Chapter One: Stranded on a Desolate Island
Ye Mo awoke.
He struggled to open his eyes, his fingers twitching, and found himself clutching a broken plank, lying upon a cold, damp stretch of sand on the beach. His cheek was pressed into the fine, moist grit, stinging with pain.
A gust of wind and wave swept in, stirring the sea into white-capped foam. The icy water crashed over him in relentless waves, laced with the tang of salt and bitter brine, slapping against his face. He breathed in the acrid scent of the sea.
His entire body felt as though it had been battered to pieces, limp and aching, not a single spot free from pain. He had no idea how long he had lain half-submerged on this shoreline before regaining consciousness.
He choked on a mouthful of salty, fishy seawater, hacking violently. A searing, burning pain lanced his chest, as if his lungs were aflame.
He let go of the battered plank, fatigue and soreness weighing on his limbs, and forced himself to roll over and sit up on the sand. His coarse martial garment, soaked through, clung to his skin, chilling him to the bone.
Ye Mo gazed around in bewilderment.
Before him stretched an unfamiliar crescent-shaped bay, its beach carpeted with fine white sand, scattered with shells and conch. The deserted expanse was eerily silent, no trace of another soul.
This was clearly an island; inland, a small range of hills rose, blanketed in towering trees, wild and uninhabited.
Far out, the endless blue sea met the equally unbroken blue sky, tranquil and cloudless, with a few seabirds wheeling low above the waves, hunting for fish. The sun was sinking, and the golden afterglow cast a mysterious veil over the rolling sea.
“I should have been on a large sea vessel. How did I end up unconscious on this deserted island...?”
Ye Mo shook his heavy head, struggling to clear his mind and recall what had happened.
Little by little, he pieced together the chain of events that had led to his being stranded.
He was the son of a commoner in the royal city of Wu—an ordinary martial artist of no renown, only eighteen years old. His father had been a low-ranking soldier in the Wu army, killed in the endless wars. After his father’s death, his mother had worked herself to illness and passed away in grief.
Like so many nameless martial artists in Wu, Ye Mo’s early dreams were humble: to become a promising court officer, own a grand mansion in the capital, strut in fine clothes astride a spirited steed, and, if fate allowed, marry a beautiful wife. Nothing would have pleased him more.
But such dreams were easier imagined than attained.
Ordinary martial artists were everywhere in Wu. To become a court officer, one needed advanced martial skills, powerful techniques, and a steady supply of expensive strengthening herbs—all of which required a fortune.
A practitioner of advanced arts could defeat several common martial artists with ease.
Ye Mo had none of these things.
He was merely the son of a humble family in the royal city. Not only did he lack the money for precious herbs, he didn’t even own a decent intermediate-level manual.
His practice was based on “Wave-Cleaving Technique,” a basic, low-grade manual at best.
Moreover, the levers of power in Wu’s court were tightly gripped by officials and great families. Every post was spoken for; only their direct descendants had a chance to become officers. Even the lowest ranks had been carved up among the minor nobility.
For a commoner like Ye Mo, the future was grim indeed.
His humble dreams were nothing but daydreams, hopeless and distant. Between his hopes and harsh reality yawned an unbridgeable chasm, tearing his poor heart in two.
A month prior, a group of sea merchants from Donglai had arrived in the capital. They hired storytellers to spread tales of a “Spirit Island” upon the Eastern Sea—an island with an immortal village, inhabited by cultivators. The village’s pavilions were crafted from jade, and wondrous elixirs abounded that could cure all ills and grant eternal youth.
The storytellers embellished their tales with every telling:
“It is said that on Spirit Island, immortal mist shrouds the peaks year-round, and immortals drift through the clouds, elusive and ethereal.”
“Follow the merchants across the sea, find the immortal village, and you may be accepted as a disciple—learn the arts of immortality!”
“The disciples dwell in celestial palaces, train in supernatural arts, ride flying swords through the heavens, cross the seas atop spirit cranes!”
“There are countless beauties to serve them, powers to conjure clouds and rain at will, and even the royalty and nobles of Wu must look up in envy and awe.”
“Countless martial artists have sailed east in search of the immortal village, braving deadly storms and monsters, hoping for a word of guidance that would set them on the path to immortality.”
“It’s dangerous, but many have succeeded. For just fifty taels, you can buy a ticket from the merchants and set sail for Spirit Island. What’s money compared to such a dream?”
Under this relentless persuasion, many disheartened martial artists—including Ye Mo—felt their hearts swell with longing. They yearned to sprout wings and fly straight to the immortal village.
Yet in the end, few dared to take the plunge.
