The trio of inner sect disciples stepped into Withered Orchid Villa with quiet deference, their presence subdued yet weighted with unspoken authority. At center stood a female cultivator who commanded silent respect from the two men flanking her.
She wore a plain hemp robe, her head wrapped in a black mourning cloth, as though she had just stepped away from a funeral. Her beauty was striking—delicate as an ink painting, with softly arched brows, wide innocent eyes, and lips the color of dark wine. Her skin was pale as moonlight, her features flawless, yet something about her was profoundly unsettling. There was no warmth in her stillness, no breath in her poise. She moved with the eerie grace of a corpse given motion.
Slender and slight, her frame was almost fragile—save for the unnatural contrast of her full, heavy breasts. But what drew the eye more than anything was the massive black coffin lashed to her back with thick iron chains. The coffin's polished surface gleamed like a starless night, its craftsmanship both exquisite and ominous, large enough to hold three grown men. Dao Fulus plastered its surface, their script glowing faintly under the heavy chains that bound it shut.
As she drew closer, Pay Ling caught the sound—muffled thuds, slow and deliberate, followed by the shrill scrape of nails dragging against wood from within. His chest tightened. Every instinct screamed at him to flee.
Her companions stood behind her. The younger, draped in an azure cloak, had a sharp, pallid face. The elder, clad in violet, bore the rugged simplicity of a common labor mortal man, though his eyes betrayed the lethality of a seasoned cultivator.
"Enough formalities," Zheng Kinson cut in, raising a hand before turning to Pay Ling. His voice was steady. "These three are core disciples of our Deathveil Bloodline."
Through Zheng Kinson's introduction, Pay Ling learned their names. The woman was Oen Shinae—Mid-Phase Foundation Stage, Zheng Kinson's right hand and one of the Bloodline's deadliest forces. The azure-cloaked youth, Fang Jit, was an Early-Phase Foundation cultivator, a master of poison and medicine. The older man, Sharky Ink, also at Early-Phase, specialized in formation arrays.
"I've already briefed Shinae on the mission," Zheng Kinson said, his gaze sweeping over the trio before settling into a grave tone. "The inner sect is in chaos recently. Expect complications on this journey underground. Stay sharp."
The three clasped their fists in unison. "Aye! Bloodline Lord!"
Zheng Kinson's eyes hardened. "The mission can fail. But Pay Ling's life is non-negotiable. If danger strikes—"
Oen Shinae interrupted, her voice soft yet ironclad. "My Lord, rest assured. So long as we breathe, Junior Brother Pay will come to no harm. Even if outmatched, we will die to cover his retreat."
Pay Ling flicked a glance her way, unease coiling in his gut. "I'd best stay wary of this 'kind' senior sister."
He knew all too well the false camaraderie of the Abyss Pit Sect. When death loomed, even the most benevolent-seeming disciples wouldn't hesitate to abandon him as bait.
"Good." Zheng Kinson's stern expression softened with rare praise approval. "Then I leave it in your hands." With a final nod, he dismissed them. "There's no time to waste. Depart at once."
At that moment, a whisper—so faint it might have been the wind—brushed against Pay Ling's ear.
"Junior Brother Pay, I slipped a Hundred-Mile Escape Dao Fulu into your sleeve. If the mission turns dire, use it. Flee without hesitation."
Pay Ling's peripheral vision caught Zheng Kinson's face, but the man wasn't even looking at him. Instead, his gaze burned with fervent trust toward Oen Shinae and the others, his expression alight with expectation. Every line of his posture radiated unwavering faith.
Pay Ling's hand slid discreetly into his sleeve. His fingertips grazed the cold edge of an unfamiliar Dao Fulu.
So this is how geniuses are treated. Relief, thin and sharp, flickered through him.
Zheng Kinson's command brooked no delay. With curt farewells, they departed the villa. Oen Shinae took immediate charge.
"To the chasm's threshold," she ordered Sharky Ink.
The older cultivator nodded, producing a square array compass. With a twist of his wrist, dark mist erupted from the device, coiling like living shadow until the air itself split with a jagged tear. From the rift loomed a hulking specter—a beast-shaped ghost soul, its ink-black eyes hollow and ravenous.
Before Pay Ling could react, its maw yawned wide—and swallowed them whole.
Instinct screamed at him to fight, to flee—but Oen Shinae and the others stood motionless, unperturbed. Gritting his teeth, Pay Ling forced himself still.
As expected, no pain came. Inside the ghost's belly, the world twisted into surreal stillness. The ground beneath him felt solid yet invisible, while the roar of phantom wind howled in his ears.
They were moving. Fast.
Oen Shinae and her crew studied him. His composure drew varied reactions. Oen Shinae herself, her delicate eyes narrowing before she snapped into command.
"Focus. Our priority is the Ice Pith Fire. Fang Jit—distribute the Poison-Ward Pills. Double for Junior Brother Pay; his cultivation's too weak. Sharky Ink, stay hidden. Guard him at all costs."
Sharky Ink's "Aye" was immediate.
