The Sacred Maiden of the demonic cult, Sikong Nan, had once stood shoulder to shoulder with Iron-Armed Zhou Tong as a grandmaster-level fighter — though just how much of that reputation owed itself to the Manichaean sect’s own mystique was, by now, difficult to say for certain. After all, she had remained hidden for over a decade, and even upon her reemergence, she hadn’t rashly moved against Fang Baihua’s group before now. It was only with this large-scale mobilization, closing in relentlessly from behind, that everyone finally came to appreciate just how terrifying she truly was.
By the time this whole upheaval had reached this point, those with weaker martial skill had, for the most part, already been weeded out. Those who remained could, if placed back in the ordinary martial world, mostly count as approaching first-rate mastery — and even accounting for exhaustion and injury, the moment two of these fighters engaged her and were instantly cut down, hearts crushed and heads severed, it was proof enough of the terrifying level of her power. Even set against Lin Ecan, or even Zhou Tong himself, she would show little inferiority.
Only Fang Qifo and Fang Baihua truly knew that Sikong Nan, defeated jointly by Fang Qifo and Fang La over a decade ago, was now nearly sixty years of age.
The green-clad figure that had come charging in seemed like some demon or fiend from the underworld — one hand wielding a palm technique, the other a short blade — and in the blink of an eye had cut deep into the rear of the group. The Manichaean sect’s once-profound martial arts, in her hands, carried both a woman’s lightness and speed, and something that felt utterly unbreakable in its resolve and ferocity. Having killed the two men she first encountered, that figure surged into the crowd like a wave splitting through the sea. The masters around her, even braced and ready, weren’t necessarily killed outright in the exchange — but they were sent flying or forced back regardless — until Deng Yuanjue swung in with his monk’s staff to cover the group, meeting her like a great wave crashing against a reef. After a few exchanges, Sikong Nan slipped past him like a phantom and turned her attack on the others again, while Deng Yuanjue’s own assault remained steady, covering all sides even as he fought a retreating battle.
The surging sound of battle had already spread from the distance; having cut their way through the woods, Lin Ecan, Wang Nantuo, and the others had by now also caught up, along with a group of masters led by Zong Feixiao, and several notorious martial-world figures trailing nearby, watching for an opening to strike.
Further out, an enormous number of participants continued to press the encirclement.
The column stretched on, torches scattered in disarray, charging into the mountains.
By this point in the battle, Chen Fan had already handed Fang Qifo off to someone nearby to carry, and had rushed to the rear to reinforce the others. He was versed in all eighteen classes of weaponry and his bare-handed skill was formidable too, but his true trump card was, in fact, his twin blades. As the saying went in the martial world, dual blades were judged by their footwork — and in this chaotic, fleeing melee, when he swung his twin blades into action, it was as if a whirlwind had suddenly been stirred up.
Elsewhere, Fang Baihua’s great spear moved like a dragon; though a woman, the ferocity she brought to wielding her crimson spear carried the tragic desolation of the battlefield itself, as if she alone could sweep across all directions amid clashing steeds and blades. And amid it all, the Treasured Light Tathagata Deng Yuanjue wielded his staff like a mountain, the most ferociously powerful of them all — only Lin Ecan, Wang Nantuo, and a handful of others could meet his staff head-on in raw force.
And yet, among the pursuers, Sikong Nan and Lin Ecan alone already counted as grandmaster-level fighters on par with Zhou Tong — perhaps only an unwounded Fang Qifo could have stood against them.
Beyond that, there was Wang Nantuo, whose eyes turned bloodshot with bloodlust at the mere sight of Chen Fan; Zong Feixiao, closing in from the flank; and various other martial-world stragglers who had come for their own reasons — some fairly renowned figures of the underworld among them, including the fierce monk Tunyun, who had newly forged himself a suit of iron kasaya. In terms of formation and sheer numbers, they overwhelmingly outmatched Fang Baihua’s side.
Even as Sikong Nan and the others were momentarily held at bay from the rear, one side pursuing and the other fleeing, several more men — either caught alone or struck by hidden projectiles — fell wounded to the surging pursuers.
Blood spread, the scent of death pressing ever closer. Just as they were about to break clear of the woods, Sikong Nan, in the midst of her high-speed sprint, shifted and slammed a palm strike down on the man ahead of her; his curved blade slashed out, but before the stroke finished, his head burst apart like a shattered watermelon with a sickening crack. Sikong Nan flew past the spray of blood without pausing for even an instant — but just as she stepped clear of the woods, several blades of light suddenly slashed toward her from the darkness, all at once!