There was an old saying in Wu: “Better to climb mountains than brave the rivers.” The rivers themselves were perilous; the open sea, more so. The Eastern Sea was infamous for towering waves and raging winds, and for the fearsome sea beasts that prowled its depths. Nine out of ten who sailed out never returned.
To set out upon the sea was no trivial matter.
Legend spoke of dreadful sea monsters that attacked ships, devouring sailors whole—sometimes even swallowing entire vessels.
One such beast, the “Mirage Demon,” was said to be so vast it could stir the sea into clouds and conjure phantom islands. Ships, fooled by such illusions, would sail straight into the monster’s gaping maw.
Such tales of terror kept many would-be adventurers ashore.
But Ye Mo hesitated not at all. He knew full well that, as a minor martial artist, he had little future in Wu. Advanced techniques and strengthening herbs were far beyond his means.
If he stayed, he’d eventually have to abandon martial arts, scrape by as a merchant, marry, have children, and live out a life of obscurity in the city’s back alleys.
But that was not the life he wanted.
Though unknown and unremarkable, Ye Mo harbored a yearning to rise above his station!
He wanted a grand mansion, a fine horse, a beautiful wife and concubines.
He wanted to soar, to break free.
He wanted to live as he pleased, unbound by anything.
He wanted so much!
Ye Mo was only eighteen; he refused to spend his life as a faceless nobody in Wu’s capital.
He would change his fate.
He would rather risk everything, journey to distant, unknown lands, and gamble on his meager dreams.
Even if it meant venturing into the perilous Eastern Sea!
Ye Mo knew that if he continued drifting aimlessly in Wu, his life would slip away unremarked.
Gritting his teeth, he sold the only thing of value his family owned—the old house—gaining a hundred taels. He spent fifty to buy a ticket from the merchants.
With the rest, he purchased a fine sword from a weaponsmith and several packets of top-quality healing herbs, preparing for the voyage ahead.
And so Ye Mo boarded the great ship.
This massive vessel sailed from the Donglai fishing port, carrying over a thousand hopeful martial artists from the Nine Provinces, all seeking the legendary Spirit Island.
For a month, the ship drifted across the boundless Eastern Sea.
Just last night, the mood was still light; the passengers joked and planned for life after finding the immortal village—how they would become disciples, learn the arts.
Some dreamed of returning home as court wizards, second only to kings. Others boasted of marrying immortal beauties and siring crowds of children, drawing laughter from all.
But the good times did not last.
Without warning, black clouds rolled in, lightning flashed, thunder roared. For hundreds of miles, the sea was plunged into darkness, as if hell itself had risen.
In the distance, a cyclone spun across the water, rising into a pillar a thousand feet high, sucking the vast ship inexorably toward it.
The storm shattered every man’s courage.
Terror, helplessness, and despair swept the ship.
Ye Mo heard the masts and decks shatter, torn skyward by the storm, splintered in midair.
Before the tempest, the massive ship was as fragile as paper, ripped apart with ease.
Warriors tumbled into the sea, their cries for help echoing above the thunder and howling wind. In the face of death, all scrambled for survival.
Ye Mo only remembered that the moment the ship was torn apart, he leaped into the sea, desperately swimming away from the sinking wreck, clutching a broken plank until he lost consciousness.
When he awoke, he was here, stranded on this lonely shore.
Ye Mo gazed out at the endless sea, dazed for a long time before shaking his head with a bitter smile.
“How unlucky can I be?”
“I spent all my savings on a ticket to find the immortal village, and now the ship’s wrecked by a storm, and I’m washed up on some godforsaken island.”
“Still, at least I survived, didn’t drown—small comfort in such misfortune. There were thousands of us on that ship; who knows how many made it to shore instead of ending up as fish food?”
The memory of the storm sent a chill through him.
Thank heaven he’d grabbed that plank after leaping into the sea, or he’d have sunk without a trace.
“How do I get off this island? Am I to be stranded here for life?”
Ye Mo gave a rueful smile and sat on the sand a little longer, slowly regaining his strength.
“My sword, the herbs, the old painting—”
He suddenly remembered something important and patted himself down. On his back, he felt the hilt of his sword; at his waist, a cloth bundle.
Thank goodness.
His greensteel sword was still there!
With a metallic ring, Ye Mo drew the sword.
Forged from the finest steel, hammered and refined a hundred times, it was razor sharp and gleamed with a cold light—a true treasure among weapons.
Most martial artists in Wu wielded nothing better than an iron sword; even the advanced ones rarely possessed such a fine blade.
