Chapter 601: Familiar Words

The Prince of Xin was startled by the fox maiden's words.

That's true.

Without this noble title, I wouldn't even have the qualification to seek immortality—how could I possibly host a banquet at the Star-Inviting Tower?

"Your Highness, since ancient times, there has been only one path to immortality: becoming a god through incense worship."

At this moment, a middle-aged Daoist with disheveled hair stroked his beard and said: "All ghosts, spirits, and demons in the world walk this path. Even this fox maiden, with centuries of cultivation, still possesses a mortal body destined to turn to dust. Only by building temples and receiving incense offerings can one endure in heaven and earth."

"You too believe this?" the Prince of Xin snapped back to himself, surprised: "Can't Daoist cultivation grant immortality?"

The Daoist chuckled: "We cultivators wander the four seas, helping others do good—why? To accumulate merit, yes, but truly to gather the incense of countless households. Only when merit is great enough does magic power arise in the body. Ordinary people, through earth qi cultivation, may learn a few tricks and live one or two hundred years—but they cannot achieve immortality. I saw my master pass away in his temple, living to two hundred and seventy-one years."

The Prince of Xin shook his head: "I refuse to abandon my body to become a clay statue or wooden idol. Besides, incense offerings today may vanish tomorrow. When decline comes, won't I still be scattered into nothingness?"

"Your Highness, with your noble status, becoming a god through incense worship will be easier. Moreover, your fate is tied to the state—even if a mighty ruler destroys mountains and temples, he cannot touch you."

The Prince of Xin gave a self-deprecating laugh: "Each emperor brings new ministers. A hundred years from now, who will still recognize me as the Prince of Xin? How many temples of royal nobles have been banned by the court? Some temples were torn down in less than fifty years—there's only so much incense in the world, and others are always waiting in line."

"Put bluntly, if I can become a god for sixty years after death, I'll count myself lucky."

Everyone fell silent.

That wasn't untrue.

Though incense worship grants immortality, who can worship you for a thousand or ten thousand years? Even the court changes hands—how much more so the gods in temples?

Take the City God of Xinzhou City, for example.

A hundred years ago, it wasn't him. And a hundred years from now, who will it be?

Seeing everyone fall silent,

the Prince of Xin rose, holding his wine cup, gazing out the window. The night view was perfect: stars scattered across the sky, the bright moon hanging high, clear and luminous.

Yet his heart was heavy. He sighed deeply and recited aloud: "Ask you how much sorrow you can hold? Just like spring river water flowing eastward."

"Brilliant verse! Just this one line is enough to make you immortal in history. Prince of Xin, with such literary talent, you could write books and leave your name etched in heaven and earth—why compete with the court for incense?" Suddenly, a scholar's eyes lit up as he clapped in praise.

The Prince of Xin smiled and shook his head, about to speak—

when a sudden voice rang out, sharp as thunder, wielding divine and demonic power. Merely speaking, it shook the soul.

"Who taught you that verse?"

The next instant,

a crimson cloud boiled upward, and a Daoist of similar age to the Prince of Xin stood upon it, his eyes glowing with luminous light, dragon-tiger energy coiling around him, his aura terrifyingly immense.

Under that gaze, the Prince of Xin's hair stood on end, his face pale with fear. He staggered backward several steps; had his attendants not caught him, he would have collapsed to the ground.

The sudden change startled all guests, who leapt to their feet.

"Assassin!" cried a servant of the Prince's mansion.

At this cry, the palace's spirit birds scattered in panic, fox spirits darted wildly, and outside the Star-Inviting Tower, armored soldiers surged forward, rushing toward the upper floors.

Instantly,

the swordsman with the sheathed blade leapt forward, rushing to shield the Prince of Xin, his face tense and wary. He wanted to draw his sword, but instinct screamed at him: this Daoist, standing on auspicious clouds, was more fearsome than any tiger—if he moved carelessly, he'd die without a grave.

For some reason, a bead of cold sweat dripped from his forehead.

"My hand holding the sword is trembling." The swordsman stared at his unresponsive hand, shocked and terrified.

His body, against his will, was terrified and unresponsive.

This had never happened before. Even facing the fiercest spirits, he had always remained calm, drawing his blade to fight—but today, everything was reversed.

In truth, it wasn't just the swordsman—all of them felt it.

This gap in life's hierarchy couldn't be explained in mere words. If Li Yi underwent a few more transformations, merely standing there and leaking his aura would force everyone to kneel, unable to muster the strength to rise—just as a tiger descending a mountain makes every dog along the path flee with tail tucked.

Yet precisely because they sensed this danger, some of the more capable guests immediately considered acting.

"Wait, wait—it's not an assassin! He's a cultivated master!" The white ape, upon seeing Li Yi, was startled, then shouted loudly.

The white ape didn't want a fight—he knew this master's power. If chaos erupted, countless lives would be lost.

