Chapter Seventy-Five: White Robe Against Purple Robe

Wu Yue wanted to cut through the Gordian knot with a swift blow, but Guo Xiefeng simply refused to afford him that opportunity. Without a struggle or a moment of hesitation, Wu Yue readily reserved his ultimate trump card. Following a brief pause of mere bewilderment, he simply abandoned the Soul-Column Technique.

Five or six individuals arrived, varying in age from the elderly to the young, and it appeared their numbers were only growing. Yet, this detail was of little consequence, for Guo Xiefeng welcomed all comers indiscriminately.

The longer the battle raged, the more exhilarating it became. While slow fist techniques embodied a profound artistic conception, who could argue that swift ones did not? Guo Xiefeng moved like a raging cyclone clad in a sweep of purple robes—a miniature purple tempest sweeping across the entire arena, utterly unstoppable, completely impervious to any lethal blow.

For reasons unknown, however, Wu Yue managed to stand aloof from the fray, entirely bypassed by Guo Xiefeng, his true adversary. Moreover, Guo Xiefeng conveniently assumed the role of a gatekeeper, blanketing the vicinity of the entrance in swirling purple and striking down every envious onlooker. Wu Yue, for his part, was more than content to stand by with his hands tucked into his sleeves, quietly studying the laboratory.

Several cultivators approached the area, whether intentionally or not, harboring motives unknown. Guo Xiefeng cared not in the least, overbearing and tyrannical as he dominated the entire field. What did it matter if one wielded divine abilities or magical treasures? What did it matter if one was young or old, or possessed whatever level of cultivation? Every strike of his fists was devoid of mercy, every movement imbued with divine might. The few cultivators could only curse their terrible luck, lamenting the unprovoked disaster that had suddenly befell them.

An increasing number of people were drawn to the scene, yet Guo Xiefeng remained utterly unyielding, striking entirely as his whims dictated. Naturally, as the crowd swelled, unavoidable complications arose—such as ruthless attacks and blind magical abilities—transforming the battlefield into escalating chaos and gradually devolving the confrontation into a full-scale melee.

All roads eventually reach an end, unless they form a loop. To speak precisely, the denizens of the Immortal Spirit Realm moved with considerable speed, and White Bone Mountain soon played host to a rapidly growing gathering.

Not everyone aspired to be an adventurer or an explorer. While such a path sounded thrilling, broadened one's horizons, and offered the privilege of choice, the reality was somewhat different.

Though first-hand treasures were undeniably eye-catching and filled one with anticipation, they were equally scorching to the touch. Sometimes, acting as a tranquil fisherman was a far better choice—to quietly sit as the vigilant oriole, sharpening one's blade while waiting to reap the rewards of others' labors. Playing the game of waiting by the stump for a hare alongside everyone else held its own distinct appeal.

The wait was not a long one before a hare finally emerged. To have surfaced in such a short span of time—surely, unless he had secured a supreme treasure, how could he possibly have come out? Everyone surmised amongst themselves with deep conviction: it could be none other than that.

Zhang Xuandao stood at the extremity of the path, gazing up at the outside sky, which felt strangely familiar. Lowering his gaze, he beheld a mountain beneath his feet that appeared equally familiar. Was something amiss somewhere? It felt as though he had seen this place before. What manner of trial was this precisely? What on earth had transpired? This place of heritage was proving far too bizarre.

Beneath the concealment of various divine abilities on the ground, a crowd waited for someone else to stick their neck out first, never expecting that this hare, awaited by the stump, would descend of its own accord. Zhang Xuandao touched down; excellent, his spiritual perception was no longer suppressed. His divine sense swept outward.

Boom. It was as though a hornet's nest had been poked, and several figures lunged forward instantly. A barrage of spells and divine techniques rained down upon him, though most were of mediocre quality. Zhang Xuandao felt a brief surge of puzzlement, but nonetheless offhandedly dispatched the few who had charged to the very front, instantly cowing the entire assembly.

The onlookers resumed their deep speculations. This person possessed formidable cultivation. This person had emerged ahead of schedule. This person must have acquired a supreme treasure. Consequently, an even greater number of attackers rushed forward.

"This is White Bone Mountain. I've emerged from Base Number One." Zhang Xuandao's realization came somewhat belatedly, but at least it did not dawn too late. He surveyed his surroundings once more—why did it feel so unfamiliar? The thin spiritual Qi, the familiar scent. If he still mistook this for some sort of trial now, Zhang Xuandao would truly be a fool. A moment's reflection was all it took to understand he had been lured away from his stronghold.

