ATEG Chapter 99.1

Anyone with even the slightest understanding of the Liang Kingdom cannot help but marvel at how this country has managed to survive for so long.

Mortals are short-lived and weak, so they support one another and gather to live together; mortals are foolishly attached to greed and hatred, so they give rise to mutual resentment and need mediation.

Thus, nations gradually came into being. Rules build trust, chaos breaks rules. A nation represents orderly rules.

Yet within the Liang Kingdom… the various forces could be called a chaotic mix of dragons and fish. Those heterodox and evil sects that had been suppressed elsewhere and couldn’t survive all took root in the Liang Kingdom. These willful and capricious evil sects naturally found it difficult to coexist peacefully, let alone obey the laws of a nation.

This situation was a problem left over from many generations ago that had never been formally resolved, yet the Liang Kingdom had somehow continued to exist under these circumstances. More than half the credit for this was due to an institution within the Liang Kingdom—the Disciplinary Bureau.

The Disciplinary Bureau was the Liang Kingdom’s institution specifically responsible for matters related to cultivators, directly subordinate to each generation’s ruler of Liang.

Institutions like the Disciplinary Bureau—composed of cultivators and specifically responsible for supernatural affairs—existed in all the various vassal states, but the Liang Kingdom’s Disciplinary Bureau was particularly special.

Its jurisdiction extended from officials at the top to common people at the bottom; anything involving cultivators fell within their purview. Although directly subordinate to the Liang Kingdom’s ruler, in special circumstances it could act independently without the ruler’s command, deciding for itself how to proceed.

Perhaps only such a Disciplinary Bureau could control the complex situation within the Liang Kingdom, ensuring that the large and small forces throughout the land didn’t slip beyond control. The complexity and ingenuity of this was no less than a spider’s most delicate web. Unfortunately, after the great calamity, such balance had undoubtedly reached a precarious state.

No matter what understanding those large and small forces had once reached with the Liang Kingdom, during the great calamity when everyone feared for their lives, probably few were still willing to deal with the Liang Kingdom. If one couldn’t survive the great calamity, everything would be for naught—what else was there to consider?

A clear wind blew across lands covered in devastation. The earth was silent, thick and silent as it bore all the life and death upon it, yet unable to contain those overly complex sorrows and joys, anger and happiness.

The wailing and suffering of living beings in the calamity had gathered into the bitter qi of the mortal world, hazily covering more than half of Liang. This was qi that even the cleanest wind in the world could not disperse.

Yet this clear wind blowing toward the Liang capital still descended, falling upon the place along this route where the bitter qi was deepest and most terrifying.

Zheng.

…

“What was that sound?”

A cavalcade galloped along the road when the leader suddenly reined in his horse and stopped, cocking his ear to listen carefully as he asked the other riders behind him.

This group of riders all wore similar dark blue clothes, loose-fitting and tightly secured at the cuffs, trouser legs, and waist—neat and convenient for movement.

What was slightly unusual was that each of them had between two and seven wave patterns embroidered on their collars. The leader had seven, embroidered with white bird-feather thread. This precious bird feather reflected a faint blue-green shimmer in the sunlight, and the embroidery also had slight spiritual essence fluctuations because it contained spell techniques.

Apart from the leader, the other riders’ collars used either crimson or brownish-yellow silk thread, with a maximum of five wave patterns and a minimum of two.

This was the distinctive dress of people from the Liang Kingdom’s Disciplinary Bureau, commonly called “wave-patterned collars.” In the Liang Kingdom, anyone who saw the wave embroidery on their collars would know these were people from the Disciplinary Bureau, and upon seeing Disciplinary Bureau members, they knew something related to cultivators must have occurred.

This group’s original destination was Gannan City, further ahead. During the great calamity, the Liang Kingdom’s situation had grown increasingly dire, with all manner of demons and monsters emerging to cause chaos. These Disciplinary Bureau members had long been exhausted rushing about outside, and this trip to Gannan City was because they had received news related to the Xuanqing Sect.

But just as they were galloping along, almost reaching Gannan City, the leader Tao Xi suddenly reined in his horse and asked such a question.

