Entering the misty depths of Wutong Mountain

At noon, Fan Qiuming waited with great difficulty for Mao Shiyi to return. As soon as she arrived, he knocked on her apartment door.

“Mao Shiyi, are you there?”

“Hmm? What’s up?” Mao Shiyi opened the door and looked at Fan Qiuming standing before her.

“Well... Could you help me take care of Fan Qiulin for a few days? I have some matters to attend to out of town, which is actually why I came to Peng City. It’s rather inconvenient to bring her along.”

Fan Qiuming looked troubled, worried she might refuse. If that happened, Fan Qiulin would have to stay alone in the apartment.

“Really? That’s wonderful...” Mao Shiyi was visibly excited.

“I’m begging you, please help me with this favor... Wait, you agreed?”

Fan Qiuming was caught off guard by how quickly she said yes.

“How many days will you be gone?”

Faced with Mao Shiyi’s question, he grew hesitant.

“At most... five days. It won’t be long.”

“Only five days?” When he said it was only five days, Mao Shiyi’s hopeful gaze dimmed a little.

“Alright, five days it is. She can stay at my place.”

Mao Shiyi curled her lips, as if slightly dissatisfied.

“What about Mian Xiaomiao? Is she coming too?”

At the mention of Mian Xiaomiao, Mao Shiyi’s excitement returned.

“Of course, Mian will be with Qiulin.”

“That’s great... When are you leaving?”

By her tone, it seemed as if Mao Shiyi couldn’t wait for Fan Qiuming to leave that very instant.

“In a little while. I’ll pack up and go, just wait for me.”

With that, Fan Qiuming returned to his apartment, packed some food and necessities into his backpack, and then brought Fan Qiulin to Mao Shiyi’s door.

“Hello, Sister Shiyi!” Fan Qiulin greeted politely.

“Hello, Sister Qiulin!” Mao Shiyi’s smile nearly reached her ears when she saw Fan Qiulin.

“I’ll leave her to you. Qiulin, you need to be good too.” Even as he was leaving, Fan Qiuming still felt uneasy; were it not for Qiulin’s paralyzed legs, he wouldn’t be so worried.

“Don’t worry, I’ll take good care of her!”

“Alright, I’m off.” Fan Qiuming slung on his backpack and left the apartment.

“Safe travels...” Fan Qiulin whispered in her heart.

At that moment, the mist atop Wutong Mountain had already spread halfway down, and was still expanding outward.

Fan Qiuming reached the edge of Wutong Mountain, but did not enter through the main gate. The area was mostly filled with Chinese parasol trees, and it was easy to get lost, but he navigated by following the increasing density of spiritual energy.

He kept his spiritual perception within fifty meters, constantly scanning his surroundings. The deeper he went, the richer the spiritual energy became. As he drew nearer to the mist, his vigilance grew, but he soon realized that his spiritual sense couldn’t penetrate the dense fog at all.

Inside, chaos reigned; the mist was like a massive field of mental force.

Standing before the mist, Fan Qiuming noticed it was as if something was binding it—it didn’t spill indiscriminately, but instead slowly expanded like a barrier.

He reached his hand into the mist. Nothing unusual happened, proving the fog was harmless to the body, so he stepped fully into it.

His vision was blocked, and his spiritual sense useless. His progress slowed drastically.

A faint scent of blood wafted from afar. Fan Qiuming didn’t rush to investigate. He noticed his head felt heavy, and his consciousness a bit fuzzy.

The mist, though harmless to the body, could erode the spirit and amplify emotions, making one irritable, joyful, or sad with ease.

He sat down cross-legged and silently recited a mantra in his heart, trying to resist the mist’s influence.

Suddenly, a flash of sword light streaked from the trees. Sensing a killing intent, Fan Qiuming dodged, but not quickly enough—his neck was grazed. A second later, he would have been decapitated.

“Who’s there?” He looked around but saw no one.

“A martial artist?” Visibility in the mist was less than fifty meters, and his spiritual sense was useless. Now, someone wanted him dead.

He was at a clear disadvantage—out of luck, out of place, and without allies.

Not daring to linger, he glanced around, saw no one, and made a run for it, heading toward the area where the spiritual energy was densest.

As he ran, a shadow lunged at him from behind and a sword flashed again, slicing through the strap of his backpack.

His bag fell, and the shadow snatched it, trying to escape. Fan Qiuming grabbed the other strap, struggling to reclaim it.

