"Have you completely abandoned the righteous path?" Li Chenwei's voice pierced through the sorrowful flute music played by ghostly princes.
He drew his sword, his hand steady despite the blade burning his skin. The insidious poison of the Glass Hell had seeped into the once noble weapon, as it had into everything in this forsaken place.
His target, Wen Yuhan, sprawled languidly on a gilded throne, encircled by lifeless courtiers glowing eerily like fireflies.
"Heaven claims to be the source of all righteousness," Wen lectured, unperturbed, a polite smile playing on his lips. "Yet, to cultivate is to defy Heaven's limits. Can any cultivator truly claim righteousness then?"
Enraged, Chenwei charged. The dead courtiers interposed themselves, their expressions empty, neither angry nor afraid.
They did not attack or defend, merely obstructed his path. He cut through them regardless.
Silently, each dead flashed brilliantly before fading away. But with each cut, the light poisoned him further.
"It's exactly this kind of twisted logic that's made you the most reviled man across the Three Kingdoms," Chenwei gasped, pausing to catch his breath.
The dead waited patiently, silently. He coughed blood. The poison was relentless, consuming him ever since he entered the Glass Hell, a place that spared only one. But he would not allow himself to die, not before setting things right.
"Most reviled? What an honor. Though, I've been out of the public eye for a decade. I'm surprised no one's usurped my title," Wen said, his tone light as if he were talking about retiring to the countryside, not fleeing to the deadliest place in the Three Kingdoms.
When Wen first fled to what was believed to be certain doom, widespread celebrations ensued. However, as time passed without confirmation of his death, the initial jubilation turned to dread.
The populace waited anxiously, fearing that a great evil would emerge from the Glass Hell. Doomsayers proclaimed impending calamity on the streets, and cults venerating Wen's name began to appear.
In search of answers, diviners turned to the natural world and the ancient patterns of the I Ching for guidance. The answer they received, though unambiguous, offered no comfort – Wen Yuhan was still alive.
"Is that why you've done all this? Just to boast about your wickedness?"
The poison had ravaged Chenwei's body, not merely filling his blood and organs with impurities but transforming his very essence into something corrupt. It was as if the sinister substance was the antithesis of cultivation.
No wonder Wen could afford to wait. He had the advantage of time.
But Chenwei did not. He couldn't afford to pause, to stop his advance. His only option was to press forward, to confront the source of this malevolence.
And so, with grim determination, he advanced. It was as simple, and as desperate, as that.
"Do people really boast of wickedness?" Wen questioned rhetorically, his tone suggesting a philosophical teahouse debate rather than a life-and-death struggle. "They usually boast of virtue. And I've found, the louder their boasts, the shallower their virtue. What might that say about my so-called wickedness?"
Chenwei cut through ghost after ghost, each stroke a supreme effort, each strike hastening his own demise. Fortunately, there weren't many of them here, but throughout his journey through Glass Hell, he had encountered legions.
The dead had paid him no mind, too busy performing nonsensical actions. Dead soldiers marched in strategically pointless formations, and dead civilians engaged in irrational behaviors – dancing, bowing, jumping in aimless circles.
It was madness, seemingly harmless.
And so Chenwei had ignored them in turn.
But now, knowing they were poison, he envisioned an army marching across the Three Kingdoms, leaving nothing but slow, agonizing death in their wake.
Understanding such malevolence was beyond him, but then, he was not Wen Yuhan.
Wen Yuhan, whose litany of crimes mirrored the legions of toxic phantoms he controlled.
As Chenwei felled the last ghost, he bellowed, "How can someone who boiled the elders of the Moon Flower Sect alive even dare to speak of virtue or wickedness!"
In response, Wen Yuhan made a languid gesture, and the ground itself seemed to obey. Walls of hellish glass rose like a fortress, slick and impenetrable, obscuring Wen from view.
Though Chenwei could no longer see Wen, his voice carried over, nonchalant yet chilling: "I did indeed find them to be more palatable as soup."
There were no doors, no visible path forward.
But he was Li Chenwei. He dealt with obstacles that barred his path in the only way he knew.
He cut.
With three swift strikes of his sword, a doorway was carved, and he stepped through.
"Soup... You devoured them. You're a devil!"
Then came yet another wall.
He cut again. And again.
Each wall was as poisonous as the ghosts, but still, he continued to cut.
As Wen's mocking voice echoed around him, "You're so delightfully amusing. Ever considered becoming a court storyteller? It might turn your noble pining from afar into a warm bed," blood rushed to Chenwei's cheeks.
How typical of Wen to twist virtue into shame.
So what if he was a virgin?
Those he pursued did not desire him, and those who pursued him, he did not desire. He had his sword and his path, and that was enough.
With a shout that reverberated strangely among the glass walls, Chenwei replied, "Shameless, utterly shameless. But what else to expect from the prime minister of the most wicked court?"
As the last wall crumbled, Chenwei once again beheld Wen, who lounged on the throne with an almost feline ease. There was a lazy malice about him, reminiscent of a bored old tomcat toying with an unfortunate mouse.
