Chapter 62: Bodhisattva, Weeping Blood Tears

The man who had just burst in had curly gray hair like tiny crescent moons, sharp features, a tall and powerful build, a commanding appearance, yet his expression was filled with anxiety.

“Xiu Wu!”

Jia Ji recognized him—this was Nan Dou Bai Lu Quan, Ren Star Xiu Wu, who was supposed to be here but had not appeared.

“How did you get here!”

Sao Sao had little affection for this man, who nominally held equal status to him, but his sudden interruption brought Sao Sao a sigh of relief.

After their previous punch clash, he fully understood how powerful Lao was, and knew that if they continued fighting, death or serious injury was inevitable—a kill-or-be-killed scenario, where either could die, or worse, both would perish together.

Moreover, he had just noticed Jia Ji’s repulsive face, staring fixedly at his duel with Lao for a long time, and was filled with dread—“This boy is no good!”

He was highly likely to sneak attack him, the noble Nan Dou Phoenix, at the most critical moment.

After all, who in their right mind as a righteous fist master would carry a gun?

If this bastard secretly shot him in the back…

Even if one or two bullets couldn’t pierce his thousand-times-forged body, any slightest distraction, any tiny opening, and Lao would instantly obliterate him.

I—I—I, I, the Nan Dou Emperor Sao Sao!

Only I ambush others!

How could I die by such a shameful tactic?

So, although Xiu Wu’s arrival seemed to stop both sides and give everyone a face-saving exit, it was really more about saving the lives of his fellow Nan Dou disciples—and it relieved Sao Sao immensely.

Everyone stopped fighting and turned to look in the direction Xiu Wu pointed; Jia Ji also shifted his attention backward.

He had expected Xiu Wu to say something like, “Stop fighting, you’ll kill each other,” some nonsense he’d loudly rebuke him for—but instead, Xiu Wu said, “The Bodhisattva is weeping blood.”

“How is this possible?…” Yet when Jia Ji stared at the imposing Bodhisattva statue, over a zhang tall, his jaws trembled uncontrollably, and he let out a shuddering cry: “Aieeeeeeee… Bodhisattva, why?! It’s really weeping blood!”

Two impossible trails of blood tears slowly traced down from the Bodhisattva’s eye sockets, dripping onto the ground, splashing tiny droplets of crimson, as if unable to bear witnessing the two factions fighting each other.

Simultaneously, an inexplicably heavy, crushing pressure emanated from the statue, which had previously held no life—so intense it made one suspect it would rise from its lotus throne in the next second and brutally beat down these disrespectful fist masters before it.

Worse still,

when everyone looked around, they all drew a sharp breath.

They suddenly realized that in this solemn hall, besides this statue of Longshu Bodhisattva, the statues of Dashizhi, Budongzun, Guanyin, and other Arhats, Mingwang, and Buddhas, which Lao had blasted away with his battle aura cannon, had somehow remained completely unharmed despite the impact and the fall from such a height—no matter their material.

Amid the violent shaking, they had landed back exactly in their original positions, without a single inch off.

Everyone was horrified.

Were they terrified of Lao’s “monstrous, supernatural” strength?

No.

Even Lao himself could not hide his shock.

Because, except for the Bodhisattva weeping blood, every single statue had turned completely around—they all now faced away from the living.

Could this be coincidence?

Impossible!

Facing such a terrifying and bizarre scene,

among the dozens of Nan Dou fist masters, someone had involuntarily lost bladder control.

Jia Ji shivered with dread; he suddenly felt as if countless tangible gazes had appeared, watching him, scrutinizing him, openly ogling him from all directions.

And he couldn’t locate their source—as if gods and Buddhas in a higher dimension were pointing and whispering about him, this “anomaly.”

He knew this feeling was not mistaken.

Because in this Bei Dou world, not only did fate and stellar destiny exist, but “haunting incidents” frequently occurred—such as the spirits of dead masters being summoned to fight, heaven suddenly granting extraordinary awakening powers, the ghostly spirits of the deceased Xi Dou Yue Quan masters manifesting as wolf spirits for a thousand years, or the ghosts of long-dead masters appearing to scold their disciples… countless such tales existed.

Even more astonishingly, sixty years ago, during the “Rite of Heavenly Mandate” to determine the true heir of Bei Dou, a goddess of unknown identity reached down from a higher realm, using only her own power to hold back the two strongest men alive, stopping the final, lethal strikes of the former masters of Bei Dou Shen Quan and Bei Dou Liu Quan.

This is precisely why Bei Dou Shen Quan is considered a mystical fist art.

Although after the nuclear war, humanity had dwindled to less than one in ten, gods and Buddhas vanished, and faith was severed, if anyone still believed now, in this Nan Dou Hall, long venerated and worshipped by fist masters, perhaps the Buddhas had never closed their eyes.

“Hmm…”

A strange sigh arose from nowhere, echoing through the half-destroyed Nan Dou Hall.

Why has the Bodhisattva turned her back?

Why will the living not turn back?

At that moment, Jia Ji suddenly shuddered.

Like an endless stream, something gradually poured into his mind from empty space… some kind of knowledge? Some powerful fist art?

He pounded his forehead in agony; this forced infusion felt like a rape of his barren brain—as if his skull had been split open and something crudely shoved inside.

“Big Brother Jia Ji, are you alright?”

The little demon beside him noticed Jia Ji’s odd state and asked with concern; others also turned to look.

What the hell was he doing now?

Huh.

Huh.

Huh.

“I’m… fine. Probably.”

After barely recovering from the pain, Jia Ji quickly checked his memories—and his face betrayed him completely.

He had only heard of Eastern chefs being drawn into the faith after divine dreams—but he never imagined a Bodhisattva would transmit a fist art directly to a fist master.

One fist art.

Of course, a fist art transmitted by a Buddha was meant for killing.

Jia Ji hadn’t had time to examine its details; he was more puzzled—“I already cultivate Bei Dou Shen Quan. What fist art could possibly surpass the strongest fist?”

After Jia Ji returned to normal, the oppressive, unsettling atmosphere in the air gradually faded; everyone involuntarily exhaled in relief—they had all felt as if an invisible hand had seized them, rendering them utterly motionless, frozen in place.

Since even the Bodhisattva had intervened, the fight could obviously not continue.

“Tuo Qi, Ken Shi Lang, Jia Ji—let’s go!”

Lao gave Sao Sao one deep look, fully grasping the danger of this opponent, then turned and left with his three younger brothers.

The Nan Dou people made no move to stop them; even though Xiu Wu had now arrived, if they fought again, not only would they not want to, but the gods and Buddhas would surely close their eyes.

Unlike his returning fellow disciples, Jia Ji mounted his seat first, started the engine, and rode off on his motorcycle, leaving in a cloud of dust.

He still had to return the bike.

But along the way, he couldn’t stop thinking about that fist art.

If a Buddha transmitted a fist art… could it be that legendary one?

—Buddha Buddha Buddha Buddha Buddha Kuyu!!

1 The Bodhisattva Weeps Blood—“Ninja Killer”

2 The Rite of Heavenly Mandate, Xi Dou Yue Quan, etc., originate from the prequel to “Bei Dou Shen Quan,” “Cangtian Zhi Quan”; by the way, “Cangtian Zhi Quan Re” has recently resumed serialization after a four-year hiatus.

3 Donate a copy of a new book: “New Era: No Old Gods Allowed”

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(End of Chapter)