Chapter Eleven: The Valley of Fallen Demons

Though he hadn't achieved the goal he'd set for himself, upon encountering Yu Qing, Li Ruoyu could only sigh at the capriciousness of fate.

At last, the Outer Sect Grand Competition came to an end. Of those who entered the sect alongside Li Ruoyu, surprisingly more than one had broken into the top ten: there was the rotund Wang Bo, Yan Meng'er of the Yan Kingdom's royal family, Wang Linzi of the Zhao Kingdom, and Feng Ruoxian, one of the Ten Beauties of the Outer Sect and scion of a cultivation family from the lands of Yan.

Yu Qing was narrowly defeated by Ji Heng, a peerless talent from their cohort, and took second place.

Ji Heng was an extraordinary man—his bearing was both heroic and steady. Though in his early twenties, he was in no hurry to break through to the next realm, instead perfecting each stage to a miraculous degree. His eyes shone with confidence—not arrogance, but the unshakable conviction that he would shatter all boundaries, ascend to the ultimate peak, and stand above the heavens.

Li Ruoyu also took note of the young man in third place. Ling Wuchang hailed from the Fifth Peak, grandson of Ling Qianyue, and though only fifteen or sixteen, wielded a broken sword with such dominance that his opponents stood no chance.

Three others rounded out the top ten—one man and two women. The man in black was named Cang Qiong, from a distant land under the Yan Kingdom, mysterious in origin, delivered to Hengjiu Sect as a disciple five years ago. The young woman in pink, Ying Qinghuan, was in her early twenties, beautiful, with eyes like autumn water. The woman in red, Jing Hong, was unforgettable at a glance, like a startled swan—fiery red hair, crimson attire, and ivory skin, exuding an exotic allure as if hailing from foreign lands.

The Abyss of Fallen Demons lay near the borders of Yan and Zhao, south to the Forest of Mystic Beasts, north to the Valley of Dark Spirits. It was the remnant of an ancient divine war, later sealed by the mighty of that age, and became a forbidden land. Through the vicissitudes of time, the seal inevitably weakened. Two centuries ago, a flaw began to appear in the seal every thirty years, and it was maintained by the Seven Great Powers of Yan, the Four Gates of Zhao, the royal house of Chu, the Monster Sect of the Forest, and the Meng family of the Valley of Dark Spirits, a clan famed for their medical arts. Each opening allowed cultivators in the Dust Refinement Realm to enter and contend for fortune and treasures. However, the opportunity lasted only ten years, and those above the Dust Refinement Realm would meet with calamity if they dared to enter. Countless entered each time, but but a mere tenth or so ever returned alive.

The rewards matched the risks—for all the deaths, the treasures within were of incalculable value: ancient relics, peerless elixirs, divine cultivation arts left by sages of old. Even the masters of great sects and sovereigns of dynasties were tempted.

Two centuries ago, so much blood was shed in the Abyss of Fallen Demons that every faction was left devastated. Thus, an agreement was reached: whatever fortune one claimed in the abyss would belong to them, and no sect or clan was to seize it from another. Any who broke this pact would be hunted by all.

Two days later, Li Ruoyu followed Master Miaohuiyu of the Third Peak to the entrance of the Abyss. Miaohuiyu appeared no more than twenty-five or twenty-six, her allure both charming and cold, dignified yet full of grace. Her cultivation was unfathomable, a master of the Third Peak’s legacy art—the Infinite Sword—and after more than three centuries of cultivation, she had risen to the rank of peak master.

The Abyss had but a single entrance, flanked by towering peaks. Within, nothing could be seen but a shrouding mist—an effect of the ancient seal.

Soon, a party of about a hundred arrived, led by a man in black Daoist robes, a heavy sword slung across his back. His white brows and dark hair lent him a striking appearance—he was Elder Whitebrow of the Taiyi Sect, one of the Seven Great Powers of Yan.

Elder Whitebrow led his disciples to a spot by the entrance, gave his instructions, then walked over to Miaohuiyu.

“Fairy Miao, it has been seventy years since we last met. Your beauty is unchanged, while I have begun to age. Time spares no one,” Whitebrow said.

Miaohuiyu replied with a sigh, “Even beauty cannot withstand the blade of time. I too shall have my day. The path of cultivation is arduous indeed, Daoist, you speak truly.”

As they spoke, two more parties appeared in the sky, each about a hundred strong.

Li Ruoyu, seeing them arrive, recalled what he’d read in the Compendium of the Cultivation World. These were the delegations from Putuo Monastery and the Ancient Faith, both among Yan’s Seven Great Powers.

The leader of Putuo Monastery was an old monk in yellow robes, carrying a meditation staff, his face lined with the marks of a long life. The Ancient Faith’s leader wore plain hemp garments, hands clasped behind his back, his features youthful and full of vigor—a man in the prime of his cultivation.

Upon seeing the old monk, both Miaohuiyu and Whitebrow hastened to greet him.

“Master Kunjie, I did not expect it would be you leading the delegation this time. To meet you is a rare fortune indeed,” Miaohuiyu said.

The leader of the Ancient Faith added, “Master Kunjie, your presence is as remarkable as ever. I recall the days when your brilliance astonished the world—they are unforgettable. Now, having met you again, your depth seems only greater.”

Whitebrow, Miaohuiyu, and the Ancient Faith’s leader, named Xia Qiudong, each paid their respects.

Master Kunjie replied, “Daoist Whitebrow, Fairy Miao, Benefactor Xia, you flatter me. I am but one with a foot in the grave—those years have passed with the flow of time. This age is no longer ours.” His demeanor was tranquil, untouched by pride or regret, as though all bygone glories had faded with the years, setting him apart as truly beyond the mundane.

Listening to their conversation, Li Ruoyu recalled the entry he had read about Master Kunjie in the Encyclopedia of Cultivation. Master Kunjie was now over fifteen hundred years old; a thousand years before, he had stood against the era’s prodigies and eccentrics, suppressing all rivals, earning the title “The Buddha Walking the Mortal World.” In his time, he shone too brightly. Now, though his visage had aged, his cultivation was even deeper, returning to simplicity and plainness, appearing utterly ordinary.

The leader of the Ancient Faith was named Xia Qiudong. Though his face appeared young, he had cultivated for over eight centuries. Always clad in hemp, his fists had bested countless foes. Now in the golden years of his path, he pressed ever forward.

Soon after, the Sword Sect, the Tianyi Sect, and the Yan Royal Family arrived in turn.

The Sword Sect focused solely on the sword, believing a single stroke could fell any foe. Their leader, Elder Sword Wanderer, had a green sword standing upright behind him, gray robes, long hair, and eyes that gleamed gold, his black hair braided down his back.

The Tianyi Sect was comprised entirely of women, who followed the will of the heavens. Should one find a destined companion, she would follow him with unwavering devotion. All disciples practiced their sect’s legacy, the Heavenly Will Technique, which, should fate allow, would give warning. To become a Dao companion to a member of their sect was the envy of many. This time, the party was led by Elder Qiu Wutong, who, though five hundred years in cultivation, looked like a woman in her early thirties—charmingly graceful, the very image of an elegant noblewoman. She had devoted five centuries to solitary cultivation, attaining extraordinary heights and transcending the mundane.

The Yan Royal Family was led by the Third Imperial Uncle, Yan Feng. Clad in noble attire, his presence was wild and fierce, as if he would rend heaven and earth, like a spear piercing the firmament. Yan Feng was not his birth name—so obsessed was he with cultivation that he renamed himself thus. Those who knew him called him Mad Yan, for his madness was innate, present in everything he did, whether cultivating, seeking enlightenment, or battling others.