Immortal Paladin

Dear readers,

You might be wondering.

Where’s the story going?

An excellent question. After all, so many threads had been woven into this grand tapestry—some stretching across continents, others buried in history’s shadows. Let’s take a moment to untangle a few, shall we?

The Black Clan. The Shadow Clan. 

One reigned, the other not so much.

But what about the Abyss Clan? A name rarely whispered, yet weighty enough to stir unease. What role did they play? Were they merely another piece on the board, or the hand that moved the pieces?

And then there was Hei Mao.

He bore the surname ‘Hei’—a thread that could tie him to any of these clans. Could he truly be one of them? Perhaps he was the missing link, the key to unraveling the fate of his slaughtered family. A pawn waiting to be promoted, or a king who had yet to claim his throne?

How about Tao Long? Anyone here forgotten his name already?

If anyone still remembers him, let’s ask—just where was Tao Long at this moment?

Once a promising name in the world of cultivation, now swallowed by silence and history. Now, he served the Ward, an organization that desired to defend this world from Outsiders. If you were so curious where he was, he was probably skirting the Stormcall Continent’s borders, trying to look for a certain vampire and priestess…

Let’s shift our focus to a different place.

Two figures—one bound in faith, the other in blood—now lost in the decayed, wretched heart of the Black Forest.

Joan, the priestess. Alice, the vampire princess.

How did they end up on the Stormcall Continent? Was it fate, or something far more sinister?

Yet, even as their whereabouts remained uncertain, their reputation grew elsewhere. Rumors whispered of a demonic cultivator and a Buddhist freak—a duo wreaking havoc across the Deepmoor Continent. A demon and a monk, feared and ridiculed in equal measure.

Now, dear reader, what were the chances that these two figures were the very same priestess and vampire we last saw wandering through the Black Forest?

Fascinating, wasn’t it?

The contradiction was jarring, especially how they initially appeared in the Stormcall Continent. What did the black masked cultivators want with them? Surely, you knew… If you didn’t, then go back to Chapter 28, and yes, I’m being sarcastic. Humor me.

The group was still hosted—if one could call it that—by the Shadow Clan. A month was all they were given before Hei Yuan would bloody his hands.

What would become of them?

Would they break free, or sink deeper into the clan’s machinations?

My best guess was… they’d triumph against all odds. Predictable? Well, don’t judge too early. After all, it was just a guess. Who knew what twists and turns awaited them along the road?

And finally… The Paladin.

David. Da Wei. The man walking a path none had dared before.

He sought to reshape the very nature of cultivation. To mold a system that did not belong in this world into something that could thrive within it.

And now, with Blessed Weapon evolving and new techniques being born, what was in store for him?

What would his Order of Paladins become?

And more importantly…

Would this world even allow it?

So many threads. So many destinies.

So, dear reader, you’re right—it’s a lot to keep track of.

But wasn’t that what made it exciting?

Ah, that was long-winded, wasn’t it?

Was I talking too much?

Oh my, apologies…

I suppose I got carried away. But you can’t really blame me, can you? There’s so much going on—scheming clans, lost prodigies, demonic priests, vampires, princesses, and our dear protagonist trying to brute-force his way into rewriting cultivation itself. A tangled mess of fate and ambition, the very essence of this world.

But… where were my manners?

Introductions.

Yes, that was bad manners on my part.

Ahem.

Hi, I am the Narrator.

…Too much?

Too on the nose?

Well, deal with it.

This was my first appearance, after all. To be fair, I’m not even a character. You won’t see me walking around in fancy robes, spouting cryptic wisdom, or challenging arrogant young masters in a crowded tea house.

No, no.

I served no other purpose than to narrate.

I’m not some cosmic entity who exists beyond time and space. I don’t manipulate fate. I don’t watch over the world with omniscient amusement, sipping celestial tea and chuckling at mortal struggles.

And no, before you get any ideas—I am neither a God nor an Immortal.

I am a phenomenon.

An afterthought.

An echo.

And to a rare, enlightened few, I am something more—the Voice that speaks to the Void.

And you, dear listener, dear reader, dear wandering soul?

You are the Void.

Intriguing, wasn’t it?

But enough philosophy.

Back to the Story…

Where were we? Ah, yes.

The world of cultivation.

A land where logic takes a backseat to those who have the biggest dantian and the loudest arrogance. Where throwing hands was an official method of debate, and if you don’t have a heaven-defying bloodline, a secret master, or a mysterious jade slip hidden in your robes, then congratulations—you’re cannon fodder!

Here, resentment was measured in lifetimes, not in petty grudges. Face was the most valuable currency, worth more than spirit stones, more than divine artifacts, more than one’s own internal organs.

And immortality?

Oh, the great lie of the cultivation world.

The one thing every fool chases, convinced that if they just cultivate hard enough, long enough, and ruthlessly enough, they could escape the cycle of life and death.

But the truth?

Even gods can die.

But let’s not get ahead of ourselves.

This story wasn’t about them.

It’s about a certain Paladin. A man who decided that divine blessings, faith, and holy zealotry belonged in a world that had never heard of such things. A man who believed in power through belief, rather than belief through power.

