World of Cultivation Five Cold Mist Valley

Chapter Five Cold Mist Valley

Clutching the jade pendant, Zuo Mo arrived at the entrance of Cold Mist Valley without incident.

The entrance was obscured by a dense white mist, a complete blankness.

After a moment of contemplation, finding no alternative path, Zuo Mo resolutely stepped into the white expanse.

Upon entering, the mist seemed to part willingly, revealing a narrow passage. A sense of relief washed over Zuo Mo, and he couldn't help but marvel at the sect's profound techniques. The thought of wielding such power himself was exhilarating.

His mind began to drift, lost in contemplation.

Following the winding path within the mist for about half a mile, Zuo Mo's senses suddenly expanded.

Approximately five mu of land in the valley was carpeted with a vibrant array of ling medicines, their hues diverse and forms peculiar. The sight was akin to a multicolored tapestry spread across a floral meadow. Dozens of Rainbow Sparrow-Tailed Butterflies flitted about, while Black-banded Yellow Honeybees, organized in disciplined squadrons, buzzed to and fro.

At the valley's lowest point, a shimmering silver waterfall cascaded from the cliff, its roar like thunder. With immense force, it plunged into a deep pool, creating a spray of countless water droplets.

The air, thick with the moisture and fragrance of myriad ling herbs, was utterly invigorating. A deep breath filled Zuo Mo with an indescribable sense of comfort. He found himself reconsidering his initial dislike for tending to the ling fields.

Remembering Hao Min's instruction to induce rain daily, Zuo Mo quickly began manipulating the necessary incantations.

Moisture from the surroundings coalesced visibly, gradually forming a cloud that hovered above the medicine fields. The spell Zuo Mo was weaving transformed rapidly, and after a series of intricate hand movements, the cloud began to release a fine drizzle, nourishing the fields.

This delicate downpour continued for an hour before the cloud dispersed. Zuo Mo exhaled in relief. The abundant humidity here greatly simplified the execution of the [Little Art of Cloud and Rain]. He couldn't help but start tallying his progress, realizing the situation was far more favorable than anticipated. With diligent effort, he might just fulfill the contractual obligations.

His only hope was that the medicine fields would remain undisturbed and intact until Hao Min shijie's return.

There was little he could do to resolve larger issues.

Any previous illusions he harbored were now shattered by harsh reality. His sensitivity to the density of ling energy was acute, and the Cold Mist Valley pulsed with abundant ling energy. Cultivating medicine fields in such a prime location undoubtedly indicated that the planted ling herbs were of a high grade.

Should anything befall them under his watch, he shuddered at the thought.

Despite the layers of jinzhi protecting the pathways, the valley itself lacked such defenses. Zuo Mo meticulously surveyed the entire perimeter. The pond was unfathomably deep, its bottom hidden from view. The water's chill seemed to penetrate to the bone. The waterfall's incessant roar echoed throughout the valley.

He crouched amidst the ling fields, examining each herb individually. He needed to commit the characteristics of every ling herb to memory. Having only cultivated ling grain previously, he possessed no knowledge of ling herbs, leaving him no recourse but this arduous method. At this juncture, his sole desire was for nothing to go awry, relinquishing any hope of personal gain.

Any single ling herb here, if sold, would not even cover his own debt.

He could confidently assert that he had never focused with such intense concentration before.

It was only as twilight painted the sky that he dragged his weary body back to the yard. The sight of the surrounding disarray, the jinzhi reduced to tatters, brought him close to tears.

At this moment, he lacked the energy to reconstruct the jinzhi. Exhausted to the point of wishing for death, he couldn't even muster the strength to lift his eyelids.

Returning to his seclusion room, he barely managed to infuse a drop of ling energy into the sound tablet before collapsing onto the mat, succumbing to sleep.

He awoke to the sound of the sound tablet's broadcast.

“The twenty-third [Sword Test Conference] has concluded its qualification rounds. Thus far, four thousand two hundred and fifty-three sword xiu have secured their spots in the competition. This year’s [Sword Test Conference] boasts numerous coveted rewards. The top one hundred participants will receive a fourth-grade flying sword, while the top ten will be awarded a fifth-grade flying sword. The ultimate prize for the victor has been officially declared as [Arrowpoint], a seventh-grade flying sword. According to reliable sources, this represents the highest grade of flying sword ever presented in the history of the [Sword Test Conference]. This prestigious reward has ignited the interest of disciples from numerous major sects, including those from the Wu Shuang Sword Sect, Suo Luo Sword Sect...”

“Goodness, this is fantastic. I want it, I truly do. Without a chance, there is no change.”

Zuo Mo, still groggy, climbed off the mat, humming an unusual tune.

Stepping out from his seclusion chamber, he commenced the construction of the jinzhi, deferring the walls to a later time. The ground was littered with shattered bricks, necessitating a thorough cleaning to even create adequate space for the formation setup. His seventh level lianqi cultivation presented numerous restrictions for establishing a jinzhi.

A light melody escaped his lips as he cleared the debris of the ruined walls. This yard, an ancient structure, had its walls already dilapidated and was now utterly demolished by Luo Li shixiong. The memory of Senior Brother Luo Li's imposing descent from the heavens still sent tremors through Zuo Mo's heart.

Suddenly, Zuo Mo halted his movements, bending to retrieve a small object.

It was a tiny, delicate pink paper crane, considerably smaller than his own yellow counterpart and exquisitely crafted. This was a Little Thousand Crane, typically used for transmitting messages and for short conversations. However, it was largely considered a plaything, lacking the speed of letters sent via flying swords, especially for extended journeys. Its inconvenience meant it was primarily used by cultivators below the Jindan stage.

