Chapter 341: Every Cause Has Its Effect

Mu Yunyang felt utterly hopeless, even wondering if he had encountered the legendary human calamity.

“Didn’t Master say righteous cultivators don’t face human calamities?”

Yes, although Mu Yunyang worked for the gang, he still considered himself a righteous cultivator.

The reason was simple.

First, he never took shortcuts in his cultivation, diligently progressing step by step and never neglecting the refinement of his mind.

Second, he never took a human life; when he intervened for the gang, it was always to save or rescue people.

Third, he never involved himself in gang affairs, and even when he saw injustice, he would lend a hand.

By adhering to these three “nevers,” his years as a patron of the gang brought him no karmic debt—indeed, he had accumulated considerable merit.

Even by the strictest standards, he could at most be classified among the Wild Maoshan or Outriding Immortals—merely a heterodox path, and even most heterodox cultivators were less upright than he.

But working for a gang inevitably entangled one in karmic bonds; this human calamity had come at last.

Regret was useless now. Mu Yunyang watched as the gang enforcers before him dwindled one by one, his anxiety mounting. The pitch-black room was silent; everyone around him stood like wooden statues. He tried summoning his Qi, but the moment it left his body, it transformed into something utterly alien, rendering every technique useless.

He also tried awakening the gang members trapped in the illusion using traditional methods—even slapping them with all his strength—but not a single one stirred.

With some basic knowledge of illusion arts, he realized clearly: the opponent’s illusion was far beyond the reach of pain. To achieve this, either the cultivator’s Qi was terrifyingly strong—so potent that even if pain briefly broke the illusion, the victim was instantly pulled back—or the illusion was exquisitely crafted, generating events within it that mimicked pain precisely at the moment it occurred, making the victim utterly unable to distinguish reality from illusion.

Whether it was the immense Qi capable of enveloping dozens at once, or the hyper-precise computational power controlling each mind, neither was something Mu Yunyang, a mere beginner, could possibly resist.

No, that’s too generous—he couldn’t even resist it if his Master summoned their Ancestral Founder to fight alongside him.

“Shhh!”

Another gang member vanished. Now only five remained in the black room. Mu Yunyang’s heart pounded wildly. Though the opponent had not restrained his movement, without any usable techniques, he had no confidence he could escape. More importantly, he had begun to wonder: why had the opponent let him remain outside the illusion?

With an illusion this powerful, he and these mortals were no different—so why had he been spared?

“No, this isn’t sparing—it’s torture! He’s deliberately letting me know I’m controlled, then letting me scramble to save myself, forcing me to realize that no matter how hard I try, I can only wait in despair for the final outcome! A demonic cultivator—definitely a demonic cultivator!”

Mu Yunyang believed his mind was already resilient, yet now he was undeniably panicked. He paced the room, searching desperately for a solution, mentally replaying every technique he had ever learned, trying to find one that might help.

But there was no doubt—in this environment where Qi instantly corrupted the moment it left the body, every technique was futile—unless he wanted to turn himself into something else entirely.

……

Finally, the last gang member vanished. Mu Yunyang had now been trapped in this dark, cramped room for over thirty hours.

Yet he no longer felt the earlier terror; instead, he felt a strange sense of acceptance.

Not enlightenment—simply the certainty that the next to vanish would be him.

As the familiar yet alien sensation of teleportation washed over him, Mu Yunyang’s eyes took on an otherworldly detachment—no longing for life, no fear of death—as if he had reached the legendary state of a sage—

Liberation!

The thought flashed through his mind, then his vision blurred. The next instant, dimness exploded into brilliance, and as blindness struck, a cacophony of voices flooded his ears—

“The heavens are dead; the Yellow Heaven shall rise. In the year Jiazi, all under heaven shall be blessed!”

“When autumn comes on the eighth day of the ninth month, my flowers bloom and all others die. The scent of my golden blooms fills Chang’an; the whole city wears armor of gold!”

“Kill! Kill! Kill! Kill! Kill! Kill! Kill!”

“Why not march to Tokyo and seize that damned throne?”

“Grab your blade, head to Luo—today is the day!”

……

“What the hell is all this?” A cultivator’s senses were razor-sharp. Though the voices varied in volume and distance, Mu Yunyang caught every word. Not to mention that literacy was high in this world, and no cultivator could progress without being literate.

Mu Yunyang understood the meaning of these words well—yet precisely because he understood, he found them utterly baffling.

Even stranger: the voices sounded familiar.

The transcendent calm he had felt moments before, on the brink of death, shattered instantly under these abrupt, eerie sounds. A chill raced up his spine, raising every hair on his body.

Having fallen from sagehood back to mortality, he felt all his years of cultivation stripped away in an instant. He trembled uncontrollably—and just then, his vision cleared. He looked up and saw the “demonic cultivator” approaching, holding a pale silver orb.

“Stop! Stop! Don’t come closer!”

Mu Yunyang flailed wildly like a horror movie victim facing a slow-moving monster, stumbling backward—then tripped. Yet even as he fell, he kept crawling away, unaware that his Qi had already returned to normal.

Feng Xue tilted his head slightly, watching the terrified cultivator, then reached out.

Feng Xue and Mo Ying’s coordination was flawless. As his hand swept forward, a powerful suction surged forth. Seated on the ground, Mu Yunyang had no time to resist—he shot upward like Wolverine snatched by Magneto, hurtling through the air.

“Relax—it’ll just be a bit dizzy. Normal!”

Feng Xue slapped the Diliujiang orb into Mu Yunyang’s forehead, using a touch of Wu Qingshen technique to counter the cultivator’s stubborn spiritual awareness.

Mu Yunyang let out a howl as a massive bump swelled on his forehead. Then, as if possessed, he snapped to attention, feet together, spine rigid, and suddenly began chanting:

“Dá bèi…”

“It’s done!”

(End of Chapter)