Chapter 111: The Sick Body

At midnight in Huguo Temple, only hundreds of long banners remained, rustling in the wind.

Dozens of envoys’ corpses lay peacefully inside coffins, placed on the square before the Maitreya Hall.

Above each coffin hung a white canopy, supported by four bamboo poles.

During the day, worshippers passed through the central aisle to enter the Maitreya Hall, where they burned incense and paid respects before the dozens of memorial plaques on the altar.

The incense used to mask the stench of corpses, the fragrances clinging to worshippers’ clothes, and the temple’s burning incense—all mingled together.

Such scents and sounds blended into one.

At night, the place grew quiet.

Moonlight spilled over the aisle like a layer of silver frost; the night wind swept away most of the lingering odors.

Inside the Maitreya Hall, only Guan Changling remained, seated cross-legged on a mat beside the altar.

He faced the altar, eyes fixed, neither glancing at the scenery outside nor at the statues within.

This commander of the Imperial Guard’s Left Division appeared utterly devoted to guarding the spirits of the fallen envoys.

At this moment, every sound, sight, light, and scent in the temple carried a still, cold stillness.

The two large white candles on the altar burned with quiet, dim yellow flames.

Even as they swayed with the night breeze, the flames gave off light without smoke, flickering silently.

Whoosh!

The flames suddenly stretched thin, flat as tongues, their flickering speed increasing, emitting a hissing noise.

Suddenly, a thin mist drifted over the threshold and seeped into the hall.

Hai Donglai, cloaked in red and holding an umbrella, stepped into the hall amid the yin aura of his soldier-soul.

Guan Changling lifted his eyes, moved, and said, “Lord Hai, you truly came.”

“You slew the Tibetan high priest—already avenged them. Tonight, you come again, and they may rest more peacefully.”

Hai Donglai stared at the memorial plaques but did not approach to light incense.

“You’re here. Why pretend?”

He did not look at Guan Changling. “Tonight’s meeting—some things we both know.”

Guan Changling’s smile did not fade.

“Lord Hai, you rose to fame through martial skill, but to become commander of the Imperial Guard—you’re clearly more than just a brute.”

“I tampered with the Nanzhao Imperial Guard’s records so secretly, yet you still sensed it, destroyed part of the files. Looking back, that physician who thwarted the Yuwen assassins—Chu Tianshu—was in those destroyed files, wasn’t he? A fine subordinate.”

“Did he come tonight? Or perhaps Zheng Hui and his group too?”

Hai Donglai’s gaze shifted. “So you admit you’re the traitor. But you’re already high-ranking and powerful—why betray?”

Guan Changling smiled. “Do you remember Princess Gaoguo?”

In the Tang court, Princess Gaoguo once held great power, closely associating with generals of the Imperial Guard, the Crown Prince’s Tutor, and the Prefect of Shu Prefecture. Initially accused of building a faction for the Crown Prince, she was later accused of plotting rebellion.

The Emperor demoted several ministers, had several flogged to death, and imprisoned the princess in her mansion.

Hai Donglai had read this file.

“Back then, Princess Gaoguo had a guest-master, a deadly swordsman, mysterious in identity, who repeatedly fought for her. After the scandal broke, his identity was revealed—he was said to be the leader of a gang of wandering knights in Chang’an.”

Hai Donglai said, “I recall that knight’s wife left him, his children scattered, and he fled Tang—his whereabouts unknown ever since.”

“Now it seems he was framed by you. The real swordsman in Princess Gaoguo’s service was you.”

Guan Changling sighed. “Yes. It was me.”

“The princess was imprisoned for three years, then died of illness. What great grudge did she hold against the court? What great favor did she do you?”

Hai Donglai gave a low laugh. “If you truly held such deep hatred, why wait until now to seek revenge? Why not assassinate the Emperor long ago?”

Guan Changling could have met the Emperor at any time.

Had he struck when the Emperor’s guard was thin, he might have succeeded.

“No, no, no—killing alone isn’t revenge. The Emperor acted to secure his throne, so I’ll make sure he never sits upon it in peace.”

Guan Changling’s smile turned fierce.

