But after searching around, there was no sign of Nan Batian!
“Has that guy left?” Hu Mazi said.
“No, something must have come up. Let’s not worry about him and go on our own!”
Chen Ping knew Nan Batian wouldn’t leave on his own; he trusted Nan Batian’s loyalty.
Chen Ping and Hu Mazi headed toward Black Wind Pass.
Black Wind Valley seemed like a corner forsaken by the heavens, perpetually enveloped in inky gales.
The wind carried fine black grit, striking the rocks with a “crackling” sound, resembling the distant sobs of countless wronged souls.
At the valley’s entrance, two black stone statues, ten zhang tall, loomed in the form of ferocious yakshas, their eye sockets embedded with eerie green flames, as if watching every living being that dared approach.
The statues were covered in mottled, dark red stains, and up close, a stench of blood mixed with rust and decay wafted over, the scent of monks’ essence blood accumulated over years.
Beyond the entrance, steep black rock walls rose, riddled with bottomless cracks. The wind whistled through them, producing shrill howls, sometimes like a woman’s piercing cry, sometimes like a beast’s roar.
Looking up, the sky was weighed down by thick, grey-black clouds, so low that barely any daylight pierced through, only a dim glow illuminating twisted rocks that looked like ghostly claws in the wind’s shadowy dance.
As Chen Ping’s divine sense probed the valley, a thick, bloody aura hit him, so dense it almost solidified, mingling with demonic qi to form a faint red mist that drifted slowly within.
The ground lacked the usual valley flora, only dark brown soil that felt soft underfoot, like a sponge soaked in blood. Occasionally, a sharp object crunched beneath, revealed as a broken bone upon inspection.
Deep in the valley, a cluster of buildings came into view, all constructed from black stone, their roofs tiled with dark purple that gleamed eerily in the wind.
Scattered across the open ground between the buildings were rusted weapons and tattered, unrecognizable clothing.
When the wind blew, the clothes rose like spectres, revealing a dark brown ground beneath, not soil but a thick crust of congealed blood, hardened into a shell.
Most chilling was the wind, carrying not just the rasp of grit but faint chewing sounds.
Occasionally, a muffled scream echoed from deep within a stone house, cut off by the wind, leaving only fragmented whimpers to fade away.
The demonic qi here was no longer purely cold but carried a scalding, bloodthirsty edge, each wisp like it was dredged from a blood pool, clinging stickily to the skin, making one shiver involuntarily.
Chen Ping and Hu Mazi hid in a distant ravine, using the rocks as cover, peering toward the valley entrance.
Over a dozen demonic cultivators in black armour, wielding sharp blades, vigilantly scanned the surroundings. Their auras were at least at the peak of Fourth-Grade Earth Immortal, with two at Fifth-Grade, their presence heavy and formidable.
“Blimey, this setup is tighter than we thought,” Hu Mazi whispered, clicking his tongue. “Just the two of us? Forget sneaking in to scout, we’d probably get spotted the moment we neared the entrance.”
Chen Ping said nothing, his brows slightly furrowed. His divine sense quietly extended, like an invisible net, slowly spreading into Black Wind Valley.
The demonic qi inside was indeed thick, but unlike the cold, soul-refining aura of the Evil Path Hall’s cultivators he recalled, this qi was more savage, bloodthirsty, with a primal, predatory hunger, as if constantly craving fresh blood.
His divine sense cautiously avoided the patrolling demonic cultivators, probing deeper to see if he could find any hallmark signs of the Evil Path Hall.
