Chương 120: The Bridge Was Bait (2/3)

Shi Yan's heavy boots violently dug into the rotting wood, iron-shod heels grinding through waterlogged fibers that crumbled like wet paper beneath the brutal pressure. Friction shrieked—a high, tortured wail of splitting grain and tearing moss—as he forcibly arrested his terminal velocity, the entire pontoon bridge shuddering violently from the sudden transfer of kinetic energy. Mooring ropes groaned in protest, their frayed hemp fibers stretching taut as bowstrings.

He came to a dead, steam-hissing halt just three paces from the entity, his unarmored right hand still locked like an iron manacle around the woman's collar, knuckles white with tension against the acid-scarred fabric.

The Gatekeeper offered no hostile movement. No defensive stance, no gathering of spectral energy, no shift in its seven-foot frame. The hollow void beneath its cowl—deeper than shadow, darker than the black waters below—seemed to gaze at him with ancient, quiet certainty. The empty space where a face should have been held no malice, no surprise, no emotion whatsoever. It knew it could not catch this anomaly, and so it did not try.

Its tattered robes hung motionless despite the moisture-laden air, defying even the faint currents stirred by Shi Yan's violent halt.

"The ledger is burned, yet the ink remains, Empty Vessel," the Gatekeeper intoned, each syllable emerging like an echo from the bottom of a deep well. Its voice lacked the frenzied malice of the market wraiths, sounding instead like grinding tombstones shifting at the bottom of a river—ancient stone scraping against stone through centuries of accumulated silt and bone. The words carried weight, pressing against the air itself.

"You carry the memory of the Sunken Celestials. But the Yellow Springs flow only in a circle. Tides fall, bones sink... you shall return to this shore of your own accord."

The pronouncement hung in the stagnant air between them, each word etched with the certainty of natural law—not threat, but cosmic inevitability. It was not a villainous threat delivered with theatrical flourish. It was a cosmic certainty—a prophecy spoken by the very laws of the Netherworld itself, as absolute as gravity, as inevitable as decay.

Yeah, whatever you said, please let me pass.

Shi Yan's eyes narrowed beneath his iron mask, pupils contracting further as tactical assessment overrode any philosophical consideration. Frost still clung to the mask's edges, small crystals catching the sickly green phosphorescence. He did not waste time offering a dramatic retort or philosophical debate, did not engage with the entity's cosmic proclamations.

His mind was ruthlessly calculating threat geometry—distance to target, structural integrity of bridge beneath, exit vector behind the obstacle, margin for error in confined space.

His [Acoustic-Blood Tracker] was still actively pinging the environment, sending invisible waves of bio-sonar rippling outward in concentric circles. As he stared down the seven-foot entity through the narrow eye-slits of his mask, his mutated senses caught the fatal discrepancy that made his combat-honed instincts flare with warning.

The rotting wooden planks groaned beneath his heavy boots, the wood fibers compressing under his armored weight with wet, organic protests. The black water churned below, disturbed by the bridge's swaying, its surface breaking into oily ripples that reflected nothing. The woman's ragged breathing rasped behind him, her boots scraping weakly against waterlogged wood.

Yet when his acoustic radar washed over the Gatekeeper—when the returning echo should have painted a detailed density map of bone structure, muscle mass, internal organs—it returned nothing. Absolute void. There was no heartbeat pulsing through veins, no blood flow creating micro-vibrations, no internal density of flesh and marrow, and no vibrating mass of a corporeal body.

To his senses, the space the entity occupied was not a solid body composed of matter, but a dense, freezing pocket of Yin-mist—spiritual energy compressed into a semi-physical form, cold as a winter grave and just as empty.

So, that was why it hadn't braced for his approach, hadn't shifted its stance or planted its feet in preparation for impact….

It was a literal ghost trap, a carefully baited tactical pitfall.

If Shi Yan executed his original plan of a brute-force shoulder charge—the most direct solution, the fastest path through the obstacle—his attack wouldn't meet a wall of meat and bone to arrest his momentum. With a body composed entirely of ethereal Yin-mist given temporary form, there would be zero physical resistance to slow him.