A cold, murderous intent descended upon her at the least expected moment!
The blades came from different directions, but their timing, speed, and coordination were flawless beyond question. For an instant, Sikong Nan nearly believed she had walked straight into a trap laid by some great grandmaster — but then, a certain figure surfaced suddenly in her mind.
It was the memory, from many years ago, of a burly, imposing man who seemed rough and reckless on the surface, but whose eyes always held a certain clarity of understanding. As the blades converged on her now, it was as if that very man had drawn his signature massive blade once more, swinging it toward her — a fierce gale howling, murderous intent surging across the sky like an unstoppable tide.
Overlord Blade — final form — Divine Steed, One Dream!
The Overlord Blade Liu Dabiao of years past had been a bold, heroic man, his conduct often bordering on crude and rough — always going on about how a man ought to be built of muscle — yet few knew that, in truth, he had been widely read. One need only look at how he’d casually named his daughter “Xigua” — watermelon — and yet the very set of blade techniques he had created himself, the Overlord Blade, bore names strange and evocative enough to leave people puzzled over what exactly had been on his mind: from the opening form, Guarding Heaven’s Pillar, to Cutting the River and Calming the Sea, to Severing the Cloud Mountains, all the way to Divine Steed, One Dream.
And yet, in this very moment, only the murderous intent woven into it was real.
On Sikong Nan’s side, her short blade slashed out.
The contact lasted only an instant before both sides nearly leapt apart simultaneously; one of Sikong Nan’s sleeves tore away into the night sky, fluttering like a scattering butterfly. Five men had taken part in this ambush — and only the current members of the Overlord Blade Manor could possibly strike with a coordinated force capable of channeling something of Liu Dabiao’s old presence.
Those lying in ambush here were “Ash-Fiend Blade” Luo Bingren, “Nine-Death Blade” Zheng Qiming, “Gold-Backed Blade” Zheng Huihuan, and two other Overlord Blade Manor masters who had come along. In theory, at their level of skill, if all seven of them — men who lived by the martial-world creed of “a life for a life, a debt for a debt” — had struck together, neither Zhou Tong now nor Liu Dabiao back then could likely have withstood them. But with fewer men present this time, and though the other two Overlord Blade members present weren’t necessarily inferior in skill, this being another’s signature technique meant the ambush ultimately couldn’t unleash its full power. Though they managed to cut Sikong Nan’s sleeve and even graze her arm, it amounted to only a minor wound — nowhere near enough to decide the larger battle.
The exchange and subsequent parting of the two sides lasted only the briefest of moments; by then, the mass of fighters were still charging forward amid the chaos. On the slope to the side of the woods, a wooden wheelchair came rolling down almost entirely out of control, its speed astonishing — and seated in it was a small, delicate woman in a blue floral-print dress, a thick white bandage wrapped around her forehead.
She rode that wooden wheelchair down at breakneck speed, jolting and bouncing as if utterly indifferent to the possibility of it being smashed to pieces at any moment. It was only as she was about to plow into the woods that one of Sikong Nan’s men struck at her — and blood suddenly bloomed in the air. Riding the wheelchair’s momentum, the young woman burst forward like a whirlwind, blade-light flashing in her hands; in an instant, streaks of blood spread outward, and for a moment it almost carried a faint echo of the way Sikong Nan herself had once charged into a crowd. Then the young woman gave a cold shout: “Fat man!” — and, blades gathered together in both hands, slashed fiercely toward Lin Ecan, who was locked in combat with Deng Yuanjue!
…
At this critical moment, the arrival of the Overlord Blade Manor’s men perhaps eased, if only slightly, the dire crisis facing Fang Baihua’s group. But in the context of the overall shifting situation, this relief carried little real significance.
The fighting, having grown fierce since midnight, continued spreading ever further into the depths of the mountains. Though everyone fought on with all their strength, as time dragged on, the enemy’s numbers kept growing. Whenever one or two masters fell on Sikong Nan’s side, there were always others to take their place; but on Fang Baihua’s side, if one or two people died, they were simply, truly dead.
