Chapter Seventeen: The Wailing Ravine

The wind was like a cold blade, laced with heavy, damp mist, scouring every inch of exposed skin, stealing away the last traces of warmth. Lin Mo trudged unevenly along the mountain path toward Wailing Ravine, each step as if plunging into icy water. The stone steps beneath his feet were as slick as if greased, shrouded in thick moss and rotting leaves—one careless move and he would slip. The fog had grown even denser, pressing down heavily from above; just a few paces ahead, all was a confused swirl of gray and white. His vision shrank to its very limits, barely enough to make out the ground at his feet.

A chilling, indescribable stench hung in the air, as though the putrid roots of decaying plants had mingled with the slime trails of some cold-blooded creature, creeping into his nostrils, burrowing down to his lungs, leaving a nauseating, sticky sensation. Each breath was a gulp of icy, fetid lead, weighing down his chest with oppressive heaviness.

The cold “stone” embedded in his chest grew ever more vivid and forceful in its throbbing the deeper he went! The heavy sluggishness didn’t fade; instead, it churned and compressed under this “excited” pulse, forming a sharper, crushing pressure with every beat, like a heavy hammer pounding his heart. More distinct than ever was the sense of “guidance” from the Abyss of Buried Immortals—not merely a tug in some direction, but a frigid, imperious summons! Like an invisible chain: one end fastened to the “stone” in his chest, the other anchored deep within the unknown depths of the mist, dragging him inexorably forward.

The newly bandaged wound on his back, numbed by cold and jostling, began to throb with sharp, pricking pain. Every tug drew cold sweat to his brow. He could only arch his back, drawing himself in, like a shrimp cornered to desperation, using this awkward posture to lessen the jarring of his wound.

The mountainside grew steeper, the way more treacherous. The sparse trees gave way to grotesque, jagged boulders, thick with moss, looming like the bones of slumbering beasts in the darkness, half-seen through the fog. The path itself vanished, leaving only a trampled, slippery, muddy slope. The wind’s howl changed: no longer a mere roar, but now laced with a faint, intermittent wailing, as if countless wronged souls wept in the depths of the mist—Wailing Ravine, living up to its name.

Lin Mo’s heart leapt to his throat, every muscle taut as a drawn bow. He gripped his battered, half-blunted old herb hoe, its icy wooden handle biting into the chilblains of his palm, a sting so slight it seemed a lifeline. His gaze was locked on the swirling fog ahead, alert for any sign of movement. The tales of the seven vanished laborers, the chilling words of Steward Wang and Zhao Qing’s henchmen, Zhou Xiaoxiao’s grave warning—all twined around his heart like venomous serpents, squeezing the breath from him.

Just as he edged warily past a boulder slick with moss—

A shrill, abrupt whoosh split the air, exploding from the fog ahead without warning! Faster than the strike of a stone-scaled worm-lizard!

Lin Mo’s pupils shrank in an instant. The hairs on his body bristled. The cold breath of death seized him! He had no time to see what was coming; his body, honed by countless evasions beneath the whip, reacted on pure instinct—he flung himself sideways!

A cold, fishy wind sliced past his scalp, missing by a hair’s breadth, snipping off a few brittle strands that drifted silently down. He crashed heavily into the frigid muck, a searing pain splitting open his back wound, golden stars bursting behind his eyes.

A dull “thud” sounded behind him, followed by the splintering of rock.

Still reeling, Lin Mo forced himself through the pain and dizziness, dragging himself up from the mud to look back.

There, embedded in the mossy boulder behind him, was a sharp bone spike—thick as an adult’s forearm, pitch-black, etched with strange spiral markings! Its tip was buried deep in the stone, its base still quivering, emitting a low, ominous hum! The spike’s surface was coated in a sticky, dark green fluid, slowly oozing down the stone, reeking with a stench that turned the stomach.

What kind of monster was this?

A chill shot from the base of his spine to the crown of his head. Lin Mo’s heart hammered like a drum. This was no stone-scaled worm-lizard—their attacks were bites and coils, never anything like this remotely, launching bone spikes from afar!

The mist heaved violently, as though churned by an unseen giant hand. From the direction the bone spike had flown, a grating, tooth-aching sound—like gravel grinding or bones twisting—echoed from the depths of the fog, growing closer, heavy and malicious in its oppression. A massive, writhing shadow, darker than the fog itself, began to take shape in the swirling gray.

Terror crashed down like a freezing tide, drowning Lin Mo. He could almost smell the foul mix of rock and putrid corpse emanating from that shadow. Run!

The thought flashed like lightning through his mind. Ignoring the agony ripping through his back, he scrambled up from the icy mud, using hands and feet, rolling and crawling with all his strength, fleeing blindly from that monstrous shadow and the deadly bone spike. His herb hoe was lost, his basket hung askew from his shoulder, every step splattering cold mire.