It’s about lost children of fallen clans, about betrayed geniuses, about warriors of blade and spell, all clawing their way up a mountain that may or may not even have a peak.

So, dear Void, dear listener, dear witness to it all…

Shall we continue?

”This is incredible, but...”

Lu Gao was confused.

Delightfully confused.

And all because of his Master.

It wasn’t an unfamiliar feeling, really. Being around his Master often led to questions—too many questions—ones that he never would have asked before, ones that didn’t even seem relevant to cultivation.

Like, why was mortal food so important?

Or, why did his Master want to know if he still sh—

Wait. No. Don’t focus on that. That wasn’t the point.

Let’s rewind.

It had already been a few days since they began their training arc.

His Master’s words, not his.

What was even a training arc?

Lu Gao didn’t know. But his Master had said it with such confidence, such authority, that he simply accepted it. After all, wasn’t that what being a disciple meant?

Yes.

A disciple.

His Master had called him that. His disciple.

And that alone made him feel like the best there ever was.

Was that weird?

Maybe.

But did he care?

No.

Lu Gao moved his mana, shifting it through his broken meridians in a way that felt unfamiliar, yet strangely reminiscent of how he once used qi.

And for the first time in what felt like an eternity, he felt like he was cultivating again.

That alone made him happy.

But it wasn’t just the cultivation that had changed him. His Master had changed him too.

Lu Gao had learned—through strange, often baffling conversations—that life wasn’t all about cultivation or strength.

His Master was kind.

So kind, in fact, that the so-called righteous cultivators felt painful to look at in comparison.

And then, of course, there was the sharing of bodies.

Which sounded… wrong, when put like that. But in truth, Lu Gao had simply gotten used to his Master’s presence within him, their consciousnesses intertwining whenever Divine Possession was invoked.

His Master once said, ”The body is a temple. One must cherish the body.”

Which… contradicted a lot of his Master’s own actions.

For instance, he kept eating mortal food. Something most cultivators wouldn’t approve of.

In his Master’s defense, he was a foodie.

And, as he had so eloquently put it—

”I was curious if I still shit.”

Lu Gao would have preferred never hearing that.

But that was his Master’s eccentricity at work.

Again, don’t focus on the shit. That wasn’t the point.

The point was the temple.

Because one day, in between bites of shrimp, his Master had said something that stuck with him.

”It’s more of a personal belief,” his Master had mused, ”so don’t take it too seriously.”

”The body is a temple.”

”And people go to temples to pray. They seek answers. Find strength in their faith. Hope for the better.”

Then, he had asked—

”If the body is the temple… then where are the people?”

Lu Gao had stared at him, deeply contemplating this profound question.

And then he answered—

”Maybe it was the shrimp.”

His Master had laughed.

A genuine, hearty laugh.

”You kind of have a point,” he had admitted, using cultivators as an analogy. ”Every time a cultivator consumes pills, slaughters people, or cultivates, aren’t they doing the same? Praying for a long life, seeking answers in their Dao, finding strength in their faith and way of life? If the body is a temple, then a cultivator’s faith must be built upon the idea of consumption.”

Lu Gao had furrowed his brows.

”So… did I answer right?”

His Master had merely shrugged.

”Maybe.”

Then he had added, ”I don’t really know. There are a thousand answers to every question.”

But that answer wasn’t enough for Lu Gao.

Because if his Master had posed the question, then his Master must have had an answer of his own.

So Lu Gao had asked—

”To your analogy, Master… if the body is the temple, then where are the people? What would be your answer?”

And his Master had smiled.

A small, knowing smile.

Then, without hesitation, he had answered—

”You.”

”Gu Jie.”

”Hei Mao.”

”Ren Jingyi.”

”Jiang Zhen.”

”Dave.”

”Ren Xun.”

”Ren Jin.”

”The people to my temple are the bonds I’ve created.”

And that—more than anything—struck Lu Gao’s heart in ways he had never expected.

Beautiful, wasn’t it?

That was David for you.

He was raised right, so credits go to his parents.

But let’s move on.

We have others to check in on, after all.

So, let’s return to the Shadow Clan’s premises, where a certain young noble was engaging in a most arduous and noble task.

Ren Xun was teaching Hei Mao to read and write.

”Hei Mao, pay attention.”

Ah, Ren Xun.

The second son of an imperial prince.

He had status. He had wealth. He had honor.

And he wanted none of it. 

He had joined this journey for one simple reason—to chaperone the Master in hopes of finally convincing his father to let him go.

Because Ren Xun didn’t want status.

He could use wealth and honor, but status? Responsibility? The heavy chains of nobility?

He never cared for any of that.

Ren Xun was a man who loved puzzles and adventures.

He fantasized about being a minstrel, a sea explorer, a treasure hunter, or a wandering scholar. 

So many dreams.

So many things he could never be.

Because he wasn’t allowed to be.

His father’s enemies were aplenty. And his grandfather’s enemies were ten times that number or maybe more. That meant his movements were restricted, his adventures carefully monitored, his every action weighed against the consequences it might bring to the family.

