Chapter 209: What Is Called the Cultivation World

A large, thin black cloth wrapped Zhou Qingqing and her son, leaving only a small opening for breathing and observation.

This was a new concealment robe made by Li Lin taking apart two concealment robes and having Huang Qing sew them together—mainly larger, for easier hiding.

Zhou Qingqing crouched in the grass, holding her son in her arms.

At this moment, Xiao Hua had not yet woken; the warmth of his mother’s embrace and the relative quiet had left the child sensing no threat.

He slept soundly.

Zhou Qingqing was somewhat afraid, and after Li Lin left, the paper figures around her stood rigidly motionless, their purplish-pink hue and rouged faces glowing faintly in the dim orange embers of the fire—utterly terrifying.

Then, the fire’s light slowly faded.

It became even more terrifying.

Zhou Qingqing covered the small opening entirely.

Outside the woods, Ji Feng, his wife and daughter, along with his disciples, had reached the edge of the official road—over twenty people in total.

Unlike ordinary people, cultivators have strong blood and qi; though only in their early twenties, all were skilled, and their combined blood-qi field was sufficient to repel the wilderness spirits around them.

Of course, they couldn’t remain outdoors for too long—each night drained their blood and qi, and after several days, as their blood and qi diminished, they too would be targeted by wilderness spirits.

Ji Feng studied the “tracks” on the ground by moonlight, then gazed toward the woods to the right of the road and said: “That suspected paper-figure group must have hidden inside—perhaps even set an ambush. Everyone stay alert, don’t wander off, and don’t stray more than ten zhang from the group.”

Everyone nodded.

At that moment, Ji Feng suddenly turned back, looking toward the path they’d come from.

Another group was approaching.

He’d assumed it was Tianyi Sect, but discovered it was a band of men in black robes—some faces were familiar, having crossed paths in the city these past days, but their origins were unknown.

Before Ji Feng could speak, hoofbeats sounded again from behind.

Another group arrived, then another.

Soon, seven distinct groups were visibly present, each with at least ten or more members; two or three groups numbered over thirty or forty.

This was only what was visible—hidden or trailing groups were even more numerous.

It seemed all of Yuecheng’s cultivators had come here.

The moonlight that night was bright; with cultivators’ eyesight, under these conditions, their vision was nearly as clear as daylight.

Though the official road was crowded and horses occasionally neighed, it was strangely quiet—no other sounds at all.

Even the insects had fallen silent.

Among these people, Qingcheng Sect and Tianyi Sect stood out most prominently.

Ji Feng paid no mind to the others—he led his group toward An Xin, since Tianyi Sect had better reputation and was less dangerous in this chaos.

“An young master, there are quite a few people here,” Ji Feng said, somewhat helplessly.

An Xin smiled: “Not just many—every famous sect in the cultivation world has come.”

He glanced toward the side of the road behind them: “Shaolin and Zhenwu are hiding back there, and everyone’s masked, waiting to pick up the scraps.”

Ji Feng frowned: “How do you know?”

“The yang energy of the Fomen sect can be smelled three streets away,” An Xin chuckled. “As for Zhenwu Sect—that group, even with their faces covered, radiates an air of aloof superiority, as if the whole world owes them something. Hard to miss.”

Ji Feng couldn’t help laughing.

Their voices carried, and many turned to look at them.

At this moment, only these two dared to speak aloud.

Then, a group of masked black-robed men rode up on tall horses, stopping near Tianyi Sect’s group, and pulled off their face coverings.

The leader, a man with a long flowing beard and an ethereal aura, clasped his fists and said: “Young Master An, you flatter me—I am deeply honored.”

“I said you were full of sourness, and now you’re pleased?”

“Only Confucians and our Daoist sects are ever called sour and stale—that’s a mark of distinction.”

An Xin sighed helplessly: “Still as shameless as ever.”

The Daoist stroked his beard, smiling silently.

The Daoist seemed about to say more, when suddenly a scream pierced the air.

Everyone turned—and saw someone collapse not far from them on the road.

The injured man rolled on the ground, clutching his lower back, then went still.

“Sixth brother! Sixth brother!”

A group of masked black-robed men surrounded him, shouting.

Everyone instantly went on alert.

Ji Feng frowned: “We haven’t even found that paper-figure procession yet, and already someone’s turning on each other.”

An Xin sneered: “That’s always been the way of the cultivation world.”

The Daoist gazed into the distance and said: “In my opinion, we don’t need so many to fight over the Linglong Jade Box. Fewer would be better.”

An Xin and Ji Feng turned to look at him.

The Daoist continued: “I believe only four groups need remain.”

“Which four?” Ji Feng asked.

“Qingcheng, Tianyi, Zhenwu, and Shaolin.”

The four strongest sects among these cultivators.

An Xin thought the proposal feasible.

Ji Feng thought for a moment, then asked: “When only four groups remain, how will the spoils be divided?”

“By virtue alone!”

“What is virtue?” Ji Feng asked.

“It will become clear when the time comes.”

Ji Feng nodded, comparing the numbers and estimating the strength of each side, then gave a slight nod.

“I agree—Daoist Xuanfeng’s suggestion is sound.”

Xuanfeng was extremely pleased, about to speak—when he was interrupted.

Because the group of black-robed men whose companion had died suddenly charged forward, their leader pointing at Xuanfeng and shouting: “You Zhenwu sect, sneaking around like cowards, using invisibility techniques to murder our sixth brother—we swear blood feud with Zhenwu!”

With that, they drew their blades and charged.

Zhenwu’s thirty-odd members were no slouches.

They immediately counterattacked, and chaos erupted.

Zhenwu was powerful, but the opposing side had slightly more numbers—they were evenly matched for now.

Xuanfeng blasted a palm wave that pushed back the black-robed man before him, then turned and shouted: “Young Master An, Master Ji, lend your aid!”

But his expression froze—he realized the two were far away.

And getting farther.

Not just Qingcheng and Tianyi—other sects were watching like spectators.

Even… some had their hands resting on their weapons.

Waiting for the two sides to exhaust each other, so they could step in and claim the spoils.

Xuanfeng sensed the situation turning dire—these black-robed men were strong, but not a serious threat to Zhenwu; even if they won, they’d be exhausted and lose much blood qi, leaving them vulnerable. When the wolves circling around finally pounced, things would go badly.

At that moment, another scream erupted from a group beside the road.

Everyone turned—and saw another man clutching his lower back, writhing on the ground.

Xuanfeng was furious—he instantly understood the enemy’s treacherous intent: they wanted to turn more people against Zhenwu.

In a flash of inspiration, he shouted: “Well done, Master Kurong! Shaolin and Zhenwu unite—first clear out these vermin, then we’ll handle the rest!”

At these words, every cultivator leapt backward, vanishing into the woods.

Even Tianyi and Qingcheng retreated.

Xuanfeng stared at the thirty-odd black-robed men before him, eyes flashing with killing intent.

“Brothers, unleash everything—kill them all, then retreat into the woods.”

(End of Chapter)