The Night Saint Descends

One day later.

The flying boat drifted across the sea of clouds.

The lingering warmth of the cave still clung to their robes as the three of them returned to this small vessel, once again adrift in the vast, boundless cloud sea.

Daylight had fully broken.

The morning sun stained the clouds in endless waves of gold and orange, a magnificent and breathtaking sight.

Ying'er sat by the railing, her elbows resting on the balustrade, her eyes swollen from a night of crying and terror. Now, however, she bore a numb, ineffable blankness—something beyond words.

Every now and then, she would sneak a glance at Ye Xuan. Seeing that his complexion, though still pale, had steadied as he sat firmly at the bow, she would quietly shift her gaze away without speaking.

Ye Xuan pulled a wine flask from his storage pouch, poured half a cup, and held it in his hand. He did not drink immediately, but simply gazed ahead in silence.

Wu Lingfeng stood two paces behind him, her spine straight as a rod.

Her eyes were fixed on the clouds ahead, her expression calm, but her fingertips tensed slightly at intervals, as if suppressing something within.

The backlash of the Dragon Transfiguration Art was still raging inside her.

She neither mentioned it nor showed it, letting the bone-chilling pain roam quietly through her meridians, not allowing it to make a sound.

The flying boat moved forward, the wind whispering softly.

They traveled on like this for a while.

Then, without any warning, the daylight vanished.

It was not clouds gathering to block the sun, nor a sudden shift in the weather—it was a bizarre darkness spreading from within, as though seeping out from cracks in the void itself. Like a single drop of thick ink falling into clear water, in the instant it touched the surface, it spread silently in every direction, swallowing the light for a hundred li. The speed was so rapid that even Ying’er, before she could react, found the sky around her transformed from the brightness of early morning into a stifling, indescribable gloom.

This was not nightfall.

It was the will of something—something that had seized the very light of this world and choked it.

Crack!

The flying boat’s protective array shattered in the instant before the full weight of this influence struck. The fragments of the defensive runes scattered with a crackling sound, and the boat shuddered violently. Ying’er, caught off guard, nearly slipped off the railing.

“Ying’er!”

Wu Lingfeng turned sideways, grabbing Ying’er’s wrist in one swift motion and pulling her back to steady her.

But as she herself made contact with the overwhelming pressure spreading through the air, her steps faltered slightly.

Her cultivation level, the Tribulation Crossing Stage, now felt as though something had seized it by the throat. The oppressive aura crushed in from all directions, bringing her a long-forgotten but very real suffocation.

Not Tribulation Crossing Stage.

“Mahayana Stage…”

Wu Lingfeng’s voice was low. The moment those words left her lips, she had already placed herself in front of Ye Xuan, shielding him with her body. Her spear materialized in a flash of lightning, its tip aimed at the deepening darkness ahead. Her thin lips pressed tight, and her eyes turned sharp and fierce: “He’s here!”

But hidden in her tone was a thread of despair, so fine it was almost imperceptible.

She had spent the entire night channeling her life essence to protect Ye Xuan’s soul, and the backlash of the Dragon Transfiguration Art was still ravaging her body. At this moment, the power she could draw upon was no more than sixty percent of her usual strength.

A sixty-percent Tribulation Crossing Stage cultivator—against a Mahayana Stage enemy.

This gap could not be closed by effort alone.

In the darkness, something was gathering.

It was a human figure.

Emerging slowly from the depths, step by step, unhurried. He walked on the void itself, the hem of his robe drifting with an undetectable current of air.

Around his body coiled a faint black aura, a netherworldly presence that was thick and chilling. Wherever it spread, the clouds beneath his feet dissolved into nothing.

As the distance closed, his face grew clearer.

Handsome. Unearthly. Pale.

He had high brow bones and deep-set features—a noble and captivating appearance, the kind that would make anyone unable to look away in a crowd.

But now, the expression on that face was too sinister. A faint, elusive smile played at the corners of his lips, yet his eyes were as cold as a frozen abyss, lending his beauty a bone-chilling quality.

On his brow, between the center of his forehead and his eyebrows, was a dark red mark—a demonic pattern carved into the flesh, the scar of a practitioner who had crossed a forbidden boundary in the demonic path.

When his foot touched the deck, the sound was almost silent.

