Chapter 57

Pei Ye rolled his eyes, lay back, lifted one hand, and with a thought, frost flowers condensed out of thin air.

Just a few days ago, Pei Ye could never have imagined he would possess such a legendary ability—frost and fire obeying his will, dragon blood abundant, even the mysterious qi outside his body obeying his command through the tiny sprout in his dantian.

Yet beneath this power lay a self ready to shatter at the slightest touch—Pei Ye knew clearly this strength did not come from within him, nor could he control it; he had merely lucked into bearing it, scavenging scraps that leaked from it.

Even the weight of this power alone would crush his fragile form.

The feeling of strength was certainly good, but it was too insubstantial; Pei Ye still preferred the power he had cultivated step by step, however weak, as it was wholly his own.

He wanted only a dantian seed—no matter how flawed, as long as it belonged to him—not a fully grown meridian tree.

Either find the “Binglu” and see if he could command it, or ask the Immortal Platform to strip this thing away from him.

Pei Ye felt the two sprouts in his abdomen; their unheard-of growth rate pressed iron upon his heart.

From sprouting until now, barely half an hour had passed, during which he had consumed only two black-robed men, the rest of his growth fueled solely by absorbing mysterious qi from heaven and earth.

Though the difficulty of further branching increased with each stage, his rate of absorbing mysterious qi rose in tandem.

What cultivators spent decades to achieve, this thing might accomplish in a single night.

This speed, utterly shattering all common sense, was terrifying—he had been wrong; it was not some “superior, peculiar dantian seed” like the protagonist’s fortune in novels, it was a monster rapidly swelling.

If it continued at this pace, by the time Ming Qitian arrived, it would likely be at five or six branches; then he could see if she had any solution.

Pei Ye sent another small sword talisman to notify Ming Qitian of his current location and movements.

But if it consumed another target, all bets were off.

Pei Ye felt the serpent-like branches lying in wait, thinking heavily.

He must at least control this—stay away from corpses; as long as he didn’t kill, it couldn’t hunt on its own.

Pei Ye sat up, lowered his head in thought, and his gaze fell upon the chiseled body beneath him; suddenly, a craving rose in him.

The thought startled him—he quickly shook his head.

Suddenly the Black Chi said: “Someone is below.”

“What?”

“You know them.”

…

…

Xing Zhi had not smiled since entering the mountains.

Her boots and trousers were stained with grass and dust, her face and hair dimmed by several shades; the calm gentleness she once showed in the county office had worn away, replaced by a cold frown and eyes like lightning.

Zhu Gaoyang—this name’s place in her heart only she knew, yet in Long Jun’s court, everyone knew it.

For public or private reasons, she would never tolerate any problem with him.

Yet over a day of silence, over a day of relentless pursuit, beneath every trace and clue, unease had fully seized her mind.

He had pressed deep into the mountains—and never emerged.

Under this discovery, resentment surged again—he held the “Ling Ming Zhao Shi Fu Chen Wu Ju,” even if he encountered unforeseen peril, how could he possibly fail to escape?

He must have insisted on playing the hero again, meddling in matters that had nothing to do with him, recklessly placing himself in danger, convinced he could always turn the tide, cheat death, and survive.

When he returns, no matter how badly injured he is, I won’t soften again—I’ll curse him until he’s drenched in blood, and report every secret I’ve hidden for him to my senior master—he’ll suffer a harsh punishment!

I only hope there’s still a chance for this.

And from two hours ago, she had joyfully realized this hope was not entirely lost.

Because they had encountered a formidable enemy.

Five Cultists of the Candle World Sect, at the seventh and eighth branches, were searching outward—and collided head-on with their group searching inward.

What were they searching for?

The escaped Master Zhu?

Guided by this belief, Xing Zhi led her small team in a brutal battle, killing them one by one.

But this was only the beginning; more black-robed figures gathered, scattered yet each difficult to defeat.

By now, only four soldiers remained of this elite unit; Shang Lang bore nearly ten wounds, and her own control over spiritual power had grown increasingly sluggish.

Five more black-robed figures, like night owls, stood ahead.

Master Zhu may have escaped—but she might never see him again.

Shang Lang stood firm, spear in one hand, halberd in the other; Xing Zhi knew he was spent, but they must not show weakness—even a tremor would make these men rush forward and tear them apart.

Yet holding on would end the same—the black-robed would soon see they could no longer launch an attack.

Indeed, one black-robed lunged sideways at Shang Lang, a flash of cold light slicing through his swirling robe; Shang Lang opened his blood-caked eyes, glared like lightning, and raised his halberd to meet him.

Shang Lang came from a military family, serving in the Longwu Army; all his skill lay in battlefield combat, an unmatched assault warrior—but against such narrow, precise daggers and swords, his brute strength often had no room to manifest, leaving him painfully constrained.

Even so, with the coordination of military tactics and spellcraft, Shang Lang had killed the most enemies among them; he was already on the verge of the Fu List, and this battle had shown sufficient dominance.

The other three closed in a hair’s breadth behind, preparing to surround and kill the nearly toppled warrior.

Shang Lang showed no fear; ignoring the three, he charged straight at the first without hesitation.

It was a truth he had internalized since childhood, striking wooden dummies with sticks.

On the battlefield, never let your eyes or mind wander; never want everything; choices must be decisive—only then can your comrades clearly see and swiftly decide where to shield you.

Xing Zhi’s spell arrived just in time; the soldiers rushed forward—but the enemy before her suddenly shifted from fierce aggression to entangling her blade, while another struck from behind, leaving her no room to maneuver.

Simultaneously, three sharp whistles flashed past her side; Shang Lang’s heart lurched, and he cried out: “Sister Xing Zhi!”

The enemy’s target was clearly this hidden spellcaster; now that Shang Lang was weakened and the soldiers thinned, their protection had a gap—Xing Zhi only then realized she had fallen into a killable position.

She still had means to prevent close combat, but her spellcasting speed had slowed, and the last two spells had already been used to aid Shang Lang.

One moment of distraction—and the cold blade was upon her; Xing Zhi never expected death to come so suddenly—it may be life’s most important event, but not everyone has time to gather their emotions and face it with solemnity.