Chapter 90: Serving Time Until the End of Days

After being moved to a new cell, life returned to the darkness she had known before. Unlike the cell in Azure Dragon, this cell in Vermilion Bird Thirteen was small but had a place for relieving oneself and someone brought prison meals—clearly designed for long-term inmates.

Perhaps it was assumed that cultivators had robust bodies; the meals were served in a chipped clay bowl, handed in through a small window in the door by the guards. The food was cold and unpalatable, and the timing of its delivery was unpredictable—sometimes three days, sometimes two. The neglect was obvious, just enough to keep the prisoners from starving to death.

At least, water accompanied each meal. This had become Red Paper’s only entertainment in her solitary existence. She refrained from using the Water Condensation Technique to preserve her spiritual energy; quietly feeling water droplets roll across her palm and slowly dry on her skin was pleasure enough.

Besides that, there was only the calculation of time. This was difficult. Red Paper could only estimate based on the frequency of meals, snapping stalks of straw and piling them in a corner to keep count. Day after day, the pile grew, and she guessed that nearly a year had passed.

Sometimes, she couldn’t help but wonder about the world outside the prison. How was Pill Cliff Sect faring? Surely Ji Youyun hadn’t achieved his goal yet—otherwise, why keep her alive? That must mean Chen Zaizhi was still safe. Had his cultivation improved?

Later, she mused: Chen was the number one fool, with the insights left by their ancestor rolling around in his head. After more than a year, he should have advanced to mid-stage Foundation Establishment. Unfortunately, she was trapped here and unable to cultivate herself. There would never be another chance to compete with him.

Another half-year passed. One day, after counting her straws in the darkness, Red Paper was suddenly overcome with sadness and reflection: “Perhaps one day, I’ll use up all the straw in this cell. Then what? I’ll forget how to speak, maybe even forget all my grudges and become useless. What’s the point in conserving my spiritual energy and clinging to life?”

Days went by before she pulled herself out of this melancholy and regained her spirits. She entertained herself, thinking, “With the lifespan of a Foundation Establishment cultivator, I can live a long time yet. Perhaps that boy Chen Zaizhi, blessed by fortune, will spend a hundred or two hundred years forming his Nascent Soul, then return to Pill Cliff Sect, activate the protective array, expose Ji Youyun and Dai Mingchi’s schemes, and join other sects to defeat them utterly. Chen becomes the foremost figure in Daoist sects, remembers me, and comes with drums and gongs to fetch me out. By then, after so many years, my lifespan will be nearly spent, old and ugly. When I see him, I’ll surely ask, 'Chen, do you remember our ancestor’s wish for us to become Dao companions?' Haha, I can imagine how red his face will be then…”

Sitting in the darkness, Red Paper laughed at her own foolishness for a while, then shifted to a more comfortable position and mocked herself: “Enough, just another fool dreaming. Better to think of Fang Zhen than dwell on him.”

She managed to find this little amusement. For several days, she entertained herself by imagining all sorts of adventures for Fang Zhen—five or six powerful masters, seven or eight chances to eat rare celestial fruits, until she ran out of ideas and could invent no more.

“Ah, isn’t anyone else imprisoned nearby? It would be nice to have someone to talk to, never mind whether they’re Daoist or Demonic…”

This thought had crossed her mind countless times, but just then, she seemed to vaguely hear singing.

Red Paper’s heart tightened; she strained to listen.

In such a grim and silent place, any disturbance felt like a haunting. Lucky she was brave—another girl might have been scared out of her wits. Red Paper slowly stood, groped her way to the cell door’s small window, and pressed her ear to listen.

The singer was a man, humming some folk tune in dialect, none of the words clear. His voice was rough and discordant, clearly off-key, but to Red Paper, even the worst song sounded like celestial music.

The meal had been delivered earlier that day, and the guards in this Demon Refining Prison were all lifeless and silent. Who was this singing man?

Whoever he was, Red Paper hoped his voice wouldn’t vanish.

The man sang for a while, then abruptly stopped and began to speak: “What? My singing’s awful? Old man, you sing well, but who’s there to hear you?”

“Haha, of course I can hear you; didn’t you hear me singing?”

