Chapter 31

Leading his horse and carrying his sword, he arrived at the city gate; everyone was already assembled.

Shang Lang sat astride his horse at the front, a long spear gleaming with cold light slung across his back, behind him a squad of cavalry, stern and disciplined.

The current imperial guard is divided into the Northern Six Armies and the Southern Sixteen Guards; the former are stationed within the palace grounds as the Emperor’s personal troops, while the latter are stationed in the capital under the Minister’s command. Compared to the latter, the Northern Six Armies are far more elite, their ranks composed largely of noble sons, the finest among the Sixteen Guards, and disciples of renowned sects. The Left Longwu Army is one of these Northern Six Armies—a cavalry unit, truly the foremost spearhead of Tang military might.

This was Pei Ye’s first time seeing the Longwu Army; for the first time, he truly felt what it meant to be the empire’s elite. Though only twenty riders strong, their formation was perfectly ordered, each man mounted on a fine steed clad in polished armor, not a single whisper exchanged, their silent solemnity coalescing into an ironclad aura of lethal intent.

“Looks like my guess was wrong—it’s just a Mo’e,” Shang Lang said with a wry smile as Pei Ye approached.

Pei Ye still believed the Black Chi was the true Immortal Hunt, but he did not know where the demon tiger had come from or its intentions—whether it would willingly “serve the Tang”—so he dared not reveal anything without authorization.

Pei Ye changed the subject: “Where’s Master Zhu?”

“Master Zhu spotted something unusual on the way here—he suspected traces of the Candle World Cult, so he went off to investigate himself and told us to proceed ahead,” Shang Lang said, nodding toward Xing Zhi, “Xing Zhi is sending him a message; he won’t be long.”

Pei Ye turned to look: Xing Zhi had finished writing a short note, put away her brush, and placed a jade bead tied to her wrist to her lips, blew sharply, producing a clear, piercing whistle.

The woman with gentle eyes turned and added: “I sent a message to Brother Zhu this morning—he’s headed into Xin Cang Mountain. We just need to send word and he’ll come to meet us.”

She studied Pei Ye again: “Pei Shaoyou, are you certain you want to come along? Don’t you have elderly relatives at home?”

Pei Ye paused, surprised they knew of his family situation, then simply nodded: “I’m going.”

Soon, a blue shadow shot across the sky and landed like an arrow on Xing Zhi’s shoulder.

The blue bird brimmed with spiritual energy, its eyes a rare golden yellow; one slender leg bore a delicate golden band engraved with “Xing Zhi,” while the other was tied with a light, elegant ribbon—clearly a personal touch from its master.

This was Pei Ye’s first time seeing a soul bird so closely.

Xing Zhi extended her hand; the bird opened its beak and swallowed the rolled-up paper tube, then flapped its wings and shot into the clouds with a rustle.

“Lord Jing, shall we proceed?” the woman asked.

“Whatever Xing Shi says.”

…

Dozens of riders galloped out of the city, hooves thundering; Pei Ye, among them, felt safer than he ever had beside any single master.

In truth, this squad had no shortage of masters—even though the Zhu man had not yet arrived, Jing Ziwang was a true Grandmaster who had ascended the Jade Stair of the Mystic Gate. The seven lives Pei Ye had fought and killed with his life on the line, this Grandmaster could crush as easily as squashing an ant.

Zhao Bai’s letter requested aid from the Hehu Fu martial artists, but those listed on the Hehu Fu were not under government control—they could not be arbitrarily summoned by prefectures or counties. They were merely famed for their legendary status, becoming a common synonym for “powerful” in the people’s minds.

Moreover, their numbers were scarce. Though the name “Hehu Fu” was often on everyone’s lips—even children’s games cast “Hehu Great Hero” as the protagonist—it was like the legendary Night Pearl: everyone had heard of it, spoken of it, but no one had ever seen or touched it.

The Hehu Fu was a thousand-name roster published over thirty years ago by the Tang’s Immortal Platform, long regarded by all under heaven as the ultimate symbol of martial excellence. From the northern deserts to Tang lands and the southern kingdoms, whether elite soldiers, veteran martial artists, noble scions, or renowned sect disciples, anyone with sufficient strength could earn a place on the Hehu Fu roster.

