Entry: I Secretly Cultivate Immortality in the Martial Arts World

108: Chapter 108 Three years of continuous snow and wind, the world has changed.It is said that on that day, Old Ancestor Snow Abyss kept muttering, ”It’s almost time.”

Yet, that single phrase ”It’s almost time” caused Ye Chen and countless members of the Yao Race to wait for several months in the frozen wilderness.

One day, several months later, the heavens and earth suddenly changed color.

The Northern Plains, which were already snowy year-round, were instantly engulfed in howling blizzards that grew increasingly fierce.

When the wind rose, it seemed as if countless vengeful ghosts were shrieking between heaven and earth.

When the snow fell, the snowflakes shimmered with a faint blue light; every flake that touched the ground could freeze and crack solid rock.

This strange phenomenon was not limited to the Northern Plains.

It spread at a speed visible to the naked eye, crossing mountains and rivers, heading all the way south.

Southern Border. Eastern Continent. Central Plains. Western Desolation. The entire Spirit Realm was completely blanketed by this blizzard.

One year. Two years. Three years. This blizzard lasted for three full years.

Over these three years, the Spirit Realm no longer knew the distinction between spring, summer, autumn, and winter; there was only endless, bitter cold.

And for the first time, those Cultivators truly understood what it meant to be cold.

You must know that once one stepped into the Qi Refinement Stage, and certainly after Foundation Establishment, Cultivators were already immune to heat and cold.

At the Foundation Establishment Realm, while one dared not claim immunity to water and fire, ordinary bitter cold or scorching heat was nothing more than a gentle breeze brushing against their faces.

Through Body Tempering during Qi Refining and the condensation of essence during Foundation Establishment, their Physical Body was no longer that of a Mortal.

Walking out in a single layer of clothing in winter, or wrapped in cotton coats in summer, they could do so with ease.

But now, even those Foundation Establishment Cultivators could actually feel the cold.

At first, it was just cold hands and feet, which was manageable. But as the blizzard continued day after day, that chill gradually seeped into their very marrow.

Some Foundation Establishment Cultivators tried to resist with their spiritual power, only to find that the flow of their spiritual power had slowed down significantly.

It was as if there was an invisible pressure between heaven and earth, suppressing everything.

Golden Core Cultivators fared better. They could use the power of their own Golden Core to form a layer of protective spiritual light around their bodies, isolating themselves from that bone-chilling cold.

Above the Nascent Soul stage, there was no major issue.

But although the Spirit Realm was vast and had many Cultivators, how many were above the Golden Core stage?

And more numerous than the low-level Cultivators were the Mortals.

The functioning of the Spirit Realm ultimately could not do without Mortals.

Those cities needed Mortals to farm, to weave cloth, to build, and to reproduce.

Those Sects needed to select Disciples from among the Mortals, needed Mortals to provide them with all kinds of resources, and needed Mortals to serve as the Foundation of this world.

But now, after three years of blizzard, the Realm of Mortals was like purgatory.

Spirit Realm, Southern Border. A certain Mortal city. This city was once prosperous. But now, the streets were completely deserted.

Snow had piled up several feet deep, burying half the doors and windows of the shops.

Occasionally, one or two figures would stagger by, ragged, sallow, and emaciated, their eyes as hollow as those of the walking dead.

In the center of the city, there was a dilapidated temple. It was packed with people. Men, women, young, and old, huddled together, shivering uncontrollably.

In the center of the temple, the statue that had once been worshipped had long been toppled and chopped into firewood, which was now burning and emitting a faint warmth.

Beside the fire, an old man stretched out his withered, thin hands, trembling as he warmed himself. His face was covered in frostbite. His eyes were filled with despair.

”Father...” a young man beside him spoke with a hoarse voice, ”How much longer... how much longer can we hold on?”

The old man did not answer. He did not know.

He only knew that the food at home had long been eaten. Everything that could be burned had been burned. Tree bark, grass roots, and even leather clothing had all been consumed. But they were still hungry. Still cold.

The young man was silent for a moment, then suddenly said, ”Father, let’s go find the Immortals.”