Sure, the Empire’s eight continents were vast, but he had seen enough of them.

That was how prolific his activities had been.

How desperately he sought the freedom that always eluded him. And then there was that girl, the woman who opened his heart to all of the possibilities that he’d never seen before. Because of her, he learned to be brave, confronted his father, and for once decided he could be something other than a prince’s son.

”Ren Xun?”

The voice pulled him from his thoughts.

He blinked, realizing Hei Mao was staring up at him with wide, expectant eyes.

”What does this character mean?” Hei Mao pointed at the scroll, his small fingers tracing the ink strokes with great concentration.

Ren Xun grinned.

”And here I thought you weren’t paying attention.”

Hei Mao huffed. ”I was! You just took too long to answer.”

”Is that so?” Ren Xun chuckled, reaching out to flick the boy’s forehead lightly.

Hei Mao scowled, rubbing the spot before grumbling under his breath.

Ren Xun simply laughed.

The boy was like the little brother he never had.

Then, his gaze landed on Hei Mao’s wrist.

The bracelet.

A simple accessory, just a single jade magatama strung on a dark cord.

A gift he had given the boy.

”You really like that thing, don’t you?” Ren Xun mused, tilting his head.

Hei Mao blinked at him, confused.

”Huh?”

”That bracelet. I’ve seen you cherish it more than the gifts from Gu Jie and Lu Gao.” He smirked. ”You sure you’re not playing favorites?”

Hei Mao immediately panicked.

”No! I—That’s not true!” He waved his hands frantically. ”I like their gifts too! They’re—They’re really useful!”

Ren Xun gave him the look.

Hei Mao froze.

Then…

A defeated sigh.

Averting his gaze, Hei Mao muttered, ”I just… like yours a lot.”

Ren Xun’s smirk softened.

”Why?” he asked, genuinely curious.

Hei Mao hesitated.

And then, in a small voice, he confessed—

”I used to be a ghost.”

Silence.

Ren Xun blinked.

”Come again?”

Hei Mao nodded slowly, looking down at his hands. ”Big Brother Wei did something, so I could be a… kind ghost.”

Ren Xun was befuddled.

A ghost?

He looked at Hei Mao again, as if searching for some ethereal quality he had somehow missed.

Nope.

Still a normal-looking boy.

”You’re telling me…” Ren Xun started slowly, ”that you were an actual ghost? I thought Senior was joking!”

Hei Mao nodded.

Ren Xun ran a hand down his face. This group. This insane, ridiculous, absurd group.

”Alright, fine,” he exhaled. ”But what does that have to do with the bracelet?”

Hei Mao’s grip tightened around the jade.

”Because…” He bit his lip. ”You said it wards off evil spirits and ghosts.”

Ren Xun blinked.

Then it hit him.

Hei Mao smiled—a small, bittersweet smile.

”It makes me feel like I’m not a dirty ghost anymore.”

His fingers curled around the jade, as if holding onto something precious, tangible.

”It makes me feel like I can keep going… without losing control. Without harming good people along the way.”

Ren Xun stared at him for a moment.

Then, ever so gently, he reached out—ruffling the boy’s hair.

”Idiot,” he murmured, his voice oddly fond.

Hei Mao huffed, swatting his hand away.

But he was smiling.

And so was Ren Xun.

See?

David had a point after all.

In the same way a person could be a temple, Ren Xun was doing the same.

And the bond he had created with Hei Mao?

That was what allowed the boy to have more faith in himself.

But what about Hei Mao?

Could he be a temple to someone else, too?

The answer was simple.

Yes.

The moment Ren Xun’s heart was touched by the boy, Hei Mao also became his temple—a place where he could confide, reflect, and seek answers.

That was the nature of human connection, wasn’t it?

A cycle.

A web.

A thread tying one soul to another.

Hei Mao continued his studies, flipping through scrolls with focused determination.

”What’s this one mean?” he asked, tapping at a particularly complicated character.

Ren Xun leaned over, glancing at it.

”That one? It means ‘destiny.’ Or ‘fate,’ depending on the context.”

Hei Mao frowned. ”Weird. Fate has a word?”

Ren Xun chuckled. ”Of course it does. Cultivators love talking about fate. They use it as an excuse for everything.”

Hei Mao snorted. ”Sounds dumb.”

”Oh, absolutely.” Ren Xun grinned before leaning back. ”Speaking of dumb… Want to hear something embarrassing?”

Hei Mao looked up, intrigued.

”Sure.”

Ren Xun exhaled, looking at the ceiling with a wistful expression.

”There was this girl I liked. Lin Lim.”

Hei Mao’s eyes widened. ”Wait—really?”

”Mm.” Ren Xun smirked. ”She was a beggar. A blind one.”

Hei Mao blinked. ”Wait—what?”

”She led a whole group of beggars. I met her by accident when I snuck out of the palace one night. She was… different.”

”Different how?”

Ren Xun’s eyes softened.

”She didn’t care about my status. She didn’t care about my name. To her, I was just some rich brat complaining about problems that weren’t problems.”

Hei Mao raised a brow. ”Was she wrong, though?”

