Chapter Twenty-Three: Illusion

Shen Yu’s figure stood before the colossal flood dragon, appearing as nothing more than a tiny black dot; a single breath from the creature could have easily blown the youth away. Yet, as Shen Yu stepped onto the arched bridge, a flicker of panic unexpectedly crossed the flood dragon’s cold, indifferent eyes.

Roar! Roar! Roar!

The flood dragon bellowed with even greater fury, but Shen Yu remained unmoved, walking calmly across the bridge, utterly disregarding the beast’s howls. His pace was steady, neither hurried nor slow, and soon he reached the center of the bridge.

The flood dragon seemed unable to contain its rage any longer. It leapt high and lunged at him in a flash, jaws wide to devour.

Shen Yu’s expression did not change. With a casual motion, he struck out with his palm.

Just a single blow.

An astonishing scene unfolded. A crisp slap echoed, and the mountain-sized head of the flood dragon was sent flying. Its massive body crashed heavily onto the water’s surface, raising countless waves.

Shen Yu glanced downward. The enormous form of the flood dragon rolled upon the water, then gradually shrank, as the surface grew calm. A golden carp, over ten feet long, swam back and forth in the water, a faint palm print visible upon its head.

The carp rose upright in the water, gazing up at the youth, letting out plaintive cries, its eyes full of grievance and resentment.

It was rather wondrous.

“What a large carp,” Shen Yu murmured as he watched it. “It must have cultivated for over a hundred years to possess such pure spiritual energy... I imagine its taste wouldn’t be bad at all.”

The golden carp seemed to understand human speech; it hurriedly dove beneath the water, and after a while appeared again far from the youth, but this time it dared not make a sound.

“Only by leaping the Dragon Gate can a carp transform into a dragon, yet your illusion is rather crude,” Shen Yu said, stepping off the bridge. “Don’t turn yourself into a flood dragon anymore. I’ve slain far too many true flood dragons in this world.”

...

As he ascended from the mountainside, the temperature gradually dropped. Dense foliage obscured his view, though the sound of a waterfall crashing down could still be faintly heard.

The youth raised his foot and entered the forest.

Treading on a carpet of fallen leaves, he slowly walked deeper within.

After some time, Shen Yu gazed at the familiar trunk of a giant tree, frowning slightly. Around him, a white mist had arisen, cloaking everything beyond thirty feet.

“An array?” he wondered, looking up at the sky. All was whiteness—nothing else but the distant sound of running water.

After contemplating for a moment, Shen Yu closed his eyes and strode forward.

The trees here were massive, spaced only a few steps apart; if an ordinary person tried to walk blindfolded, they would surely be battered and bruised. Yet, curiously, Shen Yu suffered no such fate. Stranger still, though he collided with tree trunks, he passed straight through them.

His form moved through the trunks again and again, sending ripples through the white mist. Shen Yu shifted left and right, as though treading a mysterious path, until he finally halted.

Slowly, Shen Yu opened his eyes. Before him lay an ancient, unadorned Daoist temple.

...

He stepped inside.

His pace was unhurried, savoring the temple’s atmosphere bit by bit.

It was a modest place, shrouded in drifting clouds and mist. In the corners hung green lanterns, while an incense burner stood before the main hall, untouched by dust or smoke.

On the forty-ninth step, the spiritual energy around him suddenly grew violent; faint black aura seeped from within the hall.

Shen Yu’s gaze immediately fell upon the blood-red sword hovering in the main hall, its blade pointing downward, radiating a crimson glow.

At the center, a tall Daoist sat cross-legged, his bearing ethereal.

“You have arrived,” the Daoist spoke. “To set foot in this temple, your heart must be pure, and your talent must be extraordinary.”

Shen Yu said nothing, his gaze fixed upon the blood-red sword.

The Demon-Slaying Sword, renowned throughout the Daoist sect, was known as the sword of the sect’s master.

Yet few knew that three thousand years ago, this sword had slaughtered countless demons and bathed in the blood of myriad ascendant cultivators.

Its owner was among the strongest beings on the continent. Shen Yu once thought he would be stopped by this sword’s master from achieving Dao, but surprisingly, he was not.

It was strange: after three thousand years, the sword appeared here in the Daoist sect. Had its master perished?

The Daoist’s voice came again: “Would you follow me in cultivation, and step into the immortal realm of eternal life?”

Shen Yu turned his gaze to the Daoist and asked, “I am curious—why do you think you can bring me into the immortal realm of eternal life?”

The Daoist replied in a deep voice, “The Dao cannot be lightly passed on. Bow before me and receive my true teaching.”

Shen Yu answered coolly, “I do not like to bow.”

The Daoist’s anger stirred; his robes fluttered without wind. “You come to my mountain gate, to receive my Dao, and you deem it unworthy to bow?”

Shen Yu nodded earnestly. “It is not worthy.”

Then, a red sword appeared in Shen Yu’s hand, its light flashing in an instant. The Daoist before him, so immortal in bearing, collapsed and vanished.

Shen Yu was merely a novice who had just entered the Daoist path, while the sect master was one of the continent’s mightiest cultivators—a vast gulf separated the two.

Yet, Shen Yu drew his sword.

He did so decisively, almost carelessly.

To his surprise, the Demon-Slaying Sword floating in midair remained there, utterly still.

“From the moment I entered, I noticed that the incense burner was pristine, the green lanterns unlit—how could a true temple allow such things? When I saw you, I was certain: all was illusion,” Shen Yu’s voice echoed calmly within the temple.

Then, the entire temple dissolved into dust and scattered on the wind.

...

Shen Yu opened his eyes once more.

This time, he beheld a scene of beauty.

A modest waterfall tumbled down the mountain, and around the misty pool below stretched a lush bamboo grove, its floor covered with exotic flowers and herbs. He stood amid their fragrant blooms.

A gentle breeze stirred, and after a soft rustling, a few emerald birds flew from the bamboo. In the mountain woods, several pure white rabbits nibbled leisurely on spiritual grasses.

Shen Yu looked up at a small cottage beyond the bamboo. In the courtyard before it sat a man around thirty, slender and graceful, holding a book in his hand.

Scholar, bamboo grove, waterfall, blue sky, and radiant sunlight—the entire valley was steeped in tranquility.

Shen Yu watched him. The man seemed to sense his presence and set down his book, turning to face him.

Their eyes met.