Fang Jit, however, smirked. "Senior Sister, if the Bloodline Lord values this mission enough to send you, why burden us with—" His gaze cut to Pay Ling. "—a fifth-layer Qi Refinement runt? And then only three of us? One misstep down there in the Chasm Prison, and he's carrion. How do we explain that to the Lord?"
Oen Shinae's voice turned glacial. "Victory favors the quick. Fewer men, fewer risks. We might catch Bloodline Lord Miu's crew off guard. More people more messy, and it is easier to attract attention. What, do you think you've got a sharper brain than Bloodline Lord, his honor?"
Fang Jit dipped his head. "This junior wouldn't dare."
"Then listen," she hissed, the words a blade's edge. "Your only task is obedience."
Fang Jit's bow deepened. "...Aye, Senior Sister."
Oen Shinae ignored him and she turned her gaze pinned Pay Ling like a dagger to parchment. "We Deathveil Bloodline stands on precarious ground," she said, each word honed to a razor's edge. "Yet our lord still gambles everything to seize the Ice Pith Fire mission—making enemies of five mid-tier Bloodlines. Fang Jit isn't alone in his doubts." Her delicate fingers tightened around her coffin's chains. "I don't understand why Bloodline Lord stakes so much on you. His honor has always been shrewd. Don't you make him regret this gamble."
"I won't fail Senior Brother Zheng's trust," Pay Ling replied solemnly, while his fingers crept toward the Hundred-Mile Escape Dao Fulu hidden in his sleeve. At the first sign of danger, he would flee without hesitation.
A cold realization settled in his gut. In Deerspring, Zheng Kinson to him had seemed an unassailable mountain. Now cracks showed in that façade.
"Perhaps I should seek another patron as backer," Pay Ling mused. But his knowledge of the Abyss Pit Sect's intricate power struggles remained pitifully shallow. No matter—he'd bide his time. When a better opportunity arose, he'd switch allegiances without hesitation.
He cursed the AllFullOS system bitterly. Years of careful obscurity in Pay Manor, undone in moments! Now I danced on knife's edge every day, one misstep from ruin.
Having delivered her warning, Oen Shinae closed her eyes in meditation. Fang Jit and Sharky Ink maintained stony silence. Only the ghost-wind's mournful howl filled the spectral void around them.
After an indeterminate stretch of time, the eerie whistling of the wind abruptly ceased, leaving an oppressive silence that gnawed at their nerves. The surreal landscape around them warped and twisted, as if reality itself were unraveling. The ghostly beast that had haunted their steps flickered out of existence.
Next moment Pay Ling found the four of them found themselves teetering on the jagged edge of a monstrous chasm—an abyss so vast and fathomless it seemed to devour the horizon itself. The far side was lost to an endless void, shrouded in a suffocating gloom that stretched beyond comprehension.
Beneath their trembling feet lay a desolate wasteland, the ground cracked and barren, strewn with jagged rocks that gleamed with the dull, lifeless hue of ashes. These stones, unlike any they'd seen before, radiated a cold, bleak despair, as though the earth itself had been drained of vitality. No blade of grass dared to pierce this forsaken soil. Instead, the landscape was haunted by the gnarled skeletons of dead trees, their twisted, contorted branches clawing at the sky like the writhing limbs of tormented souls. Scattered across this blighted expanse, they stood as silent sentinels of decay, their forms both near and far, punctuating the desolation with an air of malevolent stillness.
Perched atop the skeletal branches were crows—ghastly creatures whose wings shimmered with ghostly blue flames that flickered like cursed embers. Their blood-red eyes glowed with an unnatural intensity, piercing through the dimness as they stared in unnerving silence.
Pay Ling, trembling with a mix of awe and dread, leaned forward to peer into the chasm's depths. Barely a dozen yards below, a roiling sea of black mist churned violently, a living shroud that swallowed all light and hope. The deeper his gaze ventured, the thicker the mist grew, congealing into an impenetrable river of darkness that snaked downward, spiraling into the abyss like a torrent of liquid night. It stretched endlessly, merging with the distant sky, where even the sun hung feeble and diseased. The chasm's exposed cliffs loomed like the flayed flesh of some ancient titan, their surfaces a grotesque tapestry of black and crimson, scarred and jagged, descending into the fog sea like a wound that refused to heal.
Pay Ling's breath caught in his throat as he gaped at the nightmarish vista. "This… are we still in the sect?" he whispered, his voice quaking with disbelief.
Since joining the Abyss Pit Sect, well yes, the sect's disciples and its draconian rules carried a demonic chill, but no matter how sinister the sect comrades were, the surroundings scene in the holy sect had always been magnificent breathtaking beautiful—since first arrival at the Square of Eternal Severance, the outer sect's mist-wreathed mountain peaks, the inner sect's stunning green plains with their cascading waterfalls and villas. Lush mountains floated amid seas of clouds, tranquil courtyards bloomed with orchids, and verdant hills echoed with the songs of birds and the perfume of flowers.
Yet here, on the rim of this accursed chasm, he stood in a wasteland that reeked of death—a forsaken graveyard at the edge of oblivion.
Oen Shinae and the other two ignored his astonishment. "The Gworm tide approaches soon," she snapped command. "Consume your Poison-Ward Pills now. Down there, hesitation is death."