The grating, bone-chilling sound pursued him relentlessly, swift as a hunting beast. The fog swirled in chaos, the monstrous shadow looming behind, flickering in and out of sight. Lin Mo could feel its cold, fetid breath on the back of his neck.

He fled without direction, driven by the raw instinct to survive, heading toward where the fog thinned and the slope seemed less steep. The ground grew wetter, slicker—some parts even soft and sinking, as though he trod on rotting swamp.

Suddenly—

The ground vanished beneath his feet.

He managed only a strangled cry as his body dropped into weightlessness. He’d stepped through a patch of tangled vines and decayed leaves that disguised a slick cliff’s edge. His body plummeted into the bottomless, fog-choked abyss below, like a kite with its string cut.

The wind screamed past his ears. Vertigo seized him. Icy mist flooded his nose and mouth. Below was only endless, rolling gray-white, like the gullet of some monstrous beast.

I’m going to die.

The thought was clear, cutting through the chaos of his mind.

In that instant of freefall—

A force erupted from the cold “stone” in his chest, violent and savage beyond measure.

No longer a sluggish throb or heavy oppression—but a torrent, cold, brutal, charged with destruction, like some primordial beast unleashed in fury, surging madly through Lin Mo’s nearly depleted meridians, tearing at his soul with excruciating pain! At the same time, an indescribable, icy will seized control of his body.

Lin Mo’s falling body snapped rigid in midair, hard as hammered iron. His terror-dulled eyes were suddenly veiled in the deepest, most ominous darkness, thick as ink; within his pupils, cold whirlpools seemed to spin.

“Begone——!!!”

A roar, inhuman, brimming with boundless savagery and ancient might, burst from deep within his chest like muffled thunder. The sound did not pass through his throat, but seemed to reverberate straight from his soul, piercing the fog and slamming into the monstrous shadow that had reached the cliff’s edge.

The shadow recoiled at this sudden, oppressive roar, halting its pursuit. The mist churned wildly, the grinding sounds now frantic, laced with shock and rage.

In the same instant, Lin Mo’s body, borne by that icy torrent, shot diagonally downward with unnatural speed, as if teleporting, toward a narrow stone ledge jutting from the cliff below, thick with moss and slick vines.

He crashed down hard, the impact plunging his world into darkness, his organs seeming to shift, a metallic taste flooding his throat. His back wound tore open completely, hot liquid soaking his clothes and bandages.

The savage torrent in his chest ebbed away like a receding tide, the cold will vanishing with it. The darkness faded from his eyes, pain and exhaustion overwhelming him. He lay sprawled on the cold stone ledge, limp as if his bones had been extracted, unable even to lift a finger. In his chest, the “stone” now beat feebly, arrhythmically, each pulse a wave of agony tearing at his insides.

He could only gasp, each breath rasping painfully, thick with the taste of blood.

Above, the monstrous shadow’s enraged, unwilling howls and heavy blows echoed from the cliff, pebbles raining down. Something—an invisible barrier or the sheer steepness—seemed, for now, to keep it at bay.

The terror and relief of survival swept over him like a frigid tide. Just now… what was that? The power of the Void Heaven Scripture fragment? Was it protecting him? Or… was something even more dreadful roaring through his body?

With great effort, Lin Mo rolled his eyes toward where he had fallen. The mist above roiled, bottomless. He looked at the ledge he now occupied—narrow, slick, coated in deep green moss, like a tongue jutting from the cliff, ready to snap at any moment.

As his gaze swept the cold moss beneath him—

A faint, yet strikingly familiar dark-golden glimmer pierced his blurred vision like a firefly in the night.

Right beside his cheek, half-concealed in a crevice of slippery moss, was a tiny, irregular shard, just larger than a fingernail—dark gold in hue.

That sheen! That texture! Cold, heavy, with a quality neither metal nor jade! The same as the fragment fused into his own body, the same as the fleeting scrap he’d glimpsed in the herb garden’s mud!

A fragment of the Void Heaven Scripture!

It was here! Beneath the cliff of Wailing Ravine, in this abyss that had devoured seven lives!

Lin Mo’s breath caught. A surge of terror and an irresistible urge, welling from the depths of his soul, gripped him. The “stone” in his chest, feebly beating, flared with a greedy, unprecedented longing at the nearness of the shard. The heavy sluggishness churned violently, as if ready to burst free.

Trembling, he summoned the last of his strength, raising his mud- and blood-smeared hand, his fingers quivering uncontrollably, inching ever closer to the dark golden fragment nestled in the moss.

Only a hair’s breadth remained.

Above the abyss, the mist rolled in silence, the wind’s wailing like the cries of ghosts. The monstrous shadow’s blows above felt distant.

Just as Lin Mo’s fingertip was about to touch the fragment—

A swift, razor-sharp whistle sliced through the air from the depths of the mist behind him.

Its target was not Lin Mo.

But the dark golden fragment, just beyond his trembling finger.