. Then he recalled that he had never built a fire before.
Tilting his head, he recalled books he had read many years ago and repeated in a dry voice, "Dry grass and branches of varying thicknesses are needed."
Once he was certain all the water had drained from his left ear, he tilted his head to the right and continued searching those distant memories. "Without flint, crystal is needed, or a fire drill."
A wood stood right beside the shore. He walked among the trees and swept out his hand. Wood came rustling down, soon piling into a small hill.
He selected the smoothest piece of wood and laid a few strands of fiber from beneath the bark upon it. At a slight stirring of his will, the silver bracelet on his wrist turned back into the small sword and hovered above it.
The keen sword tip pressed against the wood through the fibers and began spinning at an unimaginable speed. Sparks soon appeared, followed by wisps of smoke, and then flame.
His clothes rested on branches, giving off steam.
Watching the thickness of the steam and the speed at which it rose, the boy easily calculated that his clothes would need another three quarters of an hour to dry completely.
What to do with this time was not something he needed to consider.
For him, all time had only one use.
He sat cross-legged and closed his eyes, beginning to meditate and cultivate with utter naturalness.
But the next moment, he opened his eyes and thought blankly, What was the introductory mnemonic again?
Before you continue