“Do you know? Poison is countless strange little creatures. Human bodies rot because of these little creatures.”

“A vast empire is like a human body. The Emperor is merely one part of the brain. To make the brain suffer, you must not strike only the brain.”

“Scholars, farmers, artisans, merchants, soldiers, land, treasury—all harbor latent poison. To poison an entire empire, to ignite all its toxins, to watch how the poison unfolds.”

“That is the pinnacle of poison arts.”

Guan Changling’s eyes glowed with anticipation. “Nanzhao is the needle I use to inject poison. Don’t you dare break it before I’m done.”

No sooner had he spoken than mold sprouted across Hai Donglai’s umbrella.

Patches of mold—some white, some green—rapidly grew fuzzy mycelium and emitted steam.

Guan Changling’s expression changed.

He had already spread poison throughout the hall the moment Hai Donglai stepped inside.

But now, all the poison had been absorbed by Hai Donglai’s soldier-soul.

The boiling energy of the soul had violently disrupted the poison’s structure.

Guan Changling had always known Hai Donglai was an anomaly.

He had achieved greater mastery in the Art of Endurance than in Blood Refining.

To him, the soldier-soul was merely a tool—not the sacred killing technique other martial artists treasured.

Such an attitude should have made him unable to control the soul with precision.

Yet now, the harmony between the soul and Hai Donglai clearly surpassed all prior estimates.

Guan Changling stepped back, instantly leaving his mat and retreating several paces.

But Hai Donglai made no move.

He kept staring at the plaques.

When worshipping at memorial plaques, the most natural, instinctive distance is about three chi.

Yet Hai Donglai stood over six chi away.

His gaze wasn’t fixed on the plaques—it was fixed three chi ahead of himself.

A shadow silently dropped from the rafters.

It was Duan Zhong. His sleeves swelled midair, and when he landed, not a sound was made—he stood precisely at the three-chi mark.

“Ru Su and the others didn’t die unjustly.”

Duan Zhong spoke calmly of his slain nephew, his eyes clear and sharp, startlingly pure.

“Since you entered, you’ve shown not a single flaw—not even Guan Changling’s retreat drew the slightest urge from you to strike first.”

It was past midnight.

The top martial masters of Tang and Nanzhao had finally met on the fifteenth of the third month.

Hai Donglai’s eyes gleamed with interest. “You’re excellent. Exceptionally so.”

“I’ve never seen anyone, suspended in midair with no support, radiate such overwhelming threat.”

As they spoke, Hai Donglai’s umbrella turned slowly.

Duan Zhong’s sleeves swelled sideways, then collapsed—air currents shifting with sudden heat and cold.

For a moment, the two candles on the altar tilted and stretched toward Duan Zhong’s back.

Their killing intent, channeled through their soldier-souls, was so intense it made the heart and liver tremble.

Duan Zhong recalled the stone lion thrown into the prince’s courtyard, the half-collapsed pavilion.

Hai Donglai must have been injured then—now he was surely healed.

Greater strength than that, combined with flawless eyes and killing aura now…

“Guan Changling.”

Hai Donglai suddenly spoke. “Are you going to sacrifice your ally to create an opening in me?”

Guan Changling smiled and blew a sharp whistle from his lips.

The one truly willing to die to create an opening in Hai Donglai was someone else!

Hai Donglai’s allies—Zheng Hui and his group—had come, but the Yuwen family would handle them.

Who else could stop the Kunlun slaves?

Behind the Maitreya Hall lay another square.

From the buildings along its edge, dark figures surged forth.

In front of the Maitreya Hall, too many people passed during the day; the corpses and coffins were arranged by Nanzhao—few opportunities for sabotage.

Guan Changling’s men had to hide—naturally, behind the hall.

Dozens of Kunlun slaves gathered and rushed toward the rear entrance of the Maitreya Hall.

But behind them, on the roof of the Great Buddha Hall, two shadows leapt down.

One shadow landed and rolled forward in one fluid motion.

The other, the moment his feet touched ground, shattered a five-foot-square thick stone tile with just his right foot, denting it inward.

His left foot had already stepped forward.

Boom! Boom! Boom!

