Chapter 196: Crying Moon
Su Li harbored a measure of wariness, yet refrained from any further reckless action.
He knew the origins of this young girl—she was the spirit pet of that Eastern Abyss Sect cultivator, manifested in human form.
However, he could not fathom why that cultivator had sent her here.
She neither broke the formation nor launched any attack. She simply crouched there and watched, preventing him from killing those two.
“Hmph. Wait until the Young Lord slays that cultivator,” Su Li muttered with a venomous expression. “You will be nothing more than a side dish to accompany his wine.”
The sky above Qing Valley hung beneath a pall of dark clouds, the air thick with the coppery stench of blood.
Fear spread like pestilence. Some had collapsed to the ground in limp heaps; others crouched with heads clutched in their arms, wailing and sobbing without cease.
Yet quickly, their twisted faces turned toward that small, slight figure.
“It’s her! That jinx and that beast brought this calamity upon us!”
The bare-chested man’s eyes were bloodshot, the wood-chopping knife in his grip trembling from the force of his white-knuckled hold.
His roar struck like a spark, igniting the last vestiges of reason from this crowd of villagers.
Several able-bodied men and women followed close behind, brandishing hoes and sickles, spitting venomous words with every breath.
Their sentiment distilled into a single thought.
That was to kill her.
“Kill her! That demon crow followed her back here!”
Ju Luyi was circulating her energy to heal Liu Xincheng’s wounds. With her own cultivation so meager, she had no capacity to mount any resistance.
Liu Xincheng bellowed: “Have you all gone mad?!”
Yet the villagers paid his words no heed. Desperation had overtaken them. Before they died, they wished only to destroy this harbinger of catastrophe.
The bare-chested man seized Ju Luyi’s throat with his left hand while his right brought the wood-chopping knife whistling through the air.
Shhk.
A single, verdant green leaf materialized from thin air and drifted lightly across the man’s neck.
His movement froze instantly. The knife clattered to the ground, yet his head tilted slowly, finally rolling into the dust.
The gushing blood splattered across the faces of those nearby, and the frenzied screaming cut short.
Xiao He remained crouched where she was. Her cyan-golden serpentine eyes cast a cursory glance at the villagers, then returned to fix upon Su Li with unblinking focus.
“…”
Every heart within earshot trembled, and silence fell like a death sentence.
Was she not the immortal’s spirit pet?
Why did she kill with such ruthless efficiency?
Was heaven truly determined to destroy Qing Valley?
Su Li’s thoughts ran along different lines. The girl had slain a villager, and should the Young Lord demand an accounting, it would prove troublesome.
Yet before his distress could deepen, a youthful figure emerged at a measured pace from the valley mouth.
Upon seeing that figure, Su Li’s eyes widened in disbelief.
A surge of terror flooded his heart: “How can it be you?! Where is the Young Lord?!”
Only then did the others realize that the tiger demon’s roars and the thunderous clash of blade against sword within the valley had ceased some time ago.
The villagers turned toward Song Yan, and from the depths of their hearts, a desperate, frantic hope surged upward.
Yet recalling the girl’s merciless methods, they dared not approach.
“The Young Lord?”
Song Yan casually pinched a demon core between his fingers. “You mean this?”
So that was its name.
Su Li stared blankly at the demon core, his willpower hovering at the precipice of collapse.
“This… this cannot be!”
He leapt to his feet. “The Young Lord’s demonic power is unrivaled! Even a cultivator at the tenth level of the Qi Refining Stage would die beneath his palm!”
“You… you…”
“What sorcery are you playing?!”
The tiger demon was dead. Could Su Li still survive?
Watching Su Li’s near-mad demeanor, Song Yan could not be bothered to waste another word on him.
He did not even wish to involve himself in this valley’s tangled affairs.
He turned to leave.
“Wait! Let me go—I am a disciple of the Profound Abyss Sect! You had better consider the consequences…”
Upon hearing this, Song Yan’s steps halted.
He regarded Xiao He in silence, then casually made a throat-slitting gesture with her hand.
“…”
He turned away and pointed a single beam of sword qi at the formation’s eye, shattering the binding array. Without a backward glance, he walked toward the valley’s exit.
“Hee hee hee…”
Xiao He covered her mouth and giggled.
“You…”
Beneath Su Li’s terrified gaze, azure-green flying leaves filled the sky, descending upon him in an overwhelming deluge that swallowed him whole.
…
Upon leaving Qing Valley, Song Yan donned the Xuan’e Reverent Spirit Mask.
He lifted his gaze slightly toward the sky. The faint, condensed traces of the Sword Dao were visible everywhere.
Following the sword path traces revealed by the Xuan’e Reverent Spirit Mask, he walked at a measured pace along the overgrown mountain trail.
The path wound deeper and deeper into the heart of the mountains.
After approximately half an hour, he halted before the entrance of a narrow gorge, half-concealed by clinging vines.
A gentle mist pervaded the gorge, and from within came the faint, rhythmic sound of water seeping through crevices in the stone.
He parted the hanging, desiccated vines, and before him opened a secluded valley no more than ten zhang across, small and desolate.
