Volume One: The Revival of All Things, Where Every Season is Spring Chapter Forty-Three: The Place of Origin, Nearing the Truth

Within the Yin-Yang Fish, the space was shrouded in gloom, a blood-red moon hanging dimly overhead. Several ancient trees stood dead and withered, their bare branches home to a single old crow whose mournful cries echoed the devastation all around—a scene of utter desolation and decay.

A chill wind swept through the mist. The Sword Hound sniffed the air, gazing up at the bloody moon, its head drooping in contemplation.

Mist.

Mo Wen’s spirit stirred. He summoned the coal ball, cradling it in his palm. The coal ball remained as dark and lifeless as before. The Sword Hound stared at it longingly, sticking out its tongue to lick it.

A faint wisp of mist slipped into the coal ball—so subtle that only the keenest observer might have noticed. The Sword Hound barked joyfully, spinning in place as if it had gone mad.

Mo Wen confirmed it again: the coal ball was absorbing the mist. This could mean the coal ball had begun to recover.

This bleak, ruined world was the right place to come after all.

To aid the coal ball in absorbing more mist, the Sword Hound clamped it gently in its jaws. The surroundings were utterly deserted; even those who had entered earlier, both human and demon, had vanished.

Man and hound walked across this lifeless land. A gust of wind rose, swirling yellow sand into the air. Mo Wen shielded his eyes, and when the dust finally thinned, the blood-moon’s light revealed the vague outline of something immense ahead.

It was an earthen city.

As they drew closer, they saw broken eaves and collapsed walls everywhere—a field of ruins. Only a partially standing segment of the city wall seemed to silently recount its former glory.

"Caw, caw!"

Perhaps disturbed by Mo Wen’s arrival, the old crows called out hoarsely and flew deeper into the ruins.

"Be careful, boy. Something isn't right here—it’s them!"

With the coal ball in its mouth, the Sword Hound sent its warning straight into Mo Wen’s mind. Instantly alert, Mo Wen watched as dust burst from the ruins and streams of black mist rose from beneath the ground.

The black mist took shape, condensing into human forms. These beings bore no features on their faces, only a chilling, sinister presence.

"Disgusting aura—disciple of the Buddhist sect! Kill him!"

Their voices rasped in unison, dry and harsh, like a chorus of shadows.

As soon as they spoke, they dissolved into mist and surged toward Mo Wen, moving with uncanny uniformity as if programmed. But Mo Wen was ready. He channeled his inner breath to its peak, his entire being glowing with a radiance like that of the stars.

He unleashed the brilliance of the Milky Way, his fists sweeping through the air. Wherever his blows met the black mist, it vanished as if seared by fire. Yet these shadows seemed devoid of will, charging at him without fear, wave upon wave.

The tide of black mist was endless, an army trained to sacrifice itself in perfect order. Their only goal was to wear Mo Wen down until he perished.

Mo Wen’s inner breath gradually ebbed away. Realizing he could not last, he fought while retreating, struggling desperately to break free. At last he escaped the city’s confines. Strangely, the black mist did not pursue beyond the earthen walls but slipped back underground and vanished.

Gasping for breath, Mo Wen took a long time to recover. A chill lingered in his heart. He had no idea what those shadows were, but the memory of Zhou Sheng’s agony when engulfed by the mist haunted him. Were it not for his Buddhist inner breath, he would surely have suffered the same fate.

After resting, Mo Wen skirted the city. Beyond it lay the cracked bed of a dried river, scattered with heaps of white bone. Ahead, an endless plain of yellow sand stretched to meet the sky.

A voice—cold and sinister, barely more than a whisper—rose as if from the mouths of hungry ghosts in hell. Mo Wen frowned and shouted, "Who’s there? Show yourself!"

"You have trespassed upon the place of origin—now die!"

The voice cried out from all directions, impossible to trace. Suddenly the earth shook. The dry riverbed collapsed, revealing a massive tunnel below.

An eerie aura drifted up. From the tunnel, a figure shrouded in black mist floated into the air, hovering above the ground. Mo Wen sent out his spiritual sense, but it was blocked; he could not see the figure’s true face.

Unwilling to waste words, Mo Wen struck first. He gathered his inner breath and unleashed the second form of the Milky Way technique—Heaven and Earth!

His golden fists blazed toward the shadowy figure. The black mist dispersed, dodging Mo Wen’s strike, then swiftly reformed.

The Sword Hound cried out, "Physical attacks can't touch him at all!"

A terrifying realization seized Mo Wen: when he had struck the misty figure, he had sensed a familiar aura leaking out—a pure, unmistakable presence from the Buddhist sect. It was the same aura he had felt when the sect’s founder opened the gate to the Netherworld.

Impossible! Suppressing his shock, Mo Wen tried again. Each time he struck, the result was the same: no matter how well hidden, the figure could not help but reveal a trace of that pure Buddhist energy.

"It’s useless. Here, in this place, I am invincible!" the misty figure sneered.

Mo Wen pretended not to hear, retreating at speed with the Sword Hound close behind. The black mist did not pursue.

After running several miles, Mo Wen collapsed beside a low earthen mound, lost in thought.

The shadowy figure had called this the place of origin. These things must be the "they" his teacher had warned him about. Now he could be certain: the Buddhist sect and these strange beings were deeply intertwined. In fact, the figure above the riverbed might well be the Buddhist ancestor imprisoned in the Netherworld.

Yet if the sect wanted him dead, why not act in the Netherworld itself? Why spare him until now? What was their real aim?

Mo Wen racked his brain, trying to connect the scattered clues. He sensed he was missing something vital but could not recall what.

He thought back to his journey from an ordinary man to an awakened cultivator, and suspicion gnawed at him: had his encounter with the ascetic monk in Tibet been orchestrated from the very beginning?

Had the Buddhist sect been setting the board all along? Back then, he was just an ordinary student—what could possibly have warranted such painstaking scheming?

No matter how he reasoned, nothing made sense. His head throbbed violently. He didn’t even notice when the coal ball began to emit a faint glow, though the Sword Hound howled in excitement.

After a while, burdened by doubt, Mo Wen returned to the river’s edge.

"Show yourself!"

His furious roar shook the heavens, and the earth trembled. As expected, the misty figure appeared.

Mo Wen calmed himself and fixed the figure with a steady gaze. "Should I call you Master Ancestor, or simply Master?" he asked quietly.

The black mist swirled wildly—the figure had not expected such a question. Then, with a slow smile, he replied, "As expected of the Child of the Domain. You are as clever as they say. When did you begin to suspect, my good disciple?"

At last, confirmation. This figure was indeed the ascetic monk who had passed away on the mountain road in Tibet—Master Wuxin.

Seeing that Mo Wen had uncovered the truth, the figure let the mist fall away, revealing his emaciated frame.

To meet again felt like a lifetime had passed. There should have been a thousand things to say, but Mo Wen’s heart brimmed only with hatred.

"What is your goal? And why call me the Child of the Domain?"

Mo Wen forced down his rage, desperate for answers. But Master Wuxin only sighed, "You did not reach awakening in time. What a pity. It seems your master has refined your inner breath even further. If you would only cultivate diligently, awakening would be close at hand."

Suddenly, Mo Wen remembered the note Zhao’s mother had left him before she disappeared, warning him not to awaken. Now he understood.

Cold sweat trickled down his back. If Zhao Tiansheng had not urged him to follow his heart, Mo Wen would have devoted himself entirely to Buddhist cultivation and, with the sect’s guidance, would have awakened long ago.

Had Mo Wen used Buddhist methods to awaken, the sect’s plot would have succeeded.