Chapter Twelve: The Path to the Heavens Is Strewn with Blood

“Boy, even if you die here, you’ll never get out—why seek your own death? Wouldn’t it be far better to simply join my Netherworld?”

Jiang Pingchuan’s head buzzed. Blood smeared across his face, he grinned grimly at the old man’s words, looking as if he’d just emerged from a bath of gore. He said nothing, but kept ramming the walls before him—he would shatter them if it cost him his life.

He shifted again and again, battering different sections of the wall. Through his blurred vision, he noticed something strange: of all the walls around him, only one remained untouched by his blood, no matter how hard he struck it.

A slow smile curved his lips as he finally grasped the secret of these walls. The one that refused his blood was not truly a wall at all. It was the thinnest, weakest point of this space—a flaw in its structure. Once more, he reached deep within, trying to rouse that hidden current in his body; he needed the power of the dark seal to break through.

“So, you’ve figured it out? You’re not going to ram the walls anymore?” The shadow on the wall let out a sinister laugh as Jiang Pingchuan stood in the center, unmoving.

“Can you tell me—what’s in it for you if I join the Netherworld?” Jiang Pingchuan’s voice was soft, eyes closed as he concentrated inward.

He kept calling to that force within. He could feel it stirring in response, his channels burning as they tried to aid its escape from suppression. Not wanting the old man in the shadows to notice, he engaged him in conversation—hoping to learn why he was so insistent on Jiang joining the Netherworld, and to divert attention from his own efforts to break free.

“Heh, no harm in telling you. Your constitution is quite unique, as if you were born bathed in a millennium of demonic blood. The moment I laid eyes on you, I had to act and bring you here. If you join the Netherworld, I’ll muster all our strength to make you the greatest Dark King in history, to fulfill the wish I could not achieve myself.”

The old man’s tone was tinged with longing. The moment Jiang Pingchuan’s foot crossed the threshold, he had sensed an intense, pure demonic aura—the purest he’d encountered in a thousand years. Such a being was born to rule as a demon lord.

Yet this boy insisted on walking the path of a Maoshan cultivator. If he could just help Jiang break the seal upon him, the boy would inevitably become the ultimate King of the Netherworld he’d dreamed of.

“Born in demon’s blood? You can sense it?” Jiang Pingchuan asked, puzzled. As he uttered the words “demon’s blood,” the force within him suddenly leapt with excitement.

“Naturally. You bear immense demonic energy, yet you cultivate righteous arts. That will only stifle your growth. The path of the orthodox sects leads nowhere great. If you join me, you’ll stand above the heavens and command all beings—how about it?”

The old man’s voice grew impassioned. Jiang Pingchuan could tell he was speaking of his own lost dreams—dominion over the heavens, mastery over all life. But Jiang Pingchuan had never longed for such things. All he wished for was to find his parents with his brother, then live quietly as a Maoshan cultivator.

“I don’t wish for that. I don’t want to stand above the heavens or command all beings. I just want to live my own life,” Jiang Pingchuan shouted, flipping his palm outward as a pitch-black seal appeared.

His eyes blazed crimson, shading towards purple, as he charged at the bloodless wall. At the last instant, he thrust the seal forward. Dragon patterns coiled around its surface; as it struck, a dragon’s roar echoed, and the wall convulsed and twisted.

A crack splintered across the surface. Without hesitation, Jiang dove toward it, but as he slipped through, a hand clamped onto his ankle, holding him fast.

Jiang Pingchuan turned to look back, his eyes swelling with horror. Behind him stood a skeleton coated in thick, viscous slime, rancid pus dribbling from its mouth. The face beneath the black robe was crawling with dark red worms that writhed in its eyes.

He gagged at the hand gripping his ankle—its fingers coated in yellowish slime, as though steeped for centuries in a cesspool. He struggled desperately, but felt himself being dragged steadily back into the previous space. As the darkness closed in, he fought with every last ounce of strength, yet could not break free.

“Impudence!” The last thing he saw, the last word he heard, was this. Then he lost consciousness, feeling as if he had fallen into a deep, endless pit of filth, sinking lower and lower, suffocating, until his mind was blank.

Suddenly, he felt light as a feather, rising upward into a space filled with warmth and sunlight—nothing else. He opened his eyes, stood, and began walking across this endless realm. Before long, he came upon a massive green vine, beneath which sat an old man clad in robes of purple and gold. Jiang Pingchuan was struck by a sense of familiarity.

He bowed respectfully. The old man chuckled and turned to face him. Jiang Pingchuan looked up—and froze. It was his own ancestral master, Hongwu. Tears welled in his eyes and his face crumpled with grievance. He had only just entered the Treasury Pavilion, yet it felt as if an eternity had passed. He knew now it was Hongwu who had saved him.

