Chapter Thirty-Six: The Ruined Temple

Records of Mountains and Seas · Clouds and Mist, Volume Seven · Chronicle of Ghost Marshes: There is a mountain with trees, yet the trees hold no marsh; the marsh harbors ghosts, and the ghosts wield weapons. Clouds and fog surge, miasma converges, moisture fills the air, and among it stands a ghostly temple—thus, Ghost Marsh is named. Within its bounds, the swamp swallows the dead, mosquitoes and serpents are most venomous, the miasma clouds the mind. Though there are wondrous herbs and treasures of the mountains, few who enter ever return. Deep in its heart lies an ancient temple, from which strange sounds emerge; those who hear them lose their senses, their souls drawn within, and scarce any ever escape.

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In the town of South Mountain, many tales circulate about Ghost Marsh.

Beyond several ridges, the woods are shrouded in mist throughout the year; miasma gathers, and those who stray in are unlikely to find their way out.

Some say that at the marsh’s edge, heaps of white bones lie scattered, with venomous serpents writhing everywhere.

Others claim that within Ghost Marsh, rare medicinal herbs and mountain treasures abound; to obtain even one or two could grant a lifetime of wealth and fortune.

Yet the tale most widely told is of an ominous presence within Ghost Marsh—a sinister, ruined temple where wicked spirits are said to roam, devouring hearts and consuming souls, trapping the dead in eternal unrest.

Most dismiss these as little more than curious legends.

Yang Fan believed this place to be Ghost Marsh because of the swamps and the miasma. Though he had ventured deep into Cloud Mist Mountain, he had stayed mainly at the periphery.

Only Ghost Marsh matched all the signs.

He hesitated for a moment.

Sensing that Xiang Yangkai was close behind, he shook his head. Very well—he would bury him here.

Yang Fan pressed onward.

His path grew longer and more winding.

He continually changed direction, wary of straying into the waterlogged, grass-choked bogs; mosquitoes swarmed, and only his cultivation kept them at bay. Even the venomous serpents that appeared were dispatched with a swift stroke of his blade.

Occasionally, he roused his “Intimidation” power.

Most of the time, he relied on his “Earth Sense” to scan his surroundings.

Suddenly, Yang Fan’s eyes lit up and he moved quickly forward, treading uncertain ground as if he might sink at any moment.

Soon, a plant appeared before him.

Serpent Spirit Grass: Grows mostly in marshes where venomous snakes abound. It neutralizes serpent venom, repels insects and ants, and contains 0.2 units of vital energy.

He gathered it and absorbed its essence.

Vital energy: +0.2

“To me, perhaps this is a treasure trove!”

Yang Fan could not help but smile.

But to wait for Xiang Yangkai, he slowed his pace.

Moving in fits and starts, he collected spirit herbs at every pause—a bountiful harvest.

“It’s only in places seldom touched by men that such treasures are found.”

Yang Fan grew excited.

He stopped, turned, and looked back at his pursuer, Xiang Yangkai, a trace of pity in his eyes.

How wretched the man appeared.

Filthy from head to toe, his face pale, sweat beading on his brow, breathing ragged, lips tinged with blue.

“Why do you do this to yourself?” Yang Fan sighed.

“Why are you unscathed—indeed, more spirited than before?” Xiang Yangkai stared in disbelief at Yang Fan.

He should have been glad to catch up, yet his heart sank.

The journey had left him battered. Though he had taken antidote pills, the miasma he had inhaled was nearly unbearable, leaving his mind reeling.

He tracked Yang Fan’s path, faltering often, nearly falling into the bog on several occasions.

Mosquitoes plagued him, serpents attacked—he was miserable.

Seeing Yang Fan halt, he had thought the man spent, but now he could hardly believe his eyes.

“This is like my own back garden,” Yang Fan said with a strange smile. “Do you regret it?”

“You’re confident you can deal with me!” Xiang Yangkai said, and then smiled suddenly. “Regret? Maybe. Life, from birth to death—death is fated from the start. The journey between is nothing but a series of choices. If the end is set, there’s little point in regret.”

