The disciples were quieter now. Hardened.
Most had stopped talking about the hallucinations, though now and then, the topic resurfaced in hushed tones—always with that same look of uncertainty. Was it real? Was it magic? A trial?
None had seen the owl.
Only Han Yu had heard it speak.
As the weeks passed, they crossed into the southern reaches of the continent.
On the thirty-first day after leaving the forest, their vanguard crested a plateau and finally laid eyes on their intermediate destination—Sunken Ember Outpost, the halfway point before they would descend into the vast Southern Marshes.
It was a fortress built atop a sunken basalt shelf, half its walls buried beneath the sediment, with lanterns always burning and tall brass towers built to ward off the foul marsh air.
Elders called for a halt as cheers broke out among the disciples.
It was the first true milestone since they’d left the sect’s domain.
Han Yu looked across the dark wetland stretching far in the distance beyond the outpost, his gaze heavy with thought.
He could already feel it.
The deep unknown awaited.
And somewhere in that murky horizon... other beings might be watching too.
The Southern Marshes welcomed them not with fanfare, but with a creeping silence and the smell of rot.
They stood at the edge of the Outer Ring, the last stretch of solid land before the ground gave way to the infamous marshlands.
The sky above was a pale, cloud-smeared sheet of gray, and a strange humidity clung to everything like a second skin. Even the wind that brushed against their robes carried a sluggish weight, as though reluctant to move through this place.
The land ahead was soft, visibly damp and darkened in patches that oozed when stepped on. With every step, the marsh whispered—muffled gurgles, unseen sloshes, the occasional pop of sinking earth.
The expedition had reached the marsh, yes.
But this was only the beginning.
The true path forward would take nearly two more months to cross if not more, winding through treacherous terrain, hidden sinkholes, and waterlogged traps, all while the air grew thicker with spiritual dampness and the subtle pull of unseen forces that tested one’s will.
Han Yu stared ahead grimly, already calculating the burden this journey would place on the group.
Unlike the earlier portion of their journey, the marsh offered no flat plains or hills to give respite. No stone roads to ease their march. Just the slow crawl of uneven earth, stretches of stagnant water, and the ever-present stench of decay.
And now, the difference in rank truly showed.
The elders and Inner Court disciples began to ascend, hovering just above the unstable terrain either with their spiritual energy or upon flying spirit weapons—fans, swords, disks, paper cranes, even a floating bell in the case of one eccentric Inner Court youth. Their figures drifted along like solemn ghosts, graceful and untouched by the mud.
But the Outer Court disciples, hundreds upon hundreds of them, had no such luxury.
Some attempted short flights at first, using their spirit weapons as crude platforms. But each attempt ended quickly. Their qi reserves simply couldn’t sustain such use for more than a few seconds—maybe a handful of minutes if they were lucky and well-rested.
Even that small usage left them gasping and pale.
Flying on Spirit Weapons while in the Qi Refining Realm was mostly a tactical move, reserved for a second or two rather than a proper movement method. Only when one reached the Core Condensation Realm could one use the Spirit Weapons to fly for longer,
And only when one reached the Nascent Soul Realm could a cultivator fly without a spirit weapon, using solely their cultivation base.
Knowing this, a few disciples were even scolded by the patrolling elders for wasting energy.
"Save your strength," Elder Guyan warned, her voice firm as she drifted above the muck on her shimmering blade. "If you exhaust your qi now, you’ll have nothing left when something truly dangerous comes."
So the Outer Court disciples walked.
Step by sinking step.
The soft ground squelched and sucked at their boots. Sometimes it gave way entirely, and several times already, someone had to be pulled out of a hidden bog or muddy sinkhole that nearly swallowed them whole.
Thick reeds tangled around ankles. Slippery vines tripped even the most cautious.
And the air grew worse the deeper they went.
The scent of mangroves and bogrot filled their nostrils. Every breath carried a metallic tinge, and the buzzing of insects grew louder—until it was almost a constant hum just beneath hearing.
Still, for a time, the elders and flying cultivators guided the way from above, keeping pace and maintaining a loose formation.
But then came the first stretch of true swamp—a mile-wide basin of open water, its surface dotted with slick lily pads and gnarled deadwood, steaming in the afternoon heat.
The waters rippled with unseen movement, and the shadows below told of things lurking just out of sight.
It was here that flying became a necessity.
Dozens of venomous creatures emerged as they approached: bloated frogs the size of hounds with eyes that glowed blue; sky-colored centipedes that shimmered as they slithered over water; and worst of all, swarming clouds of blood marsh wasps, so thick they looked like black smoke from a distance.
No one could walk through that.
The elders gave swift orders.
"Outer Court disciples—prepare for short-flight formations! Don’t overextend your qi. If you fall in, we may not be able to pull you out in time."
There was no room for hesitation.
Those who could summoned their spirit weapons and took to the air, grimacing as the effort taxed them deeply. Most rode hovering blades or spears, struggling to balance as they crossed the swampy expanse in tight groups. Some were slower than others. A few almost fell when a wasp swarm veered too close.
Han Yu soared easily over the water, standing calmly upon his hybrid halberd.