# 294
Chapter 294: A Waterfall Plunging Three Thousand Feet
“Cough, cough, cough…”
Drenched from head to toe, Lin Qiye lowered his head and hacked violently; the jet of water had appeared so suddenly it nearly flooded straight into his lungs.
Only after a long fit did he recover. Staring at his soaked clothes and the large puddle spreading across the floor, he fell silent.
Good news: the ability worked on Great Xia poetry too.
Bad news… it couldn’t tell friend from foe.
In other words, Lin Qiye could indeed influence the environment through verse, yet he had no fine control over the “influence” itself—whether from lack of practice or because the ability was simply this treacherous.
Another point: the power didn’t seem very strong.
He was already a “River” realm expert, and Skyward Bard was a god’s authority to boot; combined, they had produced barely a barrel’s worth of water.
Was his resonance with the poetry still too shallow?
But how did one deepen resonance with a poem?
He pondered, then slowly closed his eyes in the darkness.
In his mind he pictured a waterfall—one hanging from the highest heavens, majestic and overwhelming!
Turbulent currents plunged from the clouds, a white silk sash flung down by celestial hands, stretching for miles without end; the roar of the cascade was like thunder rolling across the sky, filling his head.
He stood before that waterfall, feeling every splash strike his skin.
Perhaps such a fall truly existed…
——Asylum of the Gods.
Water dripped from soaked hems, pattering softly on the stones, echoing through the silent courtyard. Lin Qiye stood motionless as a statue.
After an eternity, his closed eyes quivered; his lips parted in a whisper:
“Waterfall plunging straight for three thousand li, as if—”
BOOM—!!!
A thunderous blast jolted Li Yifei from sleep. He sat bolt-upright, stared blankly, then scrambled out of bed.
A Zhu, rubbing drowsy eyes, mumbled, “F-Fei, what’s that noise…?”
Li Yifei threw on his orderly coat and yanked the door. “No idea, I’ll go—”
CRASH—!!
The moment the door cracked open, a torrent burst through, slammed it wide, and hurled Li Yifei against the wall.
A Zhu gaped—then the flood swept him away.
“AAAAAA—glub-glub—AAAA—glub-glub!”
Amid A Zhu’s intermittent shrieks, the asylum erupted into chaos. The ground-floor yard was submerged; water surged into the kitchen, flinging pots and pans.
“SCREECH—!”
White foam churned; flowers, branches, cutting boards, A Zhu, and a Pekingese barking in goose-language pin-wheeled through the current.
“Disperse!”
A low voice drifted from the second floor. Merlin, in a patient gown, raised his staff; blue light glowed at its tip.
Magic wind whipped his gown as the flood obediently rose, gathering into a colossal sphere that hovered at his gesture.
With another wave, a spatial rift opened and swallowed the entire orb.
“Oof!”
As the water vanished, A Zhu thudded to the ground amid scattered debris, clutching his bruised backside.
Across the yard, Lin Qiye peeled himself off the wall, spitting water.
Only after a full minute did he stand, looking half-dead.
Merlin approached, puzzled. “What happened? Where did all that water come from?”
Lin Qiye’s mouth twitched. “Nothing… minor mishap.”
He truly hadn’t expected such force. Half a line of poetry—unfinished—had diverted what felt like an entire river section into the asylum. In one second the ground floor, dorm, kitchen, yard, and laundry were flooded. Had he finished the verse, he might have summoned a real waterfall.
Even half a line had drained two-thirds of his mental energy; at his current level, the full line was beyond him.
After checking that nothing worse had occurred than soaked cookware, a trashed yard, and A Zhu’s swollen butt, he exhaled in relief.
He didn’t linger; consciousness returned to his body and he sat up on his bed.
He needed to test what Skyward Bard could accomplish under the suppression of the Zhenxu Monument—his escape plan depended on it.
Glancing at the ceiling camera, he stepped into the toilet and shut the door.
He was a psychiatric patient, not a prisoner; the institute hadn’t—yet—installed cameras in the lavatory. His last dignity.
Standing at the sink, he closed his eyes and recited:
“Waterfall plunging straight for three thousand li,
As if the Silver River were falling from the Ninth Heaven.”
Splash—
The quiet toilet filled with the sound of running water.
He opened his eyes—and froze.
He had summoned water, yes, but not from thin air: it poured from the tap…
Which would have seemed normal—except he hadn’t touched the faucet.
Suddenly inspired, he stepped back and tried again:
“Wildfire cannot burn it all;
Spring wind blows and it grows once more.”
Fsssh—
A wisp of flame flickered at his fingertip, smaller than a lighter’s, barely enough to light a cigarette.
Compared to the gushing tap, the spark was pitiful.
He pinched it out, comprehension dawning in his eyes.
He finally understood how the ability worked.