In the dim and silent meditation chamber, as thoughts swirled in Meng Qi’s mind, the space around him grew increasingly profound, resembling a moonless and starless night sky.
He had quietly activated the Seals of Primordial Unity and the Dao, obscuring the heavenly secrets and karma, causing a shadow to emerge beside him—one that was nearly imperceptible to the outside world. It was the shrunken skeleton of the Yellow Spring, its jagged bone spikes menacing, its aura tainted with blood-yellow mist.
At this moment, Meng Qi split his consciousness, sending forth a wisp of chaotic light that landed upon the skeleton. Flesh and hair sprouted from the bones, transforming it into an elderly man clad in brocade robes. His hair was jet-black, save for streaks of white at his temples, and his features were utterly ordinary. Yet, upon closer inspection, one would notice that deep within his black pupils lay a swirling vitality of white, within which nestled a deathly stillness of black, and within that black, the white once again—an endless cycle, layer upon layer, with no discernible origin. It was mesmerizing, pulling one’s mind into its depths, making escape difficult.
The figure had barely appeared before vanishing into the profound darkness of the chamber, leaving no trace.
Since the plan was to “feign an overt action while secretly advancing another,” the deception had to be flawless. Outwardly, he would assist his master in perfecting the Pure Land, while covertly, he would not remain idle. He would carry out matters related to the Netherworld in utmost secrecy, leveraging the Yellow Spring skeleton to infiltrate the Nine Nethers through the secret passage provided by Senior Brother Qi. There, he would investigate the whereabouts of the Yellow Spring’s reincarnation, gathering more secrets about the Origin of Life and Death to prepare for his future exploration with the Emperor of Fengdu. This way, he would avoid being ensnared by Him. To outsiders, pursuing the reincarnation of the Yellow Spring would clearly signal an interest in the Netherworld, further masking his true intentions.
Thus, when the great supernatural beings who had been watching and suspecting him finally uncovered faint traces of his actions, they would exclaim, “As expected,” “Just as we thought,” or “Su Meng truly is feigning an overt action while secretly advancing another.”
At this stage, they would overlook his master’s “minor activities,” while other powerful figures who had never suspected or paid attention from the start would have no reason to scrutinize such a seemingly natural course of events.
As for the supreme beings beyond the shore, with the Green Emperor or even the Primordial Heavenly Venerable shielding him, there was still a fair chance of evading their notice.
As the Yellow Spring skeleton, carrying a fragment of Meng Qi’s consciousness, faded away, the meditation chamber fell into complete silence, as tranquil as the dawn of creation.
—
The vast plains stretched endlessly in all directions, exuding an ancient and desolate aura. The ground bore a dark crimson hue, as if stained by millennia of accumulated blood, radiating an unmistakable sense of brutality and cruelty.
High above, a black sun hung silently, casting gloomy yet scorching light, rendering even daytime as dim as dusk.
This was the fifth layer of the Nine Nethers.
Two figures streaked across the wasteland, trailing thick blood-red auras, as if in pursuit of something. The terrain here, scarred by endless battles, was riddled with ravines, swamps, and underground rivers—perfect for hiding.
“Damn it, we lost him,” a rough, hoarse voice growled as the two streaks of light came to a halt.
The speaker was a man of grotesque appearance, towering and muscular, clad only in a pelt around his waist. His skin was a dark bronze, nearly black, with eerie patterns seemingly etched into its texture. His eyes burned with killing intent and fury, and in his hand, he gripped a long blade, black as night yet stained with crimson.
“Xulun, the Yellow Spring is just ahead. There are no ghost boats at this time, and the Bridge of Two Realms is far away. He can’t cross the river—he must be hiding nearby,” said the other figure, a woman with a curvaceous figure and striking beauty, wielding a pair of serrated swords.
The ugly-faced man glared forward, where a blood-yellow river surged relentlessly, its waters whispering with the cries of ghosts and souls. Even under the black sun, an icy chill permeated the air.
They were powerful warriors of the Asura race, fresh from a bloody battle against the nearby Hundred-Armed Fiends. Though corpses and severed limbs littered the battlefield, a key figure had escaped in the chaos.
Driven by their bloodlust, the two had pursued relentlessly until they reached the banks of the Yellow Spring.
“You’re right. Without a ghost boat or the Bridge of Two Realms, not even our ancestors could cross the Yellow Spring. He doesn’t stand a chance,” Xulun spat through gritted teeth.
The Yellow Spring, like the long-vanished Nether Sea, was one of the Nine Nethers’ most formidable anomalies, symbolizing death and a sliver of life. Flight was impossible above its waters; passage was only possible via the ten Bridges of Two Realms, one in each layer of the Nine Nethers, with the tenth being elusive and known only to a few fiendish deities and demons.
Apart from these bridges, only ghost boats crafted from special materials could float upon the Yellow Spring’s waters. Anything else would sink instantly, and these waters were no ordinary currents—even an immortal, once submerged, would be eroded, losing all memories and becoming a tormented water ghost for eternity.
Even with protective arts, divine abilities, or treasures, the countless drowned souls within the Yellow Spring would drag intruders down, ensuring their doom.
