Chapter Thirty-Nine: The Entrance to the Nether Realm

Two days later, the night was luminous and the wind gentle.

Taking advantage of the darkness, Yingchen descended the Crimson Water Cliff, mounted his ghostly steed, and sped southeast at a furious pace.

As the moon drifted westward, the terrain grew increasingly rugged. Occasionally, he glimpsed forested valleys shrouded in miasma, and chasms veiled in sinister mist—gateways to the Nether Domain. Yet few dared to venture in, for none could say what lay beyond the toxic fog.

Yingchen pressed onward, sometimes consulting a piece of parchment to adjust his course. At last, in this pitch-black world, he began to notice sounds distinct from the furtive rustle of venomous insects and snakes.

He climbed a hill and looked down. Below, a yawning black fissure snaked across the earth, like a bloodthirsty maw poised to devour, or a mysterious portal to unknown realms.

On either side of the chasm, rough stone towers and houses encircled it, forming a street of sorts.

Shadows flitted across the avenue—specters and masked figures hurried past, most concealing their faces. Those who didn’t were either fierce and murderous, or armed with blades, cages of poisonous insects, and corpse-refining tools—each exuding a palpable hostility.

Regardless of who they were, all kept wary distance; even a few steps closer could spark alarm or confrontation.

Yingchen’s eyes flickered. He dismissed his ghostly steed, drew a conical hat from his storage pouch, and donned it. With a breath-concealing talisman robe, he masked his presence, then slipped toward the street below.

He had come here to a well-known underground entrance. Famous for its safety and maze of branching paths, it was the favored gateway for many cultivators seeking entry to the Nether Domain.

Over time, a rudimentary market had sprung up above this entrance.

Yet this place was nothing like the Cloud Boat Market—no order, no oversight. Swindling and deception were commonplace, and outright violence and murder hardly rare, so everyone remained on guard.

Yingchen even noticed some who neither approached the fissure nor wandered the market, but instead lurked in corners, silently scrutinizing those who passed by, their intentions blatant and undisguised.

He lowered his hat, hiding his face in shadow, and walked quietly.

In the winding paths, he had obtained a secret entrance and route—there was no need for him to come here.

But his purpose was not to enter the Nether Domain from this place, but for another matter.

The day before, Qu Qiao had warned him this area was far from calm—a warning not made without reason.

Although she had said Yingchen need only collect baleful energy and should have no involvement, his nature would not allow him to simply turn a blind eye.

Whatever the case, he needed to understand and prepare.

Yet what Yingchen hadn’t anticipated was that, wandering the market, he heard nothing useful. Even when people spoke, their voices were hushed, or they whispered in private, unlike in the orderly Cloud Boat Market.

After a circuit with no results, he changed tactics, searching the stone buildings until he found a crude stone house.

Inside, the space was pitch-black but not cramped. Only a table stood in the emptiness, with a dim candle barely illuminating a figure seated behind it, cloaked entirely in black, unmoving at Yingchen’s entrance.

Yingchen swiftly surveyed the room, his eyes narrowing.

He noticed shadows of venomous snakes and insects in the corners, which grew restless at the arrival of a stranger.

He placed a hand on his sword’s hilt and approached the table. There was no chair, and he didn’t intend to sit. Standing, he asked, “I hear the Nether Domain has been quite unsettled lately?”

The person behind the table extended a withered hand in a gesture.

Yingchen drew a handful of talisman coins from his sleeve and tossed them onto the table. Only then did the figure rasp in an unpleasant, disguised voice, “Disciples of the Primal Path are searching for something, turning the underground upside down.”

“Best to avoid them.”

He counted the coins, paused, and added, “There are several Foundation Establishment cultivators openly present. If you’re unlucky enough to arouse suspicion, soul-searching and spirit-seizing are not uncommon—they’ve made the area colder and emptier.”

With that, he gestured for Yingchen to leave.

Yingchen frowned. Such news did not satisfy him, but he guessed the man knew no more, nor did he wish to pay a higher price. He nodded and turned to leave.

At least he had learned something.

No wonder Qu Qiao had warned him—some inner disciples were searching the depths for unknown things. Those with sense would avoid them, and even if they crossed paths, as a disciple of Crimson Water Cliff, he’d be safer.

But only slightly.

Yingchen doubted there was any real camaraderie here. To inner disciples, those from the outer sect were little more than ants.

Yet he was not so easily deterred. In truth, the odds of dying inexplicably to a beast or another cultivator in the depths far exceeded those of provoking an inner disciple and being slain.

If one wished only to live quietly—

Staying home to await disaster was safer than cultivating at Crimson Water Cliff.

Yingchen left the stone house, preparing to slip away unnoticed. But before he reached a secluded spot, a sudden commotion broke out.

This was rare—the street’s cultivators, even those in corners, were instantly drawn to the scene.

Yingchen narrowed his eyes and looked, quickly spotting a group striding confidently from afar.

His gaze sharpened. Among them was a familiar face.

“Yan He?” Yingchen’s heart stirred. “Is this group from Crimson Water Cliff?”

Yan He, four years in the sect, had passed four major assessments, and in the last minor test had broken through to the seventh level of Qi Refinement—a standout among peers, and exceedingly proud.

Yingchen recalled Yan He’s arrogance in the pill chamber months ago. Yet Yan He would not remember the one who once intervened unexpectedly, much less his appearance.

But even the haughty Yan He was not the leader in this group.

They appeared to walk together, but in truth clustered around the center—a tall, lean man with owl-like eyes and fierce features. At his waist coiled a crimson giant python, its chilling gaze following the man’s every movement.

For an instant, Yingchen’s gaze crossed paths with this man, and he almost felt as if he and the serpent locked eyes—his heart tightened.

He pressed his hat lower and stepped aside, yielding the path.

The group paid him no heed, swaggering forward.