The horses in this cavalcade were all fine, well-fed steeds, each well-trained. Even when suddenly reined to a stop during a gallop, they stopped steadily. The riders following behind were all cultivators with extraordinary reaction speed; such an emergency stop without advance warning wouldn’t cause any collisions.

After hearing Tao Xi’s question, the riders behind all cocked their ears to listen for a moment. After exchanging glances and shaking their heads, a person with five collar patterns said, “Daren, we didn’t hear any sound.”

Tao Xi frowned. A moment ago, he seemed to have faintly heard a qin note. The resonance within that qin note didn’t seem like something an ordinary person would play, but amid the sound of hoofbeats it wasn’t very clear, which was why he suddenly reined in his horse. But after stopping, he heard no more of that qin music.

Never mind.

“Continue forward,” Tao Xi said.

The cavalcade set off again, raising a cloud of yellow dust on the official road that hadn’t seen rain in days, the clip-clop of hooves unceasing.

After the galloping group had run forward for another stretch, Tao Xi again heard the sound of the qin, and as the horses continued forward, the sound grew increasingly clear.

Tao Xi gradually slowed his horse, bringing the entire cavalcade to a stop with him. This time, without Tao Xi needing to say anything, some of the riders behind him had already heard the qin music.

Though this qin music was distant, its meaning was profound. The sorrow and compassion within it had already stirred grief in the hearts of these distant listeners. This was absolutely not something an ordinary qin player could achieve, much less in this season, in such a desolate wilderness.

Tao Xi listened carefully for a moment with furrowed brows, then decided, “First go see where the qin music is coming from.”

Though their original purpose was the Xuanqing Sect, other matters involving cultivators also fell within their jurisdiction. This sorrowful music came strangely; they had to investigate. The Xuanqing Sect had been rampant for a long time—this small delay wouldn’t matter. If the source of this qin music involved some evil sect causing trouble, rushing there now might still be in time.

After making the decision, the group veered off the official road and rode their horses toward the direction from which the qin music came.

The further they went, the more astonished they became. They all had cultivation; naturally they could sense changes in the surrounding qi. During the great calamity, spiritual essence was chaotic, and mixed qi rose throughout heaven and earth. Within the Liang Kingdom, there were many tragedies and sounds of grief everywhere. Resentful and sorrowful qi rose unceasingly, causing effects. Ordinary people’s perception wasn’t sensitive, so they might only feel oppressed and uneasy, but for cultivators like them, the oppression they felt was many times greater than that of ordinary people.

Some of those with lower cultivation—three-patterned collars—couldn’t bear the state of having their senses obscured. They channeled their magic power and activated the qi-viewing technique. Upon looking, they couldn’t help but hold their breath.

Gray-black qi shrouded the surroundings like thick smoke from a fire. The cultivators’ keen divine consciousness was completely obscured by this chaotic, dark qi, unable to provide any feedback. For cultivators already accustomed to divine consciousness perception, this was no different from being blindfolded.

And in the direction they were heading, the dense black qi was already as murky as spilled ink.

Tao Xi called the group to a halt, dismounted, and had all those with three or fewer collar patterns remain behind. He also called out a person with four collar patterns to serve as the temporary leader of this group.

“Watch the horses and don’t venture deeper casually,” Tao Xi said.

By rights, these two-patterned collar people shouldn’t be sent on such missions, but the current situation within the Liang Kingdom was too dire, with insufficient personnel. They had no choice but to send out everyone who could be used. But given their level of cultivation, they couldn’t go any deeper. This was a critical point; going further inside wouldn’t just make them feel oppressed.

The dark qi itself wasn’t very harmful. Wherever people gathered, some degree of darkness would inevitably arise. But when so much dark qi gathered together, it represented the certain existence of something capable of attracting such dark qi. That was the truly terrifying thing.

Tao Xi didn’t need to give too many instructions. This group were all experienced hands who knew what to do. After they all nodded in acknowledgment, he led the remaining people inside.

When going further in, they couldn’t proceed as casually as before. They absolutely couldn’t ride horses. Though these horses were all rare fine steeds, they were still just common beasts. They only rode horses because they needed to travel extensively for long periods, and to accommodate those in the group with insufficient cultivation.

But when they truly encountered something, these horses absolutely could not be brought along.