He had spent forty-five taels on this sword just for this voyage, strapping it tightly to his back with coarse rope. Thank heavens it hadn’t been lost to the sea.
He sheathed the sword and opened his cloth bundle—inside were several packets of healing herbs and a very old painting scroll. The herbs, wrapped in oiled paper, were safe from the water.
But the sword and herbs were not what he valued most.
Ye Mo’s greatest treasure was the painting scroll, about a foot long.
He remembered his mother telling him that when she gave birth to him, the Immortal Village Scroll had somehow appeared and had remained by his side ever since. It was his lifeblood, never to be lost.
The painting was ancient, its scroll handle a rare gray material.
When unrolled, it revealed a misty, ethereal scene of an immortal village.
Since childhood, Ye Mo had carried it everywhere. The cloth was strange—soft and pliant, yet impervious to all harm. Fire and blades could not leave a mark.
“As long as the painting is safe!”
He exhaled in relief. He had sold everything; this was all he had left. With its aura of immortality, it was his only keepsake.
He thought for a moment and tucked the scroll inside his clothing at his waist, lest he lose it.
“Let’s search the beach for something to eat. If I washed up here, perhaps some food from the ship did too. After all, the ship carried provisions for over a thousand people—just a bit of that would keep me going for a while. And maybe I’ll find other survivors. With so many martial artists aboard, I can’t be the only one. If I find others, we can work together to get off this island.”
Rubbing his empty, growling stomach, Ye Mo guessed he’d been unconscious for at least half a day.
He glanced around, dusted off the sand, adjusted his bundle, and, sword on his back, set off along the beach.
The open shoreline made it easy to spot any other survivors. If fortune favored him, he might even find a fish stranded in a tide pool and have a decent meal.
A few dozen paces from the beach, the land rose into hills, covered in dense, shadowy woods and tangled undergrowth.
Unfamiliar with the island, Ye Mo was wary of venturing into the forest, where poisonous insects and snakes might lurk. His sword could handle beasts, but not tiny venomous pests; a bite here would be a death sentence.
The open sand was far safer.
From what he could see, the island was large—at least several miles of coastline.
He walked several miles along the shore.
Suddenly, he spotted a pile of broken planks ahead.
“Shipwreck! Maybe there’s food!”
He hurried over to the wreckage.
He remembered the ship’s holds had been filled with barrels of rice, cured meat, pickles, wine, and other provisions.
He rummaged through the debris, found a few shattered barrels, but they were all empty—not even any soggy rice left.
He could only sigh.
Aside from the broken planks, there were just a few empty barrels—no trace of food, not even a scrap.
Just then, a flock of seabirds flew overhead.
“Seabirds?”
He blinked. “If there are seabirds, there must be eggs around here! Heaven hasn’t abandoned me yet!”
Revived, he searched carefully among the grasses near the beach.
Seabirds usually laid eggs in the thickest grass.
Before long, Ye Mo returned with both hands full—a clutch of seven or eight brightly colored eggs, his eyes almost brimming with tears.
“At last, something to eat! Raw won’t do—let’s have a proper roast.”
He gathered dry wood, moss, and dead leaves from the forest’s edge.
On the beach, he buried the eggs in the sand, piling wood on top.
Digging a small pit in the driftwood, he placed the dry moss inside and rapidly spun a sturdy branch against it. With the speed and strength of a martial artist, he soon had sparks.
The dry moss caught fire.
He added the kindling, and soon a campfire was burning.
Ye Mo took a branch and used it to dry his soaked clothes by the flames.
Soon, the eggs were baked under the sand.
He dug them up, cracked the shells, and a wave of warmth and delicious aroma hit him.
He wolfed down half the eggs in a few bites.
“Delicious!”
He licked his lips and wiped away the crumbs.
The other half, he forced himself to save.
Night was falling. Ye Mo cut some branches with his sword, built a crude shelter by a large tree at the edge of the beach, and covered it with dry grass.
Within half an hour, he had constructed a simple “tent.”
Night had fully descended.
The shelter was just a few paces from the fire, which he fed with more wood to keep it burning and ward off any beasts.
Finished at last, Ye Mo crawled into his shelter to sleep.
The night sky was filled with stars.
“Even on a deserted island, I can keep training, make myself stronger.”
“There’s plenty of wood here—I can build a raft. I’ll train and build a raft, and when I’ve made enough dried meat, I’ll set out again to find the immortal village.”
“As long as I live, one day I’ll reach the immortal village! My dreams, my future—I won’t give up!”
Lying in his shelter, sword in his arms, Ye Mo watched the fire burn. Though stranded, his longing for immortality only grew stronger.