"A brilliant strategy, a vicious calculation!" A heavy, suffocating pressure gripped Zhang Xuandao's chest, accompanied by a profound, roiling fury that finally compelled him to roar aloud. Betrayed time and again, thwarted at every turn, dogged by misfortune incessantly—Zhang Xuandao could endure no longer! Clad in pristine white robes, an intense murderous intent radiated from his very core.

The orioles waiting by the stump continued their confident conjectures: this man had sustained no severe injuries, yet his aura was overwhelmingly oppressive. He must have secured a supreme treasure, and his conscience must be riddled with guilt. The more they thought about it, the more plausible it seemed. Several mastermind orioles resolved to strike as well; if this dragged on any longer, the arriving crowds would only multiply. Better to seize a treasure first, for after all, nothing surpassed having a bird firmly in hand.

The crowd surged forward tumultuously. Without unleashing divine abilities or displaying an overpowering aura, how could anyone gauge his cultivation level? The roaring Zhang Xuandao abruptly fell silent. Even though the fires of hell raged within his heart—the greater the desire for calm, the fiercer the wrath—he simply tightened his grip on his hands. Confronting this horde of people, whose every detail lay fully exposed to his sweeping spiritual perception—the highest among them merely a Mortal-Shedding True Man cowardly hiding within the crowd hoping to launch a sneak attack, followed by several God-Condensation practitioners—Zhang Xuandao, whose divine abilities were astonishing and who rarely resorted to close-quarters combat, slowly relaxed his grip. A white longsword materialized in his hand.

The blade appeared forged from pristine jade, instantly signaling its priceless value at a single glance. Zhang Xuandao strode forward rapidly, raising the longsword in his hand, and in that instant, his sharp edge was exposed for all to see.

The white jade was stained with blood; the white robes were stained with blood.

A moment later, the ground was strewn with corpses, every single one bearing an expression of terror. Zhang Xuandao wielded a sword, yet he executed blade techniques, striving to maximize the bloodshed.

A single battle yielded two hundred and eighteen kills. The record was not glorious, but it was harrowing enough.

Zhang Xuandao casually spun the sword into a flourish, standing amidst the sea of corpses, a strikingly conspicuous figure. "Does anyone else wish to strike?" His voice was neither loud nor soft.

"Heh哈哈哈. Young man, I can tell you now, you have courted a catastrophic disaster today. There are many disciples from various sects among those inside, and among them are plenty from prestigious major factions. You are finished." The voice was dripping with malicious glee.

"A catastrophic disaster? What a joke! I shall simply slaughter them all." Zhang Xuandao's cold voice rang out uninhibited, his heavy murderous intent entirely unmasked. For a long while, no one replied, as though the speaker had already departed. Zhang Xuandao stood in place for a few moments longer, casting a cold glare toward a specific spot in the distance. Then, transforming into a streak of long rainbow light, he soared up into the sky.

After another interval, at the spot Zhang Xuandao had glanced at, a figure slowly rose to his feet. With a countenance shrouded in gloom, he muttered to himself, "Young man, let's see you survive this ordeal first."

Wielding his white jade sword, Zhang Xuandao smashed his way forward relentlessly. Those who blocked him died; those who intercepted him perished, cut down at whim. He cut the figure of a reincarnated Asura—cold, ruthless, and entirely unstoppable. An eccentric golden leaf drifted before Zhang Xuandao's eyes, leisurely guiding his path.

Base Number One instantly erupted into pandemonium. Two madmen were loose. One slaughtered countless souls, while the other fought ceaselessly without an ounce of reason.

Until Zhang Xuandao returned to that familiar intersection, gazing at the dense throng of people, fixing his eyes upon that most conspicuous patch of purple robes. Then he looked toward that door. The gray-robed elder was nowhere to be seen. Unawares, Zhang Xuandao's eyes grew bloodshot; enemies meeting face-to-face invariably sparked an extra intensity of hatred.

Guo Xiefeng disdained offering any explanation, nor had he ever intended to, finding the prospect simply too delightful a challenge. The two madmen had finally fulfilled expectations by meeting face-to-face, both striking with absolute ruthlessness and condemning countless innocent bystanders to perish in the crossfire.

White robes versus purple robes, with all else serving merely as background scenery.