The Lava River was one of those peculiar places that sounded fascinating on paper but turned out to be a disappointment when visited in person. It was a naturally occurring domain—one that existed due to unique qi flows converging at a particular spot, not because of any cultivator’s interference or design. As far as Mo Jian knew, the Lava River had existed in its current state since before the Shattering, making it both ancient and imbued with a sense of continuity that few places in the modern world possessed.
By comparison, even the Thousand Shattered Islands were relatively young. They had been born from the cataclysmic battle of immortals that had torn apart part of the southern mainland, leaving it either destroyed or sunken beneath the sea. When the waters rushed in, what fragments of land managed to survive the ensuing tsunamis and rising tides eventually became the Thousand Shattered Islands.
When Mo Jian had first transmigrated into this world, he’d found that bit of history fascinating—especially since even the book he’d read hadn’t covered it in much detail.
Once, when the opportunity arose, he had taken Bai Ning along to visit the sect headquarters of the Mistwind Cloister. Among cultivators, they were a peculiar order—ascetic and frugal, yet not eschewing worldly possessions like the Buddhists. The Cloister was renowned for hosting one of the finest open-source libraries in the Thousand Shattered Islands, welcoming cultivators of all stripes to contribute to or draw from its vast repository of knowledge.
And it wasn’t cultivation techniques or secret manuals they prized most, but everything else—history, art, language, music, geography, astronomy, culture, and a staggering wealth of fiction and folk tales. All of it could be read, discussed, and debated freely within the Cloister. For a sect of monks, more of them were scholars than warriors, and they treated cultivation not as an end in itself, but as a means to sustain the pursuit of what they loved.
On paper, they should have been Mo Jian’s natural peers. Yet he still shuddered when he recalled that visit.
He had barely begun to take in the sight of the immense library—walls lined with jade slips and bamboo scrolls—when a student, a Qi Condensation cultivator no less, had cornered him and launched into an unending monologue about his research. Mo Jian had felt his ears practically fall off. Bai Ning had fared no better: a student had mistaken her polite interest in what he was doing for a vow to dedicate her life to history and, with the zeal of an academic rescuing the ignorant, had proceeded to cram her full of “fascinating facts and figures you simply must know, sister.”
They were a dedicated bunch, certainly—but Mo Jian had sworn never to set foot in that library again unless it was a matter of life and death.
But he was digressing. Unlike the fascinating histories that explained the origins of so many unique places in the Islands, the Lava River was almost entirely ignored in the records. Even the Mistwind Cloister likely had little to say about it, and for good reason: the Lava River was, quite simply, a colossal waste of time.
It had no spiritual resources worth harvesting. No spirit beasts or demonic creatures made their home there. It was grand and majestic, yes—but not in any way that invited admiration. One look was usually enough to make any cultivator wince. The place wasn’t awe-inspiring; it was oppressive, a sweltering furnace that offered neither comfort nor benefit.
To make matters worse, it was infested with yaoguai—demons of heat and vapor that were a nuisance to fight and left nothing behind when slain. Occasionally, a huodou—a hound of greasy smoke that breathed fire—or a bifang—a one-legged bird cloaked in a coat of feathery mirages—would appear as well. They weren’t true demonic beasts, merely extensions of the domain itself, existing solely to make the place more miserable.
Adding insult to injury, the Lava River was inconveniently located. It lay far off any trade or pilgrimage routes, and few cultivators ever bothered to visit. Most people preferred to pretend it didn’t exist—since even avoiding it required more effort than anyone cared to spend on something so utterly useless.
In Mo Jian’s mind, the worst thing about the domain was that it didn’t even benefit Fire-attribute cultivators. You’d think that an entire region saturated with fire and earth qi, crawling with fire demons, and named after molten rock would be a paradise for them. But apparently not. Fire cultivators found it just as unbearable and unproductive as everyone else—and were quick to point out that the Ring of Fire was the real place for fire-aligned cultivation.
Lava River? Never heard of it.
All of which was to say that it would never have been Mo Jian’s first—or even tenth—choice if someone had asked him where to find a Niumowang. In truth, the Lava River wouldn’t have made the list at all. The words useful and Lava River had never once belonged in the same sentence.
And yet, Fan Mei was certain she could strike gold where everyone else had only found soot and disappointment. She had enlisted both Mo Jian and Bai Ning to her side with the kind of mischievous confidence that made refusal impossible. Given everything she had done for them—especially her recent help—Mo Jian hadn’t hesitated to agree. He simply wasn’t convinced their chances were worth much.
Now, the three of them floated serenely down the Lava River itself, which, as the name suggested, was exactly that: a river of molten stone. It flowed like living fire at the bottom of a vast, black chasm, its surface a slow, shimmering current of liquid heat. Jagged cliffs rose on either side—titanic walls of obsidian and basalt that stretched so high they seemed to scrape the heavens.