Among the nearly million people in the world who had broken the seed of vital energy, only nine hundred were listed on the Fu roster. Thus, though the Hehu Fu imposed no realm restrictions, none could even glimpse its ranks without reaching the Eighth Life of the Pulse Tree. When people spoke of the Hehu Fu, they generally meant these nine hundred—representing, in the eyes of ordinary folk, the highest level a cultivator could attain.

The He list, however, was far beyond the reach of commoners; only those within the cultivation world paid it constant attention and spoke of it with fervor. Only Grandmasters who had ascended the Jade Stair of the Mystic Gate were eligible to be listed, and only three hundred names were permitted—mostly sect leaders, elder masters, and renowned warriors from across the nations. A tiny handful of young prodigies appeared, but they were all figures to be gazed upon from the cloud-tops.

Though Jing Ziwang was still far from the He list, he was nonetheless a Grandmaster, solidly surpassing most on the Fu roster.

The brightest hour of the day had passed; the sun sank westward, the evening breeze stirred. If passing through Gao Lin, the light dimmed as if night had fallen.

The group pressed forward, entering deeper into the mountains, the path narrowing, trees growing tall and dense, insects and beasts common—until they glimpsed distant rooftops.

Truly a small village buried in the mountains.

It was already dusk, yet no smoke rose from any chimney. Shang Lang raised his hand behind him: “Stay alert!”

In Pei Ye’s view, the order was entirely unnecessary—these elite riders had shown not a moment’s lapse.

Ahead, Jing Ziwang suddenly raised his hand and gently reined in his horse; the mountain path had never been fast, and the entire group halted in perfect order.

“What is it?”

Jing Ziwang pointed ahead. Pei Ye followed his gaze: a wooden cart lay overturned, the beast pulling it collapsed, motionless.

Pei Ye’s heart tightened. Ignoring propriety, he spurred his horse forward, dismounted, and examined the corpse—the dead beast was a donkey. He looked to the cart and saw the familiar sack.

Meng Jiao.

The man was gone.

The three others arrived then. Shang Lang asked: “What’s wrong, Pei Brother?”

Pei Ye spoke low and solemn: “He was a friend from my childhood.”

Xing Zhi dismounted, knelt, gathered spiritual energy, and probed the donkey’s corpse. After a moment, she withdrew her fingers, her expression strange.

“What is it?”

“This donkey was frightened to death.”

“...”

“He met his end here, victim to that demon tiger,” Jing Ziwang said gravely, pointing to damp soil nearby, where faint claw marks remained.

“So large...”

“Definitely a Mo’e.”

“The tracks lead nowhere—we can’t follow them.”

Jing Ziwang frowned: “Xing Shi, can’t you use a technique? The incident wasn’t long ago—perhaps the man is still alive.”

Xing Zhi shook her head: “No blood, no flesh, no qi—no medium, no trace to follow.”

Jing Ziwang studied the prints a moment longer, then said gravely: “Then let’s hurry to the village. Learn what we can, then find and kill this beast.”

Xing Zhi frowned. A newly born Immortal Hunt or Mo’e should be roughly equal in power to a cultivator like Jing Ziwang, who stood on the first rung of the Mystic Jade Stair. Jing Ziwang could hold his ground safely, but if he sought to hunt and kill it, he might expose weaknesses—it would be better to wait for Brother Zhu’s arrival.

But seeing his grim expression, Xing Zhi swallowed her words. They were not close colleagues or subordinates, and Brother Zhu was likely to arrive soon anyway.

Shang Lang clapped Pei Ye on the shoulder; the group remounted and soon reached the entrance of Bai Zhu Village.

The village was tiny, perhaps sixty to seventy households. If Zhao Bai’s letter was correct and over twenty people had died, nearly half the village had suffered a loss.

As soon as they entered the village, Pei Ye felt a heavy, oppressive atmosphere—everything was silent, as if any sound might summon something dreadful.

No one was outdoors, but the sudden clatter of hooves drew out many hidden faces—when the villagers saw the mounted, armed riders, their expressions hovered between sorrow and relief.