Chapter Two: The Tideview Inn

As noon approached, the "Tidewatch Inn" in Zhenhai River was at the height of its bustling trade. Though its name promised views of the tides, in truth, it lay three streets away from the actual Near-Sea Listening Pavilion, its claim little more than a boast. Yet with the decennial Sea Tide Festival imminent, even such ordinary inns were packed to the rafters, seats impossible to secure.

Lu Chenyuan carried a jug of freshly warmed Spirits, threading deftly through the crowd to set it down at a window-side table. He had been working as a helper here for ten days, long accustomed to the hectic pace. Ten years wandering the land with his master had taught him to handle any job. Now, he cared less for a few bits of silver, valuing instead whether his work might bring news.

Thus, he preferred to serve as a runner in the Tidewatch Inn, where all manner of folk gathered, rather than work the docks for mere coppers and backbreaking labor. What the authorities termed the "Turbid Shadow of Nine Hells" was known among cultivators as the Turbid Current—the culprit behind Dao transformation. The lingering curse within him made him especially sensitive to the aura of these Turbid Currents.

And Zhenhai River, poised for the Sea Tide Festival, was the perfect place to observe cultivators, whether righteous or wicked. He needed to closely study the Dao pollution on these practitioners, to compare it with his own experiences of Dao transformation. What distinguished them? What triggered it? What calmed it? These answers weren't found in books, nor spoken by his master; Lu would have to discover them himself.

He wanted to see, hear, and feel firsthand, to discern what, if anything, differed between their 'affliction' and his own.

A table in the corner caught his eye. Four out-of-towners, clad in sturdy garments and bearing weapons at their waists, sat there—clearly cultivators of some skill. They weren't causing trouble, only playing dice with a local silk merchant, a familiar face named Zhang, betting on high or low, a common diversion.

Zhang, a regular at the inn and known for his amiable nature, was sweating profusely, losing round after round. The mountain of silver coins—minted by the Great Zhou Immortal Dynasty—was shrinking before his eyes, flowing steadily into the pockets of the four strangers.

One of them pushed forward his cards: "Heaven Card" against "Mixed Nine," and grinned at Zhang. "See, Boss Zhang? This is the Bluebird eating Nine—a lucky opening! Looks like the feng shui’s right today, a clean place!"

Lu Chenyuan watched closely. Among the four, a man with a sharp, rodent-like face, each time he shook the dice, his fingers would brush the edge of the dice cup with uncanny speed. The motion was so swift, ordinary eyes would miss it, thinking he was steadying the cup.

Yet to Lu, he sensed a wisp of foul, decaying aura seeping from the man's fingertip into the dice cup, silent and sly. This aura was far removed from the Dao pollution he sometimes felt on righteous cultivators. The pollution on ordinary cultivators was like the aftershock of uncontrolled power, unconscious and stagnant, like a pool of dead water. But this aura was alive—twisting and writhing, as if made of countless invisible, ravenous insects, brimming with malice. More than mere power, it was a parasitic entity with its own will, hungrily obeying its master.

This was no righteous method of manipulating objects—this was true Turbid Current, the art of the cultists.

Judging by the strength of the aura, these cultists must be in the second heaven of Dao Inquiry, at the threshold of Mind Establishment.

At the moment the turbid aura appeared, Lu Chenyuan's suppressed right palm surged with an uncontrollable heat and hunger. Beneath his skin, several dormant crimson eyes quivered excitedly, eager to break free.

Lu's eyes flickered. This might be an opportunity.

As he silently recited the incantation his master had taught him, Zhang let out a mournful sigh, losing another round. With trembling hands, Zhang pushed his last silver coins onto the table. Gritting his teeth, he drew out a handful of glowing white shells from a silk pouch at his waist. Thumb-sized, inscribed with intricate tide patterns by secret technique, these were the shell coins issued by the Four Seas Merchant Guild of Zhenhai River for the festival—each worth a tael of official silver, though worthless outside the region.

"Gentlemen, this... this is all I have left. If I lose again... I won't be able to face my wife."

The rodent-faced man grinned, reaching for the shells. "Don’t worry, Boss Zhang, the wheel always turns at the gambling table. Maybe next round you’ll win it all back?"

He scooped the dice into the cup, wrist flicking to start another round.

Lu Chenyuan passed by with a platter of freshly braised beef. His foot appeared to snag on a stool leg, body tilting, and with a loud "Ouch!" the beef flew directly onto the gambling table.

The rodent-faced man startled, instinctively reaching to block the flying dish and halting his dice shake.