Driven by the terminal velocity of his Flash Step and his [110 Effective Might] channeled through dense muscle and heavy armor, his immense, three-hundred-plus-pound armored mass would pass clean through the Gatekeeper's projection like a cannonball through a cloud of smoke—unstoppable, unslowed, and utterly doomed by its own momentum.

Without a solid target to arrest his overwhelming kinetic energy, his own forward momentum would carry him straight off the opposite edge of the narrow bridge. Three more steps past the entity, and he'd plunge directly into the corrosive black water below, where the acidic currents would dissolve flesh from bone before he could even attempt to surface.

In short, the Gatekeeper hadn't just stood still out of arrogance or mystical composure. It had deliberately phased its form into spectral intangibility, waiting with the patience of the eternal dead for Shi Yan to blindly launch himself into the abyss. The perfect counter to overwhelming physical force—offer no resistance at all.

To strike the target, Shi Yan first had to force the entity to re-anchor itself into the physical world, to trade its ghostly invulnerability for solid form. He needed to remove the warden from the board, but he had to make it solid first—force it to choose materialization over evasion.

Without a word, without telegraphing his intent through stance or breathing, he tapped his bio-locked spatial pouch with two quick fingers against his hip.

Instantly, three broken fragments of Cloud-Mirror steel swords—jagged pieces ranging from eight to twelve inches, their edges still razor-keen despite the shattered tangs, useless for melee combat but perfectly weighted for throwing—manifested between his fingers with a faint shimmer of displaced air. With his Body Art maintaining his strength at [110 Effective Might], channeling unnatural density through tendon and bone, he flicked his wrist in a tight, economical motion.

The steel tore through the foggy air like railgun slugs, creating visible pressure waves in the moisture-thick atmosphere. The fragments screamed as they cut through the space around the Gatekeeper, their passage so violent that the phosphorescent mist parted in spiraling vortices. It was a classic forced-reaction tactic pulled from close-quarters combat doctrine—present an immediate physical threat to trigger defensive reflex.

To avoid being shredded by the sudden kinetic impact of steel moving at inhuman velocity, the Gatekeeper's passive Yin-barrier rippled visibly, dark energy condensing, forcing the entity's ethereal body to momentarily solidify into physical matter to deflect the incoming projectiles.

The steel fragments struck the newly solid form with sharp, ringing impacts, deflecting off condensed spiritual energy with showers of green sparks before clattering against the bridge planks and tumbling into the black water below.

In the millisecond the spirit gained physical density—flesh made real, mass given form—Shi Yan's free hand whipped to his back with practiced speed.

He drew the newly forged Demonic Heavy Saber in one smooth, devastating motion. The hundred-and-fifty-pound blade hissed free of its leather binding with a sound like tearing silk, the dark iron and beast bone drinking in what little light remained. The author's content has been appropriated; report any instances of this story on Amazon.

He didn't aim to cut with the edge, didn't rely on technique or intent. He used the hundred-and-fifty-pound slab of demonic bone and black iron like a massive bat, like a breaching tool meant to demolish obstacles through pure mass. With a brutal, one-handed horizontal sweep that sent tremors down the bridge supports, Shi Yan cleaved the air itself. The displacement created a visible shockwave, a wall of compressed atmosphere that howled across the narrow span.

For a fraction of a second—a single heartbeat stretched into eternity by the proximity of violence—the Gatekeeper's cowl snapped upward, that empty void beneath suddenly focusing with sharp awareness. Its ancient composure shattered like thin ice, the serene certainty replaced by something that might have been shock in a creature capable of such mortal emotions.

To solidify its form and deflect the incoming steel fragments was a basic reflex governed by the Netherworld's laws, an automatic response no different from a living being flinching from flame.

It had anticipated Shi Yan's counterattack, had calculated the follow-up strike.

A mortal trick? the entity's vast consciousness reeled as the massive, howling shadow of the saber blotted out its vision, filling the narrow space between them with dark iron and beast-born malice. But there is no saber intent in this strike, no spiritual pressure, no cultivation base behind the edge—only crude mass and momentum!

This was not the technique of a cultivator. This was the barbarism of a mortal soldier wielding a siege weapon.

