Chapter 51

Chapter 51: Into Fang Jing to Seek the Windflame Sect

The roar of the ship tearing itself apart mixed with the sickening pull of free fall. Zhao Chun squeezed her eyes shut and let the furious wind toss her within the cocoon of black light.

When she opened them again, the storm had cleared. The sky was bright, the rain gone.

She stumbled out of the black light, dizzy and light-headed. Around them was dense forest, the air filled with faint birdsong and the buzz of insects.

“Look,” Meng Han said, pointing.

In the distance, a chain of green mountains rolled across the horizon. “That’s Fang Jing Mountain. Once we reach it, the ruins won’t be far.”

Mountains looked close until you tried to walk to them. Even with Fang Jing Mountain in clear sight, it would take them a couple of days to reach.

Meng Han took out a Mist Skiff Talisman and brought her along. As they set off, Zhao Chun said quietly, “I owe you my life, Senior Brother.”

Meng Han snorted. “That wasn’t even mine. The talisman came from Brother Xu. Thank him when we get back.”

“Xu Feng?” Zhao Chun asked, startled. She hadn’t realized he specialized in talismans.

Meng Han pulled out several more of the same black talismans and shook them with a grin. “Not exactly fine work, but Brother Xu gave me plenty.”

“What kind of talisman is it?” Zhao Chun asked. “I’ve never seen one like this.”

There were countless talisman types—yellow paper talismans, jade token talismans, even beast-tooth talismans sold at the Hundred Treasures Market. But she’d never seen anything like these: pitch-black, wrinkled, and torn-looking.

“Brother Xu’s special hobby,” Meng Han said. He pinched one between his fingers. The fragile-looking slip fluttered in the wind, somehow both brittle and stubborn. “He likes to tinker with new things. A few years back, he got annoyed that Mist Skiff Talismans can’t reach high altitude, and if the destination is too far, they just won’t get there. He also thought they were too slow. So he tried to improve them and make something more convenient.”

Zhao Chun looked at the black talisman and had a bad feeling.

Meng Han confirmed it at once, his tone laced with schadenfreude. “If making new talismans were that easy, he’d have succeeded long ago. If he really had, he could’ve handed it to the sect, taken a share of the profits, and made a fortune.”

“What he ended up with is this thing—half smoke, half skiff. It can reach the cloud peaks, sure, but only if someone carries it up first.”

Zhao Chun couldn’t help laughing. If someone could reach the cloud peaks on their own, why would they need a Mist Skiff Talisman at all?

“Still,” Meng Han added, “if I hadn’t been out in the world for years, running into danger after danger, I wouldn’t have discovered this talisman can slow a fall. Otherwise his scrap would’ve stayed scrap.”

He nudged her with his elbow. “When we get back, just praise him. Tell him his Slow-Fall Talisman is exquisitely made. He’ll shove a whole handful into your arms. Free is free.”

A Slow-Fall Talisman was nothing compared to a Mist Skiff Talisman. The latter required real mastery, something talisman cultivators studied after they’d stepped into the craft. The former was a beginner staple—simple strokes, basic structure. Praising Xu Feng like that would only make him furious with embarrassment.

Meng Han still forced a few talismans on her. “I’ve got plenty,” he said breezily.

Zhao Chun accepted them with a smile.

They traveled safely for two days and finally entered Fang Jing Mountain’s territory. When Zhao Chun looked down from above, she saw a city spread out at the mountain’s base, half-built into the slope itself. Evening had fallen; lights glittered through the streets. Cultivators moved in and out in crowds, and the whole place hummed with noise.

“Fang Jing City,” Meng Han said. “Most people exploring the ruins rest here first.”

Zhao Chun blinked. “This many people… are they all here for the ruins?”

“No,” Meng Han said flatly.

He guided the Mist Skiff down and spoke as they descended. “Only one or two out of ten came to hunt treasure. The rest came for Fang Jing City.”

He explained that Fang Jing Mountain sat in a peculiar position: a crossroads between two regions of the Nine Sects, and a hub for travel in every direction. No single power governed it.

On top of that, the mountain produced rare spirit herbs, spirit beasts, and spirit ores found nowhere else. Trade flowed constantly, and the place had become a haven of its own.

“There’s a spirit beast here called the Yellow-Maned Boar,” Meng Han said. “Cultivators who eat its meat can strengthen their bodies. Early Qi Refining is when you need a solid physical foundation the most. Locals eat it all the time, so their cultivation advances faster than outsiders.”

