The disciples from Waves Hall leading the way wore respectful, solemn expressions. After all, they were guiding a martial artist from a great power who had traveled from afar—and a rival invited by their own master at that. Neither dared show the slightest discourtesy.
As Chen Chuan followed the two upward, the warship tasked with escorting him approached the waters off Erwen Island. It swung broadside, and all its gun barrels lowered in unison, aiming directly at the island.
Should any unusual movement occur on the island, or should their martial artist meet with any foul play, they would bombard the entire place with artillery fire.
Leaving the beach behind, Chen Chuan followed his guides for about ten minutes, entering a shaded avenue steeped in Zen tranquility, until they arrived before a residential compound.
Beside it stood a massive boulder engraved with the characters for "Waves." The strokes were thick and sweeping, the momentum seamless and grand. Merely looking at them seemed to bring the sound of surging waters to one's ears, yet beneath that sound lay an undercurrent of yielding gentleness, as though subdued by some formidable force—causing the roar to resonate without alarming, and rage without intimidating.
Noticing him gazing at the stone, the Waves Hall disciple promptly explained, "These characters, 'Waves,' were penned by our founder, Ancestor Chandao himself, more than six hundred years ago."
Chen Chuan gazed intently at the two characters. Though centuries had passed, he could still sense a faint remnant of spiritual power lingering upon them, much like Master Hongfa's lotus pedestal.
Furthermore...
His gaze deepened. Contained within the calligraphy were many other things.
Seeing him pause, neither disciple made a sound to interrupt or hurry him, waiting respectfully by his side.
Chen Chuan lingered for quite a while before withdrawing his gaze. Turning toward a mountain path winding upward through a bamboo grove behind the compound, he said, "Let us go."
"This way, sir," the disciple said at once. He resumed leading Chen Chuan up the path. The first few dozen stone steps were somewhat steep, but leveled out after a stretch, with the occasional chirp of birds echoing through the bamboo grove.
Chen Chuan's gaze then caught sight of a massive dark-cyan stele erected deep within the bamboo grove, flanked by sculptures of bizarre creatures. Many names were carved across its surface, though numerous spaces remained blank.
"What is that?" he asked.
The guide answered respectfully, "Sir, that is the Stele of Self-Sacrifice. Engraved upon it are the names of our Waves Hall disciples who fought in duels and challenges over the past several centuries and died on foreign soil."
Pausing briefly, he added, "After Junior Brother Jiancheng fell in battle, his name was carved upon this stele as well."
Chen Chuan glanced at him. "You call him Junior Brother. Then you must be Waves Hall's head disciple of this generation, Bianyue Yizhen?"
Bianyue Yizhen bowed. "Indeed, it is I."
Chen Chuan looked at him closely. When the man had arrived to receive him earlier, Chen Chuan had already discerned that this disciple was no ordinary fighter; among third-limit fighters, he was undoubtedly one of the top experts.
He had met Hiroshi Nokane of An'yao Arena and Gongying Changxiu of Fenglin Dojo. Each possessed an indefinable aura, whereas Bianyue Yizhen appeared entirely ordinary on the outside. Yet Chen Chuan could sense an even deeper, almost fanatical conviction within him—something neither of the other two had possessed.
"You do not seem saddened by your junior brother's death," Chen Chuan remarked.
Bianyue Yizhen lifted his head slightly and replied with earnest gravity, "We who walk the martial path cannot escape falling to a blade, spilling our life's blood, and returning to the earth and stone. A mortal body cannot endure in this world forever; only a warrior's renown lasts. Junior Brother Jiancheng was defeated at your hands. To fall in defeat to a martial artist was his good fortune."
His voice rang with complete sincerity; he evidently believed this with all his heart.
Chen Chuan offered neither agreement nor dispute. Emerging from the bamboo grove, their view opened up. Across a corridor ahead stood a wooden structure typical of the old-era island nations of the Outer Ocean.
Scarlet-blossom trees were planted in rows on either side of the walkway. In front of the doors, a lame old man clad in black robes knelt with a solemn expression, remaining motionless and silent even as their party approached.
As they passed by the old man, he suddenly spoke: "Sir, did he exhaust all his techniques?"
Chen Chuan understood instantly who he was asking about. After recalling briefly, he replied, "You could say he exhausted them."
Hearing this, the lame elder turned and bowed deeply toward him, prostrating himself.
Chen Chuan did not look back. Walking along the corridor, he arrived before the timber building's entrance. There, Bianyue Yizhen bowed and said, "Master awaits you within the Grand Viewing Chamber. Please forgive me for not escorting you further."
Chen Chuan glanced inside. With no intention of removing his shoes, he stepped directly up the stairs and onto the wooden flooring within. None of the attendants present made any gesture of disapproval.
Nevertheless, having walked the entire way enveloped in a faint protective radiance, his boots had not gathered the slightest filth or wet mud, leaving behind not a single mark upon the floor despite his arrival from outside.
