Chapter 73: Shadowed Soil, Seated Mist

"Information gap!"

Ji Ming was acutely aware that Wen Daoyu and Lord Chi Yi could deduce far more useful intelligence from the passage of the ghostly soldiers than he himself could. Judging by the blank look on the Golden Nemean Monkey’s face, he wasn’t faring any better.

Within the mist, the ghostly soldiers flitted through the village nestled at the mountain’s base. To mortal eyes, there was nothing but a cold wind pushing a swirl of fog through the settlement. The few night watchmen, seeing only drifting mountain vapor, paid it no mind.

Wen Daoyu’s arms transformed into crane wings, and with a gentle sweep, he alighted upon a thatched roof under the cover of night. Lord Chi Yi stepped onto the tail of an enormous serpent, which coiled beneath his feet, gliding forward with ghostly swiftness before slipping into the heart of the village.

The beating of insect wings grew near, and Ji Ming, clinging to the Golden Nemean Monkey, descended quietly through the darkness. They peered out, surveying the scene.

“Why is it that the night watchmen see no golden radiance from the mist?” the monkey blurted out, instantly regretting his question. Mortals, with scattered spirits and feeble vision, naturally could not draw forth the golden rays from the mist.

Fortunately, no one answered him. Their attention was fixed on the swirl of mist clinging to an old, dilapidated hut.

Within the vapor, the ghostly soldiers could be seen faintly, lifting up a “person” before swiftly propelling the mist away.

Ji Ming slipped inside the hut for a quick look. He saw an old man lying under a tattered quilt, his face drained of color, stiff as a frozen cadaver. His soul had already been taken by the ghostly soldiers.

As they continued to follow the mist, they realized the soldiers were harvesting the spirits of those at death’s threshold.

Just as dawn approached, the mist finally began to retreat. Ji Ming, perhaps only imagining it, felt that the mist had grown even denser.

After a moment’s hesitation, Wen Daoyu said, “These ghostly soldiers are herding the mist, harvesting souls to forge a treasure.”

The Golden Nemean Monkey clicked his tongue in amazement. “The Serpent of the Misted Ridge is trying to replicate an ancient artifact!”

“What artifact?” Ji Ming inquired.

“The Crown of Golden Radiance. Legend holds that when this treasure is unleashed, it creates the spectacle of the rising sun—casting golden rays for ten thousand leagues, and forging three thousand fire-dragon soldiers.”

As he spoke, admiration colored the monkey’s words. He turned to Ji Ming and continued, “This mist is a natural demonic technique, absorbing the golden clouds at dawn and dusk, collecting two strands of golden radiance each day. Over the past two centuries, he has labored ceaselessly, amassing countless strands to finally store several bolts of golden light within the mist.”

Wen Daoyu, hearing this, gave a derisive snort and replied, “If he were truly imitating the Crown of Golden Radiance, there’d be no need for ghostly soldiers to herd the mist and nourish it with souls. This must be the forging of a yin treasure.”

As they watched the ghostly soldiers pushing the mist back toward the pool, Lord Chi Yi turned to the others. “I intend to follow the soldiers underground and see what’s truly happening. Will you join me?”

Wen Daoyu’s eyes flashed with interest. He immediately lit three sticks of incense, inhaling deeply as he chanted, “Auspicious, auspicious—may the incense protect my spirit!”

Lord Chi Yi was unimpressed by this minor protective ritual, and from behind his head, a spectral banner appeared, floating above him and trailing threads of spiritual light.

“The shadow of the Soaring Serpent Banner!” Wen Daoyu’s gaze was filled with envy. Though Lord Chi Yi belonged to an unorthodox sect, he was clearly cherished by his master. The Soaring Serpent Banner was a treasured artifact, passed down through the generations from one of the Five Elders of Panhu. Even splitting off a mere shadow from such a relic would damage its very foundation.

To be honest, Wen Daoyu considered the warning power of the banner’s shadow greater than its practical use. Any discerning eye would know that Lord Chi Yi was a highly protected figure; to harm him would be to invite the wrath of the entire Panhu range.

