Chapter Two: The Crimson Water Cliff

The night stretched on endlessly.

Ying Chen urged his steed to gallop for a long time before a massive shadow finally appeared beneath the night sky. Now, the wind was not the only sound in his ears. As he drew closer, the shadow took form: it was a range of black mountains, undulating without end, like some monstrous beast crouched upon the darkened earth. Wreathed in mist and haze, the mountains remained indistinct, shrouded from any clear view.

Only the nearest peak revealed a jagged, menacing cliff.

Beneath that cliff, a great river surged eastward with thunderous force, its waters roaring and proud. Yet, what flowed within was not the ordinary blue of water, but a raging flood of crimson, red as blood, utterly unlike anything of the mortal world.

Certainly, this was no paradise of the immortals.

This was the Crimson River Cliff, the lower seat of the Primal Dao Sect—a place where countless disciples of the demonic path honed their arts.

Yes, it was called the Dao Sect, yet it belonged to the demonic path.

First, because immortals and demons both walked the Way; for the demonic sect to call itself the Dao Sect was natural enough. Second, the Primal Dao did not claim the mantle of demonhood; they simply believed that those who cultivated the Dao should retain their innate nature. Thus, they did not bind themselves to strict codes or moral precepts, cared nothing for virtue or sin, nor did they prohibit their disciples from learning sinister and harmful arts.

As a result, among the ranks of the Primal Dao were many who acted as they pleased, steeped in wickedness; over time, the sect gained the infamous name: the Primal Demon Sect.

Ying Chen was just one of the countless outer disciples cultivating at Crimson River Cliff, a member of the Primal Dao. He cared little for distinctions between demon and immortal; after all, when he “crossed over” to this world, he found himself already here.

The environment of the demonic sect’s lower seat was, of course, rife with cruelty. The memories he inherited were scattered and incomplete, offering little useful knowledge. Only through constant caution and vigilance had he managed to avoid exposing himself, and after much time, to somewhat blend in.

This demon-hunting task was Ying Chen’s first journey beyond the mountain since crossing over—naturally, it was the most pressing matter before him.

Ying Chen gazed up at the towering Crimson River Cliff, feeling a restless energy building within his chest.

He dismounted by the crimson waters, and with a wave of his hand, the spirited horse shriveled and collapsed into a sheet of white paper, which floated gently back into his palm.

This was a Paper Steed, a most common spell. If anything made it special, it was that the Primal Dao’s Paper Steed technique refined horses by extracting their souls, granting the creations greater spirit and speed, and allowing them to be used over a dozen times without wearing out—saving both magical power and talismans.

Even though magical power could be restored and a mere talisman was of little value, on Crimson River Cliff the souls of mortal creatures were even cheaper still.

Ying Chen tucked the Paper Steed talisman into his belt and walked along the riverbank for a while, until he finally spotted a crude rope bridge.

Nothing floated upon the Crimson River, and its waters possessed a terrifying corrosive force—no boat could ever cross. Thus, the only way disciples came and went was via the rope bridge; no other method existed.

At the foot of the bridge, a filthy skull hung from a wooden stake. As Ying Chen approached, he felt the hollow sockets of the skull’s eyes seem to bore into him.

He knew this was a sinister device used to identify sect disciples and paid it no heed, stepping lightly over the uneven planks of the swaying bridge. Ascending the rugged mountain path, he soon began to encounter others.

The Primal Dao was vast; even just on Crimson River Cliff, there were many outer disciples scattered across the mountains, and the various facilities of the cliff were not gathered in one place. Meeting fellow disciples was a common thing.

Yet in the demonic sect’s lower seat, there was no camaraderie among disciples. All who passed were cold and indifferent, rarely offering even a greeting. The mountain seemed devoid of warmth or liveliness.

Ying Chen adapted to local custom, putting on a mask of indifference and striding swiftly along, soon arriving at the entrance of a tall pavilion.

The pavilion soared upward, its eaves sharp, its brackets fierce, a wild style lending it a strange beauty. Yet, for some reason, there was not a single window or vent—the place admitted no light at all.

This was the Administrative Office of Crimson River Cliff. Though called an “office,” it was a pavilion, yet it truly administered the affairs of the entire cliff.

Ying Chen entered, and by the light of a few weak candles, found his way to a high, broad counter. He bowed respectfully and called, “Excuse me, Steward.”

A lazy voice responded from behind the counter, “What is it?”

Ying Chen produced a cloth pouch from his belt, along with the token of an outer disciple, and presented both. “I have come to submit a task, and to collect my monthly stipend.”

“Mm.” The steward acknowledged him with a sound. Ying Chen saw a pallid hand take away his token, then quickly ask, “Aside from the fox spirit, do you have any proof?”

“In the storage pouch,” Ying Chen replied.

He watched as a tall, thin Daoist appeared behind the counter, fished out the pouch, opened it, and gave it a shake. A red-furred fox’s head rolled out, spilling blood across half the counter and dripping down its side.

“Hmm…” The Daoist picked up the fox’s head and, to Ying Chen’s surprise, licked its blood with his tongue, smacking his lips. “Not a bad taste.”

Ying Chen’s expression did not change. He waited for the man to finish his inspection, then watched as the pouch and token were pushed back to him. “Fifty contribution points. Marked.”

The word “contribution” was used plainly; it meant simply the effort rendered to the sect. The Primal Dao cared nothing for concepts like virtue or sin, unlike many sects that insisted on calling such things “merit.”

Within the Primal Dao, contribution points could be exchanged for nearly anything: magical tools, spells, elixirs, cultivation methods, and more.

Yet fifty points was a pittance, barely useful for anything.

The demon-hunting task Ying Chen had completed was nothing important. The Primal Dao had no custom of slaying monsters or demons, and the deaths of mortals within their territory mattered little—mortal lives were like wild grass: burn it down, and before long, it would grow back.

Such tasks were posted on the board at Crimson River Cliff mostly for show. Those who bothered to take them did so not for the meager points, but for the bones, blood, or souls of the monsters slain—Ying Chen was no different.

He cupped his hands, thanked the steward, who gave a sly chuckle and tossed over a pouch. “Here’s your stipend. Take care of it.”

Ying Chen took the pouch and counted its contents on the spot, then looked up and asked, “May I ask, Steward, is there anything missing?”

Before he finished speaking, the steward flicked two spirit stones onto the counter with a snap, then vanished behind.

The monthly stipend for outer disciples was meager, but at least it included spirit stones. If you didn’t check before leaving the counter, and tried to come back later, no one would bother with you.

Having nearly been shorted of his spirit stones, Ying Chen felt no anger. Such scenes were common: some stewards would not cheat if they saw an experienced disciple, others would seize any chance for petty theft. He was long accustomed to it.

Stowing the two spirit stones with his other possessions, Ying Chen bowed deeply and said, “Thank you, Steward.” Without waiting for a reply that would never come, he turned to leave by the way he had come.

He had not yet passed through the doors when someone stepped inside, silhouetted against the faint light of dawn. The newcomer halted suddenly.

“Oh?” The man made a soft sound of surprise, then broke into a mocking smile. “Isn’t this Junior Brother Ying?”