”In the past, when we encountered natural disasters, the Immortals would always come to help. They would serve porridge, distribute medicine, and use Immortal arts to ripen crops...”

The old man smiled bitterly. ”Son, you don’t understand.” ”The past is the past, and now is now.”

The young man was confused: ”Why?”

The old man pointed outside the city, his voice hoarse: ”A few days ago, I asked around. The Sects within a thousand miles have all now submitted to some Myriad Tribulations Demonic Cult.”

”The leader of that Demonic Cult is called the Myriad Tribulations Demon Lord. He issued an order forbidding anyone from helping us Mortals.”

The young man was stunned: ”Why? We Mortals... we Mortals haven’t offended them...”

The old man did not answer. He did not know why either. But he knew that those Sects really had not come. Not a single one.

And hundreds of miles away from that city, inside a Sect. Several Cultivators were standing on the mountain peak, looking at the vast snowfield below.

The leader, dressed in a black robe, had a sinister expression. This person was the one in charge stationed here by the Myriad Tribulations Demonic Cult, with a Late Golden Core Stage cultivation.

Standing behind him were several people wearing various attires, clearly Cultivators who originally belonged to this force and had now submitted to the Demonic Cult.

Among them, an old man in a green shirt looked hesitant, wanting to speak several times but stopping himself. Finally, he couldn’t help but ask: ”Sir, those Mortals down the mountain... are we really not going to save them?”

The black-robed Cultivator did not even turn his head: ”We are not.”

The old man in the green shirt gritted his teeth: ”But there are tens of thousands of Mortals in that city! After three years of blizzard, they are likely already... already...”

”Already dead in large numbers, right?” The black-robed Cultivator turned his head, looking at him with a mocking smile.

The old man in the green shirt choked on his words. The black-robed Cultivator said indifferently: ”If they die, they die. Mere Mortals can just be replaced with another batch once they are dead.”

The old man in the green shirt’s face flushed red: ”But those Mortals once worshipped the Sect!” ”My Qingxuan Sect has been established for a thousand years; the Mortals down the mountain have worshipped us for generations and paid tribute every year. If not for them, where would my Qingxuan Sect get its source of Disciples? Where would its Foundation lie?”

The black-robed Cultivator sneered. ”Foundation?” He pointed down the mountain, ”You call those ants the Foundation?”

The old man in the green shirt opened his mouth but couldn’t say anything.

The black-robed Cultivator withdrew his hand, his tone indifferent: ”You Righteous Path Cultivators just don’t see it.”

”What are Mortals? They are ants, resources, and expendable materials.”

”When they are alive, let them farm and pay tribute. When they die, their souls are just right for my use.”

”Do you know how much resentment a soul carries when a person dies in the depths of despair and pain?”

”That resentment is a great tonic for Demonic Path Cultivation Techniques.”

”In these three years of blizzard, the more Mortals that die, the heavier the resentment becomes.”

”When the snow stops, I only need to operate my Cultivation Technique to harvest countless resentful souls, and my cultivation will advance by leaps and bounds.”

He turned back and looked at the old man in the green shirt, his eyes filled with mockery: ”Tell me, why should I save them?”

The old man in the green shirt stood frozen on the spot. The Cultivators behind him, who also originally came from the Righteous Path, all had complex expressions but dared not speak.

The black-robed Cultivator withdrew his gaze and looked down the mountain. In the wind and snow, that Mortal city was faintly visible. A smile curled at the corners of his mouth.

Die more. It is better if they die more.

After that day, the old man in the green shirt never mentioned saving people again. It was not that he didn’t want to. It was that he dared not.

He had once seen with his own eyes a Foundation Establishment Cultivator who disobeyed orders and secretly went down the mountain to serve porridge; he was dragged back and, in front of everyone, had his soul extracted and refined, howling for three days and three nights before dying.

From then on, no one dared to go down the mountain again. The Mortal city at the foot of the mountain became an isolated island. One Mortal city after another became an isolated island.

Three years of blizzard; in the Southern Border, countless Mortals died, with less than one in ten surviving.