Chapter 818: Master, Please Go Slowly

Shu Wanjuan walked in circles among the willow grove, shaking his head at the Bloodfang Demon: “I truly can’t tell which willow is the entrance.”

The Bloodfang Demon took out her powder case, tidied her makeup, and forced a smile, though she couldn’t help complaining: “It’s been days already, Old Shu—have you even tried looking properly?”

Shu Wanjuan sighed: “You saw how many willows are in this garden—each one must be tested individually. This is no easy task.”

The Bloodfang Demon said: “You know it’s hard, yet you still sent Old Dan to do it? What did you tell him when you first assigned him?”

You said to let Old Dan bring a Cultivator of Letters to help, give him half a day, and he’d find the place! Now Old Dan and Xiao Ji have lost their lives here.”

Shu Wanjuan grew annoyed: “Dan Chengjun was killed by Li Qi—how can you blame me for that?”

The Bloodfang Demon pressed on: “I say you’re to blame. Your disciple’s traps—you won’t break them yourself, so why send Dan Chengjun?”

Shu Wanjuan sneered: “If you’d sent Dan Chengjun to retrieve the body of a Cultivator of Letters, could he have done it?”

The Bloodfang Demon seized the chance: “I don’t understand—what use is the body of a Cultivator of Letters? Did Qiao Yi ask for it? We came here together to retrieve the contract—could Li Qi really kill all four of us?”

Shu Wanjuan shook his head: “There are things you don’t understand. I can’t explain them to you.”

The Bloodfang Demon put away her powder case, glancing sideways at Shu Wanjuan: “Fine, I’m stupid, I know nothing—I bet you’ve already found the entrance and just won’t tell me. I can’t force you.”

Shu Wanjuan swept his robe sleeve aside, glaring at the Bloodfang Demon: “Are you being reasonable?”

The Bloodfang Demon placed her hands on her hips and chuckled, swaying her head: “Oh my, the Cultivator of Letters’ Ancestor is angry? Shall I apologize? Shall I kowtow? Shall I fetch my own ruler so you can beat me?”

Shu Wanjuan ignored her. As dusk approached, he left the willow grove.

The Bloodfang Demon trailed behind, muttering: “Where are you going? Night’s the best time to work—why leave when it gets dark?”

Shu Wanjuan didn’t turn back: “I’m not good at night battles.”

“I am! I’m the best at night battles! Don’t believe me? Let’s find a place, pull the quilt over, and fight till dawn!”

Shu Wanjuan looked disgusted, quickening his pace. At the street corner, he heard drums and gongs, and suddenly stopped.

By the roadside stood a red sandalwood stage, its edge lined with candles flickering in the wind. The curtain drew open, revealing a long-bearded male role suspended by silk threads.

Two violinists played behind the stage; the troupe master stomped a five-tone clapper—*clack!*—and the backdrop shifted to a range of green mountains.

The suspended “long-bearded role” sang: “Brush snakes through battle arrays, a thousand soldiers fall, no bones remain!”

*Kuang dang!* *Cang jiji!*

Another martial role, clad in armor and wielding a long saber, was lowered onto the stage, shouting: “My saber pierces ten thousand scrolls, my blade sweeps off your head!”

*Kuang dang! Dang!*

The stage battle began.

Shu Wanjuan watched intently. The Bloodfang Demon couldn’t help asking: “What’s so interesting? It’s just a string puppet show.”

It was indeed a string puppet show: a three-foot red stage in front, two violinists and a master behind—everything performed by just three people.

Some loved string puppet shows; others simply loved theater but couldn’t afford the opera house, so they watched puppets on the street for a taste.

The Bloodfang Demon despised the thing and couldn’t understand why Shu Wanjuan was so captivated.

Was there something special about this troupe?

Or something special among the spectators?

She didn’t know—this play was called “Scholar vs. Warrior,” recounting the deadly duel between Shu Wanjuan and Dan Chengjun, a battle that had been passed down ever since.

Now the protagonists’ names had changed, and the plot bore little resemblance to the truth.

Yet when Shu Wanjuan watched it, he still felt joy—not only did he watch closely, he occasionally tossed coins onto the stage as rewards.

Beside the stage stood a teahouse. The Bloodfang Demon glanced up to the second floor, wiped her lips with a handkerchief, leaving a smear of rouge on the fabric.

A man with two trails of snot nodded at her.

The snot-man was Qi Wujiang, the Ancestor of Glue Cultivators—every move of the Bloodfang Demon, he saw clearly.

He squeezed a strand of snot from his nose into the teapot, stirred it with the tea, and prepared to pour it onto the street below.

If he poured it out, the three puppeteers and every spectator on the street would be glued in place.

Whether it succeeded or failed, he’d flee the teahouse immediately—this act would offend Shu Wanjuan, and he knew he wasn’t his match.

