Chapter One: The Fifteenth Night of the Seventh Month

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Travelers of the seas speak of Yingzhou, but amid the misty waves, its existence is hard to believe. In this world, there is no Yingzhou beyond the sea, but there is Qingxuan.

Shen Lian had already set out to sea, journeying to a place so distant that returning to the lands of Great Wei would require traversing thousands of miles. Without the nautical chart given by Ye Liuyun and his familiarity with sea vessels, reaching this place would have been nearly impossible. Even with careful preparation, his arrival here had been fraught with difficulty; to stumble upon Qingxuan by chance would require unimaginable fortune. And to happen upon Qingxuan and meet the entry requirements Ye Liuyun described—such luck could not be described as one in a million.

Yet this world is vast and boundless; the Great Wei Dynasty is but a small corner within it. The immortals' traditions span ages, their legacy unbroken. Thus, the rules for entering Qingxuan have been passed down from generation to generation. Moreover, Ye Liuyun had pointed out that there are other sects of immortals in the world, but none as orthodox as Qingxuan’s Daoist lineage—and those are located in distant, unknown lands. As for the likes of the Southern Sea’s Flying Immortal Island, though they belong to the cultivation world, in thousands of years, none have attained true immortality—at most, they only live a century or two longer than ordinary folk.

These half-immortal sects are more or less connected to Qingxuan; some were even founded by former disciples of Qingxuan who failed to advance in their cultivation. Such lineages could be called outer branches, though Qingxuan itself never acknowledged them. Thus, their members tend to know more about how to enter Qingxuan than outsiders.

Just as Guiyun Mountain Villa keeps close ties with Flying Immortal Island, the Sword Villa has its own sources of information as well. These reclusive immortal sects may be renowned, but their most formidable members are at best only a notch above the likes of Ling Chongxiao. Possessing a few immortal techniques, they naturally command more respect than common martial sects, straddling the line between the mortal and the immortal. With their superior information, they indeed have slightly greater chances of gaining entry to Qingxuan.

Yet, before the gate of immortality, the path is strewn with white bones; most never return to their homeland and perish who knows where.

This land was a vast island, with a mountain visible in the distance—its summit lost in clouds, veiled and ethereal.

Judging by the flow of his own vital energy, Shen Lian estimated it was already July. The Double Ninth Festival, as recounted by the old fox spirit Xin Qubing, was still two months away.

To be precise, he had arrived early.

He had secretly left his ship in a small boat, as the larger vessel could not approach the island—and Shen Lian did not wish to risk exposing Qingxuan’s location. Now, standing on solid ground, the scene before him matched both the details in Ling Chongxiao’s tales and the map provided by Ye Liuyun.

Shen Lian had no further doubts.

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Arriving early, he wondered whether he would be able to find Qingxuan’s true location.

Before him lay a small river, its banks lush with green grass. Strangely, there were no sounds of birds or insects. Other than the breeze rustling the grass and the sluggish flow of the river, there was no other sound.

The sun blazed overhead. Even with his deepening inner strength, Shen Lian still felt a trace of restlessness brought on by the heat.

He did not wade into the water, but proceeded cautiously. According to Ye Liuyun, there was a small town beneath Qingxuan’s true mountain gate. At the end of that town lay the path to the sect, known as the “Path of Reflection.”

It was said that because Qingxuan’s creed was “To cultivate conduct, one must first cultivate the heart,” a great adept had carved out this special road.

No matter how large the island, two months would be enough time for Shen Lian to find the town. He did not worry.

The town was likely to the south, following the direction of the river’s flow. After all, most settlements are established along rivers.

The river was deep and its waters concealed their secrets, but unlike modern polluted rivers, there was no foul odor.

Shen Lian followed the river upstream for three days. He had brought provisions and water, and with his cultivation nearing the point of transcending worldly needs, he did not consume any local food or water.

He traveled by day and found a spot to meditate at night, half-immersed in a trance.

Aside from plants, he saw no other living creatures—the entire river exuded a sense of deathly silence.

On a clear morning, as Shen Lian continued his unhurried journey, he finally saw a living being—or more precisely, a living person.

Across the river stood a woman in silence.

She wore a violet gauze robe that accentuated her nearly perfect form. Shen Lian’s sharp eyes could discern her features: she was ethereal and aloof.

A gentle breeze occasionally stirred the violet bell that hung at her slender waist, making it chime melodiously.

Shen Lian felt a surge of excitement—not because of the woman’s beauty, but because he had finally encountered another person.

He greeted her as best he could, but the woman only glanced at him before vanishing abruptly, leaving not the slightest trace, as if she had been nothing but an illusion.

Yet, the lingering sound of the bell still echoed faintly in the breeze, clear and melodious.

Shen Lian thought that, since he had met one person, this place could not be wholly deserted. Perhaps he would soon meet another.

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He did, in fact, encounter a second person—and sooner than he had expected.

It was at nightfall, with the moon nearly full in the sky.

The stars were sparse amid the night, and only the moonlight cast its enchanting glow.

Shen Lian sat cross-legged beside a rock, waiting quietly for dawn as usual.

At some point, a thin mist drifted over the river. The moonlight scattered within it, swirling and flowing in a scene of poignant beauty.

A hazy light appeared upstream, mingling with the moon’s glow, about thirty paces from where Shen Lian sat.

Suddenly startled, Shen Lian realized that today was the fifteenth day of the seventh month—the Ghost Festival of folklore.

What triggered this realization was the sight of the glowing object: it was a lantern, set upon a boat.

The boat was pure white, and upon it stood a figure in white. The mist and halo of light made it hard to see clearly.

The figure held a white banner, like those used in funeral rites to summon wandering souls.

The river's current was sluggish; the small boat, lacking oars, drifted slowly downstream with the flow.

Shen Lian heard a sound—perhaps weeping, perhaps singing.

It was the song of the dead, sending a chill through his heart.

In the silent night, with no birds or insects by the river, such a mournful song could easily frighten a timid soul into fainting.

Shen Lian did not faint, but the song seemed almost magical, and he suddenly felt his body grow light.

Turning his head, he saw himself.

For the first time, his spirit had left his body without conscious effort.

As the figure shook the white banner, faint points of light flickered along the riverbanks and drifted toward the solitary boat.

In that moment, Shen Lian understood the river and why he had detected no other living creatures.

Their souls had already been summoned away by the white-clad figure’s banner.

These scattered luminous beings were likely newcomers to the riverbank—he had simply failed to sense them until now.