NOVEL WEB Chapter 9: Chapter 8. Land of Calamity
Seven noisy, herb-chasing, detour-loving days had passed in a blink—if that blink involved tripping over roots, chasing Song Meiyu through thickets, and narrowly avoiding being mistaken for forest spirits by a particularly nearsighted boar.
Now, they stood at the threshold of Shulin's heart.
But rather than taking the wide, paved road like normal visitors heading toward the palace, they, in their infinite wisdom (Song Meiyu's stubborn herbal obsession), decided to take the "scenic" route. Which meant detouring along the borders of the state in search of a rare herb that may or may not even exist.
"This is absolutely where the Lunar Vine grows," Song Meiyu insisted, nose buried in a dog-eared herbal manuscript that looked like it had been nibbled on by a squirrel. "Just ten more li, I swear!"
And so, off they went—abandoning the cheerful marketplace road for a suspiciously narrow, quiet path that seemed to scream ambush bait. Bumpy, crooked, and flanked by trees, the road eventually led them to a part of Shulin where even the birds had the good sense to keep quiet. The twisting path brought them to a clearing shadowed by a massive wall—one that loomed tall and ancient, like a forgotten fortress.
The moment they dismounted, the air changed. From beyond the great wall standing before them came the echo of chaos—hoofbeats pounding the earth, swords clashing in sharp rhythm, men barking orders with the urgency of survival. And somewhere in the distance, a deep, guttural roar tore through the air.
It was in this moment that reality—big, loud, and slightly teethy—came crashing back.
Xuanyi Pavilion had been a peaceful sanctuary. A place of quiet cultivation, plum blossoms in spring, and tea that never got cold. A place where the biggest threat was Song Meiyu burning the roof trying to dry herbs.
But here? This was the real world. This was Yunyue realm.
A realm so soaked in history and spiritual glory that even the clouds probably bowed before floating across its skies. For over a thousand years, it had been ruled by the Yun clan—an ancient family with a talent for governance, elegance, and looking extremely majestic in long robes.
Rivers didn't just flow—they shimmered with spiritual essence, sparkling under the moonlight like liquid stardust. Scholars swore they could hear the rivers hum ancient tunes if they listened hard enough (and maybe had a little wine). The mountains were tall, proud, and wise—whispers said they were once dragons who got tired of flying and decided to nap forever.
It was a place where peach blossoms fell like pink snow in spring, and even the chickens clucked in elegant rhythm. Cultivators leapt gracefully from rooftop to rooftop, just casually flexing their spiritual prowess like they were in a fashion show for immortals.
The dynasty thrived. Cities bustled with scholars debating the finer points of spiritual philosophy, while street vendors sold buns so divine that lifelong friendships ended over the last one. It was said that in Yunyue realm, even a beggar might accidentally step into an enlightened state by napping under the right tree.
Poets wrote about it. Painters dreamed of it.
For a thousand years, nothing truly threatened them.
But that was before.
Before calamity like disaster struck, before demon howls replaced lullabies.
The songs still existed. But now, they were sung with haunted eyes, and the storytellers spoke of glory past—not glory present.
Four hundred years ago, everything went red.
The sky burned like it had been set on fire by an angry god, the rivers flowed like veins torn open, and the moon—flushed like it had seen something indecent. It looked down at the world like it had just walked in on something utterly scandalous and would never be the same again.
Poets called it a divine curse. Scholars scribbled and argued until their beards turned grey, calling it a cosmic calamity.
The demons—no one knew where they came from or what their problem was with peaceful farming villages and cozy bedtime routines. Some called them demons, others whispered of "the tainted," which sounded poetic until they were at your door, eating your cow and then—well, you. They just appeared one night, like very unwelcome party guests who refused to leave and kept eating the furniture (and the people). They drained spiritual energy, shattered walls, and occasionally devoured your neighbors just to keep things lively.
Cultivators, once the proud defenders of peace and balance, found themselves sucked dry like spiritual juice boxes. And the poor regular folks who didn't cultivate? Let's just say they didn't need to worry about taxes anymore.
The Yunyue realm, which had floated in grace and prosperity for thousand glorious years, was flipped on its head overnight. One night was all it took to turn paradise into a nightmare. Screams replaced lullabies. Lanterns were replaced by fire.