The qin music was still playing. Perhaps because the dense dark qi blocked it, the qin music was intermittent and unclear, instead appearing mysterious and eerie. But even hearing only fragments, they could sense the deep sorrow in the qin music. In such dark and gloomy qi, it made them even more tense.

Tao Xi and the cultivators he brought all concealed their qi and carefully felt their way toward the qin music.

This scene would seem quite strange to ordinary people. Though this place had deviated from the official road, it was just an open wasteland with some withered yellow grass at most, which couldn’t obstruct the view. Moreover, it was currently midday with bright sunlight, yet Tao Xi’s group was proceeding as cautiously as if they were in a dark, dangerous forest, walking with extreme care.

After walking for a long time, Tao Xi and the others only saw a small hill. The surrounding darkness had reached its peak, and the qin music had also reached its clearest point, yet they still only saw overgrown wild grasses. Though the dark qi was dense enough to be frightening, there was no danger. Even if an ordinary person walked here, they would only feel cold and oppressed, at most falling ill for a while after returning.

Tao Xi pondered for a long while, his gaze falling on the small hill beneath his feet.

“It’s underground,” he said.

Tao Xi took out a small piece of paper, folded it into a paper sparrow, and pulled open its wings with both hands. The paper sparrow flapped its wings and flew up. After circling Tao Xi twice, it flew straight in one direction.

This was a minor guiding technique, a trick that even those without much cultivation could perform. The advantage was that it didn’t consume much and produced minimal spiritual essence fluctuations. Though they had determined there was no danger nearby and didn’t need to be as cautious as before, it was still best to avoid causing fluctuations if possible.

The group followed the paper sparrow forward and soon found a hidden mountain cave on the small hill, concealed by grass and vines. Wisps of cold air blew out through the gaps in the vines, like ash that had decayed for countless years.

The paper sparrow fluttered its wings trying to enter the cave. Tao Xi reached out and caught it, rubbing it between two fingers until it turned to fine ash and disappeared without a trace.

Looking at the deep, dark cave entrance, Tao Xi slowly took a deep breath. This time, they had truly encountered something extraordinary…

Tao Xi said nothing more. He made a hand gesture, and one person from the group separated to guard the cave entrance while the others followed him into the cave.

Night vision wasn’t difficult for cultivators. However, after they entered the mountain cave, only the first section of the path was dark and lightless. Further ahead… ghostly green or ghostly blue ghost-fires illuminated this dark cavern.

Tao Xi’s group was stunned in place by the scene before them. After passing through the narrow downward passage, the view suddenly opened up.

It was a vast wasteland, with a very low “sky” supported by thick stone pillars. Above their heads was that small earth mound that had seemed unremarkable from outside.

And between this wasteland supported by stone pillars and the earth-and-stone “sky,” countless ghostly blue and ghostly green ghost-fires floated.

The well-trained Disciplinary Bureau members all immediately reflexively concealed the living qi from their bodies, making themselves appear almost like moving corpses.

Tao Xi steadied his mind and from the entrance of the passage, took his first step into the mountain’s belly.

With his level of cultivation, his footsteps were so light they almost seemed to float, leaving no footprints below. But Tao Xi still clearly felt the sensation beneath his feet—that soil was dark, moist, soft, and even had a sticky feeling like flesh and blood.

The surrounding ghost-fires sensed his appearance and drifted slightly closer to him. These ghost-fires weren’t the phosphorescent fires seen by ordinary people, nor were they yin fires created by friction between yang qi and the excessive yin qi in places heavy with yin—they were true “ghost” fires. Beyond each ghost-fire was a yin soul.

These yin souls had muddled consciousness and only acted on instinct, possessing no terrible power, but there were simply too many ghost-fires in this cavern…

After taking that step, Tao Xi didn’t continue moving. The surrounding ghost-fires couldn’t sense living qi from him. After instinctively approaching and hovering in a circle, they dispersed again, continuing to drift aimlessly through the cavern.

Only then did Tao Xi continue forward a few more steps. He took each step very steadily. The nearby ghost-fires sensed something new appearing and all drew close, then scattered after finding nothing.

Tao Xi made a hand gesture, and the cultivators behind him finally stepped into the cavern, following Tao Xi’s pace forward.