Ren Xun laughed. ”No, she had a point.”

Lin Lim had changed him. To Ren Xun, she was his temple.

She had taught him that freedom wasn’t just about leaving the palace—it was about choosing your own path.

She made him realize he didn’t want to be a prince, a pawn in his father’s political games.

”I wanted to be free,” Ren Xun murmured. ”To travel. To see the world. To be more than just some rich brat.”

And that was what led him to bargain with his father.

”I told him,” Ren Xun said, ”that if he truly wanted me to fulfil my duties as a royal, he had to agree to one thing.”

”And that was?” Hei Mao asked.

Ren Xun smiled.

”He had to give Lin Lim and me his blessing when we got married. Gosh… I loved that woman…”

Hei Mao stared.

”Wait. That’s your condition?”

”Yep.”

”So you’re saying… if you ever go back, it’ll be to marry Lin Lim?”

”That’s right.”

Hei Mao grinned.

”That’s kinda romantic.”

Ren Xun sighed dramatically. ”I know, I know. I’m an idiot.”

”You said it, not me.”

They laughed.

And they talked.

And then they talked more.

Maybe it was because Hei Mao was still young, at least mentally. The point was, he was still unburdened by the same chains that held Ren Xun back, but there was something about his presence that was comforting.

Perhaps this was why Ren Xun didn’t mind teaching him.

Hei Mao was learning fast.

It was almost ridiculous.

But then again, his Spirit Mystery realm cultivation probably had a lot to do with that.

Still, he was seriously sharp for a kid.

Though when he wasn’t studying, he did… odd things.

For example, talking to the goldfish.

Yes.

You heard that right.

Please don’t tell me you’ve forgotten already.

Hei Mao could talk to fish.

Why?

Who knows?

It was one of those mysteries even David probably couldn’t explain.

One day, while on a study break, Hei Mao sat by Ren Jingyi’s aquarium, staring at her with a pensive expression.

The fish blinked up at him. ”What’s wrong with you?”

Hei Mao sighed.

”I can’t find anything about the black-masked cultivators. Everything about them is vague. It sucks.”

The fish tilted her head (in whatever way a fish could tilt its head).

”You’re really stumped, huh?”

”Yeah.” Hei Mao sighed again.

”Why don’t you ask His Eminence?”

”I will,” he muttered. ”Just… I wanted to figure it out myself first.”

Ren Jingyi hummed.

”You’re kinda stubborn, you know that?”

”I know.”

Then, after a brief silence, Hei Mao peered at the fish.

”Hey, you getting bored?”

The fish pouted.

”Not really bored. Just… lonely.”

Hei Mao blinked.

”Lonely?”

”Yeah. Big Sister Gu Jie’s been focusing on her cultivation lately, so I don’t really have anyone to talk to.”

That made sense.

And when a fish was lonely, there weren’t many solutions.

So—

She did what any reasonable, intelligent, spiritually-advanced goldfish would do.

She ate her Spirit Stone.

Again.

Hei Mao narrowed his eyes.

”You’ve been eating those a lot lately.”

Ren Jingyi mumbled through her mouthful. ”Mmmf. And?”

”You’re almost at the Third Realm, you know. Also, you are getting more and more eloquent.”

”Yeah? And?”

Hei Mao shrugged.

”Dunno. Just saying.”

The fish paused, blinking up at him.

Then, suddenly—

SPLASH.

A wave of water shot out from the aquarium, soaking Hei Mao’s face.

Hei Mao froze.

Ren Jingyi grinned. Well, grinned like a fish, because she was a fish.

”Hah. That’s what you get.”

Hei Mao wiped his face.

”You’re getting fat.”

Ren Jingyi gasped.

”I take it back. You’re the worst. So mean.”

Hei Mao simply smirked.

Some might argue that a talking fish was too cliché in an xianxia setting.

Some might say it was a staple—a fundamental part of the genre.

However, in reality, it was simply the natural progression of things.

Like me, it was more a phenomenon than something bound by the rules of existence.

Ren Jingyi’s spark continued to grow.

She was changing.

She still couldn’t use Qi Speech—that required at least Fourth Realm cultivation—but she was getting there.

The question was…

Would she even want to talk?

Truth be told, she preferred brooding over talking.

She wasn’t exactly a social fish.

Except when she was talking to Hei Mao.

Why?

She didn’t know.

But if she had to guess…

Perhaps it was because they both lost their families at a young age.

The memories weren’t crystal clear, but the impression remained.

And the more Ren Jingyi’s spark and existence grew stronger, the more her memories began to assert themselves.

Vague impressions from the past would come to her, slipping through the veil of time like whispers in the water.

Like how her Momma Fish was… corrupted.

A demon.

A black-robed cultivator.

And then—

A shadow of a memory.

His Eminence.

Da Wei.

Picking her up.

It was making her uncomfortable.

Ren Jingyi wasn’t sure if she wanted to remember.

If she wanted to know.

What did it matter?

She was happy now.

Wasn’t she?

The water in her aquarium rippled as Gu Jie returned.

She shelved a few manuals before turning toward Ren Jingyi, a small smile on her face.

