Chapter 18: The Old Fox’s Torch

Not a single drop of rain fell upon Phoenix Lake.

Across the vast expanse, thick ice sealed the surface. The suspended moisture condensed into a steady fall of hailstones.

A masked woman of the Sword Edict Heaven Sect stood upon the frozen lake, leaning on her sword. Blood trickled from beneath her mask.

She lifted her head.

High above, the blood-red specter of the demon fox coiled around the old man. The Witch Sovereign, clutching a burning ancient scroll, struggled desperately to hold her ground.

The woman wiped the blood from her chin with the back of her hand. Exhaling softly, she stamped down. The ice beneath her shattered, and her body shot upward, turning into a streak of sword energy that slashed toward the blood specter.

Clang—

Though her strike cut only empty air, the sound rang like metal upon stone.

A faint gasp escaped the old fox in the sky.

Its eighty-one illusory forms collapsed into one. With a whip of its tail, it repelled the blade, striking its back. Snow and wind swirled, closing the gash across its body.

Though that blow was deflected, her other hand formed a pincer. From her fingers burst another blade of energy—a spinning disc of light that struck the old fox with blinding speed. It exploded outward, scattering into countless arcs that tore into its vast form.

“Sword techniques in this age grow ever more ostentatious,” the old fox sneered. His form hardened, deflecting the storm of sword light. “But the divine intent of the sword has declined since five centuries past. I wonder where you learned this art. Such a waste of natural talent.”

The blizzard howled. The woman parried the demonic backlash with her sword, sliding back several steps.

“My skills are crude,” she said coldly. “They have nothing to do with my sect.”

The old fox shook his head.

“The divine intent of the sword transcends cultivation. Five hundred years ago, when Qiu Ziguan was but a child, mountain demons raided his village. Still half-asleep, he drew his sword, and the demons bowed and retreated. He had not even begun his training.”

The woman frowned. The name Qiu Ziguan was unfamiliar, and the tale implausible. Could an untrained boy repel demons and gods with a single stroke?

The old fox’s gaze deepened.

“I thought you had promise. I wished to guide you. Yet you prove another stubborn fool. If you can walk out of this frozen lake by your sword alone, I may spare your life.”

“Do not think to shake my mind,” she murmured, forcing aside distraction.

Though his aura towered and his arts ran deep, he was only a soul fragment. His strength was no greater than hers. She thought not of escape, but of victory.

The blizzard swelled. She stepped back, her sword shrieking. Lightning arcs flashed as she struck, a white rainbow crashing down upon the fox’s form.

Below, the Witchmaster collapsed onto the ice, gasping.

Moments ago, demonic thoughts had bound him. Without the woman’s sword, he would have perished.

Chill pierced his soul. He bellowed:

“Hold him—just a moment!”

Unfurling the ancient scroll, he chanted an archaic incantation. A primordial aura spread, scattering the storm. The scroll’s pages stirred, words rising from them to dissolve and reform midair.

The woman understood. She hurled her sword forward, guiding it with spiritual force toward the fox’s body. At the same time, she unleashed streams of energy like white dragons, roaring toward him.

“Sword Lock?” The old fox faltered, evading as the white dragons coiled.

For the first time, he yielded ground—descending straight into the Witchmaster’s formation.

The woman’s eyes were cold. Sword qi became chains, interlinking and blocking every path.

With a cry, her form vanished, blade and snow converging upon him.

“Heaven and earth as locks, sword energy as chains… A fine technique,” the fox said. Surprise flashed in his eyes, then contempt. “Had I my body, this might have trapped me for a breath. But now…”

Before he finished, the sword fell upon him. His fiery form burst apart, scattering like sparks. The chains could not hold. His spirit slipped through, surging straight at the Witchmaster.

But the Witchmaster had lied.

He needed no more time. As the fox burst free, the ritual was complete.

His eyes snapped open, brilliant and sharp.

“Great Ming Tower, Hong Manor, Mountain-Guarding Residence, Hidden Pavilion!”