“Why? Because you’re not as clever as I am. Old man, how long have you been in this cell? Tsk, can’t even speak properly anymore, how pitiful…”

Though not loud, each sentence was clear, as if he were chatting with someone else. Red Paper could only hear his voice, which unnerved her.

“Ah, chatting with a geezer on the brink of his grave—it’s hard to muster any enthusiasm. Still, I’ll show some mercy, so you don’t sit here day after day and forget even your name. Come, tell me who you are and what you did to end up here.”

After this remark, the voice fell silent for a long time, making Red Paper anxious. She had a guess, though unsure if it was correct, so she called out tentatively: “Hey, can you hear me?”

Nearly two years had passed since she’d spoken to anyone. Her voice emerged rough and hoarse, even unpleasant to her own ears.

Yet the voice responded instantly, with warmth: “Oh, a woman! There’s actually a woman in this cell? And you sound quite young—haha, wonderful, now it won’t be boring. Don’t worry, beauty, I can hear you.”

Red Paper thought that if she hadn’t been worn down by two years of loneliness and lost all her fire, she would never have responded to such cheeky words.

Now, she merely choked on the awkward flirtation, and the voice continued rapidly: “Beauty, how long have you been locked up here? In Vermilion Bird, they don’t imprison ordinary people. I went to great lengths to get transferred here—are you a renowned figure? Ah, calling you ‘sister’ wouldn’t be right, so… elder sister?”

Faced with such a character, Red Paper couldn’t help but laugh in spite of herself. From his words, she realized he was another prisoner.

She asked, “Why can I hear you speaking?”

This question had seemingly been posed before, but when Red Paper asked, the man replied in a much more serious tone: “You must have noticed—there’s no spiritual energy in this prison. Every bit of true essence consumed is gone for good, so even if we have some left, no one wastes it on magical voice transmission. To be honest, before joining a sect, I was a rogue cultivator who practiced martial arts in the mundane world.”

Red Paper didn’t understand and interjected, “Martial arts?”

He explained proudly, “That’s right. In the mundane world, it’s called martial arts or kung fu—a whole self-contained system, broad and profound. Not to boast, but I was a martial arts prodigy, undefeated in thirty years until I stumbled into a rogue cultivator’s tomb and discovered I had a spiritual root—thus, my path to immortality began.”

Intrigued, Red Paper ignored his brotherly nonsense and, seeing him pause, asked, “Oh? And then?”

She didn’t realize that storytelling relied on a partner; her cooperation only encouraged him further. He felt moving to this cell was truly worthwhile and exclaimed, “So, my spellcraft is decent, but many are stronger than me. Yet in this Demon Refining Prison, if I claim second place, no one dares claim first. Among the martial arts I learned is an internal technique called ‘Sound Across a Thousand Miles.’ Though we’re not close, using this method lets us speak without hindrance.”

Red Paper was astonished. “A thousand miles? That’s more powerful than any magical artifact!” She knew the “Flowing Water Melody” couldn’t reach such distances; had it been possible, she and Chen Zaizhi wouldn’t have needed to flee so desperately.

He chuckled, “Ah, it’s just a name. In practice, it works over a hundred yards—no farther. You don’t know, martial artists in the mundane world love to exaggerate; every technique gets a frightening name, like ‘Splitting Mount Hua’—as if! Or ‘Demon Subduing Blade,’ ‘Demon Subduing Sword’—faced with demon cultivators, they’d wet their pants.”

Red Paper had never met someone so talkative; she laughed along and sighed, “Speaking over a hundred yards is impressive enough.”

He took her praise as an opportunity to flatter her: “To have your admiration, if the martial artists in the mundane world knew, this skill’s value would skyrocket. Since we’re both bored in this cell, why don’t I teach you? Would you like that?”

Red Paper smiled, “Alright. But I know nothing about it—surely it’s not easy to learn.”

“Very easy. As cultivators with spiritual roots, we’re far superior to ordinary mortals. I guarantee you’ll see results in three to five days.”

He paused, then cursed, “Old man, mind your own business. I’m willing—beauty should benefit. Once she learns, we can flirt back and forth, keeping you awake and annoyed.”

Red Paper felt a headache coming on. After thinking, she suggested, “Since none of us can leave, why not teach everyone this technique? We could all talk and laugh together—life would be less unbearable.”