After a pause, Xulun sighed. “Bulan, you truly are stronger than me. You can somewhat resist the influence of our bloodthirsty nature and make rational judgments.”
The Asura race was born for battle and slaughter—it was their nature, their fate, their joy. In this, they were no different from the fiendish deities, demons, and vengeful spirits that populated the Nine Nethers. Of course, their killings pleased the Nine Nethers, earning them “rewards” of power. Upon reaching a certain threshold of strength, they would gain a semblance of reason, allowing them to barely restrain their instincts—though the influence of their nature remained. Even at the level of the Great Freedom Heavenly Son or the Fiendish Deity Yellow Spring, they could never fully escape it. Only by ascending to the ranks of the Demon Lords or the Heaven-Slaying Daoists could they transcend this fate, for at that stage, their struggle would be over the Dao itself.
Bulan smiled bitterly. “I’m not much better than you…”
Her bond with Xulun stemmed from their shared struggle against their uncontrollable instincts, a tragic fate they sought to escape—unlike their kin, who embraced reason only to wage war and slaughter more effectively.
A brief silence fell before they resumed their search, scouring the ravines and valleys between the wasteland and the riverbank. Soon, the roar of the Yellow Spring grew distinct, and a towering, austere stone temple of bluish-gray hue came into view.
Every time they beheld this grand yet crude temple, Xulun and Bulan felt an inexplicable sense of primal serenity, as if they had glimpsed the futility of desire.
Many such temples existed—some by the Yellow Spring in other layers, others near the ruins of the Nether Sea. Legends claimed they had stood since the dawn of the Nine Nethers, while others whispered they had been built to seal away unspeakable horrors. Having lived less than three jiazi (180 years), Xulun and Bulan had no way of verifying these tales.
“Could he be hiding inside?” Bulan mused aloud.
The temple’s aura of primal peace clashed with the fiendish nature of its denizens, making proximity unbearable. Had it not been indestructible, it would have been razed long ago. Hiding within was a viable strategy.
Xulun strode forward, his black blade in hand, and reached the temple’s entrance. “We’ll know once we search it.”
The temple was unadorned, lacking even a plaque. Inside the meditation hall stood a faceless Buddha statue carved from the blood-black stone common in the Nine Nethers. Its body seemed stained with congealed blood, exuding an indescribable eeriness yet also an unmistakable tranquility. The wooden fish, lamp, and meditation mat were all carved from stone.
Before the faceless Buddha stood a figure in a blood-soaked dark red robe, his hair disheveled, his skin deathly pale.
His features were ordinary, but his gaze held a magnetic pull. With a mere glance, Xulun and Bulan felt entranced, drawn toward him against their will.
“That pool of pus and blood at his feet… it feels familiar. It might be from the Hundred-Armed Fiend we were chasing,” Bulan thought, her mind oddly clear despite the trance.
The man in the dark red robe raised his hands, glowing faintly crimson, and spoke in a low voice, “Have you seen anyone resembling this person recently?”
An image surfaced in Xulun and Bulan’s minds—a figure shrouded in black robes, with delicate features and eyes that were pure black and pure white, unnervingly eerie.
Compelled by an innate honesty, Xulun answered, “Yes. He entered this temple first, then lingered nearby for a few days before vanishing completely.”
The dark-robed man nodded slightly, murmuring to himself, “So the reincarnation of the Yellow Spring truly disappeared near here?”
“Indeed, the reincarnation of the Yellow Spring vanished right here,” a voice—both aged and youthful—echoed from outside the temple.
Xulun and Bulan whirled around to find a new figure at the entrance: an elderly man in brocade robes, his hair black save for streaks of white at his temples. His features were unremarkable, save for his eyes, which held swirling layers of alternating black and white.
The dark-robed man narrowed his eyes. “And who might you be? Are you also seeking the reincarnation of the Yellow Spring?”
In the Nine Nethers, his strength ranked among the top, with peers numbering no more than a hundred. Yet this white-templed elder, exuding an eerie aura, was entirely unfamiliar.
Was he an outsider, or a hidden incarnation of some greater being?
The elder stepped inside, hands clasped behind his back, and smiled faintly. “Who I am matters little. What matters is where we stand.”
As he spoke, his gaze remained fixed on the blood-black faceless Buddha. He walked past Xulun, Bulan, and the dark-robed man, stopping before the altar. Looking up at the statue’s featureless face, he mused, “Unless my senses deceive me, this is the handiwork of the Buddha of Spiritual Mountain.”
“The Buddha?” The dark-robed man turned sharply, staring at the statue.
At that moment, the elder flicked a finger, igniting the stone lamp.
Whoosh—light flooded the chamber, illuminating every corner. The dark-robed man instinctively shielded his eyes, fearing transparency, while Xulun and Bulan squeezed theirs shut, stumbling back several steps.
This elder was none other than Meng Qi’s Yellow Spring incarnation. Having spent considerable time in the Nine Nethers, he had traced the reincarnation’s trail from its first appearance to this place—the third bluish-gray stone temple he had encountered.
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