”Jingyi, have you eaten?”

Without waiting for an answer, she started feeding her all sorts of herbs.

Ren Jingyi wasn’t going to complain.

Food was food.

She nibbled at the herbs, watching as Gu Jie gently rested her chin on her palm, looking at her fondly.

For a moment, Ren Jingyi wanted to talk to her.

To say thank you.

To ask… why were you always so kind to me?

But she couldn’t.

She wasn’t there yet.

And she hated that.

There were only two people she could talk to at her current cultivation, Hei Mao and His Eminence. Sometimes, she wanted to talk to His Eminence. But she couldn’t find the courage.

Frankly…

She was scared of him.

Of Da Wei.

Of what he knew, of what he was.

Of what he could see in her.

So instead, she listened.

Gu Jie began telling stories as she fed her.

Stories about the things she experienced.

Anecdotes from His Eminence’s eccentricities.

And sometimes, just doting on her, like a big sister would.

Life as a fish was… simple.

And Ren Jingyi liked that.

She was happy.

She was content.

But sometimes…

Just sometimes…

She wondered if there was more.

And ironically—

She was scared of becoming more.

At the same time, she wished for it.

It was complicated.

Gu Jie finished feeding the fish and, with a flick of her wrist, retrieved a new Spirit Stone from her Storage Ring, dropping it into the water.

”Eat well, grow strong,” she murmured absently.

Ren Jingyi, the fish in question, made no reply—just a flick of her tail as she grabbed the stone with her mouth.

Gu Jie didn’t linger. She turned, dusted off her robes, and made her way to Ren Xun and Lu Gao, who were still searching for any clues about the black-masked cultivators.

”Anything?” Gu Jie asked as she scanned the rows of bookshelves.

Ren Xun shook his head, flipping through an old scroll. ”Nothing concrete. Just scattered mentions, vague references. If they were a major faction, there’d be more on them. But it’s as if they don’t exist. I think the Shadow Clan is playing us.”

Hei Mao sighed, rubbing his temples. ”I thought I’d found something earlier, but it turned out to be some old folk tale.”

Gu Jie hummed in thought, picking up a book and flipping through it. Nothing. She closed it and slid it back onto the shelf.

”Then there’s nothing else to do but cultivate,” she said, already turning to leave.

Ren Xun groaned. ”Of course you’d say that.”

Gu Jie just smiled.

She had no time to waste.

Gu Jie was currently at the Will Reinforcement realm, steadily pushing toward Spirit Mystery.

Her progress was fast—faster than it had ever been in her previous time as a disciple of the Heavenly Demon.

The way she was now, she had already surpassed her past cultivation, breaking through limits that once seemed impossible.

It was because of the Warlock Legacy.

When she was just a disciple within the Heavenly Cult, she was never taught offensive techniques. The sect only gave her cultivation methods to raise her realm, but no real power to wield.

But the Warlock Legacy…

It supplemented her with skills.

Powerful, painful skills.

Her Master often used unfamiliar words when explaining the Warlock Legacy, but she was nothing if not studious.

She took out a small booklet, personally penned by her Master. The pages were slightly worn from use, the ink still crisp.

Her Master called it a walkthrough.

A walkthrough to the Repentant Skill Pathway.

According to her Master, skills could be learned in three ways:

1. Through the help of a Specialized NPC

2. By obtaining a Skill Book

3. By completing a Quest

”What was even an En-Pi-See?” Gu Jie had once wondered aloud.

It sounded profound, like some grand Daoist principle, but was completely lost in translation.

After some deep thinking (and some headaches), Gu Jie understood that NPCs were just what her Master called instructors—people who taught skills.

Then there were Skill Books, magical tomes that bestowed knowledge through inheritance.

Gu Jie had neither of these.

Which meant she had only one option left—Quests.

So, what were Quests?

A Quest was a set of goals that needed to be completed to gain a skill.

For example—

She had learned Fake Death by brushing with death too many times.

She had learned Curse by wishing someone bad luck or ill fate.

And most recently, she had learned Curse Reversal by casting Curse on herself a hundred times and enduring it.

Gu Jie flipped through the booklet.

The skills Fake Death, Curse, and Curse Reversal were crossed out—completed.

But there were two more skills she wanted.

Two more she needed.

· Great Curse

· Repentance

Learning Great Curse required her to Curse herself a thousand times.

Since she had already done a hundred, she only needed nine hundred more to go.

As for Repentance, she needed to cast Curse Reversal a thousand times.

It was going to be painful.

So she needed privacy.

She vanished.

A moment later, she reappeared on the Floating Dragon, where the obscurity formations had already been repaired.

Perfect.

She sat down, took a deep breath, and began.

”Curse.”

A shiver ran through her body.

Pain.

Not a mere illusion—real, tangible pain, sinking into her bones, eating away at her strength.

She clenched her fists.

”Curse Reversal.”

A golden glow wrapped around her, undoing the affliction.

But sometimes—

”Curse Reversal.”

It failed.

And she had to endure the suffering again.

The skill worked most of the time, reversing the curse and granting her temporary buffs and healing.

But that small percentage of failure—

It was agonizing.