Three consecutive impacts on the ground—the figure had caught up to the Kunlun slaves.

The two rearmost Kunlun slaves sensed danger and whirled around, all four hands shooting out.

Their hands could pierce three-inch-thick wooden boards; their nails left clear dents in marble.

But the pursuing figure simply spread his arms and kept charging forward.

Both Kunlun slaves were struck across the chest by the horizontal arm.

The muffled sounds from their bodies did not resemble flesh and bone, but thick iron sheets wrapped around solid wooden pillars.

Yet under the impact of those two arms, their chests caved inward, blood bursting from their backs.

Multiple fractured ribs flashed a chilling white, shooting out through the spray of blood.

Ding! Ding! Ding! Ding!!

The Kunlun slaves struck by the broken bones trembled slightly, but the bones were deflected away.

Only one unlucky one, just turning his head, had his eyelid pierced by a shard—he made no sound and dropped dead on the spot.

The two Kunlun slaves’ corpses also flew backward, caught simultaneously by eight or nine black palms.

Chu Tianshu’s collision had killed only two enemies; his momentum faltered slightly, he halted in place, deeply surprised.

He instantly changed tactics, lunging sideways and forward, his right arm shooting out to grip a Kunlun slave’s belly.

The Kunlun slave’s belly was as hard as iron, yet under his grip, it softened like a pile of excess flesh deforming, pinned firmly in his hand.

Then the entire Kunlun slave was hurled outward, crashing over eight zhang away.

Cheng the Blind arrived just then, heard the enemy flying toward him, and sidestepped.

Boom!!

The Kunlun slave hit the ground; his body was tough enough to bounce back up.

The Listening Wind Blade slashed across his chest with a clang.

This strike left only a sunken white mark—no skin was broken.

But the blade still carried residual force; after the initial slash, it used the lingering hum of the blade’s vibration to sweep sideways.

On the Kunlun slave’s belly remained the five-finger imprint left by the earlier grip.

This sweep cut directly through four of those finger marks.

As the blade flashed, blood spattered.

The hard skin split; the blade’s curve severed internal organs and swept across the spine.

The Kunlun slave twitched like a dead fish, clutched his belly, rolled to his side, and curled motionless.

Dong! Dong! Dong! Dong! Dong!!

In an instant, more than half the Kunlun slaves were thrown flying, crashing to the ground.

Either on the belly or the neck.

Each bore a five-finger grip and squeeze mark—the wound left when they were thrown.

Because the grip and throw were too fast, each inward thrust lacked sufficient power, causing little real damage.

But once they landed—

They faced a blade that could detect their vulnerabilities with just a light brush.

Cheng the Blind exploited every force: the grip’s pressure, the impact of hitting the ground, the resulting stress changes.

His body circled and glided, like chasing his own shadow beneath the moon.

The blade dragged in his hand flickered and swept, its hum rising higher with each wave.

At his feet, the Kunlun slaves either had their throats cut or their waists severed; as his steps passed, they all died instantly.

If two men had faced these Kunlun slaves head-on—even Chu Tianshu’s strength and Cheng the Blind’s alertness—perhaps half a minute would have been needed to eliminate them all.

The trouble was, these Kunlun slaves were already dead men.

If it took that long, the enemy would have already achieved their goal.

Thus Chu Tianshu only threw, never killed.

He used the force of ground impact to let Cheng the Blind’s Loulan Blade reach its full potential.

In just three or four breaths, a large portion of the Kunlun slaves were already dead.

A slight change in battle strategy produced a world of difference.

The Yuwen family’s men who had just rushed from the side could hardly believe their eyes.

Only Yuwen Qing reacted quickly enough.

The old man held a longbow in one hand, a large handful of pellets in the other.

Since ancient times, slingshots came in two types.

One had a wooden fork with ox-hide sinew tied to it; its power came entirely from the sinew’s stretch and recoil.

The other used a bow directly to launch pellets, drawing power from the rigid deformation of the bow’s stave.

The latter generally delivered greater force.

But to fire the latter, one needed sufficient strength in the hand to grip the bow’s waist and slightly twist it, so the pellet wouldn’t strike the bow or the shooter’s hand.

