Chapter 52

On the way back, Xiuniang was curious about Daoist Yansong’s face-changing.

“Uncle Yansong, what’s going on with those masks?” Xiuniang scrutinized Daoist Yansong’s face closely. “So many masks—where did you hide them?”

Though Daoist Yansong still wore the Hunyuan cap, black cloth wrapped around its back and sides, extending into his robes—unlike his usual attire.

Xiuniang had previously thought he dressed this way because he was old and cold; now she realized it was deliberate, meant for magical combat.

“That’s called a face mask—it’s my personal secret,” Daoist Yansong grinned, leaning close to Xiuniang. With a single shake of his head, a blue face mask instantly appeared on his face.

Xiuniang startled, let out a soft cry, and stepped back.

Even with her cultivated eyesight, she hadn’t seen how he’d suddenly applied the mask—she couldn’t help but marvel, “Incredible!”

Daoist Yansong laughed heartily, swept his sleeve across his face, and returned to his original appearance.

“This is called face-changing—it’s my hometown’s unique skill. Back in hard times, many artisans made their living solely by this trick,” Daoist Yansong explained.

Even in the internet age, with face-changing reveal videos online, audiences still gasp in awe when watching live—let alone in this ancient otherworld.

Moreover, Daoist Yansong had modified it himself: with a touch of magic power, he could switch freely among seven masks. If he performed this in modern Blue Star, he’d be the undisputed master of face-changing.

Even the Face-Changing King would yield to him; anyone who knew the secret would be utterly baffled!

Thinking of this, Daoist Yansong felt immensely proud, already planning when to return and show the Daoists of Qingcheng Mountain a thing or two.

Like Gu Zhao, Daoist Yansong had no intention of immediately revealing Taiyi Fenghuo—this small magical trick, blended with spiritual power, was far more effective at manipulating minds.

Not just the uneducated Daoists of Qingcheng Mountain—even Xiuniang and Bai Ke were astonished, for Daoist Yansong’s face-changing gave off an aura of mystery and dazzling brilliance.

“Why do you change faces during combat?” Xiuniang asked further.

“To boost my own aura!” Daoist Yansong chuckled, pointing at himself. “My old face lacks intimidation—people won’t fear me. But if my opponent sees these terrifying masks during a fight, their courage falters—I gain the upper hand.”

Bai Ke, “...”

Xiuniang, “...”

Bai Ke had no energy to retort, thinking: How strange are all of Gu Zhao’s disciples? When you actually fight, you unleash Taiyi Fenghuo—who dares underestimate you? Why bother with face-changing to scare them?

Xiuniang lacked experience and hadn’t thought this far; she nodded half-understandingly and added, “You switched masks mid-fight.”

“Different spells require different masks,” Daoist Yansong said, glancing at Gu Zhao, then reciting two lines of doggerel: “Blue-faced Wind Lord hides beyond the sky, Red-faced Fire God stirs heaven and earth.”

Gu Zhao immediately understood, raised his thumb, and played the straight man: “That’s professionalism!”

Xiuniang got it: “So you use the blue mask when summoning wind, switch to red for fire—but why did you finally change to black?”

“Black means I’m going all out,” Daoist Yansong explained patiently.

The black mask represents Zhang Fei—fierce, wild, beard and hair bristling—clearly a sign of full power.

Bai Ke, perched on Xiuniang’s shoulder, wondered what other tricks Daoist Yansong had and asked, “What other mask colors do you have? Show us!”

Daoist Yansong didn’t mind; he swept his hand across his face and revealed a yellow mask.

Yellow base, black outlines, red floral accents—looked bold and formidable.

“What does yellow mean?” Bai Ke asked.

“Yellow means I’m drawing my sword,” Daoist Yansong patted the sword at his waist. “My Qingcheng Sword Art has decades of refinement!”

Qingcheng martial arts are famed for swordplay; Daoist Yansong had trained for decades, mastering XIAOYUN SWORD and QIXING SWORD until they felt like extensions of his limbs.

Ten days ago, his swordplay was merely for health and performance; now, with spiritual power infused, it could slay demons and purge evil.

For this battle, he’d brought his lifelong companion—the sword he’d carried for decades.

“To uphold justice, magic alone isn’t enough—you must know some martial arts,” Gu Zhao concluded.

Whether it was Ren Tianhe of the Golden Wind Sect, the brocade-clad elder Huang Ping of Sanjue Mountain, or this target, the corpse-demon Xu Kongting—all were spirits or demons with magic power and spells, yet none neglected physical combat.

In other words, the mainstream cultivation path in this world still emphasized dual cultivation of body and magic.

“Exactly,” Daoist Yansong nodded. “But we’re no slouches either.”

Daoists don’t seek rebirth—they seek fulfillment in this life, so they prioritize physical health. Even Zhengyi Daoists who practice visualization also cultivate qi, training strength and martial arts daily.

It’s tradition: when the Taiping Dao raised their banners and the Five Pecks of Rice Sect held territory, every Daoist could mount a horse, draw a sword, and cut down generals and seize flags!

So Daoist Yansong trained for decades in fists and sword; Gu Zhao trained martial arts with his grandfather. Now, with enhanced spiritual power and physical conditioning, they naturally gained close-combat ability.

But...

“I think I can still get stronger,” Gu Zhao said.

Thinking of Huang Ping’s monstrous ape form and Xu Kongting’s claws trying to tear them apart, Gu Zhao didn’t want to rely on future enemies being weaker or unable to close in—after all, it’s easy to dodge a spear, hard to avoid a hidden arrow.

Daoist Yansong understood Gu Zhao’s meaning: “Your grandfather taught you a local small-style fist, but he laid a solid foundation. Whatever martial art you learn later, you’ll progress twice as fast.”

“Hey hey hey—what do you mean ‘local small-style’?” Gu Zhao protested. “White Crane Fist isn’t some minor style—it’s one of the signature southern styles.”

Daoist Yansong retorted, “It’s not even on the Intangible Cultural Heritage list—what else would you call it if not a minor style?”

Gu Zhao grunted, “Hung Fist isn’t on it either.”

Daoist Yansong shook his head. “Hung Fist isn’t listed because it has too many branches and endless disputes—and it doesn’t need the list to boost its status.”

Gu Zhao sighed. “The White Crane Fist lineage is weak.”

Daoist Yansong chuckled, offering advice: “Then strengthen it yourself! Go back, perform a White Crane Fist form, summon a White Crane spiritual form—and see who dares look down on it.”

Gu Zhao, “...”