Yet with every step, the wood beneath him spread a network of fine, decaying cracks from the point of impact. The warm brown of the timber turned a lifeless gray-black, as though some corruptive force were silently devouring all vitality.

Wu Lingfeng glared at him, the tip of her spear quivering slightly. The veins on the back of her hand were clearly visible.

The man did not look at Wu Lingfeng. He did not look at Ying’er. He passed over both of them—and the spear pointed at him—and fixed his gaze on Ye Xuan.

Ye Xuan sat there, still holding the untouched wine cup, his eyes meeting that gaze with calm indifference.

A faint, subtle movement crossed the newcomer’s lips, a slight curve that carried a complex, barely perceptible meaning:

“Ye Xuan.”

His voice was hoarse, as if torn from the deepest part of his throat: “I’ve searched high and low, only to find you right here, without any effort at all.”

Ye Xuan’s expression remained calm. He set the wine cup gently on his knee, then spoke slowly.

“Holy Son Yeyou. Why have you come?”

The name made Wu Lingfeng’s brows twitch sharply.

Yeh You.

Holy Son of the Boundless Sacred Sect—once the foremost genius among the younger generation of the Three Thousand Dao States. In the rumors of debauchery that stained the Great Xia imperial palace, his name was never absent. And he was the deepest shadow behind the coup that had driven Ye Xuan into exile.

Her spear tip did not lower. She gripped it even tighter.

Yeh You ignored the spear. He did not answer Ye Xuan’s question either. Instead, he stepped forward slowly until he stood three paces away, looking down at Ye Xuan from above. The curve of his lips deepened, carrying a cruelty that was both playful and fraught with meaning:

“Can’t I come to see my love rival?”

“Love rival.”

Ye Xuan savored the word for a moment, then shook his head lightly. He reached into his storage pouch, brought out another empty cup, unhurriedly filled it, and pushed it to where Yeh You could see it.

Lifting his gaze to meet Yeh You’s icy eyes, he spoke with a calm, genuine nonchalance in his tone:

“I’ve heard certain things.”

“The Boundless Sacred Sect was uprooted by the Great Xia Immortal Dynasty—every last one of them slaughtered.”

His voice was not loud, but every syllable was distinct: “And you, Holy Son Yeyou, had the ‘Nine Heavens and Ten Earths Pursuit Order’ personally signed against you by the Female Emperor. You’ve been hiding like a stray dog in the gutters of the Three Thousand Dao States for who knows how many years, just to crawl your way to the Mahayana Stage.”

He paused, then lifted his own cup and took a small sip.

Silence.

For the briefest moment, utter silence.

BANG!

The deck beneath Yeh You’s foot shattered explosively. Rotten wood shards flew in all directions as the terrifying pressure of the Mahayana Stage burst forth like a collapsing dam, flooding the air in every direction.

Wu Lingfeng had no time to think. She pushed off her toes, lunging sideways, throwing her own body between Ye Xuan and that onrushing wave of energy.

Boom!

The force struck like a physical blow, shoving her back seven or eight steps. Her heels gouged two deep furrows into the wooden deck. Blood roiled in her chest, and a metallic sweetness rose in her throat. She clenched her teeth, forcing the blood back down, and held her ground with sheer will.

Ying'er was thrown backward by the residual shockwave, grabbing the ship's railing so tightly she nearly cracked her knuckles just to keep from falling. Her face was pale as death, and real terror gleamed in her eyes.

Yeh You stared fixedly at Ye Xuan. That once-beautiful face, twisted with rage, now seethed with demonic energy so thick it seemed ready to blacken the whites of his eyes:

"This is all because of you!"

"If you hadn't died! If that madwoman hadn't sought revenge for you—how would my sect have been annihilated? How would my people have perished!"

He stepped forward. His rotting aura spread with every pace, creeping across the flying-boat deck. The planks groaned beneath his feet—a sound like a bone being crushed from end to end:

"Do you know how many years I spent sinking in the Abyss? There I devoured evil spirits, gulped down deathly qi, forced myself to snap my own chains with everyone-forsaken demonic arts, inch by inch cracking open the threshold of the Mahayana stage. I survived on nothing but the hatred I held for you, and for her!"

"So today I've come—for vengeance!"