Except it wasn’t the sky above them. Not really.
The Lava River lay deep beneath the ocean floor, hidden in a submerged rift. The “sky” that shimmered far overhead was the surface of the sea, the water held miraculously at bay by the boundaries of the domain. From below, the blue light filtering through that narrow line of false sky lent the chasm an eerie, otherworldly glow—like sunlight refracted through glass.
They had spent two days flying to reach this place, then dove into the sea and passed through the barrier that separated the mundane world from the domain. Upon emerging, Fan Mei had produced the vessel they now drifted upon—a small boat carved from a single block of translucent ice.
The craft glided smoothly over the molten current, the edges of its hull hissing faintly where cold met heat. Every so often, shards of dark rock or spires of obsidian jutted up from the lava like reefs breaking the surface of a scarlet sea, forcing them to steer carefully around each one. All around, the air shimmered and trembled, alive with yaoguai that hissed and coiled in the air like smoke given form. Their attacks splashed harmlessly against the pale barrier that surrounded the boat, a shell of spiritual energy that kept out both the creatures and the blistering heat.
Mo Jian glanced down. Through the clear ice beneath his feet, he could see the lava churning below—glowing currents twisting and folding like the veins of some colossal, living creature. The light from it bathed their faces in a flickering orange hue, broken only by the cool luminescence falling from the parasol above them.
The parasol, pure white and delicate as snow, hung suspended over the boat. From its edges, a steady fall of crystalline flakes drifted down, melting away before they touched anything. The air within their little sphere of calm remained crisp and cool, a world apart from the inferno around them.
If nothing else, Mo Jian mused, they were navigating the Lava River in style.
He and Fan Mei could have endured the domain’s heat unshielded, suffering little more than a mild sunburn at worst given their cultivation. Bai Ning, however, would not have fared nearly as well. Not that she seemed to care.
She sat with her hands folded neatly in her lap, her eyes wide with delighted wonder as she stared at the molten expanse beyond the shimmering barrier. The river of lava stretched endlessly before them, a living ocean of fire, its slow, seething waves throwing reflections across her face like flickers of dawn light. Still, it was far safer than it might once have been—had she still been a mere Qi Condensation cultivator, she would have gone up in flames the moment they entered.
As they drifted downstream, Fan Mei idly plucked the strings of the Melodious Jade-Adorned Guzheng resting across her knees. The instrument—her natal artifact—was carved from shadowwood and strung with twenty-four threads of silver qi. Mo Jian had only seen her play it seriously once, in battle, and the memory had etched itself deep into his mind: the haunting tones that tore through an army like a blade through silk, the sky rippling with resonance.
Even now, she played only lightly, half-absentmindedly, her fingers brushing across the strings as though tracing a thought. Each note shimmered into the air and rippled outward, washing through the domain. The sound carried a subtle power—ripples of invisible force that blasted the hovering yaoguai into vapor, clearing a brief, blessed pocket of calm around their vessel. The creatures always returned, of course, but for a few moments, they could see where they were going.
The air filled with the low hum of the zither, a melody both serene and perilous, like moonlight reflected on a blade.
As Fan Mei played and Mo Jian drifted in thought, Bai Ning finally seemed to tire of the scenery. The endless waves of molten rock, the hissing of distant demons, the oppressive heat pressing against their barrier—all of it had lost its novelty.
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“Why did you never add an artifact spirit to the Heaven Enshrouding Ding, Master?” she asked, her tone casual but curious.
Mo Jian hummed softly. It was a fair question—especially considering why they were here in the first place.
“I never saw the need,” he said at last. “And I never came across a beast that made me reconsider that decision. Besides, it’s not all fun and games. An artifact spirit gives a natal artifact a personality—and that can be… risky. A tool with its own thoughts and emotions is no longer just a tool.”
He shook his head, then added dryly, “And if I end up with a chatty spirit, it’ll be a headache. Trust me, I know. My disciple already serves as one.”
Bai Ning’s qi flared in protest—not dangerously, but with the distinct texture of feigned offense. She didn’t even have to move a finger; the sheer tone of her energy broadcast her indignation loud and clear. Of all the techniques she could have mastered upon reaching Foundation Establishment, she had chosen this one first—likely for the sole purpose of annoying him.
In front of them, Fan Mei bowed her head slightly. Mo Jian knew her well enough to see the faint tremor at the corner of her lips; she was fighting a smile and losing.
He rolled his eyes.
Bai Ning took that as victory. Her qi settled into smug satisfaction, and she gave him a sweet, innocent smile. “I didn’t realize you thought of me as a headache, Master.”
“Well, now you know,” he said, his tone dry as desert sand. “Thus the master enlightens the disciple. Amitabha.”