The four walls rose steeply as though carved by a blade. The valley floor lay carpeted in pale gray gravel, and at its center stood a single, dilapidated dwelling in solitary ruin.
The structure had been abandoned for untold years. More than half of its thatched roof had collapsed, exposing several blackened, rotting beams.
Before the house stood a barren tree, and beneath it, a sword was planted in the earth.
The flying sword measured roughly four chi in length, its entire form a deep, dark purple. The blade was thin as a cicada’s wing, gleaming with a cold, spectral luster beneath the moonlight.
Suddenly.
A wisp of dark purple sword qi seeped slowly from the blade’s surface, condensing at the uppermost point of the hilt.
It took the form of a crow.
It took flight and settled upon a branch of the barren tree, its peculiar crimson eyes fixed intently upon Song Yan.
Identical to the one he had beheld in Qing Valley.
“Caw—”
It cried once, though the sound proved far softer than when he had heard it in the valley.
Then it dissipated once more.
“…”
Song Yan did not rush to claim the sword. Instead, he stepped forward and gently pushed open the decrepit dwelling.
The furnishings within were austere to the point of severity. A cypress wood table stood at the center, alongside a single bed.
Upon the table, objects were arranged with meticulous precision, as though they were ceremonial implements.
A single, ordinary Cosmos Bag—a few common clay bowls and plates.
Nothing else.
His gaze shifted sideways, and upon the bed sat a skeleton, its bones bleached stark white.
“This senior… passed away in a place like this?”
The spiritual energy here proved thin and sparse, unsuitable for cultivation within a cave abode.
Moreover, the location’s remoteness and narrow confines made it ill-suited for recuperation.
Song Yan fell silent for a moment, then stepped forward. He discovered that several small characters had been carved into the surface of the wooden table.
“Yu Bai Tao, a mediocre sword cultivator. All that remains in this chamber, any successor may claim.”
“Do not make offerings.”
This senior’s name had been Bai Tao.
Song Yan had heard that in Qing Valley, the surname Bai was indeed a prominent one.
“A native of Qing Valley as well…”
Song Yan collected the Cosmos Bag from within the dwelling, then channeled spiritual energy to carefully move the senior’s skeletal remains outside.
He selected a peaceful spot nearby and used sword qi to excavate the earth for a grave, interring the bones with due care.
He carved a simple, unadorned stone tablet and erected it before the grave.
“Having come upon the senior’s remains, I suppose fate has drawn us together.”
Song Yan produced three sticks of incense, lit them, and planted them before the grave. He bowed respectfully.
The senior had spoken with candor, declaring no offerings necessary. Yet having encountered this karmic connection, to simply walk away would not sit well with his conscience.
He walked toward the barren tree outside the courtyard. The ancient, dark purple sword stood quietly beneath it.
With a void-point—sustained gesture of his finger—the ancient sword rose slowly from the earth, hovering before him.
A thread of sword qi emerged from Song Yan’s palm, beginning at the hilt and flowing toward the tip, stripping away the accumulated dust and moss layer by layer.
No name was inscribed upon the blade.
The sword qi within his palm surged with growing intensity, and with it, he consecrated the sword as his own artifact.
As expected, the very instant the refinement was complete, the sword flashed with brilliant light and vanished into the Twin Jade Pearl.
Judging from his prior experience with the Spirit-Sacrificing Qilin, inheriting the memories of ancient sword cultivators did not require a lengthy duration.
Thus Song Yan did not hesitate. After establishing a simple protective formation in the surrounding area, he sat cross-legged where he stood and directed his divine sense into the Twin Jade Realm.
Within the black-and-white realm—realm of black and white—the flying sword had come to rest beside the Seed of the Sword Dao.
Ink gathered and coalesced into the form of a crow, perching atop the flying sword.
The crow was startlingly lifelike. Its head tilted, as though scrutinizing this small world.
Only when it perceived Song Yan’s spiritual form did it let out a strange cry: “Caw!”
The crow flapped its wings, scattering loose feathers as it flew toward Song Yan.
It transformed into a wisp of ink and surged between his brows.
Within the Twin Jade Realm, wind and clouds shifted, yet contrary to all prior experience, this time Song Yan felt not the slightest discomfort.
He merely felt drowsy, his body succumbing to the pull of sleep.
…
Caw—
Caw—
How noisy. What bird is that?
How painful. Every part of his body ached…
His vision swayed as he tumbled from the sky, crashing into a cluster of frost-laden branches.
He struggled with all his might just to stabilize his form.
Caw—
What bird is that making such a racket! Truly deafening!
Oh?
It was himself.
He was a crow.
He had been struck by some wretched child’s slingshot and, reeling from the blow, had tumbled into this uninhabited mountain range.
This place seemed so desolate, surely no people dwelled here. He could rest awhile and recover from his wounds.
Yes, heal his wounds and return to blind those brats.
Wait—there were people here after all?!
…
On a winter’s moonlit night, frost and snow clung to the branches, and the crow already stood unsteadily upon its perch.
