Five souls, cautious as whispers in the wind, descended into the chasm’s maw. Not at the vanguard flew Wang Lin, but upon the right, his gaze sweeping the sheer, unyielding wall that bordered their perilous path.

The chasm’s face was smooth as polished obsidian, as though hewn by some celestial blade. Wang Lin reached out, his fingers brushing the stone, and a chill, sharp and ancient, pierced his flesh, reaching deep within.

Deeper they plunged, and shadows gathered, yet darkness held little sway over those who commanded the arcane arts. With a surge of their inner light, their vision remained sharp, piercing the gloom.

As they descended, fissures began to spiderweb across the stone, branching like the limbs of some subterranean tree. Each was a gaping maw, a hungry cave of impenetrable blackness, where even enchanted eyes dared not to linger.

When such shadowed alcoves became rife, Du Jian faltered, halting his descent. Murong Zhuo, ever impassive, noted the halt but offered no word.

Zhao Yixuan and Xu Fei, the pair of sisters, paused as well, their gazes darting nervously at the branching cracks, which resembled open maws awaiting prey.

“Friends,” began Du Jian, his voice echoing in the chasm’s throat, “Within these fissures might lie forgotten treasures. Doubtless, the deeper we delve, the more such openings shall appear. Our quest is for such relics. Let each now seek their fortune, according to their skill.” With that, he turned and vanished into the darkness of a nearby fissure.

Murong Zhuo hesitated but a moment before choosing his own shadowed path.

“Shall Senior Brother Wang not seek his own fortune?” Zhao Yixuan asked, her voice laced with an unsettling sweetness.

Wang Lin shook his head, his gaze level. He continued his descent, heedless of the beckoning shadows.

Zhao Yixuan watched his departure, a flicker of something unreadable in her eyes. Then, with a turn, she led her frail companion toward a fissure, disappearing within.

Wang Lin, in his descent, glanced back at the pair, a furrow in his brow.

“A strange aura clings to those two,” he muttered to himself.

He turned his gaze downward, into the abyss. The chasm plunged deeper than sight could fathom. They had descended for an age, yet the bottom remained elusive.

“The Abyss of Tides conceals its depths, even from the Crystal of Bero. Only this is known: that far below lies a great labyrinth, a crossroads where five other entrances converge. But the exit… there is but one!”

A glint sparked in Wang Lin’s eyes. He ceased his descent and began to rise. Instantly, he felt a crushing weight press upon him, a heavy burden from above.

“As I suspected, the entrance grants passage only downward. To force one’s way out would be to face an ever-increasing resistance.”

Having confirmed his suspicion, Wang Lin halted, his gaze sweeping the chasm’s walls. Cracks and fissures yawned, but he saw them as mere shadows, bereft of promise.

“For countless ages, souls have sought their fortune in this Abyss. If treasure ever lay within these cracks, it has long been plundered.”

He paused, his thoughts racing. “A hundred fathoms further, and I shall reach that place, revealed by the crystal, that defies easy passage.”

As he pondered, Murong Zhuo appeared above, a nod of acknowledgment his only greeting. He stood in silence, until he suddenly spoke: “You seem familiar with this place, Daoist Wang?”

Wang Lin turned his gaze upon Murong Zhuo and spoke, “A hundred fathoms below, upon the wall, grows an ancient tree. Beware this tree, Daoist Murong, for it is not what it seems.”

Murong Zhuo merely nodded, offering no further comment.

Soon, Zhao Yixuan and Xu Fei emerged from the shadows, followed by Du Jian.

The five gathered, each seemingly empty-handed. They resumed their descent, Wang Lin and Murong Zhuo lingering slightly behind, while Du Jian took the lead.

In short time, they had covered the hundred fathoms. Wang Lin’s gaze remained fixed upon the wall to his right. In his visions, he had seen an ancient tree there, unremarkable save for the sudden surge of dread it had evoked.

And now, he saw it: a withered tree, scarcely thicker than a man’s waist, its roots clawing at the stone. Most dangled in the void, while others burrowed deep into the chasm’s wall.

The tree grew in a most peculiar place, atop a fissure, its roots forming a curtain that veiled the shadowed entrance. Such trees were common along their descent, but it was this one alone that filled Wang Lin’s heart with unease.

A violet glimmer shone from within the fissure, the light of some enchanted artifact.

No need to delve with enchanted senses. Even the naked eye could see that the violet light emanated from a sword, buried hilt-deep in the stone.

The blade was of ancient make, radiating a keenness that spoke of its exceptional craft.

Du Jian saw the violet glimmer at once, and halted, exclaiming, “A Celestial Fortune Blade!”

Zhao Yixuan and Xu Fei gasped, their gazes turning toward the shadowed crevice.

Wang Lin observed them closely, and noted that Xu Fei, the seemingly fragile sister, looked not at the blade, but at the unassuming tree above, a flicker of cold calculation in her eyes.