“Ancestor, I nearly died just now,” Jiang Pingchuan grumbled, plopping down before the old man, propping his chin on his hands. As long as his ancestor was here, he had nothing to fear; no one could harm him in Hongwu’s presence.

“Pingchuan, I am not your ancestor. Or rather, your ancestor and I share the same origin, but exist in different spaces.”

The old man’s eyes held no light, like a cultivator long dead and devoid of breath. Jiang Pingchuan stared in shock—if this was not his ancestor, why did he look exactly the same?

“May I ask, venerable one, what do you mean by this?” Jiang Pingchuan straightened, studying the old man more closely. Now he could discern subtle differences; his own ancestor radiated spirit, while this old man was shrouded in a faint air of death.

“I and your ancestor Hongwu are but shadows of Heaven itself. We know not our own origins, only wandering our respective worlds seeking the way. Five hundred years ago, I found a path leading to the source, but it was a road awash in blood—I abandoned it, yet it claimed my blood all the same. It is a road of no return.”

A flicker of pain and regret crossed the old man’s face. Jiang Pingchuan suddenly understood what kind of road he spoke of, and his heart grew heavy.

“Is that the Path to Heaven?” Jiang Pingchuan clutched at his chest, voice barely a whisper. The old man nodded, and Jiang was seized by panic. He remembered not seeing his ancestor the day he entered the Sutra Pavilion. His grandfather had said the ancestor had finally comprehended his true essence, and by following its trace, one could find the Path to Heaven.

“Venerable one, why is the Path to Heaven soaked in blood?” Jiang Pingchuan’s heart ached. The road he had long yearned for was not at all as he imagined.

“Those who fail to ascend must leave behind everything. I could not harden my heart to finish the journey—so I became a failure, and failures are devoured. I only made it back here because, before I attempted the ascent, I buried a trace of my energy here. After burning away my origin, my last wisp of spirit was drawn back by that remnant.”

The old man opened his robe; there was no flesh or bone, only an ethereal wisp swirling within. Through his chest, Jiang Pingchuan could see the vine behind him.

“Why did you not persist?” Jiang Pingchuan’s voice was dazed as he stared at that wisp of energy.

Within it, he sensed the same aura as his ancestor Hongwu. If what the old man said was true, then his ancestor’s Path to Heaven would be little different. The thought frightened Jiang Pingchuan—that the day he left the Sutra Pavilion, he might never see his ancestor again.

“Persist? Easier said than done. On that path, you must sever all your mortal loves and desires. You are confronted by all those you have ever cared for most. With your own hand, you must end their lives, one by one, to ascend. Even knowing it’s all illusion, you still cannot do it. Even knowing you are only severing memories, you still cannot bear it. These memories are everything you are. To abandon them for ascension—is that not to erase all you have cultivated through these years?”

The old man smiled bitterly. Jiang Pingchuan listened in shock, then thought of his ancestor. If only by killing those dearest could one ascend...

He was certain his own shadow would appear on his ancestor’s path, and he desperately wished his ancestor would strike him down without hesitation. But he could not convince himself it would happen. There was no way his ancestor would ever draw his blade against him.

“Venerable one, my ancestor has also found the Path to Heaven. Can you not stop him, persuade him not to seek it?” Jiang Pingchuan’s eyes were red as he pleaded.

“This is the law of Heaven and Earth, the trial every cultivator must face. To seek the source, one must make such a choice. The outcome depends on your ancestor alone—no one can interfere with the law of Heaven.” The old man sighed. Jiang Pingchuan hung his head, but then looked up again.

“Is there truly no one who can transcend the law? Or has no one ever dared to question or resist it?” he demanded, rising and gazing at the old man, then up at the endless skyless expanse around him. There was no heaven or earth, yet even here, the old man was still bound by those laws.

“No one has ever escaped the law, nor even tried to transcend its constraints,” the old man replied, his voice frail.

“If no one dares challenge it, then I will. I’ll see just how powerful Heaven and Earth truly are,” Jiang Pingchuan snorted.

A spark of light flickered in the old man’s lifeless eyes. He pointed to the great vine behind him. Jiang Pingchuan approached. Up close, though the vine seemed vibrant from afar, he saw its green was only skin deep. A faint aura of death, just like the old man’s, clung to it.

“Pingchuan, the law is binding. I haven’t long to live. When you have comprehended the myriad Dao in the Sutra Pavilion, come here and take the blue pearl from my brow. Refine it, and you will inherit a millennium of my legacy. Now go.”

The old man gently touched Jiang Pingchuan’s hair and waved him away. Jiang’s eyes fluttered shut, and he vanished from the spot.