After entering the cavern, the qin music that had been intermittent suddenly became clear. After losing that intermittent, vague quality, the qin music no longer gave the impression of being mysterious and eerie.

Tao Xi led the group toward where the qin music originated. Though he didn’t speak, his eyes never stopped observing. Though the surrounding ghost-fires appeared to drift aimlessly, they were actually moving overall toward the center of the cavern, where the qin music came from.

The group walked silently through the cavern, with ghostly blue or ghostly green ghost-fires gathering around them and then leaving.

If one could view from the top of the cavern, one would see that in this cavern with dark soil never seeing daylight, countless ghost-fires were all drifting toward the cavern’s center in a disorderly manner along a spiral, like an enormous blue-green nebula.

And at the “nebula’s” edge, a silent procession brought ghost-fires that gathered and departed, drawing a clear spiral line as they slowly advanced.

The faces of those in the procession appeared increasingly pale green in the ghost-fire’s reflection. They looked silent and soundless, almost truly like a procession of the dead blending into these ghost-fires. But this procession wasn’t as dormant as it appeared on the surface; they had been communicating with each other through hand gestures all along.

Though divine consciousness or spell-based voice transmission would be more convenient, the ghost qi and darkness in this cavern was truly too dense. Any bit of spell work would likely cause a reaction like water dropped into a hot oil pan. Though divine consciousness communication was convenient and secretive, it wasn’t absolutely safe either. As a member of the Disciplinary Bureau, Tao Xi could be considered well-traveled over these years, but he had never seen a situation as strange as this.

To be safe, the group, apart from sealing their own qi, hadn’t done anything else.

The further they walked, the more they discovered the strangeness of this place. Tao Xi had been walking steadily forward step by step, but his pace suddenly gave an imperceptible pause.

The soil in this mountain cave had originally been sticky and soft, but the step he had just taken felt like he had stepped on something hard.

Tao Xi made his footsteps slightly heavier, and when he lifted his foot, he deliberately scraped away the surface layer of soil. As he continued forward, he glanced down almost imperceptibly.

Round and white—it was a skull.

The further they walked, the more skeletal remains they encountered, all in a state where flesh had completely rotted away leaving only white bones. Besides human ones, there seemed to be horse bones as well.

These bones weren’t complete. The fractures on them recorded injuries. Swords and spears, arrows, and even some that recorded being crushed by heavy objects. From these traces, Tao Xi could almost see those weapons and armor, war chariots—even though these things had all decayed in time, they still left their shadows on this land.

This was an ancient battlefield. Tao Xi remembered that during the seven hundred years of warfare among the states, a great battle had occurred here. Countless brave warriors of Liang had been trapped here. They hadn’t wanted to surrender, but at that time… the Liang people who had fought for so long encountered the same predicament as today—they had no food.

The supply of frontline soldiers had already been insufficient. After being trapped by enemy forces, they couldn’t bring in any provisions. The Liang army hadn’t wanted to surrender, but after they had eaten the last war horse, after they had even torn and chewed the leather armor on their bodies with their teeth and swallowed it, when they had nothing left to eat except their comrades beside them, they surrendered.

They had no choice but to surrender.

But the enemy army also had no extra provisions. Years of continuous warfare had nearly exhausted every nation’s resources.

The enemy army could barely feed its own soldiers—how could it feed the Liang army? So the surrendered Liang army slept forever in this mass grave.

After understanding this, Tao Xi suddenly felt cold. With his level of cultivation, even in such an environment, he shouldn’t feel cold, but after understanding what this place was, he could suddenly comprehend the resentful evil and darkness entrenched here. Because of this small enlightenment, his thoughts resonated slightly with this place, and in such dense darkness, he felt cold.

But Tao Xi said nothing. As if unaffected by this yin cold, he continued walking forward. They soon approached the first stone pillar.

After approaching the stone pillar, Tao Xi realized he had been wrong. He had thought those ancient weapons and armor had all decayed in time. The excessively dense darkness and resentful evil here had obscured his vision, so that only upon drawing close could he see clearly—how could these stone pillars be naturally formed? Countless weapons, armor, war chariots… were swallowed within the massive stone pillars, their savage edges protruding from the pillar surfaces, desolate and terrifying.