Volume One: Youths Meet in Humble Times Chapter Twenty-One: Such a Grand Gift—To Refuse Would Be Discourteous

When old acquaintances meet, the feelings that arise can be joy, or they can be an onrush of all manner of negative emotions.

The Phantom Demon had existed for far too long. Over the years, his cautious nature had kept him from running into too many cultivators who made it their life’s work to vanquish evil, but “not too many” was not the same as “none at all.” Lu Ming’s master, Sword Nine Clouds, was one such person, and the Daoist before him now was another.

He remembered it well: back then, he had just broken into the Tenth Realm, and was searching for an opportunity to ascend to the Eleventh. He was at the height of his power and arrogance, feeling invincible. Later, he came across a secret technique from who knows where—a method that required using the souls of ninety-nine children born under the purest yang stars as a medium to seize that crucial step from the Tenth to the Eleventh Realm.

Just as he had gathered the ninety-nine children and was about to complete the ritual, he encountered the greatest nightmare of his life.

When the Daoist saw the Phantom Demon, the demon was still basking in his own triumph, not taking his opponent seriously at all.

In the Phantom Demon’s understanding, no righteous cultivator who had surpassed the Tenth Realm would wander aimlessly. Most would find a place to seclude themselves, seeking enlightenment for higher realms. Only those like himself, practitioners of the dark ways, roamed the world in search of opportunities to break through. As for cultivators who had not surpassed the Tenth Realm, in his eyes they were mere chickens and dogs, not worth a second thought.

But fate, as ever, played its tricks. By chance—good or bad, he could not say—he encountered such a person. No matter what means the Phantom Demon used, he could not harm the Daoist in the slightest. Only then did he realize: his opponent was undoubtedly a great cultivator.

Once he understood this, he tried to escape at once. But no matter how supreme his skills at flight, they were useless in this moment. With a wave of the Daoist’s hand, the space around them sealed tight, turning the Phantom Demon into a trapped beast, unable to call for help from heaven or earth.

Then, the Daoist’s right hand shifted from palm to sword, and with a single, seemingly unremarkable strike, the demon’s cultivation plummeted from the Tenth Realm, falling and falling until not a shred remained.

For a cultivator, to lose one’s cultivation was far worse than death itself. The Daoist did it effortlessly. For the Phantom Demon, it was an experience he had never imagined, never even heard of, let alone thought could happen to him.

At that very moment, as the Daoist’s art threatened to sever his very life, the Phantom Demon finally managed to call upon a secret treasure hidden in his soul. The artifact flared to life, tore open a rift in space, and whisked him away in desperate escape.

Before he fled, he burned the Daoist’s features into his memory. The terror the Daoist inspired in him was greater than any life-or-death crisis he had ever known.

He never expected, after so many years, that fate would bring them face to face once more.

The Daoist looked at the Phantom Demon, who was drenched in cold sweat, and half-smiling, said, “It’s been many years. I trust you’ve been well?”

The Phantom Demon forced himself to appear calm, though fear lingered in his heart, and answered with reluctant defiance, “Thanks to you, I had the chance to start over.”

The Daoist continued, “I was always curious—what was that artifact you used to break my spatial seal? Did you bring it with you this time?”

The Phantom Demon retorted, “What business is it of yours? Do you think I’m still the lowly cultivator I was back then? If it comes to a fight, I might not lose to you.”

The Daoist glanced at him, nodding in praise. “You’ve indeed improved. You’re already brushing against the threshold of the Thirteenth Realm. Once you fully absorb that Yin-Yang Primal Pearl, breaking through will be a mere formality.”

It didn’t surprise the Phantom Demon that the Daoist could see through his cultivation and possession of the pearl at a glance. This time, he was determined to seize the initiative.

The Daoist had barely finished speaking when a sword flew from the spatial rift behind him, aiming straight for his back. But when the blade was still thirty feet away, it could go no further.

The Daoist reached out, and the sword leapt into his hand. He regarded it with approval. “One of the Ten Dire Swords—Yellow Springs.”

Then he said to the Phantom Demon, “It seems your rank in the Sect of the Yellow Springs is not low, to have gained their ancestral blade. Pity you only know how to use it for ambushes, without understanding its true potential.”

With those words, the Dire Sword Yellow Springs vanished.

The Phantom Demon cried out, “What did you do with my sword?”

The Daoist replied calmly, “Why ask? Of course I’ve taken it as a trophy. After all these years of cultivation, your mind still isn’t very sharp.”

He added coolly, “If you have any more tricks, now’s the time to use them. I’ll give you two more chances. Once your chances are up—if you haven’t bested me—I’ll deal with you myself.”

A storm of rage and fear passed across the Phantom Demon’s face. He wanted to explode in anger, but didn’t dare, worried that provoking the Daoist would bring disaster. Not daring to hesitate, he seized the chance and unleashed his strongest technique.

Before him, a stick of incense ignited. As it burned, the scenery around them warped and twisted. Faintly, a mesmerizing, soul-ensnaring fragrance drifted on the air.

The Daoist, of course, inhaled the scent—and found himself swept into an illusion.

With his cultivation, he knew at once that this was a phantasm conjured by his opponent. Yet rather than fear, he felt a flicker of genuine interest.

The scene within the illusion shifted again and again, finally settling into an image of endless Yellow Springs, churning with deathly energy.

The Daoist looked around with keen interest. “I never thought he could transplant the secret domain of the Sect of the Yellow Springs into his own illusion. I wonder how this phantom domain compares to the original.”

The Yellow Springs seethed, and from their depths a hand emerged, bracing itself on the surface of the river. Using this leverage, a monstrous figure hauled itself out. Its head bore twin horns, its eyes bulged like bronze bells, its nose was thick, and its mouth bristled with enormous fangs. Even with only half its body out of the water, it seemed about to burst the confines of the illusion. When it stood fully upright before the Daoist, it loomed like a mountain.

The Phantom Demon could sense all that was happening within the illusion. This was the strongest technique he could muster by combining the bewitching incense and the secret domain of the Yellow Springs Sect. He remembered his own first encounter with this monster, upon entering the Twelfth Realm. At the time, he had been utterly powerless, nearly dying on the spot—saved only by the secret treasure in his soul that could tear open spatial rifts.

Inside the illusion, the fearsome monster attacked. It gestured, and the waters of the Yellow Springs surged upward, swirling around its arm before being hurled at the Daoist.

For the first time, the Daoist’s expression turned solemn. He formed a sword-finger gesture before his chest and closed his eyes. As the Yellow Springs’ waters were about to strike, he shouted, “Scatter!”

The deadly water dispersed into a rain that fell from the sky, drumming against the monster’s body and shattering it into oblivion, leaving no trace behind.

Then, the Daoist slashed forward and cried, “Break!”