Chapter 106 — The Ancient Temple
The Sword Questions the Heavens · Page 2 of 7
For all that, the sect had kept an exceedingly low profile in former days. Though men of profound attainment would appear from time to time, their influence on the affairs of the world was slight. It was not until eight hundred years ago that the sect found a valley near that pitch-black tunnel on the southern frontier, settled there, and thenceforth called itself Burning Mist Valley. Over those eight hundred years, masters of inconceivable skill emerged in generation after generation, and its power grew day by day, until now it stood as an equal to the Canglan Sect and the Brahma Sound Temple, one of the three great orthodox sects of the world.
Accordingly, Yun Yifeng, the present Valley Master of Burning Mist Valley, was likewise a towering pillar of the orthodox path, as renowned as Daoist Zhenren Daoyan of the Canglan Sect and the Venerable Pucheng of the Brahma Sound Temple—save that this man had ever kept a low profile, and in fame alone he fell short of those two.
Because of its geography, Burning Mist Valley had taken upon itself, almost by instinct, the guardianship of that gloomy little path which the local people called the "Black Hole." From that time on, no tales of barbarian monsters molesting the people were ever heard again. Thus in the hearts of the local folk, Burning Mist Valley stood in the highest esteem, revered as beings of immortal kind.
All these records were preserved in the Palace of the Underworld sect of the Demonic Cult, and Ming Li had read them during these ten years; now they slowly turned over in his mind. By this hour it was the third day since he had questioned Zhou Yixuan about the fish-men monsters and set out south. Urging himself on the whole way, he had at last come near the hundred thousand desolate mountains.
The night was deep. This evening a bright moon hung in the sky, the clouds were rather thick, and few stars were to be seen; yet the clear radiance of the moon poured down upon the world and lit the hill where he stood quite brightly.
Ming Li stood atop the hill, gazing south, brows slightly knit. The monkey Xiao Hui still clung to his shoulder, holding a wild fruit plucked from who knew where and gnawing at it with relish.
Along the way, on the first two days, he had still found the marks left by his subordinate, the Monk Shasheng; but today Shasheng had vanished utterly from all trace. Yet from the messages he had left in the past days, it was clear that the Monk Shasheng, skilled in the arts of tracking, had determined that the mysterious fish-men were fleeing south fast, and that their obvious goal was to return to their old lair in the southern wilds.
Could it be that Shasheng had already clashed with those unfathomable fish-men?
Ming Li gave a faint sigh, a hint of worry flitting across his eyes. The southern barbarian tribes were utterly unlike the people of the Central Plains—this had been noted many times in the surviving records of the Palace of the Underworld. The people there knew nothing of cultivating the Dao, yet seemed to command all manner of uncanny sorceries and strange arts beyond the reach of imagination.
The Monk Shasheng was young and hot-tempered, but among the new generation of disciples in the Palace of the Underworld he was truly outstanding; in ordinary days he followed Ming Li and was in truth a capable hand.
His mysterious disappearance now left Ming Li faintly uneasy. Yet at this moment, gazing ahead, he saw only the heavy darkness of night, and to the south shadowy masses looming, as though some giant thing were stretching its claws and fangs in the dark—no doubt that legendary range of a hundred thousand desolate mountains. And somewhere beneath those mountains lay the legendary, mysterious Burning Mist Valley.
The southern frontier had always been within Burning Mist Valley's sphere of influence; for a disciple of the Demonic Cult to enter alone, the danger went without saying.