Chapter 51: Do Not Hesitate as You Journey to the River of the Underworld

Through the Supreme Spirit Banner, Chen Yang managed to fool his foolish disciple, but inwardly, he found himself pondering. In the past, he hadn’t thought much about it, but now, as his cultivation deepened and his understanding of the Dao grew, he realized that, fundamentally, whether it was the world of cultivation or Mount Shu, they were worlds apart from Earth’s universe, separated by countless orders of magnitude.

Not to mention anything else, just consider the material aspect: how many stars are in a single galaxy? And how many galaxies are there in the entire universe?

“If one could create a boundless world akin to the universe itself, that would be true boundless power, boundless magic, boundless wisdom.”

He indulged in this fantasy for a moment, but quickly stopped himself. To create a world as complete in its laws as the cultivation realm, one that could nurture the growth and flourishing of living beings, was no feat for ordinary immortals.

He was still too inexperienced for such things.

“Daoist friend, are you setting up your stall today?”

Hearing the call, Chen Yang shook his head helplessly, stood up, and opened the door. Outside, a bearded Daoist of about thirty, wearing a thunder-patterned headscarf and a bright yellow Daoist robe, was standing on tiptoe, leaning over the courtyard wall.

“I say, Zhang Dragon-Tiger, you carry the title of Grand Celestial Master, yet instead of handling your own trouble, you pester me day after day. Why is that?”

Zhang Dragon-Tiger chuckled, “Ever since you cut down the Sea Dragon Lord with a cup of tea a few years ago, the demon clans have been much more peaceful. We’ve finally got some leisure time.”

He paused, then asked again, “Daoist friend, are you setting up your stall today?”

Chen Yang nodded. Instantly, Zhang Dragon-Tiger vaulted over the wall, grinning, “I’ll help you.”

With practiced ease, he began loading tables and chairs onto a wheelbarrow.

Chen Yang smiled wryly, turned back into the house to gather his cinnabar, pigments, and yellow paper.

Back when he was on Mount Wutai, Chen Yang was a proper, upright Daoist. The Primal Origin Patriarch was both a master of Dao and magic, and the Wutai Sect was by no means heretical. Daoists are expected to master mountain lore, medicine, divination, and physiognomy; none were neglected, and they often descended the mountain to do good deeds.

But after the Primal Origin Patriarch met calamity—so tragically that even reincarnation was denied—Chen Yang went from a good Daoist to one increasingly ruthless.

Later, he joined the Demon Sect and focused on magic. Though he mastered high-level demonic arts and gained control over his mind, walking with demons was always perilous; as one could restrain the demon, the demon would inevitably influence one’s heart, subtly and unavoidably.

That was why the Primal Origin Patriarch, after merging Dao and magic, wasn’t the strongest in power or cultivation, but was still revered as a grandmaster.

Chen Yang was now walking the path the Primal Origin Patriarch once trod, or rather, the path his master had intended for him to take, though he had strayed. Now, retracing his steps, he was starting anew.

Yet he knew well: the supreme demonic path is like a maggot clinging to the bone; to truly return to his master’s intended path was already impossible.

Two Daoists—one tall, one short, with the younger leading and the elder following, pushing a wheelbarrow—made for a rare sight in the town.

Reaching the market, they had barely set up their stall when a woman arrived, carrying a crying infant.

“No need to worry. The child’s innate spirit is sensitive, a common cause for fright. I’ll draw a calming talisman for you. Place it under the child’s pillow. Then buy a season’s worth of calming medicine from Zhang’s pharmacy, grind it into powder, mix with beeswax, and roll it into incense. In two or three days, the child will recover.”

Chen Yang only needed a glance to diagnose the child’s ailment.

As he spoke, Zhang Dragon-Tiger, with a keen eye, began preparing the cinnabar.

Watching Chen Yang’s swift, elegant strokes as he drew the talisman and folded it neatly into a triangle, Zhang Dragon-Tiger memorized every detail, planning to try this new talisman for himself that night.

The woman took the talisman and prescription, left several Tang coins, and departed with heartfelt thanks.

Soon after, a young boy arrived, seeking blessings for his deceased parents and asking for two peace talismans.

The boy had barely left when an old woman, accompanied by a young woman, came to ask for a letter to be written for her son working in the mines on the mountain.

Chen Yang glanced at her, sighed inwardly, but said nothing more, only smiling as he agreed.

The town was small, only a few hundred households and over a thousand people, but full of the dust and bustle of mortal life.

After a busy stretch, as afternoon approached and the crowds dwindled, Chen Yang brewed a pot of tea and drank leisurely. Zhang Dragon-Tiger squatted nearby, clutching a dry branch, studying the calming talisman he’d learned today, occasionally enlightened, sometimes perplexed.

Chen Yang paid him no mind; by afternoon, there were hardly any customers, and the market began to disperse.

Chen Yang called out to Old Wu, who was packing up his wares, bought two sesame cakes, tossed one to Zhang Dragon-Tiger, and ate as they cleaned up, preparing to return.

As they came, so they went—Chen Yang with his cloth bag and hands clasped behind his back, followed by the Celestial Master pushing the wheelbarrow.

Back at the courtyard, after unloading, Zhang Dragon-Tiger was about to take his leave when a streak of light shot rapidly across the sky.

Zhang Dragon-Tiger reached out to catch it, received a message from the Heavenly Palace, and frowned, sighing,

“I had hoped to stay by your side, learning more of your skills, but the demon clans haven’t abandoned their plot against us. They’re making a new move, and I can only regretfully depart.”

Chen Yang smiled, neither confirming nor denying, while Zhang Dragon-Tiger, though speaking of regret and departure, remained rooted in place, saying nothing more.

After a while, Zhang Dragon-Tiger couldn’t hold back any longer and asked,

“Daoist friend, is there nothing you wish to say to me?”

Watching Zhang Dragon-Tiger put on airs, Chen Yang couldn’t help but laugh and scold,

“Say what? Ask you what happened? Listen to you rattle off grand speeches about the survival of the human race, hoping I’ll take the bait? Zhang Dragon-Tiger, if you weren’t shameless but at least decent, I’d have slapped you dead already.”

“If you want help, you should act like you’re asking for it.”

Exposed so thoroughly, Zhang Dragon-Tiger looked sheepish, but Chen Yang’s assessment was not wrong; he truly cared little for face, and quickly returned to normal, smiling,

“You’re right, Daoist friend. When asking for help, one should be humble. No need for grand words about the human race. The Heavenly Palace and Tang Dynasty request your aid in overcoming this crisis. In the future, whatever is needed, we will brave fire and water without hesitation.”

He began with a smile, but finished solemnly, bowing deeply to Chen Yang.

Chen Yang laughed,

“Now that’s more like it. I’ve met you and Old Daoist Luo—both good men. I imagine Ye Fa and Sima Chengzhen are no worse. I quite like this Tang Dynasty.

Very well! I’ve cultivated in peace for over a decade—perhaps it was all in preparation for this great slaughter!”

Chen Yang flicked his sword and sang:

“The sky is vast, the earth is boundless; the immortals persist, the grand way falters. Now, as the Sword of Yuan Tu passes, hesitate not upon the River of the Underworld.”

As Chen Yang’s song echoed, Zhang Dragon-Tiger felt a strange daze, as if he glimpsed a sea of blood, countless souls howling and struggling within.