He added the last part with a faint smirk—a callback to their last conversation with Monk Chanakya, when they’d half-jokingly continued their discussion of converting to Buddhism.
Bai Ning caught the reference immediately and snorted with laughter, her earlier indignation vanishing like mist.
“Why not just replace it if it turns out troublesome? Surely you’ll find one that suits you sooner or later?” she asked, still chuckling.
Fan Mei plucked a soft, amused note on her guzheng before responding, her smile knowing. “Not advisable. Artifact spirits can be replaced, yes—but it’s costly and dangerous. Handled poorly, it can permanently damage a natal artifact.”
Mo Jian nodded. “It’s always better to think carefully about the kind of spirit you want and then commit. Playing around can end badly.” He regarded her with mild curiosity. “Why ask? Do you already have a spirit in mind for when you reach Core Formation?”
Bai Ning’s violet eyes sparkled. “I’ve been considering it. What do you think about a dragon? Dragons are indisputably strong… and I like the idea of having one as a pet.”
Mo Jian snorted, easily picturing her trying to boss around a spirit dragon. “How would you even manage that? No one here’s a Nascent Soul cultivator. How exactly do you plan on killing one and capturing its soul?”
“I wasn’t planning to go after it right now, Master,” she said patiently, as if speaking to a particularly dense child. “But once I reach Core Formation, perhaps you and I could prepare a formation in advance—lure it in and trap it. Two Core cultivators, properly prepared, should have a fair chance. Don’t you think?”
Fan Mei shook her head, her tone gentle but firm. “It’s theoretically possible, but dangerously optimistic. A dragon is not to be trifled with. Even without much intelligence, two—or even three—Core Formation cultivators would struggle to survive the encounter.”
Bai Ning gave her a challenging look, something along the lines of, ‘No one invited you.’
Mo Jian was just quietly grateful that she didn’t say it aloud. That was progress, wasn’t it?
As he comforted himself with that small delusion, the guzheng’s gentle hum filled the air once more, weaving through the slow hiss of molten rock and the occasional pop of air bursting from the lava below. Around them stretched a world of impossible beauty and danger—a realm of living fire beneath a false sky.
He leaned against the cool rim of the ice boat, one leg drawn up, his expression balanced between contemplation and mild exasperation. “You know,” he said idly, “for a place so famously useless, it certainly knows how to look impressive.”
Bai Ning tilted her head, the shifting light of the lava dancing in her eyes. “It really does,” she replied softly.
Fan Mei’s fingers danced lightly across the strings, letting the melody drift on. Each note deepened the song, sending soft ripples through the air that shimmered against their barrier. Threads of sound carried subtle, resonant power, dispersing the haze for a brief, crystalline moment.
Below, the lava—previously gliding in a steady, languid rhythm—began to churn restlessly. They were nearing the heart of the domain: the Lake of Lamentation—a name Mo Jian privately thought far too poetic for such a charmless place.
The surface of the lava thickened and swelled, its orange-red glow shifting toward a near-blinding white. Overhead, the false sky darkened; light filtering through the ocean above deepened from soft blue to rich indigo, painting the jagged cliffs on either side in shades of sapphire and blood-red. The obsidian faces seemed almost organic, veins of molten gold trickling down like lifeblood through stone.
Bai Ning broke the silence again. “What does a Niumowang look like, Master? And how are we planning to capture it?”
Mo Jian might have been fooled into thinking she was genuinely curious—if he didn’t already know she knew the answer. He had been thorough in her education, and while there were always gaps, a Bull-Headed Fire Demon was hardly one of them. She was only stirring the pot, prodding Fan Mei for her own amusement.
So instead of answering, he mirrored her technique and projected calm through his qi—cool, serene, unbothered. A quiet message: Wait. Be still. Patience is a virtue.
Bai Ning scowled. Mo Jian carefully masked the amusement threatening to creep onto his face. Take that—he couldn’t always lose to his disciple. Where would be the dignity be in that?
Unfortunately, he had miscalculated. While he might have refused to answer, Fan Mei was under no such restraint—and judging by the spark in her eyes, she had been waiting for precisely that question. She looked up with an enthusiastic smile and launched into her favorite topic with unmistakable delight.
“The Niumowang is a fascinating spirit beast. Not rare in the true sense—you are no doubt familiar with the common Mountain Horned Bull Demons, or even the Spirit Ox that some cultivators favor in place of Flying Cranes—but they are endlessly adaptable and versatile. They can be found across the entire Thousand Shattered Islands, and indeed across the mainland, precisely because of this adaptability. In fact, a herd of Horned Bull Demons was once sighted on the ruins of a Sky City, where they had adapted to flying by creating fiery wheels beneath their hooves. Amazing, isn’t it?”
Bai Ning wrestled with herself, caught between feigning cool disinterest to spite Fan Mei, or giving in to genuine fascination—both to irritate Mo Jian and because, deep down, she couldn’t resist the appeal of such rare knowledge. The latter narrowly won out.
