Chương 367: Is Bad Luck a Form of Cultivation?

Meng Haoran had always considered himself reasonably lucky. Not blessed like those heaven-chosen prodigies who stumbled into ancient inheritances, but decent enough to avoid the worst disasters that befell most cultivators. That optimistic view had been thoroughly shattered over the past few days in this accursed Fallen Realm. Days. That's what it felt like, though he knew only hours had passed in the outside world. Time moved strangely here, each moment stretching like molten steel under a blacksmith's hammer.

Every second had been a fight for survival, every breath a victory snatched from the jaws of death. He stood now before what could only be described as salvation, a shimmering white portal, so pure, so different from the sickly crimson glow that seemed to emanate from everything else in this realm. The exit. After everything he'd endured, here it was, just waiting for him to step through and escape this nightmare. But Meng Haoran wasn't stupid. Standing guard here alone would be suicide.

Other teams were still hunting, still desperate to claim one of the seven slots indicated by that ominous crimson number floating in the sky. He'd be swarmed and cut down before he could even think about defending himself. Since he wasn't able to enter the exit by himself, it was better to regroup with his teammates and return together. His hand moved instinctively to the Mark of Return carved into his forearm, feeling the familiar warmth that indicated his team's proximity. Finally, finally, they were close.

The relief was so profound it made his knees weak. The past few days had been absolute hell. When teams first entered the Fallen Realm, they were supposed to be scattered randomly but within reasonable distance of each other. That was the theory, anyway. Meng Haoran's luck had been so thoroughly rotten that he wondered if his ancestors had offended some ancient spirit.

He'd materialized not on solid ground, not in a forest or even a dangerous battlefield, no, he'd found himself plummeting through empty air into what could only be called the Death Sea. Because nothing in a realm like this could have pleasant names. The Death Sea wasn't actually made of water. That would have been manageable, even pleasant by comparison. Instead, it was a roiling ocean of liquid shadow that seemed to actively hunger for living flesh.

The moment he'd hit the surface, tendrils of the stuff had wrapped around his limbs, trying to drag him down into depths that promised unending torment.

"Never again," he thought, unconsciously rubbing his arms where faint black marks still remained from the sea's touch.

"I'd rather face a hundred angry spirit beasts than go back into that thing." The worst part hadn't been the physical assault, though nearly drowning in liquid nightmares ranked pretty high on his list of unpleasant experiences. No, the worst part had been the isolation. Something about the Death Sea interfered with spiritual techniques, including the Mark of Return.

For what felt like an eternity, he'd been completely cut off from his teammates, unable to sense their direction or even confirm they were still alive. Was it hours or days that he spent fighting his way to the surface, then swimming toward what he desperately hoped was shore. The "water" burned like acid wherever it entered his body, and things moved in its depths. Large things with too many teeth and an apparent appetite for Qi Condensation cultivators.

Only after finally dragging himself onto what passed for dry land in this realm had the Mark of Return started working again. The relief of feeling his teammates' spiritual signatures had nearly made him weep. They'd been searching for him, growing increasingly frantic as their marks indicated he was simply gone. Now, mercifully, they were close. Close enough that he could risk leaving this portal to meet them. Together, they could claim their spot and escape this place forever.

Unauthorized duplication: this narrative has been taken without consent. Report sightings. Meng Haoran took one last look at the portal, memorizing its location, then began picking his way through the twisted landscape toward his approaching teammates. The ground here looked like it had been chewed up by some massive beast and spat out again, all jagged rocks and pools of that same shadow-liquid from the Death Sea. He'd made perhaps an hour of travel when he suddenly froze. Spiritual signatures.

Three of them, moving through the broken landscape ahead of him. His heart began to race as he quickly analyzed what his senses were telling him. One signature was powerful, ninth stage, definitely ninth stage. Strong enough to be dangerous even to his teammates. But it was the second signature that made his blood run cold. That's... that's not possible. The spiritual pressure radiating from the second cultivator was unlike anything Meng Haoran had ever experienced.