Ji Ming and the Golden Nemean Monkey exchanged glances. They had already discussed the possibility of a confrontation beneath the Mountain of Dire Birds and agreed it was worth the risk.

“Caution above all else. If anything goes awry, use your method to return to the living world at once,” Ji Ming reminded the monkey repeatedly.

“Rest assured.”

With their strategy settled, one produced a Bright-Bone Heart-Jade, suspending it overhead, while the other tossed out a Red Gold Carp Circlet, transforming it into three carp that swam protectively around his body.

Wen Daoyu nearly cried out in surprise. The gem on the centipede’s head glimmered with silvery light, emanating a chill touched with compassion—just a hair’s breadth from becoming a true treasure. The circlet, though not quite as fine as the jewel, was a top-tier magical instrument; the crimson-gold water carp it conjured radiated a misty aura, making it perfect for guarding one’s spirit.

He’d always thought, among the four of them, that only Lord Chi Yi outclassed him, with the Golden Nemean Monkey his equal. Now it seemed he was the weakest. Thinking of his own magical implements, which he’d believed to be trump cards, he felt embarrassed to even let others see them.

“Wen Daoyu!” the Golden Nemean Monkey called out gleefully. “When we send our souls into the underworld, without a first-rate artifact to shield your spirit, you’ll be in real danger.”

Not every magical instrument could protect the soul. Most were single-purpose, meant for attack, defense, or flight—mere tools, nothing more.

Lord Chi Yi approached Wen Daoyu, suspending the shadow of the Soaring Serpent Banner over them both. “Prepare yourselves. The ghostly soldiers are here.”

“Thank you,” Wen Daoyu whispered, savoring the cool, soothing aura descending from the banner.

In truth, Lord Chi Yi was feeling the pressure—not overwhelming, but enough to prompt him to draw Wen Daoyu closer. Entering the underworld in spirit was no idle excursion; to leave one’s body even briefly was to risk eternal entrapment below.

Of course, this was only the underworld beneath the Mountain of Dire Birds, not far from the world of the living—retreat would be easy. But if it were the Northern Netherworld or the Heights of Mount Tai, not even the boldest would dare descend.

The ghostly soldiers, herding the mist, drew near. The four pressed themselves into the vapor, and in the next instant, their bodies, now abandoned, slumped to the ground as their souls were whisked away by the soldiers.

Lord Chi Yi’s body, as soon as it fell, was caught by the serpent’s head and tail, coiled and guarded within the serpent’s embrace—a precaution prepared in advance.

Ji Ming’s centipede body collapsed, but from a pouch strapped to its limb, three command flags shot out and planted themselves around its shell, summoning three ghosts to guard it.

Only Wen Daoyu and the Golden Nemean Monkey’s bodies hit the ground with a heavy thud, lacking any such protection.

Ji Ming, willingly swept along by the ghostly soldiers, felt his soul leave his body. He was enveloped in a boundless void, with no sense of direction—neither sky above nor earth below.

As he pondered his predicament, a sudden blast of wind and rain struck, snapping his spirit to attention.

Before him, a veil of smoke parted to reveal a precipitous, uncanny cliff. No beast called, no bird sang, no ancient trees clustered—only a chilling wind and billowing black mist.

Ji Ming looked around. He saw the Golden Nemean Monkey, Lord Chi Yi, and Wen Daoyu beside him, all just as lost as he, surrounded by ghostly soldiers shrouded in mist, peering down at the strange precipice.

It seemed they, too, were making their first descent into the underworld.

The ghostly soldiers, though fully formed, were empty of spirit—mere puppets awaiting orders. Otherwise, the four would never have been able to borrow their power to leave their bodies.

As they peered down, the mist around them suddenly shot forth bolts of golden radiance, illuminating the cliff and instantly dispelling the shroud of wind and black fog.

In that moment, cloaked in mist and standing amidst the golden light, the four seemed like celestial officials descending upon the underworld, riding the clouds to their appointed domain.