Chapter Forty-Two: Eliminating Future Troubles

There are countless twists of fate in the world, and just as many moments when one is powerless to choose their own path; the heavens rarely bend to the wishes of mortals. Beneath this celestial dome where cultivation reigns, some people—right or wrong—must be eliminated. If one does not wish to suffer themselves, only one word remains: kill. Carve a path from darkness toward dawn, for when misfortune becomes the most common currency beneath these skies, Li Ruoyu can only drift along, riding the great tide wherever it may take him.

Su Qingyi lay in a small lake of her own blood, and Li Ruoyu seemed to glimpse his own future—a road of cultivation soaked in blood and tinged with sorrow.

As the dust and mist began to clear, Li Ruoyu and his three companions quickly retreated. The entrance to Demonfall Valley was shaken by the forces outside, gradually forming a passage through which people could escape.

Li Ruoyu instructed Wang Bo and the other two to leave the valley first. After separating from them, he changed into black clothes and concealed himself not far from the valley mouth.

He waited there, not for anything else, but to eliminate lingering threats, lest leaving the valley invite danger from other powers.

Within Demonfall Valley, Li Ruoyu intended to kill his enemies from rival factions. Now, he had an excellent method: by slaying others and taking their treasures, he could remove the risk of his actions within the valley being exposed.

In the final hours before departing, Li Ruoyu waited silently, and sure enough, he encountered several people—those who had once led the assault with Su Qingyi, others who had pursued him from Ice Valley—but one by one, he killed them and took their treasures. In so doing, he not only annihilated his enemies, but also accumulated resources for his cultivation.

Finally, steeling his heart, Li Ruoyu destroyed all those who posed a threat to him and left the Demonfall Valley where he had spent ten years.

He swiftly traversed the passage connecting the valley to the outside world. Outside, the Seven Great Factions of Zhao, the Four Gates of Yan, the Royal Family of Chu, the Monster Sect of the Demon Immortal Forest, the Meng Clan of Ghost Valley—renowned for their medical arts—were all waiting at the entrance for their disciples to return. The first to catch Li Ruoyu’s eye were the leaders of each faction. There was Lu Xingshen of the Corpse Sect, Master Kuje of Putuo Temple, and others, all gathered here.

Because Li Ruoyu had lingered to ensure no loose ends remained, he was among the last to emerge, and thus could clearly see how many had survived.

From the moment he entered Demonfall Valley, Li Ruoyu knew it was not a place of kindness—a survival rate of barely one or two in ten. Now, even fewer had made it out than he'd imagined. Over these ten years, Li Ruoyu understood deeply: those who survived the valley were not necessarily the most accomplished in cultivation, but in terms of self-preservation and understanding the cruelty of the cultivation world, none could compare. Talent is a gift from one's parents; experience is acquired afterward. The nature of one's trials shapes their life. We cannot guarantee survival until the ends of earth and time, but we can endure each spring, summer, autumn, and winter along the way. This is the shared insight of all who walk out alive from Demonfall Valley.

As Li Ruoyu stepped out from the passage, the ten-year cycle was drawing to a close. The passage gradually sealed; those still alive within were like dying embers in the wind, doomed to vanish in the end.

“Yan Madman, hand over the Divine Marrow!” a rough voice called out. Li Ruoyu looked over and saw a burly man in gray. In ten years, time seemed not to have touched Niu Dashan of the Monster Sect; his face was unchanged from a decade ago.

“Brother Niu, here you go,” came a helpless reply—Yan Madman’s tone revealed his resignation at losing the Divine Marrow in their ten-year wager.

“It’s rare to hear Master Yan speak so,” Li Ruoyu’s gaze followed the voice to a man in dark robes, a heavy sword on his back, white brows and black hair giving him a striking appearance. He was none other than Elder Whitebrow from the Taiyi Sect—one of Yan’s Seven Great Factions.

Li Ruoyu looked at the survivors from each faction within Demonfall Valley; the Monster Sect had the most remaining—about thirty percent—while others barely exceeded ten percent.

He then looked to the Hengjiu Sect: only Jing Hong, Wang Bo, Yu Qing, the graceful Feng Ruoxian—renowned as one of the sect’s Ten Beauties—Ling Wuchang, grandson of Ling Qianyue from the Fifth Peak, in his thirties, with a handsome face and autumnal eyes; the mature, peach-like Ying Qinghuan; Yan Meng’er of the Yan royal family; Zhao Wang Linzi; Sha Cangqiong; Liu Yiyi; Meng Wansu, and a handful of others from the Hengjiu Sect.

Over a hundred had set out; now, barely a dozen or so returned. Li Ruoyu felt once more the harshness of the years of cultivation—a blade of autumn wind cutting dry grass, the same ending for all, only the time differs. No matter the achievement, one must endure the same trials. If not, how could those who survive Demonfall Valley always surpass their peers?

Thanks to prior agreements among the factions, none dared openly break the pact, and so the situation remained stable.

“I, Xia Qiudong, will take my disciples back to the sect to report. Master Kuje, Fairy Miaoxian, fellow cultivators, until fate brings us together again,” said Xia Qiudong, still youthful in appearance, clad in hemp robes, fists clasped in salute before departing with his disciples. With Xia Qiudong leading, others followed suit.

Li Ruoyu joined Master Miaohui, the Third Peak Lord, heading back to Hengjiu Sect. On the journey, Li Ruoyu flew onward, pondering the cruelty of the cultivation world—thinking of Ji Heng and Mei Yingxue, of Su Qingyi and Gu Tianyi, of Meng Ningsi with her Chaos Lotus Physique, of the endless battles within the valley, ambushes, schemes both executed and suffered. A strange weariness welled up from the depths of his heart.

Though only twenty-three or twenty-four, he felt the fatigue of middle age. Li Ruoyu gazed at the sky; vast white clouds drifted past—ever-changing, just like life. “Once you set foot in the cultivation world, it is as deep as the sea.” Perhaps he would feel exhaustion, encounter much suffering, pain, blood, and tears—but what else could he do? All he could do was strive to improve himself, to become better, drifting and tumbling with the great tide of the cultivation world, forging ahead, killing his way to dawn, carving a ray of hope from despair. Even if hope’s end was only another sea of misery, this journey would not have been in vain. So Li Ruoyu silently thought.

Two days passed. Though the journey to Demonfall Valley had taken two days, the return was swifter—perhaps because descending is easier than climbing.

Along the way, Li Ruoyu considered whether to tell Peak Lord Miaohui what he had seen and heard within the valley, but ultimately chose silence. The protruding beam rots first; in any situation, quietly amassing wealth is never a bad idea. Li Ruoyu was not entirely motivated by profit, nor could he be called a good person—just a low-ranking cultivator struggling in the cultivation world. Everyone’s abilities are limited; simply surviving is no easy feat.