Volume One: The Dragon Rises from the Wilderness Chapter Twenty-Three: Self-Rescue

When he was in the village, Yu Ye always believed that in terms of wit, courage, or hunting skills, he was no less than any of his peers. Even after encountering Old Feng Qi, becoming an accomplice to bandits, and being thrown into the Yan family dungeon, he managed to stay calm and composed. He thought he understood patience and possessed enough cleverness; as long as he grew up and his body became strong, he could become a hero like his father.

Perhaps the Yu family village was simply too small.

It was only after he met Dust Rising and Bai Zhi that he realized how ignorant and powerless he truly was. Even the boy Gu Yu, who was about his age, made him feel inferior. To quote Jiao Ying, he was a fool—not only stupid and slow, but also arrogant and indecisive, good for nothing.

Or perhaps the world outside Xingyuan Valley was just too vast.

There were not only Daoist sects but also immortal sects, demonic sects, and countless unknown existences.

Now, he had finally embarked on a new journey, setting foot on a strange and wondrous path of cultivation.

Inside the Cliffside Cave.

Gu Yu was darting up and down, twisting and turning as he practiced his lightness technique. He guarded the cave while also refining his Daoist arts, efficiently managing both without delay.

Yu Ye sat on the stone platform at the cave entrance, seemingly pondering the lightness technique. Yet he was no longer animated and eager, but rather subdued and composed, his breathing long and steady—clearly cultivating his "Heavenly Gang Scripture" and the Seven Slaughter Sword Qi. Now, whether walking, standing, sitting, or sleeping, day or night, he was always practicing his breathing exercises and internal arts. He was truly afraid of Jiao Ying and dreaded another storm of scolding.

Though she seemed young, her temper was fierce, and her knowledge profound—well-versed in many cultivation techniques. Even the enigmatic Elder Qiu likely could not compare with her.

He had only ever heard her voice and never seen her. What kind of woman could she be?

“Hoo—”

Gu Yu finished his practice, landed lightly, and panted, “I’ve been at this for half an hour. I wonder how much you’ve grasped—any insights?”

Yu Ye shook his head.

Gu Yu walked to the pool, splashed water on his face, then turned back, smiling as if he’d expected this. “Without understanding the incantation, it’s hard to unravel the subtlety. Let it go.” He jumped onto the stone platform, waved, and said, “Why don’t you try mimicking a move or two? I might be able to point out your mistakes.”

Yu Ye shook his head again. “No need.”

He didn’t want to break any sect rules and get Gu Yu in trouble, and of course, he was still afraid of Jiao Ying’s reproach.

But Gu Yu was in high spirits and urged him on, “Hey, you used to be so straightforward—how have you become so hesitant after just two months?”

Unable to refuse any longer, Yu Ye jumped off the stone platform and walked to the open space, but his mind was clearly elsewhere.

Has it already been two months since he arrived at Xuanhuang Mountain? The days flew by, busy with cultivation. Since Bai Zhi last appeared, he hadn’t seen her again.

Gu Yu teased, “You’ve been watching me practice for ages—you must remember a move or two. Or have you forgotten everything?”

“I do remember a few sword moves,” Yu Ye replied, grinning. He turned and picked up the bamboo staff he slept beside.

“You actually remember sword techniques?” Gu Yu scoffed. “Let me see—don’t just boast!”

It was common knowledge that sword techniques were harder to master than lightness skills, so for someone to choose the harder path sounded like empty bragging.

Yu Ye steadied himself, formed a sword seal with his left hand, and drew a circle with the bamboo staff in his right as he moved in a slow, swirling step. His form and footwork were unhurried, as if strolling through a garden.

“Heh, are you dancing with your sword or drawing talismans?” Gu Yu couldn’t help but laugh.

Xuanhuang Swordplay emphasized fluidity and a balance of toughness and flexibility. When performed, it was seamless as wind and rain, filled with lethal intent. Even disciples of the Daoist sect, who knew the sword manual and incantations, needed three to five years of hard training to grasp its essence.

Gu Yu’s laughter faded as he watched more closely. Yu Ye’s movements were odd, but the staff seemed to follow a pattern. If the motions were slightly faster and the sequence unbroken, they faintly resembled the opening move of the Xuanhuang Swordplay. Then, without transition, he moved to the second stance. Abruptly, Yu Ye stopped, tapping the staff on the ground as if blind, searching for his way.

“Haha!” Gu Yu laughed even harder, shaking his head. “Your imitation is amusing. It’s getting late; I’ll practice with you again tomorrow!”

He tidied up and left.

Yu Ye remained, turning over sword moves in his mind, the bamboo staff tapping rhythmically. As the stone door closed with a thud, the tapping ceased abruptly. He let out a breath of relief, went to the cave entrance, and peered outside.

It was dusk; the mountain terrace below was cloaked in twilight.

Two figures ascended the stone steps—one was Gu Yu, head bowed, timid and meek; the other graceful and light-footed, unmistakably Bai Zhi, speaking softly. Their conversation seemed cautious, and both glanced up at the cave in unison.

Yu Ye quickly withdrew, frowning.

Bai Zhi, whom he hadn’t seen for days, had been keeping watch outside the cave? Why was she avoiding him, and what was she telling Gu Yu?

