Volume One: The Wild Youth Chapter Eight: The Blade of the Yu Clan, Named Judgment

Once, in the Northern Territory, a great sage declared that of all the talent in the world for mastering the Way of the Blade, at least a portion—a mere two pecks—belonged to Yu Baili. Yet there was a continuation to that saying: the full measure of talent in the Blade’s Way amounted to ten loads, and the remaining nine loads and two pecks belonged to him alone.

Today, Yu Baili, the man said to possess two parts of the world's blade mastery, drew his sword once more.

His blade fell to the Yellow Springs, severing life and death alike.

Tendrils descended from the heavens, thrashing wildly in an attempt to halt Yu Baili’s advance, but the figure in white moved like a dragon gliding through the air. Wherever his blade swept, nothing could obstruct its path; the tendrils were sliced cleanly, one after another, until the monstrous form lurking behind the veil of heaven let out a guttural roar—part threat, part terror.

At last, the blade of Jiuhu arrived. The creature behind the veil revealed its true form: faceless, yet somehow shifting with the myriad expressions of the world.

Yu Baili’s blade pierced through the heavens, descending straight upon the faceless terror. The force of his strike hung in the air, his white robes billowing as he gazed skyward—bright as the silver moon greeting the spring breeze. In a fleeting instant, the blade of Jiuhu had passed! The faceless monster let out a mournful wail as countless souls unraveled from its body. Now, with its true form revealed, it resembled Maitreya—neither good nor evil.

He sheathed his blade slowly, coming with the thunder of wrath and departing like the calm clarity of rivers and seas.

In truth, the great sage had another saying: “The world’s blades may entertain me, but the sword that can truly knock upon the celestial gates belongs to Yu Baili.” Jiuhu still recalled what he had replied to his fellow warriors at the time: “See, even great sages speak nonsense. Unless he gets a good beating, he’ll never speak plainly.”

...

The turmoil in the mist continued unabated. More and more skeletons turned to dust—mortals and awakened alike could not escape this fate. The sounds of weeping and screams filled the air without end. The sentinels, powerless against such catastrophe, gritted their teeth and charged into the white fog one after another.

Lin Changtian gripped Kuisheng, suddenly turning to look at him, eyes narrowed and silent, staring so intently that Kuisheng felt a chill run down his spine. Hastily patting himself down, Kuisheng stammered, “Brother Lin, what’s wrong now? Why are you looking at me like that? You’re scaring me.”

Without answering, Lin Changtian stood with his hands behind his back and said quietly, “You walk ahead and pull me along.”

Relieved, Kuisheng was a little moved. “Brother Lin, you’re still the best. Even now, you haven’t forgotten to watch my back.”

“No, you’re just too fat. I simply can’t drag you any farther.”

Within the ghastly white mist, a peculiar scene unfolded.

A corpulent fellow dragged along Lin Changtian, who was squinting his eyes in enjoyment. The fat man’s face was streaked with sweat, but he dared not stop.

“This mist is really thick, Brother Lin.” Lin Changtian hummed a little tune, ignoring Kuisheng’s complaints.

Kuisheng looked around carefully and sighed. “So many people are cut off by this fog, can’t see a thing. Who knows what monsters are lurking inside? No way up, no way down… Could we be any more unlucky?” Lin Changtian gave no reply, and the fat man kept grumbling about all sorts of trivial matters.

He carried on with his complaints while Lin Changtian immersed himself in his tune, the pair seeming utterly out of place in the oppressive, deadly atmosphere around them.

Suddenly, a seductive melody wafted through the mist, light and lingering, captivating all who heard it. One by one, everyone stopped, lost in this enchanted soundscape, oblivious to the horrors revealed as the mist dissipated.

Perhaps only Lin Changtian remained unaffected. Unafraid, he curiously surveyed the scene as the fog cleared: corpses scattered everywhere, white robes mingled with the garb of scholars, a landscape of death as though a thousand years of desolation had settled in an instant. Lin Changtian, still pulling the fat man, moved forward cautiously. Noticing the people around him entranced like puppets, staring at the source of the sound, he grew ever more uneasy. After ensuring Kuisheng was safe, he ventured toward the origin of the melody alone.

