Chapter Eighteen: The Eccentric
Necropolis Peak—A name that belies its reality!
Just moments ago, the place was teeming with relentless battles.
Now, only chilling winds howl, mingled with ghostly wails.
From the distant forest, ferocious beasts, as if having caught a scent, dart wildly through the ancient trees, swiftly converging toward this place.
Clad in black wolf pelts, their pair of blood-red eyes glowing like lanterns, these beasts move with whirlwind speed, nimbly weaving through the woods with practiced ease.
In the blink of an eye, they have appeared at the foot of Necropolis Peak.
Blood-Eyed Demon Wolves!
Fierce beasts known far and wide.
These demon wolves have now cultivated their inner cores, no longer ordinary like the Blood-Eyed Demon Wolf King that Mofan once encountered.
They have mutated, gained consciousness, and become dominant predators of this region.
“Howl!”
Wild cries shake the forest as waves of savage killing energy ripple through the woods beneath Necropolis Peak.
Those who had withdrawn from the peak were ambushed at its base.
The clash of weapons thundered like storm, accompanied by cries of anguish echoing through the trees.
In an instant, many cultivators lost their lives, their brief sojourn in this world ended in vain.
“Everyone, flee! These are Blood-Eyed Demon Wolves—ferocious beasts from this area. We’ve been set up!” a burly man shouted, hacking a bloody path through the assailants, glaring up at Necropolis Peak. “That brat from Divine Tomb Village showed no mercy to us up there. It was all premeditated.”
“I said it before—someone so bloodthirsty could never let us go easily. Heaven above, if there is a next life, I swear I will exhaust my last breath to destroy that boy!”
Among the ambushed, a few others appeared from nowhere, their words blaming Mofan for this unexpected massacre.
Though unjust, they successfully pinned the blame on him.
In the distance, a shadow stood firm among the ancient trees, flute melodies piercing through the forest, fueling the fury of the Blood-Eyed Demon Wolves, driving their slaughter to madness.
He remained calm, as if everything was under his control.
If Mofan were to see him now, he would not be surprised—surely they had met once before, even if only briefly.
Unaware of the chaos below, Mofan stood atop Necropolis Peak.
He was no killer, nor could he bear to see bodies left to rot in the wilderness, consumed by wild wolves. Kindly, he had simply buried the corpses of those he had slain, sighed softly, and strode out from the peak.
His destination was the Western Ridge of Panlong Mountain.
There lay what he sought—to carve a path through this desolate domain, his most urgent quest.
Having received a map of the entire hundred-thousand-mountain range from Ning Wuyu, he knew a trail from Necropolis Peak led to Western Ridge Panlong Mountain.
His business here was done—not entirely cured of the deadly poison as hoped, but he had gained much.
No regrets. Though the problem remained unresolved, at least he had a clue. Thus, Mofan’s future path would not be lonely.
Following the map, he crossed hill after hill, passed through stretches of ancient woods, searching for that miraculous route in his life.
* * *
Crack, crack!
The clash of sword against earth echoed through the forest, spreading an icy chill several miles around.
The atmosphere seemed charged, as if an unseen presence had arrived before the man himself.
“Live on, live on, smiling through it all…”
Behind the sword’s contact, a pale-faced man clad in a long black robe stood.
His orderly white hair fell over his shoulders; his piercing triangular eyes, sharp as an eagle’s, glinted with intensity.
He looked frail, as if his entire body relied on the long sword he carried.
He moved slowly, resting the sword on the ground for support with every step.
His legs appeared unsteady, limping continuously.
The rhythmic clatter of sword on soil, coupled with his murmured chant, gave the forest an unusual aura.
Like a man on the brink of death, he coughed frequently, pausing each time to sip from a small wine flask at his side with unconcerned ease.
The road ahead was long; no one knew how far he intended to travel.
He stopped and started, seemingly waiting for someone.
Every few steps, he turned back to look behind, either measuring his distance or checking if the one he awaited had caught up.
Whistling winds blew as darkness descended upon Necropolis Peak.
Unfamiliar with the area, Mofan had wandered the mountain range for an indeterminate time.
With nightfall, progress became difficult.
He gave up on searching for a path down the peak, choosing instead to rest for the night.
Gathering some firewood, he lit a blaze.
Wild beasts prowled the forest; a fire was essential to ward off predators overnight.
This was a lesson learned from his grandfather—once dismissed but now invaluable.
The forest offered plenty—Mofan did not worry about food.
After a chase and hunt in the woods, he had prepared several wild rabbits, skinned and set on a spit for tonight’s meal.
Tick, tick!
Soon, the aroma of savory roasted meat filled the air.
Watching the golden-brown rabbits roast over the fire, Mofan’s appetite revived, his fatigue and frustration forgotten.
Crack!
Cough, cough!
The sword’s impact and coughs pierced the silence.
Startled, Mofan stopped and stared wide-eyed, panic rising.
The figure stood before him; his gaze fixed on it in disbelief.
The man coughed, propping himself up with a battered sword, his ghostly pale face seeming to have clawed its way from a grave.
He limped forward, murderous aura shaking the entire Necropolis Peak.
* * *
Is this not exactly what the villagers described?
A wave of cold air surged toward Mofan, flickering the fire wildly.
Who could wield such chilling force?
Keep in mind, Mofan stood three meters away.
“May I sit?” the man asked, sincere.
Without waiting for an answer, he limped closer and casually sat beside Mofan, who remained stunned.
Glancing at the roasted rabbits, the man made no inquiry, simply grabbing a piece and stuffing it into his mouth.
He swallowed greedily, fat sizzling with each bite.
Nodding approvingly, he seemed to confirm the deliciousness of Mofan’s cooking.
Unconcerned by Mofan’s reaction, he ate ravenously, devouring most of the food like a starving ghost reborn.
Since his arrival, the long sword never left his hand, as if it were his very life, perhaps more precious than life itself.
Throughout the long night, Mofan kept his distance, silence prevailing.
The man’s sudden appearance was strange; Mofan remained vigilant, wary that the sword might strike at any moment to claim his life.
Pfft, pfft!
The firelight bathed the space as Mofan slowly drifted to sleep.
He was exhausted—today’s fierce battle had drained his strength.
Others were seasoned Body Refinement experts, while he was but a rogue who stumbled onto the path, relying on brute force alone—he could ill afford such strain.
The man beside him closed his eyes slowly, meditating by the fire, his grip on the sword tightening even more.
“Kill, kill!”
“Live on, live on, smiling through it all…”
At midnight, Mofan was jolted awake by the man’s terrifying roar.
Staring at him, Mofan perceived a killing god risen from the battlefield of death.
This man must have a story; otherwise, why the deep furrow of sorrow between his brows?
Mofan pondered quietly, propping his chin with his hand.
Like himself, he was a suffering soul—perhaps not so different.
Traveling the same perilous path… could it be…
Mofan nodded faintly, a plan illuminating his mind.
The road ahead was fraught with danger; companionship was rare.
This man seemed to have nowhere else to go—why not take him along?