Fang Baihua, Deng Yuanjue, Chen Fan, and the other top fighters had initially managed to form a single defensive line, holding Lin Ecan and the others at bay in the rear — but before long, this trailing formation had dissolved into a tangled, chaotic melee, friend and foe intermixed. The wicked monk Tunyun and a crowd of martial-world masters struck in from the flank, while Zong Feixiao’s constables used every underhanded trick at their disposal, striking from ambush; people kept falling into the surrounding attacks, hacked into bloody pulp, until their losses had reached roughly forty men — and it was then that a mountain hollow appeared ahead.
It was a slightly sunken mountain path, its flanking cliffs seemingly well-suited for ambush, though skilled fighters could still leap up onto them. As they reached this point, Fang Qifo, already quite weak by now, gave the one and only order he would issue — telling everyone to plunge straight into that mountain path.
Seeing the fleeing group commit so decisively, Zong Feixiao, close behind, hesitated somewhat. Along this entire chase, the situation had shifted rapidly — the Ministry of Justice had made no ambush arrangements in this area, and if the enemy had prepared reinforcements to receive them, charging in recklessly could prove enormously costly. He had his men slow slightly, moving instead toward the slope to the side, while Sikong Nan, Lin Ecan, and the others continued charging straight in after the fleeing group!
The killing surged ever forward. Sikong Nan broke through the crowd, laughing as she tried to force her way toward Fang Qifo, being carried ahead by one of the others. When someone moved to block her, she cut down two men and kept closing the distance.
Behind her, Fan Zhong and Tie Tianying had also arrived by now, leading their own elite forces; the two of them, mounted, caught up with Zong Feixiao and rode past him along the slope beside the mountain path. Moonlight now cast a faint, pale glow — midnight had long passed, and the slope was covered in scattered brush and sparse tree shadows. In the distance, Sikong Nan, Lin Ecan, Wang Nantuo, and the other Manichaean masters were still closing the gap toward Fang Qifo ahead, locked in a tangled melee with Fang Baihua’s group, while the mountain path stretching ahead split into two — one continuing straight on, the other veering off at an angle to the side.
The fleeing crowd had originally been heading straight ahead, but by this point, torchlight had begun to flicker faintly at the far end of the path ahead — shadows of people, shadows of horses. It seemed a small group of pursuers had somehow managed to get ahead of everyone else.
Whoever this group at the front turned out to be — trying to seize some advantage — one thing was certain: they couldn’t possibly be friends of Fang Baihua’s group. From within the path, Sikong Nan’s laughter rang out, sharp and shrill. “Haha, no use running now—” On the slope, Tie Tianying, Zong Feixiao, and Fan Zhong rode their horses forward.
“Who is that…”
“Whose side are they on?”
“…The Bureau?”
Among the three, Tie Tianying had the sharpest eyes; as they closed in, he was the first to make out the vague silhouette of the figures amid the torchlight — a young scholar out front, sitting there calmly, even as ease, in a chair, facing the crowd charging toward him. He had once thought this “Cheng Zhouhai” fellow was of little consequence — but now, he sensed something wrong about the man’s identity, and his brow immediately furrowed.
During the pursuit this night, Zong Feixiao and Fan Zhong had also received the information regarding Cheng Zhouhai’s true identity; they too could immediately tell something was off. But on a night like this, a single person’s concealed identity had ceased to matter much, and they hadn’t given it further thought. When Tie Tianying named the man’s true identity, the three exchanged a glance.
“That’s not this so-called Cheng Zhouhai…”
“The Demon of the Mind?”
“What is this man… trying to do…”
Just what these twenty-odd men — waiting at the end of the path, torches already lit and ready — could possibly be trying to accomplish was, in that moment, perhaps the question on many people’s minds. By now, well over a hundred people had already poured into the mountain path, with more still gathering and running along the nearby slopes, all looking that way.
Amid the fighting up ahead, a woman drenched in blood, a thick bandage wrapped around her forehead, turned as she slashed. In the torchlight there, the scholar seated in the chair seemed to straighten himself slightly as well.
For an instant, the two gazes crossed.
In the wind, the scholar raised his hand, then brought it down.
“Fire.”
By now, the front portion of the group, including Fang Qifo, had already run into the side path, while a handful of top fighters still clashed with Sikong Nan and the others at the fork; the straight path behind still held mostly Sikong Nan’s own Manichaean masters. At that low command, over twenty crossbow bolts, launched from powerful crossbows, whistled through the air, streaking straight toward the fighters locked in combat.