It wasn't quite at the Elemental Realm, he'd felt that kind of overwhelming power from inner disciples before, and this wasn't the same. But it was beyond the ninth stage of Qi Condensation. Way beyond. Tenth stage? The thought seemed impossible even as it formed in his mind. The mythical tenth stage of Qi Condensation? But that's just a legend. Nobody actually reaches the tenth stage. You either break through to the Elemental Realm or you get stuck at ninth stage forever. Yet here it was, unmistakably real.

A spiritual pressure that transcended the normal limits of the Qi Condensation Realm without crossing into the next major realm entirely. It was like standing in the presence of a perfect qi construct, something that had achieved absolute mastery over its current realm while preparing for an inevitable ascension. The third signature was weaker, maybe sixth or seventh stage, but that hardly mattered now.

Meng Haoran's survival instincts were screaming at him to run, to get as far away from these three cultivators as possible. If there's a tenth stage cultivator in this realm, then the competition just became infinitely more dangerous. Meng Haoran tried to back away quietly, to slip around this group and continue toward his teammates without being detected. But his movement must have caused some small disturbance, a loose stone, perhaps, or a shift in the spiritual energy around him.

The ninth stage cultivator's head snapped toward his position with predatory precision. Suddenly, the world exploded into motion. The ninth stage cultivator vanished from Meng Haoran's spiritual senses entirely, only to reappear directly in front of him, palm already extending toward his chest in what was clearly going to be a devastating strike. Meng Haoran's mind went blank with terror. A ninth stage cultivator, two full stages above him, attacking with obvious killing intent.

He tried to raise his hands, tried to activate some kind of defensive technique, but he knew it was useless. The gap between seventh stage and ninth stage wasn't something you could bridge with clever techniques or determination. It was an absolute difference in power.

"This is how I get eliminated," he thought with resentment.

"After surviving the death sea, after finding the portal, I'm going to be killed by some random ninth stage cultivator in the middle of nowhere." The palm strike was inches from his chest when the ninth stage cultivator suddenly vanished. Not moved quickly, vanished. As if he'd never been there at all. Meng Haoran blinked in confusion, his mind struggling to process what had just happened.

One moment he'd been about to die, the next moment he was standing alone on the rocky ground with no sign of his attacker anywhere. Had it been an illusion? Some kind of spiritual technique meant to intimidate rather than harm? What if he was still trapped in the Death Sea, drowning in those shadow-depths, and everything since then had been a dying hallucination? Then the space in front of him screamed.

A line of sword qi, impossibly precise and devastatingly powerful, tore through the air where the ninth stage cultivator had been standing. It didn't just cut through the air, it cut through space itself, leaving a brief tear in reality that snapped closed with a sound like thunder.

"Sword qi that can cut space?" Meng Haoran's mind reeled.

"That's not ninth stage power. That could only be..."

"Senior Brother!" The words burst from his lips before he could stop them, relief flooding through his entire body as two familiar figures stepped into view. Wu Kangming stood with his hand still extended from the sword draw that had saved Meng Haoran's life, his expression calm but alert. Beside him, Luo Yichen's hand moved instinctively toward the Mirrorwater Blade strapped across his back.

"They found me. My monster teammates actually found me." Meng Haoran had never been so happy to see anyone in his entire life. With Wu Kangming and Luo Yichen here, those three cultivators, even the terrifying tenth stage one, would think twice before attacking. These weren't just any ninth stage cultivators. These were prodigies, the kind of disciples who could punch above their weight class and emerge victorious.

"Senior Brother," Meng Haoran repeated, his voice shaking with relief and exhaustion.

"I thought... I thought I was dead." The nightmare of the death sea, the terror of facing that ninth stage cultivator alone, the crushing pressure of that impossible tenth stage aura, all of it seemed manageable now. Whatever came next, he wouldn't be facing it alone. His teammates were here. He was safe.