“I didn’t know that,” she said, eyes widening. “My scrolls list them as common spirit beasts, and no one ever mentions that they adapt to their environment. So the one we’re after must be unique, since it lives in the Lava River, right, Senior?”
Fan Mei nodded, clearly delighted. “Adaptations in Bull Demons are normally collective, passed through the herd. But the one we’re after is a Horned Bull-Headed Fire Demon King. Anything is possible with it. I visited Diviner Nui Feng a month ago, and I am certain I glimpsed it through her Future Sight Mirror. I recognized the Lava River immediately—and a unique Niumowang that used its horn almost like a… musical string, fighting off hordes of huodous in the Lake of Lamentation. If we capture it, and I can add its primal soul to my guzheng…” She patted her natal artifact, the Melodious Jade-adorned zither, reverently. “…its power could increase tenfold. It might just give me a shot at Nascent Soul.”
Her voice softened, almost reverent, and Mo Jian understood. She was speaking aloud only because the three of them were alone. In front of other cultivators, ambition was spoken of more carefully; the gap between Core Formation and Nascent Soul was vast—wider than that between Qi Condensation and Core Formation.
Bai Ning, however, was caught by another thread of Fan Mei’s words. She may not care for Fan Mei personally, but she was naturally curious, and now her eyes were alight. She practically bounced in the ice boat, filled with the excitement of a child discovering a secret. Mo Jian silently resolved to record this moment on a jade slip—a memory of his disciple’s delight—and share it with her parents as future blackmail material. They deserved some payback for the headaches their daughter caused.
“The Diviner, Nui Feng? The Lady of a Thousand Eyes? What was she like? How does she tell the future? Did she give you a prophecy? Or maybe… some vision of a grand event to come?”
Mo Jian snorted, but was entirely ignored as Fan Mei leaned forward, fully engaged. Both women seemed to have vanished into their own world.
“She is one of a kind,” Fan Mei said with a soft sigh of admiration. “Her Future Sight Mirror swirls with images from across space and time. She made it herself, using a shard of Heavenly Brilliance. No prophecies or grand visions—but she is kind, compassionate, and clever beyond measure.” Her gaze flicked to Mo Jian, and she added, mock-dramatically, “Even when faced with fools who fail to recognize her wisdom, she does the best she can.”
Then, with a swift flick of her fingers, she plucked a tense, spiraling melody on the guzheng, her voice dropping to a reverent whisper. “She is the Diviner, Nui Feng, the Lady of a Thousand Eyes.”
Bai Ning clapped gleefully, her earlier feigned coolness forgotten, and Fan Mei offered a shallow bow, equally entertained.
Mo Jian could no longer restrain himself. “The Future Sight Mirror is far from infallible. Not only does it show the past, present, and future, it also shows possibilities, dreams—even hallucinations—as if they were real. The images appear and vanish without rhyme or reason, entirely beyond control. It can just as easily reveal the secrets of immortality as it can an ordinary rock on the other side of the world. Even Diviner Nui Feng cannot manage it perfectly. All she does is scam people out of their hard-earned spirit stones.”
Bai Ning turned to him with a dramatically betrayed expression, as if his words had personally wounded her, but Fan Mei arched a single eyebrow, her tone sharp with amusement. “Are you still whining about the time you paid her five thousand spirit stones to locate the Thousand-Year Black Shell Tortoise and failed? Brother Mo, how is that her fault? It’s not attractive to complain about money and shift blame onto others.” She shook her head in mock sorrow.
Mo Jian flushed crimson, opening his mouth to defend himself, but Bai Ning beat him to it.
“Wait—that’s why you don’t like diviners! And why you always say I’ll get scammed if I keep trusting them. Master!” she exclaimed, eyes wide with the thrill of revelation.
“No—” he began, but it was too late. Both Fan Mei and Bai Ning were already laughing, the sound bright and teasing, echoing oddly against the simmering roar of the lava around them.
“You two are impossible,” he muttered, though a faint twitch at the corner of his lips betrayed him. “I was trying to teach you caution, not become the source of your amusement.”
“Oh, don’t be so sour, Master,” Bai Ning said with a sly grin, leaning back in the ice boat. “I’m learning! Right, Senior?”
Fan Mei’s smile was calm, but her eyes sparkled with mirth. “Indeed. ‘How not to get scammed like me.’ What better lesson can there be?”
Mo Jian groaned, running a hand through his hair, but allowed himself a small, resigned smile. If nothing else, the journey was never dull.
Ahead, the Lava River flowed on, molten currents twisting and churning like living veins of fire. Their laughter and chatter mingled with the heat and haze, carrying them closer to the heart of the realm—the Lake of Lamentation—and whatever trials awaited there.