But he’d overthought it.

As Qi Wujiang was about to pour, the teapot handle suddenly turned scorching hot. Smoke rose from his palm, burning through the glue, searing his flesh.

He dropped the teapot onto the table and stared at his palm.

His palm was charred black; faintly, he could make out the character “Burn” etched into the skin.

This was the work of a Cultivator of Letters.

Qi Wujiang glanced down at the street.

Shu Wanjuan still watched the puppet show, as if he hadn’t moved.

Had he just acted?

Qi Wujiang felt he’d shown no weakness—how had Shu Wanjuan discovered him?

He scanned the second floor of the teahouse. No familiar faces. He hurried downstairs, paid, and left.

The waiter came to clear the table. A man with a pipe in his mouth stopped him: “Young man, I’ll buy this teapot. Don’t touch it.”

The waiter blinked: “You mean to—”

“If you can’t decide, call your boss and name a price—I’m taking this teapot.” With that, Boss Lu covered the teapot with his hand.

He had written the character “Burn,” burning Qi Wujiang’s palm.

As Qi Wujiang stepped outside the teahouse, he suddenly felt Shu Wanjuan’s gaze upon him.

Qi Wujiang stayed silent, bowed his head, and hurried away—the burning pain in his palm grew sharper.

Shu Wanjuan kept watching the show, ignoring Qi Wujiang—he knew the man was from the Ink Fragrance Shop.

The Bloodfang Demon poked Shu Wanjuan from behind: “If you want to watch plays, go to the opera house. Can’t you afford tickets? Go rest already.”

At the inn, the Bloodfang Demon ordered a full table of food and wine, intending to drink with Shu Wanjuan and warm him up.

But Shu Wanjuan ate hastily, returned to his room, and went to bed early.

At dawn the next day, Shu Wanjuan bought a newspaper at the inn’s gate. After reading it, he flew into a rage.

The headline read: “Cultivator of Letters Strikes, Glue Ancestor Severely Wounded—Two Tigers Clash, Who Shall Triumph?”

Again, the *Ink Fragrance Weekly*—again, Shao Ying’s paper. Shu Wanjuan stormed into the Bloodfang Demon’s room with the newspaper.

The Bloodfang Demon yawned: “You’re here so early? Did you just wake up and feel bloated?”

Shu Wanjuan placed the newspaper before her.

She glanced at the news, frowning: “Some of these characters I can’t even read—is it saying you fought the Glue Ancestor?”

Shu Wanjuan demanded: “How did Shao Ying know about this? How dare he print it?”

The Bloodfang Demon looked at him: “You ask me? Who should I ask? I didn’t even know you fought the Glue Ancestor!”

“I didn’t even—” Shu Wanjuan started to say he hadn’t fought Qi Wujiang, but he stopped himself.

The Bloodfang Demon sneered: “Are you hiding something from me again? You tell me nothing, then take your anger out on me—is that fair?”

“Shao Ying runs this paper. If you’ve got issues, take them to him. If you’ve got strength, use it on him. If you dare kill him, I’ll call you a real man!”

“Fine!” Shu Wanjuan gritted his teeth. “I’ll go find him.”

Leaving the inn, Shu Wanjuan didn’t head to the newspaper office. He wandered aimlessly down the street, unsure where to go.

Today’s snow was heavier than before—he couldn’t see the road ahead, even forgot which street he was on.

He hadn’t fought Qi Wujiang yesterday—only glanced at him beneath the teahouse.

What happened yesterday was printed today—did Qi Wujiang tell Shao Ying himself? What benefit did that bring him?

The paper claimed Qi Wujiang lost to Shu Wanjuan—was Qi Wujiang lying to humiliate himself? Why?

Or was Shao Ying just fabricating?

Did he have no fear? To risk angering two Ancestors of Dao Sects for one headline?

If not Qi Wujiang, who else could have told Shao Ying?

The snow grew heavier; Shu Wanjuan’s vision blurred.

Can’t you see?

Really can’t you see?

Shu Wanjuan swept his sleeve—rows of characters “Umbrella” blocked the wind and snow ahead.

Seeing clearly isn’t hard—it’s just that sometimes he blinds himself.

But even if he didn’t blind himself, he couldn’t bear to see too clearly—he feared he’d die from the truth.

Besides him and Qi Wujiang, only the Bloodfang Demon had been present.

She pretended not to see Qi Wujiang—could she truly not have seen him?

She pretended ignorance, yet knew far more than she let on.

She knew Dan Chengjun died by Li Qi’s hand—that’s why it made the paper!

She knew all the heroes had come to the Ink Fragrance Shop—that too made the paper!

Why did everything she knew end up in the paper?

Shao Ying couldn’t possibly be allied with Qiao Yi—it was the Bloodfang Demon who was Qiao Yi’s subordinate, a servant of the imperial court!

