Chapter Eleven: The Netherworld's Soul Summoning

Jiang Pingchuan halted as he entered the Sutra Repository, staring into the pitch-black darkness before him and swallowing nervously. In all his years, he had never ventured into such a dark place; it was beyond the mere absence of light, more than just not being able to see one’s own fingers. Standing there, Jiang Pingchuan wavered, torn between his desire to step further in and his fear of what lay within.

“Close your eyes.” As Jiang Pingchuan hesitated, a voice echoed in his mind. It was not heard through his ears but appeared directly in his thoughts—a childish, unmistakable voice: it was Maoqiu.

“Maoqiu, Maoqiu, where are you?” Jiang Pingchuan called out anxiously, but in the silent darkness, only his own breathing answered him. The darkness stretched on, an inch or perhaps an infinity. Sighing, Jiang Pingchuan decided to follow Maoqiu’s advice and closed his eyes.

With his eyes shut, he breathed softly and realized that darkness did not envelop the world behind his eyelids. Instead, it seemed that his eyes alone could not perceive the things hidden within the gloom. As he closed his eyes, strange lights flickered in his pupils.

Swallowing hard, Jiang Pingchuan moved slowly, guided by a faint, eerie aura. As he walked, the light behind his eyelids gradually brightened, as if showing him the way forward. Letting go of his fear, he followed the glimmer, moving quickly in an unknown direction.

Suddenly, what he saw shocked him. For a four-year-old, the clarity of his vision was beyond anything he could have imagined, and with a jolt of fear, he thought of the secrets that must lay within the Sutra Repository. He opened his eyes—only to discover that nothing had changed. The scene before him was exactly as in the darkness: a red-robed figure wielding a blood-red scythe. A chill crept down his spine.

Looking closer, Jiang Pingchuan spotted Maoqiu, bound to a stone pillar by four red-robed skeletons, struggling in agony. Seeing Maoqiu’s pain, anger flared within Jiang Pingchuan.

The four skeletal figures watched him with empty, flaming eyes—eight crimson orbs fixed on him. From their presence, Jiang Pingchuan sensed death, decay, and overwhelming corruption. It seemed to him he was not in the Sutra Repository of Maoshan, but in the depths of Avici Hell, and these four skeletons were Shura envoys from that very place.

“Who are you? Stop your ghostly tricks!” Jiang Pingchuan shouted, clenching his fists in anger. He felt that entering the Sutra Repository might be the worst mistake of his young life.

“Jiang Pingchuan, your time has come. Return with us to the Netherworld and receive your judgment!” The four skeletons spoke in unison, their voices distant and hollow, as if summoned from the farthest reaches of hell. As they spoke, the aura of death around them thickened, and their eerie laughter made Jiang Pingchuan’s skin crawl. But more than fear, he felt outrage—he was only four years old, far too young for such nonsense.

“Don’t try that with me! Release Maoqiu, or I’ll send you all back to hell!” Jiang Pingchuan stepped forward, fists clenched. The skeletons exchanged glances and then charged at him, bloodstained scythes raised high.

Jiang Pingchuan stared at them, his mind racing. He didn’t know how to face such enemies, but he knew this: if he couldn’t save Maoqiu, he would be unreliable, and someone unreliable could never win Xiaohua’s favor.

The four skeletons were nearly upon him. Closing his eyes, Jiang Pingchuan felt a vast power surge within him, his meridians glowing faintly with golden light.

He snapped his eyes open just as a scythe swept past his neck—but nothing happened. Instead, the energy inside him grew fiercer and angrier, as if provoked and incited to wrath.

With a thunderous roar, Jiang Pingchuan’s body transformed. His eyes shone with purple light, layer upon layer of violet pupils stacking together. He raised his hands, conjuring two deep-black seals inscribed with winding dragon patterns.

“Those who offend me shall be struck by thunder!” His childish voice, for all its innocence, made the four red-robed skeletons recoil in fear, the flames in their eyes flickering weakly as dread overtook them, scattering their baleful aura.

Jiang Pingchuan sneered and charged, hurling one of the black seals at the envoys. It grew impossibly large, crashing into them as their scythes shattered upon contact, the seal crushing and devouring all resistance.

The skeletons shrieked in terror, their voices chilling and inhuman, before being suppressed beneath the seal.

Holding the remaining black seal, Jiang Pingchuan watched as a thick pool of blood oozed from beneath the now-enormous seal, a stench so foul it made him gag. He frowned and moved towards Maoqiu—only to find the figure gone, replaced by a solid black wall. Looking down, even the blood had vanished, leaving only the seal.

