Chapter Thirty-Five: The Fall of the Dao

“I refuse,” Li Ruoyu said as he gazed at the white-haired Taoist before him. As soon as the words left his lips, the entire world shattered like a mirror. Darkness engulfed his vision.

Li Ruoyu had understood his predicament from the very first night. Yet he willingly sank into the path of Slaying the Firmament, seeking to temper his own heart by wading through its Way. At the heart of this Way was Yan Mo'er; to traverse the gentle warmth she embodied, only to sever it, was in truth a form of self-cultivation and refinement.

Though it seemed an eternity, in reality only a fleeting moment had passed. As the saying goes, “a flower is a world unto itself”—so too are countless worlds but fleeting illusions. Beneath a great fissure to the northeast of the Abyss of Fallen Demons, Li Ruoyu now stood, grasping the Great Soul Banner that pierced straight through the heart of Slaying the Firmament. At the same time, Slaying the Firmament’s blood-hued sword had impaled Li Ruoyu’s shoulder.

Almost simultaneously, Li Ruoyu and Slaying the Firmament opened their eyes.

“Why? How is it that my two thousand years of cultivation are bested by your meager years?” Slaying the Firmament looked at Li Ruoyu, bewildered.

“All that you were, since Yan Mo’er’s return to the void, has become the past. What sustains you now is but a promise, two thousand years of sorrow, and the faint hope of bringing her back,” Li Ruoyu replied, his gaze tinged with melancholy.

He had intended to slay Slaying the Firmament, so his parents would not be threatened. But now, looking at his foe, there was only pity. “A pitiful soul, nothing more.” Li Ruoyu thought of himself, of the time when the Everlasting Nine Sect demanded he return home and sever all mortal attachments. The further he walked this path, the more he felt its ruthlessness and sorrow. “The divide between immortals and mortals” was no mere saying; the difference in lifespan was a fate every cultivator must face—watching loved ones age while remaining unchanging oneself. Staring at Slaying the Firmament, Li Ruoyu wondered: is this my future? Barely in his mid-twenties, yet already bearing a heart weathered by a century of hardship.

“Go. You cannot threaten my parents—only me,” Li Ruoyu said, his eyes a mix of release and dread for the desolate years ahead.

“One day, you will stand where I do,” Slaying the Firmament replied, as if seeing his former self in Li Ruoyu’s gaze.

After Li Ruoyu departed the depths of the fissure, Slaying the Firmament picked up the blood sword that had accompanied him for two thousand years and drew it across his own throat.

In this world, a person must have something to hold onto, some faith to believe in. Without these, there is nothing left to bind them. Like the once-mighty Pagoda, reduced to a broken sword and the remnant of a belief. Once Slaying the Firmament’s hopes were gone, his obsessions faded, and life became indistinguishable from death. In the end, what had this life been for?

The ten-year mark was drawing near. After leaving the great abyss, Li Ruoyu headed south—towards the exit of the Abyss of Fallen Demons. As before, he traveled on foot, using the land itself to hone his Way. Ten years in this valley had distilled his heart—he had come as a youth, and now, at twenty-three or twenty-four, he was on the verge of returning. Li Ruoyu’s understanding of time had deepened.

Time, pitiless as it is, seemed a mottled scroll, every dot and stroke painted by the past, composing a tapestry of vicissitudes. Li Ruoyu looked back on the decade—his first steps into the Abyss with Wang Bo, his banter with Jing Hong, his entanglement with Slaying the Firmament.

“Ten years,” he sighed. He wondered about his parents, whether the old acquaintances in the town were well. Recalling every detail of the past, he felt his cheeks grow damp—he could not tell if it was the wind, or sand caught in his eyes.

He stopped and gazed at the star-strewn night sky—so serene, so still.

Yet from afar, a flash of light broke the peace. Leading the way was a figure in a blue robe, holding a black sword with graceful posture, hair cascading like a waterfall, bright eyes and white teeth. Her gaze was so clear it was hard to meet, carrying a coldness as ever. Even with powerful foes behind her, Yu Qing was just as she always had been, an immortal from a painting.

Her pursuers seemed half mad. Li Ruoyu looked at the five following figures, certain he had seen them before.

“They’re like those who once hunted Jing Hong,” he suddenly realized. Without hesitation, he drew the bone sword from its case and charged at Yu Qing’s pursuers.

Yu Qing clearly recognized him; once opponents, she could not help but remember.

“Why are they after you?” Li Ruoyu asked, a trace of doubt in his voice.

Yu Qing did not answer. Her eyes were icy as she faced her foes, the black sword in her hand striking relentlessly. It was as if snow began to fall from the sky, and, standing amid the white, a plum blossom slowly appeared around Yu Qing, its coldly beautiful fragrance blooming in the snow.

“Winter Plum Blooms in the Bitter Frost.”

That Yu Qing had formed her Dao Aspect was not a surprise to Li Ruoyu, but the way it so perfectly fit her temperament left him deeply amazed. Snow fell upon Li Ruoyu, each flake tangible, and he felt a chill to his core, as if even his blood would freeze—this Dao Aspect could affect a person’s very will.

Seeing Yu Qing summon her Dao Aspect, her foe did the same. From illusion, a living volcano manifested into reality—lava surging within, black smoke billowing skyward, it charged at Yu Qing’s “Winter Plum” Dao Aspect. “No wonder Yu Qing struggles against him,” Li Ruoyu thought, observing the volcano’s natural dominance.

Li Ruoyu did not know the name of this volcano Dao Aspect, but could sense it countered Yu Qing’s. He too summoned his Dao Aspect: a black grave appeared, wild grass sprouting, a black tombstone marked by indistinct characters, standing in a world where black snow drifted down. Li Ruoyu did not know its name, nor had he seen it in any book. If he had to name it, “Desolate Burial Ground” seemed most fitting.

As the Dao Aspect manifested, a suppressive force weighed upon Yu Qing’s pursuers. Bone sword in hand, Li Ruoyu struck with a move called “Constant” at one of them.

The sword flashed—enemy slain. In an instant, one was killed. Without pause, Li Ruoyu attacked again—another died, one wounded. Not everyone was as monstrous as Slaying the Firmament. With the advantage, Li Ruoyu pressed on, striking the wounded. A head tumbled to the earth, followed by the body—another instantly decapitated.

Though two of their companions had fallen, the remaining three showed no reaction, still attacking Li Ruoyu and Yu Qing with manic fervor. They seemed like puppets—unfeeling, insensible to pain. The third fell soon after, slain beneath the “Desolate Burial Ground” Dao Aspect.

At the same time, Yu Qing dispatched one of her attackers, leaving only the one who had summoned the volcano Dao Aspect. Clearly, among these five, this last was no ordinary foe, possessing a special constitution and a Dao Aspect perfectly designed to suppress “Winter Plum Blooms in the Bitter Frost.”