And so began the darkest chapter of a once radiant realm. A paradise turned panic-stricken battlefield, where legends bled and the stars themselves seemed to call in sick. But of course, as every great story demands—when all goes to ruin, someone always dares to rebuild.
Eventually.
After the screaming stopped.
Emperor Yun of that era wasn't the kind of man to sit around while the world went to hell in a flaming cart. The moment demons began chomping on villagers and setting rivers on fire, he leapt into action.
He summoned every soldier in the land. Every cultivator who could still swing a sword, spear or at the very least kitchen knife or frying pan(?). Even those half-retired tea-loving masters with questionable knees and half a sword were dragged from their peaceful pavilions. Some brought war fans. Some brought scrolls. One even brought a chicken (the chicken, incidentally, survived the war), at least that's how the story goes.
They fought like the world depended on it—because it did—bloody, sleep-deprived, half-crazed legends. They defended the realm tooth and nail, quite literally in some cases.
But no matter how many demons they cleaved, burned, impaled, exploded, or—on one memorable occasion—yeeted off a cliff, more just kept coming. Crawling out of the dark like furious, bottomless ants.
Angry, hungry, possibly immortal ants.
After the world turned red and demons started popping up like bad mushrooms, the Emperor of Yunyue made a painful discovery: no one, not even a celestial-ordained ruler with seals and a lot of secret bodyguards, could manage an empire-sized disaster all on his own.
So, in an act of equal parts brilliance and desperation, he made a choice—probably after several sleepless nights, many maps, and a dramatic pacing session or two. He divided the realm into ten states. Ten neat slices of spiritual real estate, handed over to the most dependable, battle-tested, demon-hating clans he could find. These noble families were granted rulership and the fancy title of King—which sounds grand until they realize their first and lifetime job was to stand between demons and everyone else.
Together, they did what desperate, clever people always do when the world starts falling apart: they built a wall.
Actually—seven. Seven enormous walls, stacked one inside the other, layered like a very nervous onion. They wrapped tightly around the realm, forming a giant, stubborn belt meant to keep two things very separate: the monsters outside, and the not-dead people inside.
It worked. Mostly.
Now, only two layers of the ancient walls remain. The other five? Gone. Obliterated. Reduced to rubble, dust, legends and the occasional haunted brick. The fact that five entire walls had been lost should tell the story of how bad the demon attacks were.
The inner wall was no ordinary stone fence either. It was protected by a mysterious colorful spiritual array—one so ancient and complex, so complicated that it gave modern cultivators migraines just by looking at it. No one actually understood how it worked anymore.
What they knew was: the array devoured spiritual energy like fine wine. Generations of cultivators have taken up the duty of feeding it.
And so, the realm endures—barely. Tired. Fractured. But still breathing. Behind two walls.
One mysterious array, that nobody understood but everyone trusted.
The Yunyue Dynasty, once a shining jewel of cultivation, was now more like a very stressed fish caught in an exceptionally cruel trap—surrounded on all sides, with nowhere to swim but in circles.
Nestled right in the middle of what was now known as demon territory, the glorious realm had become something of a gilded cage. The walls still stood—barely—but beyond them? Chaos. Carnage. Calamity with claws.
The world beyond was so twisted, no poet dared write about it, and no mapmaker was foolish enough to draw it. Trees whispered in languages no one should understand. The ground pulsed like it had a heartbeat, and some swore if you listened too long, the dirt would mutter things like, "Go back. You shouldn't be here."
To step beyond the wall was either an act of overwhelming courage…or overwhelming stupidity. Only the strong went out, usually clad in armor, and a level of optimism that bordered on denial. Some said they were heroes. Others said they were volunteers with a death wish.
And as for whether they returned? A handful made it back. Most didn't. The ones who did came home either revered as legends… or clutching their heads and muttering about trees that moved and singing frogs that followed into dreams.
For the average citizen, the idea of leaving the wall was unthinkable. A one-way ticket to being demon chow. Most had never seen the world beyond the barrier, and they didn't want to. Why would they? Peace was overrated, but limbs were not. They had enough worries trying to live a normal life inside the walls.
So, life went on inside the walls—carefully, cautiously, under the comforting hum of the spiritual array. Outside? The world burned. But inside? Well, at least the tea was hot, roofs were still attached, and no one had been devoured mid-breakfast.