Quick as thought, Lu's other hand, feigning panic, braced the table, fingers tapping lightly on the dice cup.

With a soft "pop," the dice cup toppled, three dice rolling out: "one, one, two"—a total of four, low.

"Sorry! Sorry! My foot slipped, forgive me for disturbing your game!" Lu repeatedly apologized, face full of terror, fumbling to clean up the spilled beef.

Zhang, resigned a moment before, now froze, then burst into joy, shouting:

"Low! Low! Four points! I... I bet low this round! I won!"

The four strangers' faces darkened instantly.

The rodent-faced man seized Lu's collar, eyes locked in fury, with a glint of something inhuman beneath his rage: "You brat! Did you do that on purpose?!"

As he spoke, Lu felt a cold aura invade through the man's grip, his blood nearly freezing. The stench was rotten, unlike the vast, dead silence his own inner monster emitted. If his inner monster was a boundless ocean, this force was but stagnant, fetid water in a gutter—similar in origin, but his monster seemed on a higher tier.

Lu keenly sensed the dormant crimson eyes in his palm snap open, sickly craving the invading Turbid Current, emitting a joyous hiss only he could hear.

The Turbid Current, sensing the monster within Lu, seemed panicked and began to dissipate.

"This man's aura is filthy and chaotic—able to stir my power, yet fearful of it..." Lu quickly adjusted his breathing, reciting his mental technique to suppress his restless monster, while trembling and begging for mercy, "Please spare me! I swear it wasn't intentional! I'll pay for the beef, I’ll pay!"

His timid demeanor truly resembled a terrified inn hand.

But inwardly, he was unfazed. Years on the road had taught him: rats in the gutter fear the light.

With so many eyes watching, these men wouldn’t dare make a scene.

As the situation threatened to escalate, the cultivators in the inn all turned their gaze. Zhang, now clutching his winnings, hurried to smooth things over, "Let it go, brothers, the young man meant no harm. It’s getting late—why not call it a day?"

Without waiting for a reply, he grabbed the silver and shells, running off.

The rodent-faced man cast Lu a suspicious look. Moments ago, he thought he sensed a hint of dread from Lu, but upon inspection, found him entirely mortal, dismissing it as a misperception.

The other three watched their prize slip away, boiling with rage, but unable to fault Lu—after all, he had only "accidentally" intervened. Not wanting further trouble, they cursed, threw down some coppers for tea, and left in defeat.

Lu straightened, exhaling deeply—not out of fear for the cultists, but for the possibility that his inner monster might be roused enough to devour them to the bone. If chaos broke out, in a hall full of righteous cultivators, he would become the target, his fate little better than theirs.

This way, everyone remained unharmed.

As he cleaned up, his gaze drifted to the neighboring table of out-of-town cultivators. His exceptional hearing had already caught their conversation word for word.

Again, rumors of the Sky Severer.

In ten years with his master, Lu had heard dozens of versions of these street legends. Some claimed the Sky Severer was a great demon from Nine Hells, jealous of the immortal realm, and cut the path to the heavens; others said he was a celestial envoy sent to test mortals, punishing human greed; some insisted he never existed, merely an excuse concocted by frustrated cultivators for their own failures.

These rumors were messy, contradictory, officially dismissed by the Great Zhou Immortal Dynasty as "nonsense."

But today's conversation among these cultivators was different.

A proud young man sighed, "Senior brother, the spiritual energy in the Nine Provinces grows weaker every generation. Even we, if not for Grandmaster at Ten Thousand Fathoms Mountain, would struggle to cultivate."

Another immediately hissed, "Silence! The Grandmaster's name is not to be spoken lightly. This place is full of all sorts—mind your words!"

Lu's heart stirred, eyes darting over the group. They wore matching indigo uniforms, with silver-threaded mountain emblems on their sleeves, and sword tassels adorned with star-shaped jade.

He understood. Legend held that beneath the Abyss of Heaven, above the Nine Provinces, four brightest stars stood eternally—the Four Pillars of Heaven. They were the pinnacle of the mortal Dao, the ultimate aspiration of humankind.

Among them, the northern sword master at Ten Thousand Fathoms Mountain, famed for his swordsmanship—known as the Northern Lodestar Sword Sovereign—was Ying Wuque.

These men were disciples of that legendary sword giant.

No wonder they dared discuss the taboo of three millennia past; with such backing, they possessed confidence and insight beyond ordinary cultivators.

Unconsciously, Lu focused more closely.

