Chapter Nineteen: Dark Moon, High Winds

That night, the moon was shrouded and the wind blew fiercely.

Ying Chen, cradling his talisman sword, hid himself among the trees, the shadows completely cloaking his face and betraying not a hint of expression.

Not far beyond the woods, a stone path wound its way up the mountain. From there, one could glimpse a flickering brilliance atop the summit.

It was the treasure-light from the Celestial Treasure Cloud Vessel, blazing so intensely that not even the night could dim it. Like a luminous pearl atop a pagoda, it dazzled the eye, illuminating the mountain path below.

Suddenly, a gust of sinister wind swept through, making the branches quiver. Ying Chen lifted his gaze ever so slightly; at last, the one he awaited had arrived.

On the stone path, spectral shadows floated, carrying between them a small palanquin of black bamboo, swaying unsteadily as it descended.

Seated within the palanquin was a hideous Daoist, his scalp pocked with scabs.

"The Great Art of Shadow Puppets, is it?" Ying Chen's eyes swept over the ghostly shadows and instantly recognized the handiwork of this infamous technique.

The Great Art of Shadow Puppets was not a single spell, but rather a whole branch of magic within the Innate Way, with countless disciples practicing its various forms.

It was said that among the inner disciples, those who mastered this art could duel and contend for supremacy without ever revealing themselves, relying solely on their shadow puppets—truly a formidable skill.

However, the higher mysteries of this art were far beyond the reach of outer disciples—or of Di the Leper, for that matter—even if he served as a lackey under Wei Yuan, he would never have access to such things.

These ghostly shadows were merely the crudest of creations, not worthy of the name "shadow puppet"—inferior even to ghost soldiers or paper effigies. At best, they could deal with ordinary folk or low-level cultivators with little spiritual power.

Ying Chen did not watch for long before drawing back his gaze, and Di the Leper remained blissfully unaware.

The man was slumped, eyes shut, reeking of wine, seemingly drunk to the point of unconsciousness, relying on the ghosts to carry his palanquin down the mountain.

Of course, things were never so simple.

Unless it were enchanted wines or elixirs, the ordinary drink could never truly intoxicate a cultivator; with a thought and a little effort, they could dispel its effects and remain stone sober.

Thus, though Di the Leper appeared inebriated, he could awaken at any moment—he would not risk descending the mountain otherwise.

Ying Chen waited patiently, concealed in the woods, watching coldly as the palanquin swayed its way down the mountain path, heading toward Chishui Cliff. He carefully kept track of the time and distance; after about two or three quarters of an hour, he finally sprang into action.

He slapped his waist, and a wisp of ghastly green smoke drifted out, coalescing into a coal-black steed, its hooves wreathed in ghostly fire, neighing silently.

Ying Chen vaulted onto its back, and the ghostly mount shot forward at astonishing speed, a dark blur gliding just above the ground, not raising the slightest cloud of dust.

…

The night wind whispered, and a chill slowly crept in.

The distance between the Cloud Vessel market and Chishui Cliff was neither far nor near; the ghostly palanquin floated steadily onward, already halfway there.

Di the Leper lay sprawled in drunken stupor, when suddenly a chill pricked at him. He thought to himself, "Another year is ending..."

He quietly summoned his spiritual power to dispel the cold, and his mind began to clear. In that instant, he realized the world around him was deathly silent. Apart from the wind and the rustling of leaves, not a single insect or bird could be heard.

A deeper, bone-piercing cold struck him, racing up his spine and straight to the crown of his head.

With a jolt, Di the Leper twisted around! At some unknown moment, a shadow—ghastly as a specter—had appeared in the night, rushing toward his palanquin at alarming speed.

So sudden and silent was its arrival, Di the Leper almost believed it a hallucination.

But in the next split second, a cold gleam flashed from the rider's sword, snapping him back to reality.

He finally saw that this was no ghost, but a ghostly steed enveloped in sinister mist, its hooves kindling spirit flames as it galloped inches above the ground—hence its noiseless approach.

Upon its back rode a stranger, pallid-faced, sword in hand, its edge glimmering with icy, murderous intent!

"Who—" Di the Leper's mind reeled. He had no time to ponder whether this was an old enemy, nor why he could not recall the face. The thought barely surfaced before urgent necessity crushed it aside.

He flung out a hand, and from his sleeve a cloud of pitch-black sand burst forth, meant to blind his assailant, even as he desperately retreated backward.

But the newcomer showed no intention of yielding. With a single, sweeping stroke, his sword unleashed a wave of force that scattered the black sand effortlessly.

"One of the sect," Di the Leper realized at once.

Though he could not discern the sword style from that single strike, the technique of channeling spiritual power through swordplay was a specialty taught at Chishui Cliff: meant to break an opponent’s guard, and at mastery, to pierce their spiritual defenses and protective light.

Moreover, though his own defense had been hasty, the ease with which it was broken confirmed that his foe’s spiritual power subtly surpassed his own.

Di the Leper was no mere fool; in an instant, he deduced much—but it did nothing to change his predicament.

The assault had come too swiftly. With his first block shattered, he had no time for a second.

He twisted aside as best he could, but the attacker’s sword, having swept away the sand, fell in a single, merciless arc, slashing from his lower neck to his abdomen in a diagonal gash.

"Ah!" Di the Leper screamed in agony, yet even then he sprang back like a startled swallow, leaping several yards away. Blood spurted from the massive wound—his entrails threatened to spill out—yet he clung to life, fingers forming a spell.

"Now!" he cried, and the ghostly shadows bearing the palanquin twisted and roared with chilling ferocity, as if to surround and devour the intruder.

But the stranger merely raised his hand, and two streaks of black energy shot from his sleeve, unfurling into fierce predatory birds that tore the ghostly shadows to shreds.

"Beast-talisman soldiers?" Di the Leper’s heart lurched; a name flickered in his mind: "..."

But before he could utter it, the attacker whipped his ghostly steed forward, wind lashing the trees, dead leaves raining down.

The pale-faced man vaulted from the saddle, sword raised once more.

In the gloom of the forest, it seemed a second moon shone forth as Di the Leper’s hideous head flew high into the air.

“Ying—” Only a single syllable gurgled from his throat, indistinct and unfinished.

The pallid man’s face was as impassive as ever. He jabbed the corpse several times with his sword, fished out a bulging storage pouch, and pocketed it. Then he kicked the severed head back to the body.

Only then did he whistle. With a leap, he landed on his ghostly steed, which caught him perfectly, and they vanished into the night.

All that remained was a sheet of pitch-black talisman paper, drifting down on the wind, fluttering in a spiral before landing atop Di the Leper’s corpse. It burst into bright flame and burned away to nothing.