"Impossible...!" the Gatekeeper hissed, its voice breaking from solemn prophecy into genuine shock, the grinding-tombstone tone cracking with something almost like fear.

"To use raw mass against a manifestation of—" It was too late. The words died unfinished as the sheer acoustic shockwave of the heavy blade's passage—air compressed and released in a thunderous boom—combined with the innate, bloody resentment radiating from the beast bone, slammed directly into the Gatekeeper's newly solidified chest with the force of a cavalry charge. The impact produced a sound like a temple gong struck by a battering ram—deep, resonant, and utterly final.

The seven-foot horror was blasted from its feet, lifted entirely off the rotting planks. Its tattered robes tore with sharp ripping sounds, ancient fabric disintegrating under the kinetic trauma. The green lantern spun wildly out of its grasp, its flame extinguishing mid-arc before the bronze frame splashed into the black water.

The entity's body—solid, vulnerable, subject to physics—was hurled backward through the air in a graceless tumble before plunging into the lethal black abyss below with a heavy, boiling splash that sent caustic droplets spraying upward.

Still hoisted off her feet by her collar, boots dangling inches above the planks, the woman watched the entity fall through the gap in the bridge railing. Her breath hitched in her throat, a sharp inhalation of utter shock that she couldn't suppress. The whites of her eyes were visible even in the dim light, pupils dilated with disbelief.

He hit… it? Heavens above, he actually hit a Netherworld Warden with a physical weapon!

Her inner monologue screamed in defiance of all cultivation logic, everything she'd been taught in her sect's archives. These were entities woven from karma and Yellow Spring mist, manifestations of the realm's judgment given semi-corporeal form. They could not be struck by mortal hands, could not be wounded by common steel, could not be defeated by anything less than profound spiritual techniques or overwhelming cultivation advantage.

Yet this masked young master had just used an instant-draw trick to fool the entity's defenses—forcing materialization through a feint—followed by raw, unadulterated physical mass to literally bludgeon the laws of the Netherworld out of his way! No sword intent, no qi technique, just brutal kinetic energy delivered through demonic iron and beast bone.

Who in the Nine Heavens is he? What manner of cultivation path permits such barbarity to succeed against the architects of the Yellow Springs?

Shi Yan didn't pause to admire his handiwork, didn't spare a glance at the rippling black water where the Gatekeeper had vanished beneath the surface. He carried his momentum forward with mechanical efficiency, dragging the woman across the final wooden planks of the shifting bridge. The structure swayed dangerously beneath them, mooring ropes creaking in protest, but held long enough for his iron-shod boots to strike solid ground.

The moment their boots struck the slick, muddy stone of the real-world aqueducts—mortal construction replacing spectral architecture—a deep, resonant hum vibrated through the stone beneath them, traveling up through their legs and into their bones.

Dong... Dong...

It was the heavy, rhythmic striking of the Morning Drum from the towering Watch Pavilion in Skycloud City's Inner Wards, the massive oxhide drumhead struck by consecrated mallets to mark the changing of the hours. According to ancient timekeeping traditions, the water-clocks of the mundane world had just flowed into the new cycle, mercury shifting through carved channels to trigger the mechanism.

It was the Hour of the Rabbit—the boundary between night's final breath and dawn's first stirring.

Behind them, as if that drumbeat had severed an invisible tether, the floating pontoon bridge dissolved into wisps of gray ash. The rotting planks lost all substance, becoming smoke that drifted upward and dispersed. The shattered remains of the green corpse-lanterns blinked out like snuffed candles, their frames vanishing into nothingness without even the sound of metal striking water.

The fog instantly lost its supernatural density—that oppressive, soul-strangling thickness—fading back into the mundane, sulfur-laced smog of the Sump, the ordinary pollution of forge fires and rotting garbage.

The deafening, terrifying sounds of the Chain-Bearers dragging their rusted anchors, the screaming ghosts clawing at reality's edges, and the weeping monolith's endless mourning were completely severed, as if a heavy iron vault door had been slammed shut between worlds. The cacophony that had threatened to shatter mortal sanity simply… stopped. Silence rushed in to fill the void, broken only by dripping water and distant city sounds.