Lin Ecan and the others sensed the danger instantly, but even for them, taking such powerful crossbow fire by surprise proved genuinely uncomfortable. Twenty-odd bolts weren’t a great many — they seemed, if anything, more like a warning — but most of them landed among Sikong Nan’s own men in the rear; two masters, caught off guard, fell where they stood, and two others nearby were wounded.
For a moment, everyone was left somewhat stunned. Then, a moment later, furious shouts rang out. “Who’s doing this!”
“Who are you shooting at! You trying to die—”
Lin Ecan roared furiously as well. “Bastard—”
A little further back on the slope, Zong Feixiao reined in his galloping horse and shouted as well, startled. “You’re from the Bureau — what do you think you’re doing!”
Tie Tianying bellowed in a low, furious voice: “Ning! Li! Heng! Have you lost your mind!?”
In that same instant, he called out the man’s true identity, precisely to let the other side know his cover had been blown. Many were still wondering who this “Ning Liheng” was — only a few immediately understood: it was the true name of the demon who had destroyed Liangshan. Lin Ecan and Sikong Nan, hearing Tie Tianying’s outburst, understood that the two sides would sort out their own dealings between themselves — for now, killing Fang Qifo and the others remained the priority. Just as they were about to press their attack further, a cold, steady voice cut through the wind from that direction, carried by internal power strong enough to pierce through and reverberate across the night sky.
“Don’t say I never gave you a chance! I warned you already! Fang La’s rebellion brought ruin to the entire south! Everyone tied to the Manichaean sect must die! If you lot won’t act, dragging your feet like old women, then I’ll do it myself!”
“Fuck—” Lin Ecan let out a furious roar, echoing through the night sky like some enraged demon.
“Kill him!” someone in the crowd shouted.
Zong Feixiao raged, “Demon of the Mind, how dare you—”
“Bury them.”
Lin Ecan lunged toward the already-wounded Deng Yuanjue in the side path, figures surging violently in every direction; some charged wildly toward the straight path, and among them, moving silently yet with astonishing speed, was the iron-kasaya-clad monk Tunyun. Sikong Nan glanced that way as well, but ultimately decided to go for Fang Qifo first. Over by the mountain path, someone set down a torch and ignited something.
In the instant the hair on everyone’s neck stood on end, something swallowed all sound. Tunyun, still sprinting forward, suddenly found a beam of light shrieking past the side of his body; behind Sikong Nan, that same beam of light streaked past with a whoosh.
A deafening boom rang out, echoing through the night mountains like thunder; flames swelled in the wake of the explosion, and the fireball, having crossed nearly a hundred meters in an instant, burst apart within the crowd, striking one of Sikong Nan’s masters directly. The man’s body was torn apart on the spot, and a companion beside him was blown flying. The roar echoed on, sparks of fire scattered everywhere, and men nearby toppled in disarray.
At the end of the straight path, seated in his chair, Ning Yi’s ears rang from the blast; he squinted, his face twisting as he clapped both hands over his ears. Not far beside him, a cannon barrel made of elm wood, freed from the hasty stone bracing that had held it in place, shot straight up into the sky. When Ning Yi turned to look, that piece of elm came crashing back down, striking a horse behind him, sending the animal tumbling to the ground; it staggered back up and fled off, limping unevenly.
Ning Yi waved a finger, not entirely sure whether anyone nearby could even hear him. “Note down the effect. Next cannon.”
This single exploding shell produced an enormous shock; for a moment, everyone fell utterly silent, war horses whinnying in agitation, while those who’d been knocked down began crawling back up. “Thunder cannon…”
“Palm thunder?”
“Sorcery…”
The formerly raging melee now dissolved into disarray. By this point, the Ministry of Justice’s forces had gathered on the slope, Sikong Nan and Lin Ecan’s followers had converged in the mountain path, and countless martial-world masters lay scattered across the surroundings — with figures at the level of Sikong Nan and Lin Ecan, capable of standing alongside Zhou Tong himself, gathered together in this one place. What had once been a settled outcome, with Fang Baihua’s side now down to barely thirty-odd men, had suddenly begun to grow uncertain once more.
The presence of the Demon of the Mind, Ning Yi, had, in this moment, finally taken shape as a real and heavy shadow, descending upon them all — placing everyone present onto a single stage of confrontation.