Chapter 427

The Western Ox Continent stretches boundlessly.

Here, it is the Buddha Sect’s private domain; in every town and city, the grandest buildings are always glittering temples.

Qiao Ling, clad in white robes, holding a folding fan, looked like a worldly scholar traveling the land, strolling leisurely along the bustling streets.

On the surface, the Western Ox Continent was everywhere a land of ultimate bliss; the people bowed at the sight of the Buddha and burned incense at every temple.

But Qiao Ling’s gaze pierced through that prosperity, turning toward the dark, cramped slums within the city.

In a leaky thatched hut, an old woman in tattered clothes knelt on the ground.

Before her stood no Buddha statue—only a worn red cloth, beneath which a wooden carving was faintly hidden.

The carving had no facial features, only a human shape.

The old woman clasped her hands together and whispered a prayer: “Thank you, Great Zizai Tianzun, for the medicine you sent—my sick grandson is recovering. The monks in the temples demand ten cash for each dose of medicine, but I have nothing left to give…”

Qiao Ling stopped walking, silently observing the faceless idol from two streets away.

It wasn’t just here—he had seen these faceless idols scattered across countless corners forgotten by the Buddha Sect’s radiance.

“It seems Fan Chen and the others have done well,” Qiao Ling smiled.

The Buddha Sect’s oppressive rule and greedy exploitation had long made the common folk suffer unbearably.

The Great Zizai Demon Dao asked for no incense, set no barriers; its spirit of helping all people to strengthen themselves spread like a spark across this land.

The greed of monopolies always looks ugly—and is always most easily turned against itself.

Qiao Ling withdrew his gaze, stepped out of the city gate, and followed an ancient road into the endless mountains.

After traveling over a hundred li, a sudden clamor of wailing and clashing spiritual power echoed from a valley ahead.

Qiao Ling swept his spiritual sense across the valley, his eyebrows lifting slightly.

Nestled in the valley was a village of several hundred households.

At this moment, in the village’s threshing ground, hundreds of villagers knelt in a dense mass, their cries deafening.

Before them, three monks in bright yellow kasayas hovered in midair.

The central one held a purple-gold alms bowl, his cultivation base at the early stage of Human Immortal; the other two were at the Refining Void and Merging Dao realm.

The purple-gold alms bowl was inverted, pouring down a blinding golden light that formed a semicircular barrier.

Within the barrier, a pure white fox was crushed beneath the golden radiance.

Its fur was scorched and stained with blood, its mouth emitting pained whimpers.

“Master! Please, have mercy—spare White Lady!” An elderly man with white hair banged his head against the ground, blood streaming from his forehead, “White Lady is a good spirit! For a hundred years, if not for her summoning rain and driving away beasts, our village would have been wiped out!”

“Yes! White Lady has never harmed a soul! Please, Master, show mercy!” the villagers cried in unison.

The Xuan Immortal monk above showed no expression, his eyes cold with supreme detachment.

“Ignorant mortals, blinded by fleshly eyes,” the monk sneered, his voice amplified by spiritual power, echoing through the mountains, “A demon is a demon—its nature is cruel. It bestows favors upon you merely to deceive your hearts and steal your offerings. Today, I, as Heaven’s agent, shall subdue this demon. If any of you dare interfere, you are no better than its accomplices!”

With that, the monk formed a hand seal—the purple-gold alms bowl blazed brighter, the golden light transforming into countless blades that slashed toward the white fox.

The white fox let out a final, desperate cry and closed its eyes.

Several young villagers, enraged, roared and seized hoes and carrying poles, hurling them at the hovering monks.

“Obstinate fools,” the monk’s eyes flashed with murderous intent, “Since your minds are already corrupted by demonic energy, I shall deliver you all to salvation.”

His free hand slammed downward.

A colossal golden palm imprint materialized in midair, roaring with wind pressure—not only engulfing the white fox, but also swallowing the dozens of villagers rushing forward.

If this palm struck, the mortals would be crushed into pulp.

“Is this the Buddha Sect’s mercy?”

A soft laugh suddenly echoed through the valley—quiet, yet crystal-clear to every ear.

The three monks in midair froze.

Qiao Ling had appeared at the edge of the threshing ground, unnoticed.

His white robes were spotless; his folding fan gently closed.

He looked up at the three monks, lips parting slightly, uttering a single syllable.

“Extinct.”

Beneath the Great Zizai Demon Sound, the colossal golden palm instantly shattered into a shower of golden specks.

Immediately, the Human Immortal monk’s eyes widened—he realized, in horror, that his spiritual power had gone out of control.

“You—” He managed only one word.

The next instant, the three monks’ bodies and primordial spirits vanished into thin air.

Clang.

The purple-gold alms bowl, deprived of spiritual power, clattered to the ground, denting the earth.

Hundreds of villagers stared blankly at the empty air where the monks had been, then at the white-robed scholar standing at the edge—unable to comprehend what had just happened.

The barrier dissolved; the mortally wounded white fox collapsed, gasping for breath.

…

In the bamboo grove, green bamboos swayed in the wind, whispering softly.

Qiao Ling sat on a green stone, as a woman in a white dress, her face delicate and pale, limped toward him.

Her complexion was ashen, a deep, bone-exposing burn still visible on her right arm—she was the white fox in human form.

She stopped three zhang from the stone, knelt, and bowed her head deeply.

“Little spirit Bai Ling thanks the elder for saving my life.”

Qiao Ling looked at Bai Ling, used his power to lift her up, and spoke calmly: “You bear no blood-slaughter aura—only pure plant-spirit energy and merit. Why did those three monks seek to kill you?”

Bai Ling smiled bitterly, her eyes filled with sorrow.

“Elder, you see clearly. I was once a wild fox cultivating in these mountains. Three hundred years ago, I failed my Tribulation Crossing, grievously wounded, nearly dying. A farmer from the village below found me while gathering herbs, took me home, and kept me in his shed for months until I recovered.”

Bai Ling straightened, gazing down at the village.

“Before he died, his greatest worry was this village. To repay his kindness, I stayed. For a hundred years, when drought came, I summoned rain; when floods struck, I cleared the rivers; when wild beasts descended, I drove them back. The villagers, grateful for my aid, built a small shrine at the village entrance and honored me as White Lady.”

Here, Bai Ling’s gaze turned bitter.

“It was this shrine that ruined everything. Under my protection, the village enjoyed good harvests and calm weather—so the villagers stopped traveling a hundred li to the Great Sorrow Temple to burn incense and worship. When the temple lost one source of incense, they sent men to investigate. They found the villagers venerating me, and accused me of deceiving mortals and stealing the Buddha Sect’s faith.”

“They wanted to smash my shrine and force the villagers to kneel and confess at the Great Sorrow Temple. When they refused, they came to seize me. Had you not intervened, today I would have died—and every soul in this village would have met the same fate.”