“You see things clearly,” Yang Fan remarked, surprised. “Since we share this fleeting fate tonight, have you any last words?”

“You truly are a remarkable man,” Xiang Yangkai said with a curious look. “You wield a power that shakes the mind. In this miasmatic place, you’re not just unharmed—you move as if on firm ground. Thinking back, it seems you’ve kept me on your leash all along, and only here are you truly in control. I suspect you have more than one such power, am I right?”

“Would you like to know?”

“I would.”

“Then tell me—who is it that stands behind you?” Yang Fan’s gaze was piercing.

Xiang Yangkai laughed. “For most of my life, I have not lived for myself; even now, that has not changed. Even if I could kill you in the next instant, I would not say. That is my code.”

“A deathsworn? Or perhaps a houseborn servant, a family slave,” Yang Fan sighed.

Xiang Yangkai did not answer. He gripped his sword, bent his knees, his eyes narrowed, and with a stamp of his foot, he lunged to make one last desperate attempt.

Even if it meant dying together.

But suddenly, his foot found nothing and he sank down.

The earth spun around him, closing in.

“Another power!” Xiang Yangkai struggled, realization dawning. “In the Liu Estate, I nearly stumbled; at the cliff, I almost fell. That was you, wasn’t it?”

His tone left no doubt.

“Yes,” Yang Fan nodded. “Don’t bother struggling. This is a swamp—nothing but soft mud. It absorbs your strength; the more you fight, the faster you sink.”

A moment ago, he had employed the “Earth Surge” power.

Here, that power worked as if in its natural element—its force magnified.

“What manner of being are you, to possess so many abilities?” Xiang Yangkai had ceased to struggle.

He could gain no purchase; strength was useless here.

Below, it was as if a whirlpool dragged him down, while crushing pressure closed in from all sides.

He could not break free.

A perfect counter to martial strength.

Yang Fan did not answer. He watched as the man was swallowed, the mud rising over his head, his struggles weakening.

He stood quietly.

Time passed.

Through his “Earth Sense,” Yang Fan felt the man’s life force dissipate, the unique human radiance fading away.

He knew Xiang Yangkai was dead.

A stifling end.

“I wonder if those behind you will grieve for your passing,” Yang Fan murmured.

For reasons unknown, a faint melancholy stole over him.

He turned and continued on his way.

His own journey was only beginning.

Here, crocodiles lurked beneath the foul water, masked by weeds—a hidden danger.

There was also the marsh-runner, a beast that sped over the swamp’s surface, swift as the wind, appearing and vanishing without a trace.

Yet Yang Fan paid them no mind.

His gaze sharpened; not far off, he sensed a dense, brilliant light, though the way was impassable.

He tried the “Earth Surge” method; it worked as he’d hoped.

Beneath the surface, the shallow water churned, the weeds trembled, and in moments, a stream of muddy earth erupted before him, revealing an object.

Blood-red, with distinct grain.

Willow Heart Blood Crystal: Born when a millennium-old willow gained spirit yet met disaster and was destroyed, sinking underground. Its vital energy gathered in the shattered core. Time wore away the wood, leaving only the heart. Though the heart had spirit, it could not withstand the ages. As it decayed, it absorbed a vast amount of blood essence. Swathed in mud, it underwent a strange transformation. Now, after much drifting, it remains. Contains 8.8 units of vital energy.

“A true treasure!”

Yang Fan was overjoyed.

He wasted no time and absorbed it immediately.

Vital energy: +8.8

Total: 12.3

“This truly is my land of fortune!”

Yang Fan could not contain his delight, pressing onward. Suddenly, his senses detected a dazzling array of lights.

Green, yellow, blue, gold, and more.

“What is this…”

Yang Fan’s spirit soared, excitement surging within him.

All were lights of spiritual essence.

At the same time, his senses picked up a ruined building.

A temple.