But I'm a proper river god, you know! - Chapter 49

The flying sword beneath their feet was sheathed, and the group descended swiftly.

Eleven stared at the black-draped gate ahead, hesitating. He scratched his head and nudged Song Qingyang uncertainly. “Mute, this is the River God’s temple, right? You didn’t bring us to the wrong place?”

It didn’t look like a proper temple. Something about it made his skin crawl.

Song Qingyang’s gaze darkened as he glanced at the figure hanging from the wall—a disciple of the Blazing Moon Valley. He shook his head, pressing a finger to his lips in warning.

Watch your words.

Eleven stiffened and fell silent. Behind them, several figures landed lightly.

Song Qingyang hurried forward to support a frail female cultivator in a pale-yellow ruqun, her long black hair braided into seven or eight loose strands. Her face was deathly pale, and she swayed unsteadily. He moved carefully, afraid even the slightest jostle might hurt her.

“Cough… Thank you, shixiong.” Er Xin’s eyes, soft as rippling water, lowered shyly. Her voice was sweet but weakened by illness. The moment she finished speaking, another fit of coughing wracked her.

Eleven’s heart ached. He reached out instinctively but withdrew his hand. “Er Xin…”

She forced a smile, ignoring the metallic taste in her mouth. “Cough… Don’t worry, Shiyi-shixiong. I’m… cough… not in pain.”

Her feigned strength didn’t fool him.

Er Xin was the youngest disciple of Danxin Sect, the treasured daughter of their sect leader. She had been coddled and adored since childhood.

But years ago, after a training expedition, she fell mysteriously ill. The elders scoured ancient texts but found no cure. They could only watch helplessly as her vitality drained away. Medicine failed her—now, she had barely half a year left.

Just as despair set in, a reclusive master offered a sliver of hope.

Legend spoke of the Wuchang Xuanlan, a rare spirit herb, crystalline as ice. A single stalk could grant mortals immortality or elevate a cultivator’s power. Most crucially, it could stabilize fading life force—their only hope.

But such a treasure was near impossible to find. For ten years, Danxin Sect searched tirelessly, yet not a trace surfaced.

Then, on the brink of despair, the sect leader received a lead.

Xuan Changsheng, youngest son of the Xuan family, possessed a secret art—one that could locate any spiritual treasure.

Like a light in endless darkness, Danxin Sect split their efforts: hunting for the herb while tracking Xuan Changsheng’s whereabouts.

Finally, word came—Xuan Changsheng had been spotted in the Land of Oblivion.

So, Song Qingyang, Eleven, and the others set out to find him. Yet when they did, it was as if they hadn’t.

Still, they gained a new direction.

Gritting his teeth, Eleven took a deep breath and marched toward the ominous temple.

“Riv—” God…

Before his knuckles could touch the gate, it swung open with a whoosh, revealing a face peering out.

Ye Wenshu, who had been distracted by the commotion inside, nearly forgot he was still “repaying his debt.” “Good heavens, don’t touch that black cloth!”

He hastily smoothed the fabric, his nervousness making Eleven pause. The man fussed over it until not a single crease remained.

“Who are you looking for?”

Eleven blinked, but before he could answer, two gaping “mouths” suddenly appeared on either side of the gate, snapping menacingly as if sizing him up for a meal.

A cold sweat trickled down his spine. Under Song Qingyang’s worried gaze, Eleven steeled himself. “This humble one is Eleven of Danxin Sect. We beg the River God to grant us an audience!”

He held his breath, bowing deeply.

Silence.

Then Ye Wenshu’s gaze shifted past him—to Er Xin.

“Wait here.”

With a thud, the gate slammed shut.

Eleven: “…!!!”

Stunned, he stared at the closed door. Just as he raised his hand to knock again, the two “mouths” lunged forward, acting as makeshift gatekeepers.

“Perhaps… our manners were lacking,” Eleven muttered awkwardly.

Behind him, Er Xin’s eyes dimmed. She had heard from Eleven that the enigmatic River God might save her.

Yet they hadn’t even gotten past the door.

Though disappointed, she bore no resentment. The River God owed her nothing, and great beings were seldom easily met.

“Cough… Shiyi-shixiong, let me try.” Supported by the others, she stepped forward, trembling, and knocked.

“Danxin Sect disciple Er Xin seeks an audience with the River God.”

Inside the temple, Ye Wenshu rushed to Yuan Ji in a panic. “River God, we have a problem!”

The group, who had been inspecting the temple’s new “decorations,” spun around, instinctively grabbing whatever was at hand—rolling pins, laundry poles, brooms…

Yuan Ji arched a brow.

“System, can I just bring trash back next time?” These “weapons” looked even worse than the river’s debris.

System: …You can.

But Yuan Ji, don’t you think this habit of immediately resorting to violence is a bit… problematic?

Ye Wenshu shook his head. “No—it’s devotees! They’re asking to see the River God!”

“Oh.” The group calmly lowered their tools and resumed staring at the decorations.

Then Fang Mingzhu snapped out of it. “Devotees?”

“Yep!”

“At the gate?”

“Yep!”

“…”

Everyone’s eyes drifted to the new décor. A single thought crossed their minds:

This might scare them off.

Then again, the real deterrent was probably the pile of rubble in the courtyard. Panicked, they scrambled to clean up.

Yuan Ji had sensed the visitors earlier—though they’d arrived sooner than expected.

“Open the gate.”

Ye Wenshu hesitated, eyeing the scattered tiles, moss, and bloodstains. Gritting his teeth, he pulled the door open—

Only for the black cloth to slip.

A blinding golden light erupted.