Hearing this, the guests' expressions shifted slightly, yet their vigilance remained.

Li Yi stepped down from the crimson auspicious cloud, walking slowly into the hall. His gaze remained fixed on the so-called Prince of Xin. "That verse—you didn't write it. Who are you?"

Though he hadn't read much and had limited education, when his parents were alive, they had helped him memorize texts and do homework.

Just now, the Prince of Xin recited: "Ask you how much sorrow you can hold? Just like spring river water flowing eastward." That wasn't poetry from this world—it was poetry from Earth's ancient past.

The appearance of this verse meant only two possibilities:

Either a cross-world traveler had come here and left traces—or this Prince of Xin was a cross-world traveler himself.

But Li Yi thought the latter unlikely. Though the Prince of Xin bore dragon-tiger energy, his body showed no signs of evolution. If he were a cross-worlder, he'd have begun cultivation long ago and possessed formidable power—he couldn't possibly still be an ordinary man.

"Who are you? I didn't invite you to this Star-Inviting Tower."

The Prince of Xin steadied himself. The dragon-tiger energy within him roared, howling, shielding his spirit so he wouldn't collapse before Li Yi.

Li Yi still stepped forward on the auspicious cloud: "I am Taiyi, a cultivator. Today, I have no intention of troubling you. Just tell me who composed that verse."

At this moment, another disheveled Daoist widened his eyes in shock: "You're the demon Daoist Taiyi who destroyed the Prefect's government office today? How bold! You dare remain in Xinzhou City? You're utterly lawless! Don't you know the court has issued a spirit decree, ordering celestial deities from all directions to capture you?"

Demon Daoist Taiyi?

Hearing this, all guests' gazes shifted slightly.

They'd heard of today's major event: a Daoist had stormed the Prefect's government office and nearly killed Prefect Chen Nian.

They'd been discussing who had such audacity to defy the court—yet now, that Daoist had appeared tonight in the Prince's mansion, and

they stared at Li Yi's dragon-tiger aura, uncertain and alarmed.

No mistake—a single glance confirmed it!

The rumors were true.

Daoist Taiyi truly bore dragon-tiger energy, the aura of an emperor. Compared to the Prince of Xin's dragon-tiger energy, his was like a dwarf beside a giant. Merely appearing, his aura crushed the Prince's back—no defiance possible.

"Demon Daoist?" Li Yi glanced at him. "You're a cultivator too. Can't you tell if I'm a demon? Are your eyes blind? I have no time for you now. Go quietly to the side—or I'll cut off your head so you never speak again."

"Arrogant!"

The disheveled middle-aged Daoist roared in fury: "You, a demon Daoist, stole dragon-tiger energy from somewhere—how dare you act violently in the Prince's mansion? Do you intend to rebel? I, this Daoist, have encountered you tonight—it is my duty to subdue demons and exterminate evil! I shall destroy you, demon Daoist, to prevent endless future harm to the people!"

With that, he drew a deep breath, then spat out a flash of cold light.

The cold light transformed into a slender flying sword, hurtling straight for Li Yi's neck.

One touch, and it would sever his head.

"A flying sword!" Everyone gasped in shock.

They hadn't expected this disheveled Daoist to wield such divine power. Though legends spoke of flying swords, none had ever seen one—this was their first time.

Legends said flying swords could kill from a thousand li away—was that true?

"This thing is called a flying sword?"

Li Yi's eyes flickered—he caught the sword's trail. To others, the cold light moved with terrifying speed; to him, it was laughable. He reached out, and in one motion, dragon-tiger power surged forth.

Boom!

The air exploded like thunder rolling.

The cold light vanished the moment it touched his palm.

"Ah!"

The next instant,

the Daoist spat a mouthful of blood, his face ashen, stumbling to the ground. He pointed at Li Yi in terror: "You—you destroyed my flying sword?"

Others, witnessing this, blinked rapidly.

They'd thought seeing a flying sword was unbelievable—now, even more unbelievable: someone had caught and extinguished it barehanded.

Was that hand truly flesh and blood?

"Just a bit of golden qi—and impure at that. What's so special about a flying sword? Since you like flying swords so much, I'll give you one." Li Yi spoke, then spat.

Instantly, a brilliant golden light shot forth.

The golden light was blinding. Merely appearing, its aura spread—everyone felt their flesh tear, agony searing through their bodies.

Before anyone could react,

the golden light vanished.

The next instant,

the middle-aged Daoist's head rolled off his neck like a loose fruit, spurting blood three feet high, staining the ground crimson.

As the headless corpse collapsed,

the Daoist's soul scattered too.

This was golden qi from his lung orifice—spat out, even a true cultivator, a Golden Core adept, might not withstand it. But these people's realms were too low, their power too weak, to perceive the subtleties.

All they knew: one flash of golden light—and a man's head fell.

(End of Chapter)