The Midnight Ghost Market was gone, returned to whatever pocket of reality it inhabited between the hours.

The moment the phantom bridge vanished—the instant their connection to the Yellow Springs was severed—mundane gravity seemed to reassert itself with crushing force, as if the mortal world was reclaiming them with jealous intensity.

Shi Yan released his iron grip on the woman's cloak, fingers uncurling from the fabric that had left deep impressions in his palm. She hit the muddy stone of the aqueduct floor and immediately collapsed onto her hands and knees, catching herself with trembling arms. Her palms slapped into cold water pooled on the uneven cobblestones, the shock of frigid liquid barely registering.

"Hah... ah..." Her chest heaved as she sucked in greedy, desperate lungfuls of the foul, sulfur-tasting tunnel smog. Each breath was a rattling gasp, her throat raw from the spiritual pressure. After the suffocating, soul-strangling atmosphere of the Yellow Springs—where the air itself had tasted of ash and ancient despair—the polluted air of Skycloud City tasted like pure nectar, like mountain streams and spring rain. She dry-heaved violently onto the wet cobblestones, her shoulders jerking with each spasm.

Nothing came up but bile and spit, thin strings of saliva connecting her lips to the stone. Her body shook uncontrollably from adrenaline crash and the lingering spiritual trauma of the Chain-Bearer's aura, muscles twitching with exhaustion and terror finally released.

For a long time—perhaps minutes, perhaps only heartbeats that felt like hours—the only sounds in the tunnel were her ragged breathing and the steady drip of the city's freezing rain leaking through ancient stonework. Somewhere far above, the pre-dawn streets began their first stirrings, distant footsteps and cart wheels barely audible through layers of stone and earth.

Beside her, Shi Yan simply stood tall in the darkness, an iron statue planted in the muck. The hissing steam slowly dissipated from his massive, armored frame as he manually un-toggled his combat arts, willing the supernatural exertion to cease. Heat radiated from him in visible waves, his body temperature still dangerously elevated from the sustained overdrive.

A deep, hollow ache of extreme stamina depletion settled into his muscles as the [Sieve Effect]'s four-hundred-percent drain finally caught up with his biology, the debt coming due all at once. His limbs felt leaden, filled with sand rather than flesh. A faint yellow warning flickered across the edge of his UI—STAMINA CRITICAL: 8%—prompting automatic respiratory adjustments to maximize oxygen intake.

It had been close—closer than he preferred, tighter margins than proper planning should allow—but his calculations had been correct. The timing, the structural integrity of the bridge, the portal's contraction rate, the Gatekeeper's reflexive materialization threshold—all of it had fallen within acceptable parameters.

He slowly reached back with his left hand and ran a thumb over the cold, dark iron hilt of his newly forged heavy saber, now secured again across his back. The metal was still warm from the strike, resonating faintly with residual energy from the beast bone core. The balance was good, the weight distribution exactly as designed. Field test: successful.

Despite the severe physical exhaustion threatening to drag down his limbs, threatening to buckle his knees and send him to the stone beside the woman, there was no post-battle terror in his stance. No trembling hands, no ragged breathing, no wide-eyed stare into middle distance. He didn't look like a man who had just survived the horrors of the Netherworld by the narrowest of margins; he looked like a weary soldier completing a post-action checklist, methodically reviewing the operation's success metrics.

He had dropped into a hostile, unmapped kill-zone behind enemy lines, identified the objective despite active interference, circumvented the supernatural security through tactical adaptation, and extracted with the payload intact. Mission parameters: achieved.

The alliance was secure—the woman was a known asset now, debt established. The tactical map was downloaded—the Market's layout logged, entity behaviors recorded. The weapon was forged—demonic saber tested and proven against spiritual opposition.

Perfect. Clean execution, acceptable losses, objectives met.

Through the iron slits of his Yaksha mask, water droplets clinging to the edges and distorting his view slightly, Shi Yan's cold eyes stared out toward the dark, flooded tunnel stretching ahead into the city's bowels. Already his mind was moving forward, compartmentalizing the night's events into filed data, already plotting the next phase of the operation. No rest, no celebration, no pause to process—only the next objective.

It was time to pay a visit to the Cloud-Mirror Sect.