I Slay Immortals in the Mortal World
When the saying that divinity dwells three feet above one’s head became reality, the world was forever changed. To the west lay the Kunlun Mountains, to the north hung the Jade Capital in the clouds. In the imperial court, high ministers advocated the construction of temples and spoke of spirits and monsters; in every household across the land, families erected shrines, burning incense to immortals and buddhas. The mortal realm was transformed. The world of wandering swordsmen and horsemen now faced the terror of flying swords that could claim a life from a thousand miles away. The clangor of blades became a dirge for the dead. My name is Zhong Ming, though people call me Zhong the Judge of Hell. I am a master of the blade—once I slew men with a sweep of my sword, now I cast my flying daggers to slay gods. This is the tale of a martial world invaded by immortal cultivators, and the desperate struggle of its wandering heroes to resist annihilation.
I Slay Immortals in the Mortal World
The September night breeze was intoxicatingly cool, chasing away the last traces of summer's heat. It brushed against his face, bringing comfort to body and soul. The bright moon hung high among the branches. On such a splendid night, perfect for enjoying the moon, the flowers, and perhaps a beauty, he had no leisure to appreciate any of it. All he could do was lie on the grass, gasping desperately for breath.
He’d been shot in the thigh. Blood drenched the wound, leaving flesh and muscle indistinguishable. The shotgun had been loaded with iron pellets—enough to slow a man, not to kill him outright, but to leave him bleeding until he could move no further. The old hunters back home favored these guns for wild boar, whose hides were too tough for a single rifle shot. The scattergun would leave the boar torn and bleeding, its frantic dash only hastening its demise from blood loss—just as he was now.
In ordinary times, such a wound wouldn’t be fatal. Stop the bleeding in time, and there would be little cause for alarm. But here and now, it was enough to claim his life.
He’d never imagined that an old hunter could become the prey, that the fortune-teller beneath the bridge had spoken true: “Stop sinning, or one day you’ll become someone else’s prey.”
Am I the fish to their knife?
He didn’t believe in fate, nor gods or spirits—only in man’s power to master his own destiny. He refused to accept this end. Bracing on his elbows, he tried to rise and flee once more. But even lifting his upper body drained what little strength remained. He fell b