”Curse.”

A wave of dizziness.

”Curse Reversal.”

Relief.

Again.

Again.

Again.

Blood dripped from her lips.

Her vision blurred.

But she continued.

Her hands trembled as she reached for the Spirit Stone, absorbing its qi to replenish her strength.

She wiped her mouth, ignoring the iron taste on her tongue.

Just a few hundred more times to go.

She could do this.

Because she had to.

Gu Jie wanted to be of use to her Master.

It was as simple as that.

Her strength was meager, laughable compared to the true powerhouses of this world. But that didn’t matter. She was willing to work hard, to push herself beyond her limits.

Because when the time came—when her Master needed her—she would be there.

Not as a burden.

Not as someone to be protected.

But as a shield.

So she endured.

She cursed herself, reversing it over and over, forcing her body to adapt, to learn, to grow.

Pain. Healing. Pain again.

She had lost count of how many times she had done it when—

Someone appeared on the boat.

She froze, instantly recognizing the figure before her.

It was Master Da Wei.

No.

It was Senior Dai Fu—inside Master Da Wei’s body.

Gu Jie bowed respectfully.

”Senior,” she greeted.

She had long since learned that Da Wei and Dai Fu were not their real names.

She had heard their true names once—deep in her mentalscape, when they defended her from the fragment of the Heavenly Demon.

Yet—

She could not pronounce them.

No matter how hard she tried, the syllables twisted in her mouth, refusing to take form.

So she had settled for the closest approximation—the names they themselves used in this world.

Da Wei and Dai Fu.

Gu Jie met Dai Fu’s calm gaze. ”Senior, when will Master return?”

The Holy Spirit, standing before he,r exhaled softly. ”Most likely in a month’s time.”

His voice was neither rushed nor uncertain.

”His Lord is at a crucial phase in his cultivation. Disturbing him now would be unwise.”

Gu Jie nodded. She had expected as much.

She would have to wait.

That was fine.

She had plenty to do.

The others in their group were aware of Dai Fu’s nature. They knew he was a Holy Spirit.

But they didn’t understand what that meant.

Not truly.

They accepted it, acknowledged it, but they didn’t perceive it the way she did.

Perhaps it was because she was a Warlock.

Perhaps it was simply her nature.

But to her, Da Wei and Dai Fu felt different.

Da Wei was like the sun—warm and gentle, an all-encompassing light that illuminated the world.

Dai Fu was like the moon—calm and serene, ever-watching from above, distant yet present.

Both were celestial.

Both were untouchable.

And yet, both had saved her.

Dai Fu raised a hand, and a pulse of ethereal light surrounded her.

Instantly, the lingering pain from her self-inflicted Curses vanished. Her energy stabilized, her breath eased.

She frowned. ”Senior, you shouldn’t have bothered.”

Dai Fu simply smiled. ”You can rely on me, you know. The others would help you just as much. We are a Party after all.”

Gu Jie opened her mouth, then closed it.

She had no response to that.

So instead, she simply bowed her head and returned to her training.

She cast Curse upon herself again.

She endured the pain again.

She reversed it again.

All while simultaneously cultivating her Qi, refining her body, mind, and spirit.

She worked.

She worked hard.

Ah, my dear reader, are you still there?

Hopefully, this portion of the story wasn’t boring you.

Now, let us turn our gaze to David_69—or Dai Fu, the Holy Spirit. Or perhaps, simply Dave—a nickname His Lordship had bestowed upon him.

Frankly, Dave didn’t care much for names.

They were fleeting, trivial things.

What mattered to him was His Oath—the one he had sworn alongside His Lordship.

As a Paladin, he had fought countless battles, spilling enough blood to drown nations. If all the corpses he had cut down were stacked into a pile, they could fill an entire battlefield, forming a mountain of the dead.

It wasn’t something he was proud of.

But it was something he had accepted.

His faith in humanity was a contradiction in itself.

Humans were weak, selfish, flawed—yet despite all their shortcomings, they endured. They thrived.

And so would he.

Because he had faith—not just in humanity, but in himself.

He had faith in His Lordship.

He had faith in His Lordship’s humanity as well.

That faith was what had sustained him for centuries, and it was the same faith that guided his actions now.

Dave spent his time on the boat, assisting Gu Jie with her training.

She was determined, pushing herself harder than necessary. He admired that about her.

After training, he would spar with her under Hei Yuan’s supervision, in the training ground reserved for them.

Then, as the day wound down, he would socialize with his other companions and share tea with Hei Yuan.

It was a routine, but it was a necessary one.

And so the days passed.

Until one evening, as he sat across from Hei Yuan, sipping tea under the dim lantern light, the old fox finally spoke up.

”Why don’t you mind me supervising your sparring?” Hei Yuan asked, his expression unreadable.

Dave paused, considering the question.

His answer was simple—because he was currently acting on His Lord’s behalf.

Everything he did reflected His Lordship’s honor. And as a Paladin, he would never act in a way that tarnished that honor.

But he knew Hei Yuan would find such an answer unsatisfying.

So he worded it differently.