Phantom towers and mansions appeared, vast and radiant. They formed the capital of Zhao, etched into the scroll, brought to life again.

The fox’s soul plunged into this array, shattering into fragments like fireflies.

The Witchmaster raised the scroll like a pilgrim, chanting name after name. Each word summoned another edifice, pressing the advantage.

The city of illusions clamped down, suppressing the fox.

The woman’s sword closed in.

Within the phantom walls, human and fox, snow and fire collided. Beneath, the lake cracked and melted, half its surface dissolving.

The fox’s strength waned. Yet the Witchmaster too withered, the scroll draining his life. Both awaited the other’s fall.

Standing upon drifting ice, he coughed blood, rasping:

“East Palace, Changxiang Hall, Star-Plucking Pavilion…”

Above, the phantom city expanded.

“Jiazi Hall, Nine Spirits Terrace, Qianyu…”

His voice faltered. The word “Hall” died upon his lips.

Qianyu Hall was gone. The city was incomplete.

The pages sighed.

Within the broken city, the fox halted. Fireflies of soul returned to him. Even his dharma form shrank within its vastness.

“So this is how it ends?” he murmured.

Then the woman’s sword fell. He caught it with his bare hands. Fingers shredded under its qi, yet he held fast.

Her eyes narrowed. This should have been her chance, but unease filled her heart.

The Witchmaster, too, sensed it.

The scroll reached its end. The phantom city pressed down like a mountain lock.

At that instant, the woman transformed into a streak of light, fleeing.

The Witchmaster frowned. A glimmer sparked in his old eyes—then flames erupted, engulfing the city.

The fox’s soul soared upward, cloaked in true fire.

“Impossible!” both cried.

Earlier, when he froze the lake, they thought his flames false. Indeed, they gave no heat.

But now the fire seared the soul itself.

Water might be held by walls, but fire consumed all.

The scroll’s edges blackened.

“Ice and fire… within one body?” the woman whispered.

The fox walked through the flames with ease, each step reducing towers to ash. He sneered:

“You’ve touched the Purple Court, yet your vision is shallow. This state is too small. To hide in a mountain temple and call it cultivation—laughable. If you die here, it is no injustice.”

The woman’s sword trembled.

The fox, freed at last, spoke at length.

“Five hundred years ago, I entered the earth’s fire veins. My hair burned away, my body broken. There, I saw an icy sea, divided from magma by only a thin wall of stone. I bathed in fire in winter, cooled in ice in summer. After decades, I grasped balance, broke through to the Fifth Path, glimpsed realms beyond. Greed nearly destroyed me. But then… I met the Sage.”

“The Sage?” the woman asked, startled.

“He expounded the Way, dissected heaven and earth, taught me true balance. One sentence he spoke freed me from desire. I abandoned pursuit of the higher realms. Thus I survived the calamity five centuries past.”

His voice carried the weight of memory.

“A sage… five hundred years ago?” she murmured.

“A true sage,” he said. “One destined to shatter ignorance and lead the world to freedom. But heaven’s laws are cruel…”

A sigh echoed.

Flames devoured the city.

The phantom walls turned to ash.

The Witchmaster collapsed upon the ice, the scroll spent.

The fox landed before him, reciting:

“The city falls, home and nation lost;
The quest for immortality ends in emptiness.”

Tears streaked the old man’s face.

If only the Empress were here. Was she dead? Alive? Nobody was ever found.

The fox’s flames pierced his heart. His long life ended in that thought.

“She warned me disrupting Zhao’s fate would bring backlash,” the fox said. “But your heart never belonged here.”

He seized the scroll, swallowing it whole.

In the underground palace, his true soul opened its eyes. Chains shattered.

His spirit entered the Witchmaster’s corpse. The dead man rose, stiff and cold, his eyes glowing.

He turned toward the white-robed woman in the sky. Their gazes locked. She fled without hesitation.

“Not bad,” the fox muttered through his new body, stretching his limbs. “But too late.”