Sky darkened.
Clouds gathered, and drop by rain began to fall.
As with all things in Glass Hell, the rain was poison.
Enough poison to drown an army.
But he was Li Chenwei. Armies ran at the mention of his name.
From his leisurely position, Wen responded, "I prefer the term 'liberated', actually."
Confronted with imminent doom, Li Chenwei tapped into the deepest wellspring of his cultivation. The harmonious triad of Taoist energies – Jing, the essence fueling his form; Qi, the vital energy within his meridians; and Shen, the spirit embodying his consciousness and will – converged into a singular, formidable force.
Raising his sword, Li transcended the ordinary. Time seemed to pause, the chaos of Glass Hell yielding to a serene stillness. In this extraordinary alignment of mind, body, and spirit, even the insidious poison halted its ruinous course, as if in reverence.
Drawing a deep breath that resonated with his very essence, Li channeled the unified Jing, Qi, and Shen into his blade. It vibrated with profound clarity, transcending mere physicality. This strike was a manifestation of the highest Taoist cultivation principles – a tangible koan realized through steel and intent.
As the sword swept through the air, reality itself seemed to yield. The venomous rain and the ominous cloud above unraveled, dissolving before the purity and harmony of his strike. In that singular, transcendent moment, Li's blade cleaved not just physical barriers but the very fabric of chaos, exemplifying the sublime power achieved when Jing, Qi, and Shen are in perfect harmony.
In the silence that followed his transcendent display, Li declared, "They have done unspeakable things."
Yet, Wen remained unfazed, exhibiting neither fear nor awe. His expression was one of indifference, akin to a spectator enduring a lackluster play or the recitation of a mediocre poet.
"Considering the number of pillow books that recount the deeds of the court, I would hardly call it unspeakable," Wen retorted casually. As he spoke, the flute music played by the spectral princes crescendoed, filling the air with a haunting melody.
Driven by a swordsman's instinct, Chenwei whirled around, just in time to witness the glass wall he had cut through shattering into countless fragments. The shards propelled towards him like a barrage of arrows, threatening and sharp.
In response to the looming danger, Chenwei shouted defiantly, "You stole the young prince and turned him into a tyrant!"
Drawing from his dwindling reserves, Chenwei's sword danced through the air, reminiscent of swarming angry bees. This brought him back to his youth, to the days of training by disturbing beehives and slicing through each bee in a singular, fluid motion.
One cut, or many – it made no difference to him. In his mind, the multitude was singular, and the singular was a multitude. His blade moved with such precision and speed that the broken pieces of glass simply fell around him, rendered harmless upon touching the ground.
Turning back to face Wen, his eyes met the villain's just as Wen calmly stated, "That's one interpretation of events. Not yours, though."
Now, nothing stood between them.
It was time to end this once and for all—to confront the villain who had haunted his life for too long. Chenwei knew that any mercy he might have had was long exhausted.
Mercy may be a virtue, but even virtues have their limits.
With a resolute shout, Chenwei unleashed all his remaining strength and focus into a single, decisive stroke. "It's the truth, and everyone knows it!" he roared, his sword slicing through the air, aimed to cleave Wen in two.
Wen, however, did not move to defend himself. He merely observed the oncoming sword with an almost academic curiosity, as if it were a strange, foreign insect under scrutiny.
As the blade reached its target, both Wen and the throne he sat upon faded into a poisonous mist, revealing the truth.
A little further away, the real Wen stood on a raised podium, surrounded by a Taoist liturgical altar. In front of him lay the tools of his esoteric practice.
Chenwei, with little interest in such arcane arts, couldn't name them. Powders and braziers, gongs, cauldrons of bubbling liquids – all were in motion as the true Wen worked frantically, yet efficiently, with his inscrutable tools.
And yet, in the midst of his frenzy, Wen spoke, "The truth and what everyone knows are not always the same, sadly. It's a pity one can reach your age without realizing that. Still, I am glad to see you, junior brother, before the end."
Li Chenwei's voice was a tempest of fury, echoing on the glass plain, yet Wen seemed barely to afford him a glance, his attention tethered to the dark rites before him. "You have no right to call me that. After you obliterated our sect, murdered your sworn brother, and brought about our downfall, you lost all rights to those terms."
Wen's response was measured, his tone laced with a chilling calmness. "In a manner of speaking, one could argue they brought destruction upon themselves. They harbored a serpent in their midst; the outcome was inevitable."
A fire blazed within Chenwei, ignited by Wen's callous indifference. Each step towards his foe was a battle, his movements sluggish as weakness crept through his limbs, a testament to the toll the Glass Hell had exacted upon him.
"You monster. Have you no regret?" His shout was a mixture of outrage and despair.