”One of our prerequisites is that we must be supervised when outside the eastern wing,” Dave replied, taking another sip of tea. ”So it doesn’t really matter, does it? We’d rather ask you just accommodate our training. It would be a bad look for you if you let visitors hurl their spells around in your territory unattended, wouldn’t you?”

Hei Yuan’s gaze sharpened. ”You’re too naive.”

Dave chuckled. ”Not naive. Practical.”

Hei Yuan arched an eyebrow.

Dave leaned forward slightly, his eyes gleaming in the dim light. ”Your spies aren’t that good. I can sense them from a mile away.”

Hei Yuan scowled, but quickly schooled his expression. ”Ridiculous.”

Dave simply smiled. ”It’s fine. I don’t mind being watched. The sparring. Our discussions. The reading we do. Our research. It was irrelevant, unless you mean harm to us.”

”And why is that?” Hei Yuan’s fingers tightened around his teacup. ”Aren’t you wary of your techniques being stolen?

”Of course, I am not worried,” Dave set his cup down with a soft clink. ”Because even if they saw everything, they lack the means to imitate even a fraction of our power. In the end, if it goes down into a fight… it’s clear to me, you’d lose so much more than me.”

A flicker of offense crossed Hei Yuan’s face.

The old fox was cautious—cunning, even—but Dave was not easily ruffled.

He had seen men like Hei Yuan before.

And he knew that, despite the Shadow Clan’s vast resources and experience, they were still playing catch-up.

They simply didn’t have the foundation to grasp what lay beyond their reach. 

Hei Yuan knew it too.

And that was why, despite his irritation, he remained silent.

Dave simply picked up his teacup and took another sip.

The night continued, calm and unbroken.

So…

This was the part of the story that would shake up everything we knew so far.

Let us turn our gaze to Hei Yuan—and by extension, the Shadow Clan.

They were but a shadow of their former selves. Once, they had stood equal to the Black Clan, their closest kin. But now? They couldn’t even compare.

Yet, despite their decline, the Shadow Clan had not crumbled completely.

How had a clan like them survived the tides of history?

It was simple.

Information.

They had one of the most formidable intelligence networks in the Empire. Their umbramancy had weakened, their strength had waned—but their secrets still held power.

And power, in any form, could be leveraged.

With their secret arts, they propped themselves up beneath the tyranny of the cultivation world. Knowledge was their weapon.

Recently, Hei Yuan had received new intelligence. Reports from Yellow Dragon City in the Riverfall Continent had arrived, bringing with them troubling news. Their branch in Riverfall wasn’t as refined as their other networks, but it was still competent.

From the reports, Hei Yuan learned of Da Wei’s involvement with Imperial Prince Ren Jin. He read about the Emperor’s invitation, which confirmed that Da Wei had indeed an appointment with the Emperor himself.

That alone was enough to make Hei Yuan wary.

But that wasn’t what truly disturbed him.

No…

It was the stories surrounding Da Wei.

Hei Yuan exhaled slowly, recalling the report.

A divine healer? A saint of healing and demon-slaying?

Ridiculous.

The reports painted Da Wei as some kind of mythical figure, a cultivator who brought miracles wherever he went.

No matter how Hei Yuan tried to scheme, there was no path forward where his Clan survived Da Wei’s ire.

Thus, he made a calculated decision—

He would do the unthinkable.

He would help them.

The sooner Da Wei left, the safer the Shadow Clan would be.

Hei Yuan folded the report and slid a long scroll across the table.

”I’m willing to assist in investigating Hei Mao’s lineage,” he stated, his voice measured.

The truth was, he had given these orders long ago.

Hei Yuan had suspicions about Hei Mao’s bloodline—particularly, a connection to the late Shadow Patriarch, who had vanished without a trace.

But the timeline didn’t match. The disappearance didn’t happen during the Grand Emperor’s punishment of the Black and Shadow Clans. At least, according to Hei Yuan’s investigations.

No, this mystery stretched far beyond that.

It was older than the Abyss Clan itself.

Older than the Grand Emperor’s war against Deepmoor Continent.

Hei Yuan tapped the scroll. ”Read it.”

Da Wei—no, Dai Fu unbeknownst to Hei Yuan—glanced at the ancient parchment before unfolding it. His golden eyes flickered as he scanned its contents.

After a moment, he spoke. ”You’re saying Hei Mao is practically royalty.”

Hei Yuan smirked. ”If you consider a fallen legacy to be royalty, then yes.”

He leaned back, watching Dai Fu’s expression carefully. ”Before the Abyss Clan became what it is today, it was a sect—the Eternal Undeath Sect. And it is old. Very old.”

Dai Fu frowned. ”If this sect was so old, how did you even find records of it?”

Hei Yuan let out a quiet scoff. ”Do not underestimate the Shadow Clan.”

He wouldn’t admit it outright, but it was pure luck.

Who would have thought that the late Shadow Patriarch’s journal contained historical accounts from three thousand years ago?

Using that as a reference, he had ordered his people to compile a report.

And the results had been… fascinating.

Hei Yuan summarized the findings.