Upon suddenly spotting the sword-wielding youth beneath the tree, the crow startled and lost its footing, tumbling downward.
“Caw—!”
His life was over!
Yet the imagined agony of shattering upon the ground did not arrive.
Instead, he was enveloped by a sensation of warmth.
The crow opened its eyes and beheld the youth’s face, still carrying the softness of youth.
“Caw—!”
The crow instinctively struggled, flapping its wings within the youth’s embrace. Its feathers brushed against his cheek and chin.
“Hey, don’t struggle, don’t struggle.”
After thrashing for a time, exhaustion finally set in.
The crow was carried into the nearby mountain hut by the youth, its talons twitching intermittently—a display of its indomitable spirit.
Would it be stewed?
He had heard that humans ate everything…
To the crow’s surprise, the youth retrieved a small medicine chest from within the hut, muttering to himself.
“Good thing you fell here. In this bitter cold, your bird’s life would have been forfeit.”
“Medicine for treating human wounds—would it work on a bird?”
“It probably would.”
The wooden hut was sparse—a single bed, a single table, and a single stove.
The youth stoked the fire and used warm water to cleanse the wound on the crow’s wing. The bone was broken, so he fashioned splints from slender wooden strips and tore a corner of his robe to bind it.
The crow no longer struggled, emitting only occasional low, pained murmurs, as though enduring the agony in silence.
“Well… whether you live or die now depends on your own will.”
The youth placed it upon a straw mat beside the hearth and sat at the table, polishing his long sword.
At dawn the next day, before the sky had brightened, the youth was roused by a soft rustling.
The crow stood upon the edge of the table, preening its feathers with its beak. Its injured wing still hung limp, but its spirit appeared markedly improved.
Seeing him awake, the crow tilted its head and suddenly cried: “Caw!”
As though expressing gratitude.
The days flowed like water.
The crow’s wounds healed gradually, yet it showed no inclination to depart.
When the youth practiced swordplay, it perched upon nearby branches to watch. When he meditated, it crouched quietly upon his shoulder. Occasionally, when he left the valley to trade for rice and provisions, he would return to find the crow waiting before the hut.
“You’ve quite made yourself at home, haven’t you?”
The youth tossed a wild berry toward the crow. It caught it deftly, cradled it in its talons, and pecked at it contentedly.
After finishing, it cawed twice and settled upon his shoulder.
“My name is Bai Tao.” A faint shadow of loneliness passed through the youth’s eyes. “You are, I suppose, my first friend.”
One twilight dusk, Bai Tao practiced his sword forms at the cliff’s edge, as he did every evening.
His blade swept like a rainbow, sending fallen leaves spiraling through the air. Suddenly, he noticed the crow absent from its customary branch.
He sheathed his sword and looked around, only to find it standing upon a protruding rock, swaying in time with his movements, as though mimicking his actions.
Bai Tao stared in mild astonishment. He deliberately slowed his movements, and the crow followed suit without fail.
“You wish to learn swordsmanship as well?” Bai Tao examined it from head to toe. “But you have no hands. How would you learn?”
“Caw—”
The crow let out an indignant cry, took flight, and alighted upon his head, pecking repeatedly at the hilt of his sword.
For the crow, learning or not made little difference.
So long as it could return and exact revenge upon those children, that would be enough.
Winter yielded to spring, and Bai Tao had grown accustomed to the presence of the raucous crow at his side.
One summer, the youth prepared to depart.
“Foolish bird, I am leaving.”
Bai Tao spoke. “You are free now.”
He shouldered his pack and walked out of the thatched hut, not daring to look back.
The mountain path wound onward. After roughly half an hour of walking, he heard the sound of wings beating behind him.
The crow had settled upon his shoulder, carrying a small wildflower in its beak.
…
That wretched boy Bai Tao possessed truly remarkable fortune, to have been noticed by an immortal and granted the guidance of cultivation.
Without question, this was the crow’s own doing.
The crow possessed extraordinary natural talent. Having listened alongside Bai Tao to the immortal’s teachings and observed the practice of swordsmanship, dining on morning dew and evening mist, the crow had surely become an immortal among crows.
What did they call themselves… sword cultivators?
Then this crow would be a Crow Sword Immortal.
Bai Tao’s sect had forged a flying sword for him—dark purple in hue, much like the crow’s own plumage.
He had given this sword an elegant, refined name.
Crying Moon.
He could not quite fathom its meaning.
…
Thus, the cultivation world came to possess an unusual sword cultivator—silent and taciturn, disinclined to conversation.
Yet ever at his shoulder perched a crow.
They traveled together through many places—the misty rains of Jiangnan, the windblown sands of the northern frontier. The crow remained ever at his side.
Until one day, Bai Tao returned to his sect’s gates.
He found that apart from himself, every senior brother and sister, every elder and sect master, including his own master, had vanished.
They had journeyed to a very distant place.
But Bai Tao’s cultivation remained too shallow, and so he had been told to remain here—to preserve the sect’s modest legacy.
In the blink of an eye.
He was alone once more.
(End of Chapter)