Yu Ye looked down at the bamboo staff, his expression growing resolute. He twisted his waist and flicked his wrist; with the sword seal of his left hand, the staff whooshed through the air, tracing arcs and casting shadows. The sound of wind swept in all directions, and he was soon enveloped by swirling staff shadows. Moments later, the sound and shadows vanished, leaving him standing silent, staring at the staff as he muttered, “If I can’t master the Xuanhuang Swordplay, I’ll be scolded again…”

With spiritual awareness and cultivation, everything he saw was committed to memory, and his understanding of Daoist arts advanced quickly. Watching Gu Yu practice swordplay daily, he had long since memorized it all, but pretended otherwise to avoid trouble. As Jiao Ying put it, this was “concealing the edge within, expressing intention without.” Yet if he couldn’t master even a basic sword style in two months, Jiao Ying would surely call him dull and clumsy again.

Yu Ye went to his bed, lifted his robe, and sat down.

The Xuanhuang Swordplay was one thing—what troubled him was that he made no progress with the Seven Slaughter Sword Qi.

The “Heavenly Gang Scripture” included appendices of protective spells, righteous spirits, warding evil, and fasting incantations, but Jiao Ying forbade him from practicing those, insisting he focus solely on the Seven Slaughter Sword Qi.

The Seven Slaughter Sword Qi, also called the Seven Slaughter Sword or Seven Dread Sword Incantation, was famed for its formidable sword energy. The incantation comprised six moves; after mastering the six, they merged into a seventh, the ultimate kill. Compared to the Xuanhuang Swordplay’s sixty-three variations, the Seven Slaughter Sword Qi seemed simpler, but only those who truly practiced it knew its difficulty.

Sword Qi was said to turn true essence into a sword—formless yet incredibly powerful. But for a novice cultivator who had just begun refining energy, how could he possibly forge sword qi from such feeble inner strength?

Alone in the cave, Yu Ye pondered.

As night fell, he closed his eyes, formed seals with his hands, and concentrated. With the circulation of his technique, his energy sea gradually filled. As a current of energy surged into his meridians, he snapped open his eyes, formed a sword seal with his right hand, and pointed into the air with index and middle fingers pressed together. The energy in his meridians rushed toward his arm, gathering at his fingertips. Excited, he exhaled and shouted, “Kill!”

Nothing happened.

The energy dissipated before leaving his fingers.

Yu Ye did not give up, repeating the attempt over a dozen times, but the sword qi he hoped for never materialized.

Where had he gone wrong? Was it a lack of true energy, or an error in method? Why did he always fail at the final moment?

As he racked his brains, his lower abdomen suddenly burned, his energy scattered, then his meridians cramped, organs ached, and his head spun. He collapsed, curling into a ball, groaning, “Jiao poison… Jiao Ying, save me…”

…

After more than two months, the jiao poison struck again.

Since being brought by Bai Zhi to Xuanhuang Mountain and confined to the Cliffside Cave, he had been nursed daily with herbs and elixirs, watched the sky and the sea of clouds outside, joked around with Gu Yu, and endured Jiao Ying’s constant lecturing—his days were busy and fulfilling. Especially since becoming a cultivator, he spent his time pondering lightness and sword techniques, or secretly practicing his arts, almost forgetting about the jiao poison. Just as he was focused on his sword qi training, that familiar, unbearable pain returned without warning.

But no one came to save him.

As he drifted in and out of consciousness, he heard Jiao Ying sigh. She repeated herself: “Heaven helps those who help themselves.” She had already taught him all she could; his life or death now depended on his own fate. Extraordinary opportunities always carried great peril. Having relied on the jiao pill to become a cultivator, he must also endure the agony of jiao poison. Only by achieving the Golden Core could he be free of this torment; until then, the only relief was that the intervals between attacks would grow longer as his cultivation improved.

Yu Ye rolled, trembled, and groaned on the ground until he was utterly spent and passed out. In his haze, he heard Gu Yu’s startled cry, then Bai Zhi appeared, grasped his wrist, and shoved several elixirs into his mouth.

At that moment, he finally understood Jiao Ying’s helplessness and concern.

His cultivation was still too weak; he had no power to protect himself, his life and death still not in his own hands.

Yet his luck, it seemed, was not so bad…

Two days later, he woke from unconsciousness.

The pain from the jiao poison had vanished. The daylight outside was as brilliant and vast as ever. Before him stood a bamboo box, and Gu Yu approached with a smile.

“Hey, you’re awake?”

Gu Yu squatted down, relieved. “Just as Senior Sister predicted—you’d wake within three days. But you’re not fully recovered, so you mustn’t be careless.” He opened the bamboo box, gesturing, “These healing pills are all nourishing medicines. Take them as needed—the more the better.”

Inside the box, there were no more herbs, but a pile of small bottles, at least twenty or thirty, each labeled with names like Qi-Nourishing, Spirit-Gathering, Evil-Dispelling, Fasting, and so on—but none for expelling poison.

Yu Ye lay on the ground, his face haggard.

He truly looked as though he’d been gravely ill. The pain and despair still lingered in his heart. Yet when he awoke, he found his spiritual sense had sharpened, his meridians held more true energy, and his cultivation had advanced, nearing the peak of the first stage of Qi Refinement.

Jiao Ying was right—opportunity and peril always went hand in hand; the cost of pain could be death, but sometimes it meant new life or gain.

Gu Yu fetched some stream water with a bamboo tube and set it down before sitting at the cave’s entrance, gazing into the distance.

“Dust Rising has returned to the mountain,” he said, “and brought several Daoist friends from afar. They said they’ve come to visit Master, but Master is in closed-door meditation…”