”The Abyss Clan’s origins were not without turmoil. Before it was established, the Eternal Undeath Sect experienced a dark age—a time of chaos.”

”It had to do with immortals ascending.”

Dai Fu’s gaze sharpened. ”Go on.”

Hei Yuan continued.

”The sect’s immortals wanted to ascend together, bringing their entire sect with them.”

”To do that, they devised a Secret Art—a ritual that would bind the faith of every single member.”

”However, there was a couple that refused to ascend.”

Dai Fu raised an eyebrow. ”Why?”

Hei Yuan scoffed, shaking his head. ”Because they wanted to stay behind. To grow old and live as mortals together.”

”Fools,” added Hei Yuan with vitriol.

”The Secret Art could only succeed if every person with the surname Hei consented. The couple’s defiance meant that the ritual failed.”

”The immortals were forced to ascend alone.”

”With their departure, the Eternal Undeath Sect collapsed—its foundation shattered. Without their divine leaders, they fell into civil war.”

”They destroyed themselves.”

Hei Yuan’s expression turned unreadable.

”Among the casualties… were the strange couple.”

”And their twins—Hei Mao and Hei Mei.”

Silence fell between them.

Dai Fu stared at the scroll, his mind undoubtedly racing.

Hei Yuan took a sip of his tea, his tone almost amused. ”So tell me, Da Wei… does this change anything?”

Dai Fu slowly rolled up the scroll. ”It changes everything.”

Hei Yuan smirked.

”Good.”

Hei Yuan’s fingers tapped rhythmically against the wooden table. His expression remained unreadable, but there was a weight to his words as he spoke.

”I have a theory,” he began.

Dai Fu, still reading over the ancient scroll, looked up. ”Oh?”

Hei Yuan leaned forward slightly. ”The Eternal Undeath Sect… I believe it has been reborn.”

A heavy silence filled the air.

”Reborn?” Dai Fu’s voice was calm, but the undertone of suspicion was impossible to miss.

Hei Yuan nodded. ”Yes. And if I’m right, then the unrest in Deepmoor is their doing.”

Dai Fu narrowed his eyes. ”You sound certain.”

”I am,” Hei Yuan said smoothly. ”Some of them may even be hiding within the Shadow Clan’s ranks.” He let the words linger, watching for any reaction. ”But I believe most of them are with the Black Clan.”

Dai Fu raised an eyebrow. ”And why, exactly, are you so confident about that?”

Hei Yuan smirked.

Ah, that was the thing.

He wasn’t.

The truth was—Hei Yuan was lying.

Not entirely, of course. There was some truth in what he said. He wouldn’t be a very good schemer if there weren’t.

But did he actually know that the Eternal Undeath Sect had infiltrated the Black Clan? No.

Did he actually care if Da Wei saw through his lie? Also no.

Hei Yuan only wanted Da Wei’s group gone.

The longer they stayed, the more dangerous it became for the Shadow Clan.

So he gave them something.

Something useful enough to get them moving.

”If you’re interested in more than just history,” Hei Yuan said, his voice slow and deliberate, ”then I have something more… relevant.”

Dai Fu didn’t reply immediately. He simply watched. Waiting.

Hei Yuan reached into his Storage Ring and withdrew two sheets of parchment.

With a flick of his wrist, he set them down on the table, revealing two eerily lifelike portraits.

”The Eternal Undeath Cult has made its move,” he said, voice calm but carrying an unmistakable weight. ”They’ve been manipulating the Abyssal Clans, feeding them misinformation to stir them into action.”

Dai Fu—no, Dave, the Holy Spirit currently occupying His Lord’s body—leaned forward to inspect the parchments.

And then…

His mind went blank.

Because staring back at him from the parchment were two very, very familiar faces.

A blonde priestess with piercing emerald eyes.

And a vampire with rosy pink hair.

Joan and Alice.

”They’re looking for these two,” added Hei Yuan. “From what we gathered, these two have been operating in Stormcall. But think about it, bounty posters of them are appearing here instead of Stormcall Continent. Seems suspicious.”

Dave’s internal monologue was instant and absolute.

What the actual hell?!

His Lord’s body didn’t flinch, but inside, Dave was cursing up a storm.

How the hell did those two end up here?!

”They weren’t the only ones interested,” Hei Yuan continued. ”The Black Clan suddenly deployed cultivators there as well. However, chances were, they weren’t Black Clan cultivators but undercover cultists.”

Dave’s fingers tightened slightly.

”The Black Clan? Undercover cultists?”

”Mn.” Hei Yuan nodded. ”And it gets worse.” He glanced at the scroll again, voice dropping slightly. ”Several of my own people—Shadow Clan cultivators—vanished in Stormcall. They were later found dead.”

The air between them grew heavier.

”I take it the Eternal Undeath Cult had a hand in that?” Dave asked.

Hei Yuan’s expression didn’t change. ”Obviously. My men weren’t careless enough to get caught by common bandits.”

Dave exhaled slowly, resisting the urge to run a hand down his face.

”And you’re telling me all this… why?”

Hei Yuan’s smirk widened. ”Because I want you to leave, of course.”

Dave almost laughed. At least he was honest about it.