Seizing the moment, Gao Yang strode forward and slapped Yuan Qing across the face, the blow landing with a crack that echoed through the hall. Yuan Qing crumpled to the ground, unconscious.
Silence fell. No one moved. No one had expected Yuan Qing to lose.
Though Gao Yang looked worse for wear—his robe shredded by sword energy, shoulder pierced clean through, skin mottled red and purple from the backlash—he was still standing. And in a battle of life and death, the one left standing was the victor.
The First Senior Brother cleared his throat. "Enough. The duel's over. Thirteen, you've won."
Gao Yang's eyes were cold. "When he tried to cripple me, why didn't you stop him?"
The Senior Brother froze, then replied lightly, "Because I believed you wouldn't be hurt."
Gao Yang thought of that merciless strike. Even now, his chest still burned from the sword's passing wind. If Twelve hadn't intervened, he would've been crippled—or worse. Winning had been luck, not certainty.
But Yuan Qing's victory would not have come easily either. And the Senior Brother—stronger even than Yuan Qing—had seen that clearly.
A faint, humorless smile spread across Gao Yang's lips. "Senior Brother has more faith in me than I do."
Then he lifted his foot and brought it down—hard—on Yuan Qing's right hand.
Bones shattered with a wet crunch.
"Ahhh!"
Yuan Qing's scream tore through the silence. The pain jolted him awake. He stared, eyes bulging, at his mangled hand. "My—my hand! My sword hand!"
For a swordsman, the right hand was everything. Gao Yang had just destroyed it.
"Thirteen!"
Before Gao Yang could move, a blur flashed past him. A crushing force slammed into his chest, hurling him backward. He hit the wall and slid to the floor, gasping.
The blow had come from the First Senior Brother.
Already injured and weakened by the Seven Fiends' recoil, the strike nearly knocked him senseless.
"Twelve!" he heard her shout. She stepped in front of him, blade in hand, fury burning in her eyes. "Senior Brother, what are you doing?"
Gao Yang forced his eyes open, fixing the First Senior Brother with a dark, unreadable stare. He memorized that face.
"I did it for his sake," the Senior Brother said coolly. "He struck with killing intent. If he'd killed the Second Brother, the Mistress would never forgive him."
Forgive me? Gao Yang laughed inwardly. Even if I hadn't struck, she wouldn't spare me.
Too bad the Senior Brother was fast. He hadn't gotten a chance for a second blow.
Twelve knelt beside him, gripping his arm. "Thirteen, are you alright?"
Gao Yang tried to grin. "I've been worse." Then everything went dark.
Pain. A thousand invisible threads tugging at his flesh, tearing and mending all at once. Beneath the agony, a strange tingling—almost pleasant, almost unbearable.
Inside his body, the Immortal Pill worked feverishly, knitting torn muscles, mending veins. The demonic meridians carved by the Seven Fiends began to solidify, hardening into something closer to true meridians.
When he opened his eyes, he wasn't in his room.
Someone was sitting beside him.
"Xiao Man?" he murmured groggily. "But you went home…"
A voice answered softly, "Immortal Child, you're awake?"
A cup of water touched his lips. "Drink, Immortal Child."
He blinked. The woman was not Xiao Man but a twisted, homely maid.
"Where am I?" he asked warily.
"In my room," came Twelve's voice.
She walked over, her palm pressing gently on his Dantian. "Tsk. So this is the power of the Immortal Pill? Those wounds should've killed you, yet they're almost gone."
Then, with a flick of her finger, she slit his wrist. Blood welled bright and warm.
Gao Yang was too weak to resist.
Twelve dipped a finger into the blood and brought it to her lips. Her eyes widened. The energy within it was pure, intoxicating. She bent down, licking the wound like a cat drinking milk.
A strange warmth spread through Gao Yang's arm, tinged with embarrassment and helplessness. Before long, the wound sealed on its own.
Twelve rose and hesitated, then said softly, "Rest. The Senior Brother said you're excused from morning lessons and meals for now. You'll be safe here. The Bai Ancestor will protect you."
"The Bai Ancestor?" Gao Yang echoed.
Twelve nodded toward the corner of the room, where a small stone statue sat. "That's her."
He turned his head—and stared.
A stone hedgehog.
Twelve's expression was solemn. "The Bai family's ancestral spirit."
A hedgehog? The Bai Ancestor? Gao Yang frowned. Something stirred deep in his mind—then pain, white-hot and sudden, ripped through his skull.
"Ahh!" He clutched his head, gasping.
Twelve hurried closer. "Your head—did you hit it?"
He forced a breath and shook his head. "No. I'm fine."
She studied him a moment longer. "Since you've learned the Bai Family's art, the Ancestor will recognize you as one of us until she descends. She'll shield you once if danger comes."
Those were Bai Zhu's exact words.
"I'll leave you to rest," Twelve said.
When she was gone, Gao Yang turned to the maid. "Help me sit up."
Supported by her arm, he settled cross-legged on the bed and began to circulate his qi.
Yesterday's battle had taught him one thing—strength was everything.
Luck had saved him this time. Next time, it might not.
By noon, Twelve returned, carrying two white steamed buns and a roasted chicken leg. "I know you don't like the food hall's slop."
The smell made Gao Yang's stomach twist with hunger. He ended his meditation and took the food gratefully, devouring it so fast that even the bones were crushed between his teeth.
It was the most satisfying meal he'd had since entering the sect.
Twelve watched him silently, then said, "The Mistress is coming back."
He paused mid-bite. "When?"
"Three days at most," she said. "She sent word—we're going monster hunting."
Gao Yang froze. Monster hunting?
In this world, not only ghosts walked the land. There were monsters too—beasts that cultivated qi, or strange things like lanterns, coffins, even stones that gained sentience.
Some monsters could become immortals.
Humans, for all their ambition, were but one fragile thread in the weave of existence.
It was why his parents had sent him to Azure Mountain in the first place. Only cultivation could protect a family from a world of nightmares.
The other path was the imperial examinations.
Those who passed were escorted with their kin to the capital, a city shielded by powerful cultivators. No ghost or demon could enter without being obliterated.
But to reach that safety, one had to pass through a gauntlet of death.
To even qualify, a man had to first pass the county, prefectural, and academy exams to become a xiucai—a scholar. Then the triennial provincial exam to become a juren, then the metropolitan exam, and finally, the palace exam before the emperor himself.
The top three—zhuangyuan,bangyan, and tanhua—won eternal glory.
Every such season, the roads to the capital ran red with blood. Demons and specters feasted on the hopeful, on the desperate poor who couldn't afford protection.
The lucky ones joined caravans or found guards. The unlucky vanished along the roadside, their dreams swallowed by the dark.
It was from one such tale—a scholar who accidentally formed his foundation—that Gao Yang had first read about the path to immortality.