The rebuked disciple muttered discontentedly, then shifted topic, "Understood, senior. Recently, I heard an old secret about the Sky Severer, supposedly from a fragment of an ancient text—though I can't say if it's true."

"Oh? Tell us." The group leaned in, voices lowered—but not beyond Lu's extraordinary hearing.

"It’s said that three thousand years ago, a peerless immortal, already half-stepping into the immortal realm, for reasons unknown, at the last moment turned against it—wielding supreme power, with one sword severed the path between heaven and earth."

"Is that possible?!" the earlier voice gasped, "One sword... to sever the gap between mortals and immortals... My gods—that’s no different from the ancient gods of myth!"

Then, recovering from awe, his tone turned indignant, "But if he had such divine power, why commit such a crime? What was his name? Such a sinner deserves the scorn of all generations!"

"Hush... mind your words! Even ancient matters are not for us to judge. All I know is, the tale calls him the Sin Immortal..."

Lu Chenyuan shuddered, his hand pausing in its cleaning.

"Sin Immortal... one sword severed..."

That detail had never appeared in any version he'd heard. The street rumors always blamed vague demons or divine punishment; never had anyone dared imagine a single person, with one sword, accomplished it.

His mind flashed uncontrollably to the recurring nightmare—an enormous fissure splitting the sky, countless eyes filled with betrayal and hate, and the lofty, faceless figure of himself...

He had always dismissed it as a baseless dream.

But now, the accidental mention of the sword severing the heavens matched his dream with unsettling precision.

Could his master’s drunken ramblings have been true? Was the scar in the sky real?

Lu kept his composure, buried the storm in his heart, and continued his chores.

Just then, a commotion arose at the inn’s entrance. A servant dragged in a little beggar girl by her collar, cursing, "You little brat! Sticky fingers, daring to steal from Tidewatch Inn!"

Everyone turned. The girl, seven or eight years old, wore a ragged dress, face smeared with ash, but her eyes were wide with fear. Held off the ground, she trembled, clutching a warm meat bun to her chest.

"Beat her! Give her a good lesson!" the servant raised his hand to strike. Lu frowned, considering how he might spare the child from a beating, when a lazy voice spoke up, "Stop."

It was Qian Dahai, the innkeeper.

He glanced at the half-height vase beside the counter, and for a moment, Lu sensed his breathing grow subtly tense, as if wary of disturbing something.

Qian Dahai folded his hands behind his back, walked out from behind the counter, and scolded the servant, "Noise and chaos—this is no way to behave. Don’t you see the customers?"

He then examined the beggar girl, frowning, "So young, already learning to steal!"

The girl grew more frightened, tears welling but refusing to fall.

After a moment's silence, Qian Dahai sighed and waved at the servant. He took two more steaming buns from the steamer, adding them to the one she’d stolen, stuffing them into her arms. "Bad luck. You got lucky today—next time, I’ll break your legs! Now go!"

The girl stared at the three buns, then at the strict but kind innkeeper, sniffed, bowed deeply, and dashed away.

Qian Dahai watched her go, shook his head, and turned back. Passing Lu and another servant, he grumbled, "Hurry up, you lot! Don’t you see the wind’s strong and people are everywhere today? Watch the new lambskin in the back—it’s precious! Don’t let any stray dust ruin the fine material!"

He paid no heed to their response, stepping further, his gaze falling on the celadon lotus vase by the counter—a piece more cherished than his own life, carefully cleaned morning and evening, never allowed to gather dust. This was known as the innkeeper’s peculiar hobby.

Lu was used to it, about to resume his work, when suddenly his senses tingled. In his hyper-acute perception, he caught a noise that didn’t belong—a whisper, the sound of silk threads rubbing, or something shrieking behind thick walls.

He frowned, listening closer, and the strange noise shifted. Now, among the rubbing and shrieking, he heard a faint giggle—a little girl’s laugh, innocent and sweet, but for some reason, tinged with the strangled sob of someone choking, ending in an eerie whimper.

Hee... sob...

Watching again, Qian Dahai’s usual cleaning of the vase seemed more like calming something. When his fingers stroked the neck of the vase over a subtle lotus leaf motif, he pressed with a barely perceptible force.

At that instant, the weird noise in Lu’s ears abruptly ceased.

Afterward, Qian Dahai visibly relaxed, his face reverting to the shrewd, amiable smile of a merchant, as if the intense, neurotic man from moments before had been Lu’s imagination.

Lu took it all in, feeling an unaccountable chill crawling up his spine.