“I came to buy some for Junior Brother Feng,” he added. “He’s at the peak of the third layer. If he can break into mid-stage soon, he’ll qualify as an official disciple.”

No wonder Feng San Chu hadn’t come with him—he must be shut away, training.

Zhao Chun nodded. The effect sounded real enough. She could bring some back for her senior sisters as well.

They bought twenty catties. It wasn’t that the meat was too expensive; Fang Jing City enforced a purchase limit to keep the Yellow-Maned Boar from being slaughtered into extinction.

Zhao Chun also bought a sword sheath made from One-Scale Snake skin. It fit the Crimson Edge Dagger perfectly, finally freeing it from its rough cloth wrapping.

After a night’s rest, they left early the next morning and headed for the old sect ruins.

Meng Han’s “one or two out of ten” wasn’t an exaggeration. Along the route, Zhao Chun saw multiple Mist Skiffs flying the same direction.

When they finally descended, an octagonal altar came into view. White stone steps spiraled down into the earth.

The Windflame Sect ruins lay underground. Fang Jing City had built nine such altars, meant to honor the souls of righteous cultivators and record the crimes of evil cultivators.

They entered through one of the stairways. Inside was wide and open, torches lit along all eight sides so the place stayed bright.

They still weren’t at the ruins’ outer layer. They had to keep descending through a long corridor. Zhao Chun’s view gradually dimmed, but the faint lamps along the walls kept her from losing direction.

Beyond their footsteps, she began to hear something else—the whisper of wind through leaves.

Before the unease could take shape, Meng Han said, “We’re here.”

It was a place as quiet as the Secluded Valley.

They stood above the Windflame Sect, high enough to see the entire layout below: springs rushing between rocks, tree shadows scattered across the ground, grasses thick and lively.

“Hidden underground for thousands of years,” Zhao Chun murmured, awed, “and the water still flows. The plants haven’t rotted.”

“They aren’t plants,” Meng Han said.

He seized Zhao Chun and leapt down. It was only a hundred meters—nothing for a Foundation Establishment cultivator.

They landed in the “forest” in only a few breaths. Zhao Chun reached out and pressed her hand to a towering “trunk.”

Cold. Hard. Wrong.

A strange thought flashed through her mind. She turned to Meng Han.

“This is iron and stone.”

Meng Han nodded, pleased. “When Brother Xu and I first came here, we were stunned too. As far as the eye can see, everything is made from forging materials. Craft like this, almost like immortal workmanship… and yet thousands of years ago, it was only a small sect’s handiwork.”

He gave a low whistle. “A hundred years ago, when these ruins were first unearthed, the Nine Sects around Fang Jing fought like mad over the forging arts here. The territory became a battlefield. It only calmed down after the spoils were divided.”

Zhao Chun nodded. With methods like this, it would’ve been stranger if no one fought. If the Ling Zhen Sect had been nearby, it would’ve joined the scramble too.

Amazement and regret tangled in her chest—amazement that a sect capable of such grand work had once been called “small,” regret that a legacy like this had ended up in the hands of evil cultivators.

As they walked deeper, Meng Han explained why the Windflame Sect had been considered small.

Heng Yun had once been like any other Minor Thousand World, governing a thousand Small Worlds, with spiritual sources circulating endlessly.

Tens of thousands of years ago, a great calamity struck. Something shattered half the world. Many Small Worlds were scattered, and Heng Yun lost a huge portion of its spiritual source.

Native cultivators spent ages searching for the lost Small Worlds and slowly repairing what could be repaired. That was how Heng Yun avoided total collapse—but its spiritual vitality had diminished beyond recovery.

“The Windflame Sect was destroyed thousands of years ago,” Meng Han said, “but it was an orthodox lineage for over ten thousand years. In the old days, Heng Yun was rich with opportunities. Cultivators were everywhere, and sect and clan inheritances were long and steady—nothing like today, where quality is mixed and lineages break easily.”

“Back then, Essence Condensation cultivators were common. Profound Division cultivators were numerous. There were even gifted babies born at the Foundation Establishment Stage. Measured by that era’s standards, the Windflame Sect naturally counted as a small sect.”

Zhao Chun sighed at the weight of time. Then she asked, “What was it that shattered half the world?”

Meng Han laughed, as if he didn’t quite believe it himself. “The elders say it was a single tear.”