Chapter 5 — Cold Mist Valley

With the jade pendant in hand, Zuo Yan reached the mouth of Cold Mist Valley safe and sound.

The valley entrance was shrouded in mist, a vast white blur.

Zuo Yan hesitated for a long while, but found no other path, and so he steeled himself and walked toward the white fog.

The moment he entered, the white mist seemed to recognize him and parted of its own accord, revealing a narrow trail. His spirits lifted and he breathed an inward sigh of relief, unable to keep from envying the sect's tricks. If only one day he could command such powers himself—that would be bliss.

He could not help losing himself in reverie.

He followed the trail through the mist for about half a li, and suddenly the view opened wide before him.

The valley floor, some five mu across, was planted with all manner of spirit herbs in every color and the strangest shapes, so that from a distance the ground looked carpeted in a riot of hues. Dozens of brightly colored swallowtail butterflies fluttered among them, and swarms of yellow-bodied, black-striped bees darted back and forth.

At the far end of the valley, a silver waterfall poured down the cliff face, roaring like thunder, and smashed with the force of a thousand jun into a deep pool, flinging up countless glittering droplets.

The spray mingled with the fragrance of the herbs, and one deep breath left Zuo Sui indescribably comfortable. He suddenly felt that tending the spirit fields here might not be so bad after all.

Recalling Hao Min's instruction to summon rain once a day, Zuo Xuan hastily worked his incantation.

Moisture gathered from all sides at a speed visible to the naked eye, gradually forming a white cloud that floated above the herb field. Zuo Yan's fingers flew through a rapid succession of seals, and the cloud began to drizzle down in a fine, drifting rain that soaked softly into the field.

The shower lasted half an hour before the cloud dispersed. Zuo Yan let out a breath; with moisture so abundant here, the Minor Cloud-Rain Art cost him far less effort. He began to reckon that things were somewhat better than he had imagined—with hard work, he could just barely fulfill the agreements already made.

All he needed now was to pray that nothing went wrong in the herb field, and that it would hold safe and sound until Senior Sister Hao Min returned.

Whatever went wrong, it was beyond him to fix.

If he had harbored any illusions before, by now he understood the harsh truth full well. He was keenly sensitive to the density of spiritual energy, and Cold Mist Valley's was remarkably rich. A treasure ground like this, reclaimed into an herb field—one could well imagine the grade of the spirit herbs grown here must be far from low.

If anything really went wrong under his care, he dreaded to think...

He shivered involuntarily.

Though the restrictions along the way were strict beyond measure, there were none inside the valley itself, and Zuo Yan explored it from end to end. The pool was bottomless and its water cold to the bone, and the waterfall roared so loudly that its rumbling echoed through the whole valley.

He crouched down in the spirit field, examining the herbs one by one, determined to commit every plant's features to memory. He had only ever grown spirit grain and knew nothing of spirit herbs, so this clumsy method was all he had. He no longer dared hope for any reward—he only prayed nothing would go wrong under his care.

Any single herb in here was worth more than he could ever repay, even if he sold himself.

He would swear he had never applied himself so diligently in his life.

Only as the light began to dim did he drag his utterly exhausted body back to the little courtyard. When he saw the mess around it—the restrictions blasted to rubble—he could have wept.

But he had no strength left to reset the restrictions now; he was tired to death, without even the strength to lift his eyelids.

Back in the meditation room, he barely managed to channel a tiny wisp of spiritual power into the sound jade before he could hold out no longer, and collapsed face-first onto the cushion, falling into a deep sleep.

He woke to the voice playing from the sound jade.

"The qualifying rounds for the twenty-third Sword Trial Assembly are now complete. To date, a total of four thousand two hundred and fifty-three sword cultivators have earned the right to compete. The prizes for this Assembly are the richest in its history: the top hundred will receive fourth-grade flying swords, the top ten will receive fifth-grade flying swords, and the prize for first place has been confirmed—a sword called Dripping Edge, ranked as high as seventh grade. It is said that this sword, the highest-ranked flying sword ever to appear in the Sword Trial Assembly, has drawn the interest of disciples from the great sects, including the Peerless Sword Sect and the Soluo Sword Sect..."

"A fine thing, a fine thing—I want it, I want it—no chance, no chance..."

Zuo Heng scrambled up from the cushion, cheerful and carefree, humming a strange little tune.

Once outside the meditation room, he set about redoing the restrictions; as for the walls, he would have to rebuild them some other time.

With smashed bricks lying everywhere, he had no choice but to clear the area first—otherwise there would be no place to set the restrictions at all. At his seventh level of Qi Refining, setting restrictions demanded a great many conditions.

Humming a tune, he cleared away the broken walls and rubble. The little courtyard had stood for many years, its walls already dilapidated, and now Luo Li Shixing had reduced them to ruins. Thinking back on the way Luo Li Shixing had descended from the sky, domineering and overbearing, Zuo Yan still felt a flutter of fear.

Hm? Zuo Yan suddenly stopped and bent to pick something up.

A little pink paper crane, much smaller than Zuo Jin's white one, and exquisitely made. This was a minor thousand-crane, used for sending messages. But such things were slower than sword-borne letters, and especially awkward over any distance, so they were mostly used by cultivators below the Golden Core stage.

How had it ended up here?

Without ceremony, Zuo Zheng unfolded the little pink crane, and then the truth dawned on him: it was a wishing crane.

Long ago, when cultivators tore open the void in search of new realms, they often ran into danger and found themselves trapped. Unable to escape, a trapped cultivator would write their wishes and pleas for help on a little crane and set it loose at random. With no mark to identify them, no one knew where such cranes would fly. But a cultivator's life is long, and with a little luck, even the trapped could hold out for quite some time.

After the first case of someone being rescued thanks to a wishing crane, the things swept through the cultivation world. In time they also became a pastime for certain female cultivators to unburden their hearts. They would write their feelings on a wishing crane and set it free, but leave their mark upon it, so that whoever found it could use the mark to send it flying back to their hands.

What could set a young girl's heart pounding more than an unfathomable, wondrous twist of fate?

Zuo Yan could not understand such behavior. In his heart there was only crystal stone, spirit grain, and cultivation; of romance—that illusory luxury—he had not a shred.

He unfolded the crane, revealing several rows of delicate handwriting.

"How I wish

to shoulder my pack

and wander alone

in some deserted place

humming a song

basking in the sun"

Mewling without cause, Zuo Huan snorted, delivering what he considered the most accurate verdict. What a pity—such fine paper wasted. He did not know what kind it was, but judging by the texture it was at least third grade.

Using third-grade paper to make a little crane—an outrage, a criminal waste.

Once paper had been used this way it could not be used again. What a shame, Zuo Yan thought.