Passing through the front hall, he arrived directly outside the Grand Viewing Chamber. The bamboo blinds had already been rolled up, revealing a tall, gaunt figure who measured over two meters high even while seated. The man's hair hung loose around his shoulders. On a blade rack beside him rested a slightly curved long saber. Next to the table before him sat an ink-colored censer adorned with wave patterns, and above him hung a calligraphic scroll bearing the characters "Hearing Thunder."
The master of Waves Hall, Fenghe Shou.
At that moment, the man gestured with an outstretched hand and said, "Mr. Chen, please have a seat."
Chen Chuan walked over and sat down opposite him.
Fenghe Shou picked up a ceramic teapot from the table and poured tea into the cup before Chen Chuan. Delicate white buds could be seen on the tips of the tea leaves, looking within the cup as though a blanket of snowflakes floated on the surface.
"This is Xuelang tea. It comes from two tea bushes transplanted by Ancestor Chandao from a Zen monastery on the Eastern Continent. Supposedly, only these two bushes remain in the world, and they can only be harvested at the end of October each year. It happens to be just in time to welcome our guest. Mr. Chen, please taste it."
Chen Chuan lifted the cup and took a sip. Instantly, a refreshing coolness permeated his body, accompanied by an endless, overflowing fragrance. He said, "Though I know little about tea, I find this tea excellent."
Fenghe Shou said, "So long as Mr. Chen enjoys it, understanding it is of no importance. People such as you and I need no longer care about worldly opinions or the thoughts of others."
Chen Chuan took another sip. Because the cup was small, it emptied almost immediately, leaving only the leaves resting at the bottom. Setting the cup down, he spoke with double meaning: "It is not enough."
Fenghe Shou did not refill his cup. Instead, he glanced at the Xuejun Saber Chen Chuan carried, remarking, "Mr. Chen possesses striking poise and an imposing presence, but alas, your saber does not match you."
Chen Chuan replied with equanimity, "With a blade or without, it is all the same to me."
Fenghe Shou looked at him. "If that is so, why bring it along?"
Chen Chuan lifted the saber to glance at it, then raised his gaze. "This blade is named Xuejun. It has accompanied me ever since I embarked upon the path of combat, serving as my trusted companion. Master Fenghe, our spar today lacks spectators and feels somewhat quiet; having it watch the battle here suits it well."
Fenghe Shou seemed quite taken with the sentiment, showing an expression of warm approval. Reaching out, he grasped a chain beside him and pulled. A mechanical click sounded, and the entire pavilion in which they sat gave a shudder, beginning to descend slowly.
Chen Chuan showed no reaction on his face, sitting there in tranquil repose.
The pavilion descended some forty to fifty meters before several heavy metallic clanks rang out, as if restraining cables had suddenly pulled taut. With another gentle shudder, it came to a halt.
Chen Chuan saw that behind Fenghe Shou lay a passageway supported by timber frames. Carved into the black-lacquered pillars were the heads of bizarre creatures, while brilliant light shone from around a bend at the far end.
Fenghe Shou reached for the long saber beside him, saying, "Mr. Chen saw the calligraphy above my head just now. My blade is called 'Wenlei'—Hearing Thunder." Grasping it, he rose from his seat.
When standing at his full height, he was a towering four meters tall, dressed in the bound training attire of his hall with broad sleeves. His face was long and narrow, though not unpleasing to the eye, yet his exact age was impossible to discern—he might have been in his twenties, or perhaps his forties or fifties. He emanated a profound, stern, and imposing aura.
"Mr. Chen, there is not enough room to move here. Please follow me," he said. Turning, he strode toward the area radiating light.
Chen Chuan rose as well, picked up the Xuejun Saber, and followed behind.
The corridor was quite spacious, measuring twenty meters high and five or six meters wide, yet even so, numerous marks of scraping and friction scarred the side walls and ceiling.
The radiance ahead was intimately familiar to him—it was the brilliant light radiating from the opposite world.
He knew that among the martial arts halls surviving in the Outer Ocean, any that maintained an intact heritage possessed their own fissure. Where they were heading now was surely the fissure of Waves Hall.
Such matters might be secrets to ordinary people, but to martial artists, they were nothing unusual—common knowledge, essentially.
He had entered the fissure of Danliu School before, where an elder senior stood guard at the entrance. He wondered what kind of presence guarded this one.
Just as they were about to arrive, Fenghe Shou halted before the oncoming light. The space where he stood seemed to have been forcibly stretched open; the original ornaments and supports had vanished, leaving behind what looked like a massive crater. He said, "A senior of our Waves Hall once resided here, but he has now departed."
"Departed?"
Fenghe Shou said, "Though in theory our lifespans know no end, external corruption inevitably seeps in during our cultivation. The further one cultivates, the more impurities precipitate and accumulate—this is irreversible.
"Yet our very ability to undergo metamorphosis and break past the limits relies upon this, making it exceedingly difficult to eradicate. In the later stages of cultivation, these impurities not only seep in from without, but also arise from within one's own spirit. Pressed from both inside and out, the suffering is unbearable. One must constantly cleanse and untangle them. If one fails to hold fast, one will be corrupted into an alien yaogui."
Chapter 805