I Secretly Cultivate Immortality in the Martial Arts World
Chapter 108 ·Three Years of Relentless Snow and Wind, the World Has Become Another Realm
It was said that on that day, Ancestor Xue Yuan kept muttering that it was “soon.”
Yet that single phrase—“soon”—made Ye Chen and countless demons wait in the icy wilderness for several months.
Several months later, on one particular day, the heavens and earth suddenly changed color.
The Northern Plains, already covered in perpetual snowfall, erupted into howling blizzards that grew ever more violent.
When the wind rose, it was as if countless vengeful ghosts howled between heaven and earth.
When the snow fell, each flake emitted a faint blue glow, and every piece that touched the ground could freeze and crack rocks.
This phenomenon was not limited to the Northern Plains.
It spread at a visible speed, crossing mountains and rivers, advancing southward.
Southern Region.
Eastern Continent.
Central Lands.
Western Wastelands.
The entire Spirit Realm was engulfed by this snowstorm.
One year.
Two years.
Three years.
The blizzard lasted for a full three years.
During those three years, the Spirit Realm no longer had distinctions of spring, summer, autumn, or winter—only endless cold.
And the cultivators, for the first time, truly experienced what it meant to feel cold.
One must know that once stepping into the Qi Refining stage, and especially after Foundation Establishment, cultivators were already immune to heat and cold.
At the Foundation Establishment Realm, while they could not claim immunity to fire and water, ordinary extremes of temperature felt no more than a gentle breeze.
Refining qi to temper the body, condensing essence at Foundation Establishment—by this stage, the physical body was no longer mortal.
Wearing light clothing in winter or heavy cotton garments in summer posed no issue.
But now, those Foundation Establishment cultivators actually felt cold.
At first, it was merely chilled hands and feet, nothing serious.
But as the blizzard continued without pause, the cold gradually seeped into their bones.
Some Foundation Establishment cultivators tried to resist with spiritual energy, only to find that even the circulation of their spiritual energy had slowed.
It was as if an invisible pressure filled the world, suppressing everything.
Golden Core cultivators fared somewhat better.
They could use the power of their Golden Core to form a protective spiritual light around their bodies, isolating the piercing cold.
As for those at Nascent Soul and above, there was little issue.
But although the Spirit Realm was vast and cultivators numerous, how many were at Golden Core or above?
Far more numerous than low-level cultivators were mortals.
The functioning of the Spirit Realm ultimately depended on mortals.
Cities required mortals to farm, weave, build, and reproduce.
Sects required mortals as a source of disciples, as providers of resources, and as the very foundation of the world.
But now, with three years of blizzards, the mortal world had become a living hell.
......
Spirit Realm, Southern Region.
A certain mortal city.
This city had once been prosperous.
But now, the streets were empty.
Snow had piled up several feet thick, burying half the doors and windows of the shops.
Occasionally, one or two figures staggered by, their clothes in tatters, faces sallow and emaciated, eyes hollow like walking corpses.
At the center of the city stood a dilapidated temple.
The temple was packed with people.
Men, women, young, and old—crowded together, shivering.
At the center of the temple, the statue that had once been worshipped had long been toppled and chopped into firewood, now burning and giving off faint warmth.
By the fire, an old man stretched out his withered hands, trembling as he warmed them.
His face was covered in frostbite.
His eyes were filled with despair.
“Father...”
Beside him, a young man spoke hoarsely, “Can we… can we hold on any longer?”
The old man did not answer.
He did not know.
He only knew that all the food at home had long been consumed.
Everything that could be burned had been burned.
Tree bark, grass roots, even leather clothing—all had been eaten.
But they were still hungry.
Still cold.
After a moment of silence, the young man suddenly said, “Father, let’s go find the immortals.”
“In the past, whenever there were natural disasters, the immortals would come to help. They would distribute porridge, give medicine, and use immortal arts to hasten crop growth…”
The old man let out a bitter laugh.
“My son… you do not understand.”
“The past is the past. Now is now.”
The young man was confused. “Why?”
The old man pointed outside the city, his voice hoarse:
“Some time ago, I had someone inquire. The immortal sects within a thousand miles have all fallen under something called the Myriad Tribulations Demon Sect.”
“That sect’s leader, called the Myriad Tribulations Demon Lord, has issued an order—not to help us mortals.”
The young man froze. “Why? We mortals… we haven’t offended them…”
The old man did not answer.
He did not know why either.
But he knew those immortal sects had truly not come.
Not a single one.
......
Several hundred miles away from that city, within a sect.
Several cultivators stood atop a mountain peak, looking down at the vast snowy plains below.
The leader wore a black robe, his expression sinister.
This person was the overseer sent here by the Myriad Tribulations Demon Sect, with cultivation at the late Golden Core stage.
Behind him stood several others in various attires—clearly cultivators originally from this region who had now submitted to the demon sect.
Among them, an old man in green robes hesitated several times, wanting to speak but stopping himself.
Finally, he could not hold back:
“My lord, those mortals below… are we truly not going to save them?”
The black-robed cultivator did not turn his head. “We will not.”
The old man clenched his teeth. “But there are tens of thousands of mortals in that city! After three years of blizzards, they must already… already…”
“Already dead in large numbers, correct?”
The black-robed cultivator turned and looked at him with a half-smile.
The old man choked on his words.
The black-robed cultivator said calmly, “If they die, they die. Mere mortals—just replace them.”
The old man’s face flushed red. “But those mortals have long supported the sect!”
“My Qingxuan Sect has stood for a thousand years. The mortals below have worshipped us generation after generation, paying tribute year after year. Without them, where would our disciples come from? Where would our foundation lie?”
The black-robed cultivator sneered.
“Foundation?”
He pointed down the mountain. “You call those ants your foundation?”
The old man opened his mouth but could not speak.
The black-robed cultivator withdrew his hand, his tone indifferent:
“You righteous cultivators simply fail to see clearly.”
“What are mortals? They are ants, resources, consumables.”
“While they live, let them farm and pay tribute. When they die, their souls become useful to me.”
“Do you know how much resentment a soul carries when a person dies in utter despair and suffering?”
“That resentment is a great supplement for demonic cultivation techniques.”
“These three years of blizzards—the more mortals that die, the heavier the resentment.”
“When the snow stops, I need only circulate my technique to harvest countless resentful souls and rapidly advance my cultivation.”
He turned his head to look at the old man, mockery in his eyes. “Tell me, why should I save them?”
The old man stood frozen.
Behind him, those cultivators who had once belonged to the righteous path wore complicated expressions but did not dare speak.
The black-robed cultivator withdrew his gaze and looked down the mountain.
Amid the wind and snow, the mortal city flickered faintly into view.
A smile curled at the corner of his lips.
The more that die, the better.
That day onward, the old man in green robes never again mentioned saving people.
It was not that he did not want to.
He did not dare.
He had personally witnessed a Foundation Establishment cultivator who disobeyed orders and secretly went down the mountain to distribute porridge—only to be captured, have his soul extracted and refined before everyone, wailing in agony for three days and nights before dying.
From that day on, no one dared to descend the mountain.
The mortal city below became an isolated island.
One city after another became isolated islands.
Three years of blizzards—in the Southern Region, mortal casualties were immense, fewer than one in ten survived.
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