Chapter Ten: Coincidences Are Always Hard to Fathom

The sound of the zither enveloped the entire scene, its notes falling like pearls and jade, crisp and melodious, wholly distinct from the savage slaughter unfolding, adding a unique flavor to the ears. Under the influence of this music, the spirit beasts suffered first—one by one, they appeared languid and weakened.

Yet, the situation on the battlefield grew clearer. The Seven Stars Eight Dou Formation was enough to trap one person, but to confine two required every ounce of strength. Now, it held two, with a third interfering, his three-foot sword weaving through the air, sword energy crisscrossing.

As for Zhou Li, he now lay on the ground, his fate unknown. The youth riding the tiger and wielding the short halberd, though momentarily idle, was tending to his wounds. His mask had been changed back to white—his face hidden, but it was clear the injury was serious. He sat beside Zhou Li, neither treating his injuries nor caring for Zhou Li’s uncertain life, simply watching the battle and occasionally shouting praise. Blood seeped from his mouth through the mask, but he paid it no mind.

The defenders, those trying to repel the robbers, were utterly routed. Kael, whom everyone believed would be their savior, was battered and miserable under the assault of the iron bull youth. The Seven Stars Eight Dou Formation began to claim its first casualty, and its strength waned. Miss Hai, meanwhile, managed to hold her ground, but defeat was clearly inevitable. The rest of the caravan suffered terribly from the collateral damage, with many dead or wounded, yet not a single person fled.

Suddenly, a vast, oppressive aura swept across the battlefield, suppressing everything.

“Who dares disturb my cultivation?” The voice rang out, lofty and distant, as if spoken by a deity in the heavens.

Boom! A gigantic foot crashed down in the center of the battlefield, making no distinction between friend and foe—its impact was overwhelming.

“You lot, begone.” The voice sounded again, but the power did not abate; another foot descended, as if wielded by some divine demon.

The tiger-riding youth sprang up, glanced at the indiscriminate blow, his gaze resolute.

“Consider yourselves lucky, but this is no longer your concern.” He picked up his short halberd and flicked it, striking Zhou Li’s abdomen at the vital energy sea.

“Retreat!” he commanded coldly.

The third step came, with even greater force, like a giant’s kick. Starting from the Seven Stars Eight Dou Formation and sweeping all the way to the tiger-riding youth, the ground was gouged with a massive trench, and corpses lay scattered.

Silence fell instantly. The tiger-riding youth, the iron bull youth, and the swordsman had vanished. The two trapped in the Seven Stars Eight Dou Formation were dead; only one remained alive within the formation. The iron bull youth, distracted by the zither, had been caught by the blow and now his fate was unknown. All of this transpired in the span of just five breaths.

Though the unwanted guests had left, the caravan’s hearts were far from easy; the scene just witnessed suggested the new arrival was even more terrifying. Everyone anxiously awaited the outcome of their fate.

They were as insignificant as ants.

Chang’an once more dissolved into shadow. Wu Yue’s face was pale and unsightly. Beside him, Yu Fu and Zhao Qingzhi stared with wide eyes, their faces filled with disbelief.

The connection had deepened to this extent. While everyone was fleeing, Wu Yue hadn’t even had time to lament the situation before he felt his own spiritual energy drained away, exhaustion setting in, even a sense that his life itself was ebbing. Through shared vision, Kael survived danger again and again, each time bolstered by sudden bursts of strength.

“So this is why you can’t casually abandon your summoned beasts,” Wu Yue thought, gritting his teeth.

“If you act rashly, saving people is the same as killing them—you mustn’t distinguish friend from foe too clearly,” Qingyuzi said calmly. The old master, though unable to cultivate spells, seemed increasingly adept at psychology.

Wu Yue gladly accepted, deciding to play the role of a demonic cultivator for once, and the results were remarkable.

Excellent—the outcome was excellent. This time, Chang’an was summoned for a full five breaths, likely thanks to Kael’s presence.

Exhausted, drowsy, longing for sleep. “Never speak of this matter,” Wu Yue instructed, then drifted into slumber. His last conscious thought was hearing a woman’s voice, “Thank you, senior, for saving my life. Hai Qing is deeply grateful.”

“What a clever woman,” Wu Yue thought, before losing consciousness entirely.

Black Curtain City.

More than a year had passed since the battle outside the city, yet people still recounted it with relish. Ordinary folk were the most interested in such tales—distance bred fear, and fear bred curiosity. Listening to storytellers, critiquing immortals, and boasting over a cup of wine became a cheap but highly entertaining pastime, beloved by those with idle time.

However, this pleasant diversion soon vanished, as the newly appointed Boss Blade detested storytellers, so the idle folk dared not listen anymore. Normally, someone who opposed the masses would meet a grim fate, hacked to death and left without burial, but Boss Blade was an exception. He lived comfortably, employing a simple method: every month, some loudmouth would die, their blood drained completely.

Rumors spread: Boss Blade was a cultivator, a demon, and people grew fearful. Yet as time passed, they realized Boss Blade cared nothing for wealth. If that was the case, it wasn’t so bad. Aside from the monthly mysterious deaths—which, even without mystery, people would still die, just in a different manner.

Boss Blade kept a low profile, rarely leaving his residence, yet his position remained unshakeable. Such a ruthless, money-disdaining boss was, in a way, admirable. Thus, a balance of fear and favor formed.

Monkey was one of Boss Blade’s many lackeys. True to his name, the previous Monkey had died, and this Monkey was clever and thin, hence the nickname.

Unlike most bosses, Boss Blade disliked crowds, singers, and wine. Yet his living quarters had to be tranquil, at least several miles from any sign of life. If not a view of mountains and water, at least clouds and sky must be visible. Boss Blade hated being disturbed; visitors usually ended up dead, and in gruesome ways.

On this day, Monkey tiptoed, voice raised, and knocked three times on the door—a gesture of etiquette he’d learned from storytellers. Despite his anxiety, Monkey had no choice. The second-in-command named by Boss Blade had died, Monkey himself had made enemies, and, crucially, he held something fit for the gods. Besides, fortune favors the bold, and power has always tempted the heart.

He pushed open the door; the room was impeccably clean.

A clap of thunder exploded behind him—so loud.