Chapter One: Ying Chen

The moonlight was pale and cold, veiled further by drifting clouds. In the mountain valley, darkness reigned supreme. Fortunately, Ying Chen’s senses were keen, allowing him to discern the path ahead. He pressed one hand to the sword at his waist, moving cautiously through the underbrush, until at last he caught the flicker of firelight. He looked up.

Spread before him was a sizable clearing. Beneath the gnarled, crooked old trees, a den of scruffy foxes crouched around a campfire. Some poked at the flames with sticks, turning over unknown things in the fire, while others, cradling fragrant morsels in their forepaws, ate heartily and content.

A den of foxes—using fire, roasting meat, and eating cooked food, just like humans!

There was no doubt now: these foxes had become spirits. One might even call them demons.

Ying Chen’s hand slowly drew the sword from his belt.

“Esteemed guest of the forest,” came a sudden, awkward voice from beside the fire, speaking in an affected, scholarly tone, “from whence do you come?”

“Hm?” Ying Chen’s gaze sharpened. By the fire, a red-furred fox stood upright—yes, upright like a person, tail dangling, hind legs on the ground, front paws clasped in a gesture of greeting, looking his way through the trees.

Since he’d been spotted, Ying Chen parted the shrubs and stepped forward, replying coolly, “From Chishui Cliff.”

“Chishui Cliff?” The red-furred fox’s expression was strikingly human as it smiled and approached, asking, “I can’t say I’ve heard that name. Is it far from here?”

“You’ve never heard of Chishui Cliff?” Ying Chen’s smile was cold and mirthless. “Chishui Cliff is the seat of the Innate Daoist Sect, one of the six lower branches. The lands for thousands of miles around, this wilderness included, all fall under its domain. If you don’t even know of Chishui Cliff, it’s little wonder you dare openly slaughter villages and prey on humans with only this meager cultivation.”

At these words, the red-furred fox’s face changed dramatically. With a howl, its body swelled as if inflated, fur bristling into needle-like spikes, claws and fangs lengthening, glinting with a cold, deadly gleam, and blood-tinged drool dripping three feet from its jaws, filling the air with a foul stench.

At that instant, the other scruffy foxes around the fire erupted into chilling howls, flipping upright, arching their backs, their bodies swelling, fur and claws revealing their own deadly sharpness.

Yet Ying Chen felt no fear—on the contrary, exhilaration rose in his heart.

Foxes who had become spirits—just what he was after!

He reached into his pouch and drew out a sheet of pitch-black talisman paper. With a shake, a plume of black smoke burst forth, coalescing into the shape of a fierce bird of prey, wings spread and talons extended, swooping toward the foxes.

Birds of prey were natural enemies of foxes. The red-furred fox, still weak in its cultivation, could not suppress its instinctive fear and dodged aside reflexively.

But Ying Chen’s conjured bird had never meant to strike the red fox. It swept past, diving straight into the throng of scruffy foxes, tearing several to pieces in an instant.

The red-furred fox’s eyes flashed with rage at the sight, but before it could react, Ying Chen seized his chance and slashed with his sword.

Having just dodged the bird’s attack, the red fox was unable to evade again. It raised a left paw in defense, but the blade met it with a flash, severing half the paw clean off.

For a beast to become a spirit, its flesh must be tough as iron. This fox had slaughtered villages, yet not so much as a scythe or pitchfork had ever left a mark on it. But before Ying Chen’s blade, it seemed softer than earth.

The red-furred fox let out a pained howl and fled without a backward glance.

Ying Chen’s heart was as calm as still water. He had prepared thoroughly for this demon hunt, so such results were just as he’d anticipated. Without hesitation, he darted after the fleeing fox.

But the red-furred fox, reaching the center of the clearing, whipped its tail in a sudden motion, sending a demonic wind that instantly snuffed out the campfire.

In that brief flash, the sparks became the only source of light. Ying Chen saw the fox produce a weapon from who knew where.

The sparks faded, and darkness closed in. Even with his keen vision, Ying Chen found the world grown dim.

He heard a rush of wind and, judging the direction by sound, raised his sword to block. A clear clang rang out like metal on metal.

A jolt of numbness shot through Ying Chen’s hand. He rolled aside, agile as a cat, evading the next attack. With a thought, he commanded the conjured bird to wheel and attack once more.

In the darkness, the sounds of fierce combat broke out. Only then did Ying Chen allow himself a breath.

By now, his eyes had adjusted to the gloom. Working in concert with the bird of prey, he would soon regain the upper hand.

Yet, recalling his opponent’s cunning, he wasted no time. His hand slapped his belt.

A sharp whistle sliced through the darkness, followed by a cry of pain—quickly cut short.

Then, silence. Only when the clouds parted and moonlight returned to the forest did the subtle sounds of night reach Ying Chen’s ears again.

Sweeping his gaze across the scene, he saw the red-furred fox lying on its back, a pitch-black arrow buried in its brow, utterly lifeless. The den of scruffy foxes lay slain and scattered all about.

He exhaled slowly. This demon hunt was crucial for him, yet he didn’t rush to examine his spoils. Instead, he let out a long breath.

The fight had been brief, yet in that moment, he truly felt—

He had entered a world of wonder beyond imagining.

Ying Chen looked up at the moon, savoring the reality of it all, and suddenly burst out laughing.

This world! Heaven arched above, earth spread wide, boundless and vast. Here, the arts of cultivation endured, immortals and demons coexisted, gods and buddhas preached their ways—utterly unlike his former life.

He, though only at the threshold of cultivation, was already transformed.

No longer frail and sickly, no longer gaunt as a wraith, no longer doomed to languish from every chill or storm, no longer fated to die young.

To master the arcane arts, to forge divine powers—this was now within reach. The pursuit of immortality, of boundless freedom—possible at last.

Obstacles loomed ahead, yet compared to the storms he’d endured before, what had he to fear?

With a flick of his sword, Ying Chen shook off the blood, preparing to sheathe it—when he noticed a tiny notch in the blade.

It was minuscule, but still enough to trouble him. This sword had been prepared especially for this hunt. While not a true magical weapon, it was forged of special materials and inscribed with cultivators’ runes—it could cut gold and jade as if they were mud. How could it be damaged so easily?

He recalled the clash in the darkness and looked down. Near the red fox’s right paw, a flawless white bone lay quietly on the ground.

A single bone—harder than a talisman sword.

Ying Chen stepped forward, accidentally treading on a roasted finger. He glanced down, then kicked it aside and picked up the bone to examine it.

It seemed to be a human arm bone, but oddly shaped, larger than normal by half. For a moment, he thought he saw a shimmer of light within it—or perhaps it was just a trick of the eye.

Regardless, it was a treasure.

He took out a cloth bag, opened it, and slipped the bone inside. Though longer than a man’s arm, it vanished without a trace.

Next, Ying Chen didn’t hasten to tie up the bag. He pulled the pitch-black arrow from the red fox’s brow, wiped off the blood, and couldn’t help but wince at the loss.

His talisman sword was slightly damaged, but that was nothing. He’d used a talisman, which had served its purpose. But employing this borrowed magical implement—now that truly pained him.

Still, at last it was time to claim his reward.

After putting the arrow away, Ying Chen reached into the bag and drew out a boning knife, a hint of a smile returning to his lips.