Du Jian inhaled deeply, his gaze fixed upon the sword. “I know this blade. It is one of my Master’s, the Celestial Fortune Lord. Seven blades he possessed, each bestowed upon the Seven Sons of Celestial Fortune. But through the ages, three have been lost, disappearing with their wielders.”

He turned to Wang Lin, a look of hesitation upon his face. “Surely, Junior Brother Wang, you have heard tell of Sun Yun?”
Wang Lin nodded. “Indeed”.
Du Jian sighed softly, “When Sun Yun was at the height of his power, I was but a humble disciple of the Heavenly Fortune Sect, not yet taken into the Crimson lineage by my master. But this sword… I remember it well. It was a Violet-class blade, gifted to Sun Yun upon his ascension as one of the Seven Stars of Heavenly Fortune!”

Wang Lin gazed at the flying sword within the crack, his expression unreadable.

A cold glint flashed in Du Jian’s eyes. He bowed to Murong Zhuo and the Zhao and Xu sisters, saying, “Brother Murong, Sisters Zhao and Xu, this sword belongs to the Heavenly Fortune Sect, and a Violet-class blade at that. I, Du Jian, beseech you three to grant me this boon: to bestow this sword upon my junior brother, Wang. He is a Violet-class disciple of our Sect. Claiming this blade would be a return to its rightful place. Moreover, possessing this sword would instantly elevate his standing within the Violet lineage.” Sincerity and nostalgia laced Du Jian’s voice.

Though his gaze remained cold, a flicker of something peculiar crossed Murong Zhuo’s eyes. He replied curtly, “It is of no consequence.”

Zhao Yisui and Xu Fei, naturally, had no objections. Du Jian turned to Wang Lin, his eyes filled with apparent honesty. “Junior Brother Wang,” he said, “My cultivation is lesser than yours, but I joined the Sect earlier. Forgive my familiar address.

“This blade is of the Violet lineage, and yours by right. This senior brother will not seize it, nor shall I permit anyone else to do so. It is yours! I merely hope that, in your hands, it will shine as brightly as it once did for Sun Yun.”

Wang Lin calmly regarded Du Jian, finding no trace of deceit in the man’s demeanor, only a gentle smile.

“I thank you, then.” Wang Lin chuckled mirthlessly. He looked upon Du Jian as one might observe a child playing with a clumsy deception. Did this man truly believe him to be so naive?

Wang Lin’s smile stirred a sense of unease within Du Jian’s heart. He had underestimated Wang Lin. He reasoned that this bumpkin, plucked from a near-abandoned planet and brought to the Heavenly Fortune Star, could only have been chosen as a disciple of the Heavenly Fortune Child through sheer, undeserved luck!

Du Jian had ventured here once before, alone. He hadn’t descended through the entrance himself but had sent a puppet infused with his divine sense. The puppet had been attacked by the ancient tree within, a scene that had terrified him so greatly that he hadn’t dared approach the Cloud Mist Mountain Sea for a long time.

Only after finding Murong Zhuo and the others had he dared return.

He was confident that Wang Lin could not see through his ploy. After all, the ancient tree appeared utterly ordinary. Moreover, along their path, they had encountered many identical trees, none of which had shown any aggression.

Wang Lin tapped his storage bag, and a scimitar flashed forth. With a flick of his wrist, the black blade shot into the crevice, disappearing in a blur. In an instant, it snatched the flying sword and returned to Wang Lin’s hand.

The speed was so astonishing that the withered tree above the fissure seemed not to have registered the event. The scimitar returned, and the shimmering blade landed in Wang Lin’s grasp.

Holding the sword, Wang Lin’s expression hardened. With a single squeeze, the blade shattered into fragments, scattering like dust. Even the violet light vanished without a trace.

This was no Heavenly Fortune blade. It was merely a piece of common iron, crafted to resemble a magic treasure and placed within the crack as a carefully laid trap.

Wang Lin looked at Du Jian, his gaze unwavering.

Du Jian’s face paled. He took a few steps back, a forced apology on his lips. “Junior Brother Wang, it seems I was mistaken…”

A chilling light ignited in Wang Lin’s eyes. He rarely sought conflict, but when others sought to harm him, he showed no mercy. This was the brutal world of cultivation, where weakness invited death.

He took a step forward, his right hand forming into a claw in the void. A violent wind erupted, surging towards Du Jian. The man’s face contorted in fear as he scrambled backwards, crying out, “Wang Lin, what is the meaning of this?!”

But with his cultivation, he could barely hope to evade Wang Lin in this cramped space. Even teleportation offered no escape from Wang Lin’s nascent Domain. With a flick of his wrist, the gale intensified, seizing Du Jian and flinging him towards the ancient tree.

In that instant, the tree emitted a piercing drone. It disintegrated, transforming into a swarm of countless finger-sized insects, erupting like a roiling cloud.

This was no ancient tree, but a monstrous illusion, a collective form created by a vast horde of ravenous insects.