How had it ended up here?

Zuo Mo unceremoniously unfolded the pink Little Thousand Crane, a realization dawning upon him. It was a wishing Little Thousand Crane.

In ages past, when cultivators ventured beyond the void to explore new jie, they often faced perilous situations and became trapped. Upon finding themselves unable to escape, these trapped xiuzhe would inscribe their final wishes and pleas for aid onto a Little Thousand Crane, releasing it to the winds. Without any identifying imprints, its destination was unknown. Yet, the lifespan of a xiuzhe was considerable, and with fortune, such a crane could travel for a lengthy duration.

Following the first recorded instance of a rescue facilitated by a wishing Little Thousand Crane, this practice gained popularity within the xiuzhe community. Over time, it evolved into a pastime for female xiuzhe to express their emotions. They would pen their feelings onto wishing Little Paper Cranes and send them forth, often imbuing them with a unique imprint, enabling the finder to return the crane to its sender.

What could possibly stir a young maiden's heart more than an unfathomable fate, a destiny too wondrous for mere words?

Zuo Mo found himself unable to comprehend such sentiments. His world revolved solely around jingshi, ling grains, and cultivation. Romance, in his view, was an unaffordable luxury.

Unfolding the Little Thousand Crane further, several lines of elegant script became visible.

“Hoping so muchTo carry a bagGo out alone to roamAt a place where there was no one elseSingSoak in the sun”

Sentimental drivel, Zuo Mo scoffed internally, delivering what he considered the most fitting critique. What a waste of perfectly good paper, he lamented. He couldn't ascertain its origin, but its quality suggested it was no lower than third-grade.

To fashion a Little Thousand Crane from third-grade paper struck him as a wasteful act that bordered on the outrageous.

Once used, the paper was rendered unusable again. Such a pity, Zuo Mo mused.

Just as he was about to crumple the pink paper into a ball, he paused. With a blank expression, he tilted his head in thought before abruptly turning and dashing back into his room.

Rushing inside, his eyes scanned the interior until he located what he sought.

Fresh, thick cinnabar and a brush made from weasel bristles.

He grasped the brush, plunging it deep into the cinnabar. His wrist moved with fluid grace as he inscribed a single character.

— “Dumbass.”

Observing the vibrant red ink that consumed nearly the entirety of the pink paper, Zuo Mo erupted into triumphant laughter, exceedingly pleased with himself.

His own life was a relentless, demanding existence, leaving no room for despair. He was acutely aware of life's hardships. Around him, everyone fought tooth and nail for survival—for their families, for their descendants. He saw it in Old Black. Despite the toil and exhaustion, he harbored no dislike for this way of life; quite the opposite, he felt it was the essence of being alive.

Sentimental nonsense. Such preoccupations were only for those with idle lives and no aspirations, Zuo Mo thought dismissively. He held such individuals in low regard.

His spirits elevated, he hummed a tune as he refolded the paper into a Little Thousand Crane once more.

“Who’s a dumbass, who’s a dumbass. You’re a dumbass, you’re a dumbass……”

The Little Thousand Crane bore the imprint of its original owner. Infusing it with a surge of ling energy, Zuo Mo launched it skyward.

The pink Little Thousand Crane fluttered its diminutive wings, vanishing into the azure expanse.

Zuo Mo’s mood brightened considerably. He energetically continued tidying the yard, his steps noticeably lighter than before.

By the time the jinzhi were completed, the afternoon had already passed. He grabbed a quick bite to eat before returning to his seclusion room to meditate.

For ordinary outer sect disciples, spending such extensive time on meditation was uncommon. Compared to actively learning martial arts, meditating and advancing one's cultivation yielded less immediate profit.

Nevertheless, Zuo Mo dedicated four hours daily to his meditation practice. Upon discovering the spirit vein within the seclusion room, his meditation sessions grew even longer. All cultivators understood that cultivation formed the bedrock of their power. It was a principle universally acknowledged. Despite utilizing a most common scripture, the advantage of the spirit vein still led to outstanding progress.

He harbored a profound understanding of the rigid hierarchy within the cultivation world. If he could achieve the Zhuji stage, even as a mere outer sect disciple, Hao Min and Luo Li would not dare to mistreat him. Zhuji represented a crucial dividing line, directly dictating the quality of one's future life.

To attain a life of beauty and comfort, the sole path was the relentless augmentation of one's own strength.

His meditation sessions, once he commenced, invariably lasted for six hours. Upon opening his eyes once more, sheer joy radiated from them.

Lianqi eighth level!

His unwavering dedication to cultivating and practicing the scripture finally bore fruit. He had successfully reached the eighth level!

The cultivation level of Lianqi eighth level, among all outer sect disciples of the entire Wu Kong Sword Sect, could undoubtedly secure a position within the top three.

He extended his fingers, initiating a spell. A layer of aged gold energy materialized around his fingertip. With a rise in his cultivation, executing a spell became significantly more manageable. Overcome with excitement, Zuo Mo began to cast the [Minor Art of Cloud and Rain].

The instant he initiated the spell, the difference was palpable. Moisture condensed at an accelerated rate, and the raindrops descended with relentless intensity. He took a moment to appreciate the novel sensations and experiences.

Suddenly recalling the medicinal fields, he snapped awake, scrambled to his feet, and rushed out of his courtyard.

He made his way to Cold Mist Valley in a single dash, foregoing any time to recover his strength. He immediately commenced casting the [Minor Art of Cloud and Rain]. Only when every inch of the fields had been adequately rained upon did the heavy stone in his heart finally settle.