For the briefest of moments, Wen paused, lifting his gaze to meet Chenwei's. His expression was inscrutable, touched perhaps by a shadow of pity. "Regret is a luxury for those who can afford its weight," Wen remarked, a hint of solemnity in his voice before it was swiftly cloaked in indifference again. "You appear weary, junior brother. Perhaps it's time we concluded this... exchange of pointers."
"This is no mere exchange of pointers!" Chenwei roared, the insult fueling his indignation.
Wen's lips curled into a triumphant smirk, as if he were the fox who had outwitted the hound. Suddenly, Chenwei's strength deserted him, leaving him rooted to the spot, unable to move.
"How?" The word was a strangled gasp, disbelief and anger intermingling in his voice.
"Simple, my junior brother. When we joined the sect, we all swore an oath to only engage in combat to exchange pointers. Duels for any other purpose among sect members are strictly forbidden. I merely reminded Heaven of that oath and requested it be enforced."
"Our sect is no more."
"And yet, neither of us has joined another sect nor have we been formally expelled. Technically, I suppose that makes me the Sect Leader. You could serve as First Elder, junior brother."
"I will kill you," Chenwei managed through gritted teeth, the threat a low growl.
"Such sentiments are not uncommon. First Elders often aspire to climb higher," Wen mused, his tone mocking, as if they were discussing a trivial matter rather than a vow of vengeance.
As Wen continued with his arcane ritual, Chenwei felt his body betray him, the poison within him reacting violently to the enforced immobility. His vision blurred, dark spots danced before his eyes, and the strength in his limbs ebbed like the receding tide.
It started as a simple dot, like the world was a painting and the painter had accidentally flicked a single drop of black paint where it had no place. It was profoundly wrong.
"What is that... abomination?" Chenwei asked, coughing blood.
The wind began to blow into it. It was like the dot was trying to devour the world. Not just air, but also the poisonous radiance that permeated Glass Hell.
"Such unkind words, for ten years of effort," Wen replied calmly, yet his hands moved at a more frantic pace, "After I retired from public life..."
"You mean after you lost everything," Chenwei interrupted. He could not stand Wen twisting everything. Truth was truth, and no clever words could change that.
"Lost? I merely posed a question to Heaven. I got my answer, and now I pose another," Wen said with an affronted huff, like a lecturer being interrupted by a particularly dull student, and continued his lecture, "Do you ever wonder why rain falls? Why wind blows? Why there is summer? And why there is winter?"
"Everyone knows that. Because Heaven decrees so!" Chenwei said with contempt.
"Simplistic, yet true. But what about a universe without Heaven's Law? If the law of Heaven can be turned upon itself until it breaks—can we behold the naked universe? An egg of chaos, like the one from which Pangu was born."
Chenwei struggled to comprehend Wen's words through the haze of pain and poison. The dot had grown, becoming a swirling void that seemed to suck the very essence of the Glass Hell into itself. It was as if Wen was unravelling the fabric of reality itself.
"You're mad," Chenwei gasped. "This... this will destroy everything."
"Madness is merely a label given by those who fear what they do not understand," Wen responded, his tone eerily serene. "And destroy everything? You are either being very dramatic—a common failure of poets—or you simply cannot grasp my brilliance—a common failure of fools."
As the void expanded, Chenwei felt his life force being pulled towards it. His grip on his sword tightened, but his strength was nearly gone. He knew he had to act, to stop Wen before it was too late.
He could not strike at Wen—bound by the oath and Wen's sorcery.
But there was nothing stopping him from striking at the abomination. Nothing but his failing body—and he would overcome that with his will.
If this was to be his last cut—let it be the greatest one.
On the edge between life and death, his thoughts cleared, and he finally found balance. Push and pull.
With absolute serenity, he cut.
It was unlike any cut he had made before. Previously, to cut he needed to align his body, his mind, and his spirit. And they always had flaws.
Now he cut, and his body, spirit, and mind aligned with the cut.
If the dark flick of ink dripped carelessly onto a painting, his was the knife slicing through it.
The very universe parted before it.
The egg of chaos was opened.
He stumbled towards the central courtyard, where the great peach tree stood in full bloom, its petals drifting gently to the ground. This tree, once a symbol of the sect's enduring strength and unity, now felt like a mocking reminder of all he had lost.
"How can this be?" he murmured to himself, his voice barely a whisper. His fingers brushed against the rough bark of the peach tree, grounding him in this impossible reality. "Am I dead? Is this some kind of afterlife?"
"So dramatic, Junior Brother," a calm, familiar voice interrupted him. It almost sounded gentle. He turned around. And it was Wen. But younger—so much younger. "One rejection does not mean you should expect something unfortunate. And truth to be told, it could be worse. He could have said yes. I know how he treats women; I doubt he would treat men any better."
"Wen Yuhan!" Chenwei growled. He wanted to reach for his blade, but he was so weak. And he already knew that it had no purpose here.
"I suppose anger is better than sorrow," Wen muttered, genuinely seeming concerned. And so young. Could it be? Could he really be in the past? The hope, after all this time, was painful. "Come, my sworn brother is about to perform, and his music soothes the soul."