The mist had risen swiftly, and now it receded just as quickly.

When the melody swelled, the mist vanished completely, as if it had encountered its nemesis—or like a sated host dismissing his guests, ushering in the next wave of ghouls to feast.

As he proceeded, Lin Changtian’s expression grew grave. Those around him wore faces of foolish joy, sorrow, anger, and greed—the full palette of human emotion, all exposed at once.

He pressed on, glimpsing the ever-composed Chen Ziliang and Lin Xiaoxi, her face streaked with tears, as well as the hopeful ice-wielder Xu Yong and an old teacher who, eyes wide open, stared back at him.

Lin Changtian continued forward. “Hmm? Eyes open?!”

He hurried back, staring in shock at the teacher who had always sipped tea in class—a statue frozen in place. The old man made a gesture for silence and pulled Lin Changtian aside.

The old man fixed Lin Changtian with a severe gaze, scrutinizing him from head to toe. After a long moment, he spoke slowly, “No wonder Yu Baili instructed me to protect this team—it was for you, it seems. Come, let me check your spiritual foundation.” With that, he grabbed Lin Changtian and began to feel around.

Lin Changtian’s face twitched with indignation. “So many have died, even some of the sentinels, and now everyone’s under the spell of this melody. Why are you still checking my foundation?”

The old man glanced at him and replied nonchalantly, “Well, I’m not a sentinel myself. All the strong fighters have gone to the Bohai front for opportunities. In this region, only Yu Baili can be called a master, and he’s not here now. The monsters in this disaster are so strange—what can I do? I’m just a humble teacher.”

“So many people have been bewitched, and you, a humble teacher, are untouched?”

The old man stroked his beard and said, “If you put it like that, your spiritual foundation is ordinary, and you’re not awakened—how is it you haven’t been affected by the melody either?”

Lin Changtian pondered, then said earnestly, “Maybe you’re just so useless that even these creatures look down on you?”

“And you? Too useless as well?”

“No,” Lin Changtian said with gravity, “I bear the fate of humanity. Great fortune is upon me. I am the chosen one, marked by destiny! Don’t try to compare us—we’re not the same.”

The old man nodded, sipping from his ever-present teacup. Now he began to understand the kind of person who could provoke Yu Baili to draw his blade with no cultivation at all.

“Enough with the banter—let’s focus on the matter at hand.” Released, Lin Changtian stood with hands behind his back, his face serene. The old man fought the urge to strangle him, snorted coldly, and crept toward the source of the sound, Lin Changtian following closely, as if afraid to lose him.

The farther they went, the colder it became. When they reached the depths, though daylight shone, it felt like being plunged into an icy abyss. Lin Changtian shivered uncontrollably, while the old man seemed only indifferent, gazing skyward without moving forward, as if waiting for something.

Unable to endure the cold, Lin Changtian nudged the old man. “This is too cold. Are you a self-heating hotpot, just standing here and waiting to warm yourself up?” The old man suddenly laughed, still watching the horizon. “Don’t worry, you won’t be cold for long.”

“You really are a self-heating hotpot?”

“No—the source of this calamity can’t hold back any longer.”

As if in answer, the distant sky split open, releasing countless wailing souls, as though the Yellow Springs were falling and the King of the Underworld had arrived in person. Indeed: New ghosts grieve, old ghosts wail; the heavens are dark with chilling rain, and sorrow echoes through the land.

The old man threw back his head and laughed, golden light gleaming in his eyes. Armor of energy enveloped him as his long sleeves danced in the wind, his robe billowed, and waves of heat surged—threatening to burn away all the world’s bitter cold.

Lin Changtian stared, dumbfounded, at the old teacher soaring into the sky. “He really IS a self-heating hotpot...”