In the tussle, Fan Qiuming saw that his assailant wasn’t human—it was a monkey, and in its hand, it wielded a sword.

Seeing this, Fan Qiuming was stunned. Never mind the sword—just the way the monkey swung it was far superior to any ordinary person.

“This monkey shows signs of intelligence? And where did it get the sword?”

He was baffled. There was no way the monkey had forged it. Could it be that martial artists who had entered the mountain before, under the influence of the mist, had fallen prey to these monkeys?

Fan Qiuming snatched back his backpack, pulled the monkey along with it, wrested the sword from its grip, and flung the creature away.

“Eek... eek... roar... roar...” The monkey was frantic at losing its prize. Under the mist’s influence, it too had become irritable and lunged at Fan Qiuming.

He had no intention of tangling with it. With a swift kick, he sent it hurtling into the trees, where it landed with a heavy thud and passed out.

“That monkey took quite a blow. With such rich spiritual energy here, even the monkeys have formidable physiques. One is manageable, but if more come, I might not be able to handle them.”

Ignoring the monkey, Fan Qiuming followed the scent of blood, reasoning that the monkey had nearly killed him.

After walking for about five minutes, he came upon a corpse. The clothes were tattered and belongings scattered, clearly the monkey’s handiwork. There was nothing useful on the body.

Along the way, he found some fresh bloodstains—perhaps others still lived, but Fan Qiuming had no intention of seeking them out. He pressed deeper into the mountain.

By now it was afternoon, but the forest canopy was so thick, little light reached the ground.

Fan Qiuming found a spot with decent light and sat down, wary of ambush. He had been trekking for nearly an entire afternoon and still hadn’t found the entrance to the Divine Ruins. He wondered when he would finally discover it.

Munching on bread, he kept watch on his surroundings, feeling as if he were back on the Xuanxiao Continent, hunted for his life.

After that, aside from that one corpse, Fan Qiuming encountered no other people—either they were hiding, or they had already found the entrance.

No matter what, he resolved to search the entire mountain if he had to, until he found the entrance to the Divine Ruins.

Once he’d recovered his strength, Fan Qiuming got up to continue on his way. But as he turned, he felt a sword press against his throat.

“Don’t move... Move again and I can’t guarantee your safety.”

He froze in surprise and did not move.

The people before him were obviously not to be trifled with. Though their clothes were torn, they wore matching uniforms, marking them as members of the same organization.

Each bore injuries in varying degrees—a clear sign of recent battle.

The insignia “Yuwen” on their chests caught Fan Qiuming’s eye.

“A double surname? Are they from the Yuwen clan? Seems my luck has run out.”

Fan Qiuming thought to himself, but with a sword at his throat, he dared not act rashly.

“Toss over your backpack and put your hands up...” one of them commanded.

He complied—not out of fear, but out of wisdom.

Someone behind quickly picked up his backpack and began rummaging through it, extracting all the food and distributing it among themselves, along with the medicines Fan Qiuming had brought. They showed no hesitation in helping themselves.

“Leave the sword and you can go.”

They made no further trouble for Fan Qiuming, but now he had nothing left.

“Um... can I have my bag back?” Fan Qiuming pointed at the empty pack.

Without a word, the man tossed him the empty backpack and gave the others a look.

They cleared a path. Fan Qiuming set down the sword and walked through their group.

Only when he was out of sight did the others slump to the ground, clearly spent and lacking the strength for any real fight. It had all been bravado.

Fan Qiuming, meanwhile, was in dire straits. He had nothing left and was nearing the mountaintop. Going back for supplies was impossible now; he could only grit his teeth and keep moving forward.

As he walked, his anger simmered—the things his sister had packed for him were all gone. He wanted to go back and beat them, but even if he did, the supplies wouldn’t return, and it would be pointless.

On second thought, he let it go. Finding the entrance to the Divine Ruins was his first priority.

Night fell, and Fan Qiuming couldn’t find a suitable place to rest. Even during the day it was hard to see—at night, he was utterly blind, unable to tell one direction from another.

He switched on his phone’s flashlight, barely illuminating two or three meters ahead.

At night, Wutong Mountain was eerily silent, and all the more dangerous. Who knew what wild animals lurked? This was no longer a scenic area; safety was no longer assured.

At long last, he found a small cave and decided to spend the night there.

But seeing animal droppings around the entrance, he guessed it was home to wild boars or some other large animal.

As he moved deeper into the cave, a thick stench of blood reached his nose.

“Who’s there?”

A faint, whispering voice drifted from within the cave...