Yuwen Qing used the latter.

He had perfected his Copper Sparrow Bow, confident he rivaled even his ancestors.

Yet arrows, though long-ranged and large-targeted, could be deflected by a master merely striking the shaft—not the tip.

So he switched to pellets: smaller targets, harder to block.

Zzzz!!

Yuwen Qing’s bowstring blurred into a trail of afterimages.

His right hand launched pellet after pellet in rapid succession.

In a single breath, over twenty pellets were fired.

Every major joint on Chu Tianshu’s body, and every possible evasion point nearby, lay within the pellets’ coverage.

With this skill, Yuwen Qing had once proposed creating an opening for Haidong.

But pellets, being straight-tracked and uncontrollable once fired, risked hitting Duan Zhong or Guan Changling if Haidong dodged—no one could say who the opening would truly benefit.

Guan Changling feared Haidong too much; the suggestion was immediately rejected.

Now, used against Chu Tianshu, there was no hesitation.

The pellets arrived, invisible in the night.

Yet Chu Tianshu did not miss them; his foot had already hooked into a crack between floor tiles, and he suddenly kicked upward.

Chu Tianshu did not miss it; his foot had already hooked into the crack between the floor tiles, and he suddenly flicked upward.

A five-foot square stone tile, under such brief force, did not shatter at all.

The Immortal Force caused the entire tile to leap abruptly into the air.

Chu Tianshu’s figure vanished in that instant.

He ducked his head and shoulders down, drew his feet up, and fully concealed himself behind the tile.

He dropped his head and shoulders, drew his feet up, and completely shrank behind the stone slab.

The few remaining Kunlun slaves around him burst into bloodsprays.

Skin that could withstand crossbow bolts could not resist these pellets—embedded deep in their flesh.

The thick, large stone tile was struck by six or seven pellets and shattered instantly.

But by the time the pellets broke the tile, their force had already dropped sharply.

A palm suddenly erupted from behind the shattered tile.

The palm opened wide, as large as a bucket, launching like thunder.

It could only strike the center of the tile.

Yet at the moment the tile was about to break, this force struck it, causing even the edges to fly outward.

Beneath the moonlight, it looked like a lotus of dust blooming.

A massive lotus, five to six feet across, faced directly toward the Yuwen family men.

A massive lotus, its blossom five to six feet wide, faced directly toward the Yuwen family members.

Yuwen Qing’s heart jolted—he felt as if a thunderclap had sounded right beside his ear.

His hand, just pulling out a second handful of pellets from the deer-skin pouch, suddenly lost its grip; the pellets fell from his fingers.

Yuwen Qing looked down: a small hole in his chest was oozing blood.

Faintly visible was a tiny shard of stone embedded there.

This was the true target of Chu Tianshu’s palm—the fragment that had touched his palm center.

These were the fragments Chu Tianshu’s palm had truly targeted, the pieces that made contact with his palm.

Golden light suddenly illuminated Yuwen Qing’s face—a golden divine weapon blocked before him.

The weapon was long like a spear, its tip forged into the shape of a phoenix.

Its twin edges resembled phoenix wings; its point, a phoenix beak.

The weapon arrived with astonishing speed.

Yuwen Chiming, who wielded it, had somehow tracked the path of Chu Tianshu’s tiny fragment even in the moonlit dark.

But the danger had not been aimed at him; his weapon arrived just a fraction too late.

But the danger had not been aimed at him directly; when his weapon moved to block, it was still a fraction too late.

Yuwen Chiming roared silently in his mind.

His face, in that instant, blazed like gilded paper, his muscles taut from cheek to temple, radiating authority.

The aura of the evil weapon released, making nearby Yuwen men feel as if their bodies were bobbing on waves.

Chu Tianshu stomped and charged forward, his path straight, slicing through the illusion of undulating surroundings, and punched toward their patriarch.

His fist, dark green-black, hardened like steel.

The fist, dark blue-black, hardened like steel.

But when they were within seven chi, even Chu Tianshu felt something strange about what lay ahead.

A dim golden light suddenly flashed above their heads.

It crashed down with crushing weight!

(End of Chapter)