“Who are you? Show yourself! Bring Maoqiu back, or I’ll tear this place apart!” he shouted, his face twisted with fury, purple eyes fading to red, murderous intent radiating from him.

“Do not fret, young friend. Your companion merely stumbled upon a taboo and has been drawn into the topmost level of the Underworld Pavilion. He is in no immediate danger,” came an ancient voice in his mind, echoing through the empty space. Jiang Pingchuan was instantly suspicious.

“Senior, my friend meant no offense. But this is not the Underworld Pavilion—it is the Sutra Repository of Maoshan.” The seal in his hand trembled.

A sense of unease crept over him. He did not know how he had conjured the seal, only that it was his last defense against the unknown foe. If it disappeared, he would be as helpless as a lamb before the slaughter.

A peal of laughter echoed. “The Sutra Repository of Maoshan? Young friend, you are mistaken. This is no ordinary library, but the ancient Underworld Pavilion. Your friend is safe—provided you join our Netherworld. What say you?”

The mocking tone was unmistakable. Jiang Pingchuan watched as a hunched figure in black robes materialized on the wall—a mere shadow, without any aura. It was only a projection, not the old man’s true form.

“Senior, I call you such out of respect. Spare me your tricks. My friend’s power is at the peak of Nascent Soul; few in this world can match him. You’d best release him, or if he grows angry, he might fight you for thirty thousand rounds,” Jiang Pingchuan bluffed, though the seal trembled ever more violently in his hand. He remembered his brother Jiang Yulong’s words: never lose your composure before the enemy.

“Peak of Nascent Soul, you say? Impressive. Fear not, if you join the Netherworld, you’ll reach that realm by your coming of age, perhaps even beyond.” The old man on the wall chuckled.

Jiang Pingchuan heard the sarcasm beneath his words. He realized he was utterly powerless before this elder. With a shrug, he dismissed the trembling seal. He understood that the old man’s intentions were more complex than simply recruiting him into the Netherworld.

“Senior, since my enlightenment, I have known only Maoshan. I am a Maoshan cultivator, inheritor of its teachings and traditions. I know nothing of this Netherworld you speak of.”

Straightening his small Daoist robe, Jiang Pingchuan faced the black wall with righteousness. He spoke the truth—the first thing he remembered seeing was the Daoist robe, the first word he recognized was “Dao.” All his life, he had cultivated Maoshan arts, hoping one day to descend the mountain with his brother Jiang Yulong to find their parents, never wishing to be a burden.

“Heh, what a righteous soul you are. If you joined my Netherworld, it would indeed be something to laugh about,” the old man’s projection stroked his beard, amusement in his voice.

Jiang Pingchuan heard the mockery clearly. From the moment he stepped into the Sutra Repository, he had been played, and the old man was the puppeteer. Without another word, Jiang Pingchuan turned and strode in the opposite direction.

“Leaving so soon? Your friend is still in my Underworld Pavilion…”

“Enough. You can stop now. If you could truly harm Maoqiu, you would have done so already to threaten me. Since you’ve wasted so many words and done nothing, I believe he’s in no real danger.”

Irritated by the old man’s continued attempts to manipulate him, Jiang Pingchuan analyzed the situation. The elder had done nothing but try to persuade him to join the Netherworld, never truly threatening Maoqiu. This could only mean that, for now, the old man had no way to deal with Maoqiu.

“Heh, your friend is indeed formidable, but he won’t last long. And you—do you think you can leave?” The old man’s laughter echoed as a chill wind swept behind Jiang Pingchuan. Once more, a wall appeared before him, the elder’s shadow projected upon it.

Jiang Pingchuan turned and tried a different direction, but every path was swiftly blocked by another wall. He was completely sealed in.

“So, what now? You’d best surrender and join the Netherworld,” the old man’s voice taunted from all sides. Jiang Pingchuan’s heart pounded with anxiety, and his vision blurred.

The old man’s voice filled his mind. Jiang Pingchuan desperately wished for that surge of power within him to awaken again, but it seemed suppressed, unable to break free. He called for it again and again, but there was no response.

“Hmph!” With a cold snort, Jiang Pingchuan dashed at the black wall, ramming it with his forehead.

He was thrown back, blood trickling from his brow. Madness flashed across his small face as he stood and charged again. Again and again, he battered the wall, and gradually, the old man’s shadow began to fade.