Vessel of Worlds

Above a certain stretch of the Star Sea, nearly a hundred Foundation Establishment cultivators in varied dress flew in formation, led by two Core Formation cultivators.

Andy, in a long purple robe, was among them.

He rode the Wind-Treader Dragon at an easy pace within the column. At the group's current speed, he could keep up comfortably without feeding the artifact much spiritual power at all.

Not far behind him rose a range of peaks that thrust into the clouds—sheer and perilous, standing a thousand zhang and more above the sea, some several thousand.

The peaks stood close upon one another yet were sundered by seawater, forming an archipelago of a thousand-odd colossal mountains.

In the Star Sea, this island group bore a resounding name—the Immortal Island of Yingzhou.

Andy had come to Yingzhou with the Orthodox Dao Alliance's Foundation Establishment cultivators, bound for the ancient sealed space.

He was a lone rogue cultivator without sect or backing; to travel Yingzhou alone was decidedly unsafe, so he had joined the first group the Alliance organized. That first group alone numbered nearly a hundred—the Foundation Establishment cultivators entering the sealed space from all three great powers would likely exceed a thousand.

The great majority were late-stage cultivators, many at the peak like Andy himself—all come to hunt the sealed space's treasures in preparation for the assault on Core Formation.

With so vast a crowd, how many would actually obtain the two spirit liquids was anyone's guess. By the published accounts the sealed space was enormous—even a thousand cultivators searching together could not sweep it all in the time given. And the liquids formed in widely scattered sites: in the space's extreme environments, they might arise almost anywhere.

Since anyone who found treasure could trigger the restriction and withdraw in safety, this hunt would turn mostly on luck rather than strength. But the five-thousand-stone entry fee left Foundation Establishment cultivators of ordinary means able only to sigh at the shore!

Half a month later, the company reached a desolate stretch of sea. Within ten thousand kilometers lay only seven or eight islands of a few hundred kilometers each—all barren, veinless, and uninhabited.

Yet on one such island, several dozen cultivators stood guard before a formation dozens of zhang across, of deeply antique design.

The two Core Formation leaders brought the company down onto the island.

Andy studied the dozens of cultivators behind the formation: four or five were at Core Formation or above, and two radiated pressure so unfathomable they were very likely late-stage Core Formation seniors.

Even at his current peak late-stage cultivation, one sweeping glance from those two left Andy feeling as though his whole body had been pierced through.

And the dress of the Foundation Establishment cultivators by the formation confirmed it—Blood Intent Gate. The Blood Intent Gate cultivators who had died at his hands numbered several all told—including that late-stage young master of theirs!

He had long since learned that the ancient sealed space had been discovered and opened by the Blood Intent Gate, so their presence here was no surprise. In all likelihood, entry to the space depended on this very formation of theirs. As for his blood-debt with the Gate—no living soul knew of it, and he had nothing to fear.

Stolen novel; please report.

The two Orthodox Dao Alliance leaders each produced a storage pouch heavy with spirit stones and handed them to a mid-stage Core Formation elder of the Blood Intent Gate, who tallied the contents with a sweep of spiritual sense and nodded: the count sufficed.

Orthodox and heterodox—the Alliance's cultivators and the Heaven-Defying Alliance's kept far apart in ordinary times. Sect business now forced them together, but the exchange went no further than clasped-fist salutes: few courtesies, and warm welcome none.

In that same silence, the Foundation Establishment cultivators from Penglai each received a specially crafted Transfer Talisman, a jade slip, and a restriction disc for departing the sealed space—then stepped onto the formation one after another and were teleported inside.

Cold! That was Andy's first sensation upon arrival. He slapped a Yellow Heaven Thick Earth Talisman onto himself at once; its radiance held the cold at bay, and warmth returned.

He looked out on mountains, forest, and open plain, all wrapped in boundless white. Overhead hung only a leaden gray sky—no sun, no moon, not one star.

No thought required: this was the Mystic Cold Realm.

He cast his spiritual sense wide to survey his surroundings.

With his cultivation greatly advanced, his sense now reached manyfold farther—a dozen or so kilometers in every direction in sharp detail, with dim impressions of movement out to twenty or thirty.

Within that range there were no other cultivators. More than that—no living aura of any kind.

Truly a wasteland, then. Sealed for untold ages, the space had likely seen all but its hardiest few beast species dwindle toward extinction.

Andy drew a deep breath, and his brow creased.

The spiritual energy here was decent—short of a peak-grade vein, but a shade better than an ordinary high-grade one. Yet he faintly sensed a strange disorder in the ambient power of this place; he had scarcely arrived, and already a thread of unease stirred in his mind. Whether it came of the space's long sealing, he couldn't say.

The hunt would last seven days. When they ended, the space's restrictions would open of themselves and expel every outside cultivator back to the waters near Yingzhou.

By the texts, Nine Colds Mystic Nether Water typically formed beneath the ice sheets of regions of utmost cold, or deep in caverns where frigid air pooled and never dispersed.

On so thin a thread of guidance, Andy could only search toward the mountains—or hack endlessly through the thick ice underfoot with artifacts and trust to blind luck. Neither method promised much efficiency.

But he, it seemed, had made other plans. The corner of his mouth curved in a small, secretive smile. He tapped lightly at his waist, and a great python—three or four zhang long, thick as a barrel, back green as jade and belly white as snow—shot out from his spirit beast pouch. His spirit beast: the Ice-Wind Python.

The python circled and wove around him, jaws wide, drawing in great drafts of the surrounding cold with evident relish.

Andy passed it a command through his spiritual sense. The python raised its head—over a chi across—its tongue of several chi flickering in and out, as though tasting for something.

Moments later it fixed on a direction, sprang aloft, and hung in midair, hissing down at Andy.

Delighted, Andy leapt lightly onto its back, and the python bore him away at speed.

The Ice-Wind Python was ice-attributed from birth; in sensing cold it surpassed any cultivator. Andy set it flying toward wherever the cold ran deepest—and by that measure, his odds of finding the treasure multiplied.

For plainly, the colder the place, the likelier it was to have birthed Nine Colds Mystic Nether Water.

It was no guarantee—but far better than groping blindly on his own.

The python flew tremendously fast; even bearing Andy, it outpaced the flight of ordinary Foundation Establishment cultivators.

An hour later, it brought him to a cold pool only a few dozen zhang across, wisps of white frost-vapor curling off its surface.

The cold here was ferocious. Even with the talisman on him, Andy felt it knife to the bone, and had to raise a fire-attribute barrier inside the talisman's glow before it eased.

In cold this deep, the pool's water had not frozen—its nature had to be extraordinary.

It put Andy in mind of Bitter Cold Pool in Dragon Descent Valley. It was beneath that cold pool, all those years ago, that he had found the flood dragon eggs—and hence the Ice-Wind Python of today.

But plainly, this pool's cold exceeded Bitter Cold Pool's beyond comparison. A single zhang from its edge, Andy felt his fire barrier draining at a fearsome rate. At his current cultivation, entering the pool to investigate was likely beyond him.

His Ice-Wind Python, though, wove back and forth along the rim, gulping down the threads of frost the pool exhaled—and through their bond it sent him a feeling strangely mixed: excitement, shot through with a thread of fear.