The one truly pulling Shao Ying’s strings was the Bloodfang Demon!

She was manipulating all the heroes—including Shu Wanjuan and Dan Chengjun.

She knew Shu Wanjuan and Dan Chengjun plotted to seize He Jiaqing’s thirteen territories.

She knew Shu Wanjuan secretly colluded with He Jiaqing.

She knew Shu Wanjuan and Dan Chengjun planned to declare themselves kings.

Even further back—she knew many things between Shu Wanjuan and Dan Chengjun.

When she knew, Qiao Yi knew.

Qiao Yi knew everything, yet said nothing—what fate awaits Shu Wanjuan from now on?

A gust of snowwind scattered the characters in the air.

Shu Wanjuan’s vision blurred completely.

At dusk, disheveled and reeking of alcohol, Shu Wanjuan staggered to the Willow Garden, stumbling with every step.

He didn’t enter the courtyard—he only wanted to watch one more string puppet show by the garden’s edge.

After waiting over an hour, the troupe rolled their stage to the side of the Willow Garden.

After watching the show, Shu Wanjuan prepared to leave Ink Fragrance Shop, but he didn’t know where to go.

He couldn’t return to Shangguo—Qiao Yi would kill him.

He couldn’t stay in Puluozhou either—the peddler wouldn’t spare him.

Where else could he go?

To Waizhou?

To Wanshengzhou?

A three-foot red stage rolled open its curtain—the string puppet show began.

Shu Wanjuan wrote the character “hidden” on himself and vanished into the crowd.

The snow was heavy today; few came to watch. Shu Wanjuan didn’t want to be seen—he only wanted to watch this show in peace.

The drums and gongs grew denser—the Civil Ancestor and Martial Ancestor were about to clash for the first time.

As Shu Wanjuan watched, entranced, he sensed a faint yin energy drawing near.

He thawed the frozen tip of his brush inside his sleeve, let ink drip onto the snow, and wrote the character “eye.”

This “eye” glided across the snow, soon spotting Chang Jiuhai’s figure—the yin energy he’d sensed had come from him.

What was he doing here?

Chang Jiuhai had come—were others here too?

Shu Wanjuan wrote over a dozen more “eye” characters, and soon spotted Qi Wuji’s figure.

What did these two want?

Shu Wanjuan could guess: according to the Bloodfang Monster’s deduction, this troupe was no ordinary group. These two Ancestors meant to capture the troupe—and likely kill every spectator.

Shu Wanjuan could actually deduce that, according to the Bloodfang Monster’s reasoning, this troupe was certainly unusual, and these two ancestors intended to capture the troupe alive, likely slaughtering all other spectators as well.

Shu Wanjuan gritted his teeth and watched Chang Jiuhai and Qi Wuji closely.

Both headed straight for the stage; no one else was nearby—proof they hadn’t spotted Shu Wanjuan.

If Shu Wanjuan struck now, he had full confidence he could take them both.

But could he strike now?

They both answered to the Bloodfang Monster, who answered to the imperial court. If he struck now, it meant openly defying the court.

Given his current situation, hadn’t he already defied the court?

Was there truly no room for reconciliation?

While he hesitated, dozens of ghost servants gathered around Chang Jiuhai and approached the stage.

Shu Wanjuan clenched his fists, then suddenly felt someone approaching from behind the stage.

This person was unusual—his scent was overpowering.

Drawing on years of experience, Shu Wanjuan quickly retreated from the stage, then saw a boy carrying a barrel rush forward, snatch a long ladle, and fling a golden liquid at the ghost servants.

The ghost servants were drenched in golden fluid; they stood frozen for a moment, then scattered in panic.

The audience couldn’t see the ghost servants, but they saw the golden fluid and smelled its stench—they clamped hands over noses and bolted, faster than the ghosts.

The string puppet show halted. The troupe master, pale with shock, cried: “Young man, what are you doing?”

Genzi roared: “Get back!”

The master knew this boy wasn’t ordinary. They tried to push the cart away, but the wheels stuck fast to the axles.

“Where are you going?” Qi Wuji appeared, smiling faintly at Genzi.

Chang Jiuhai didn’t show himself—Genzi only heard his voice: “Boy, are you tired of living?”

Qi Wuji laughed: “You’ve cultivated such a repulsive Dao—of course you’re tired of living.”

Chang Jiuhai said: “If you’re tired of living, jump into the cesspool and drown yourself. Why come here to add more filth?”

Genzi showed no fear, pointing his ladle at Qi Wuji: “Who’s repulsive? Wipe your snot before you speak!”

“Hungry? This snot is yours!” Qi Wuji wiped his nose, then flung it at Genzi.

Genzi dipped his ladle into the barrel, ready to block it—then found the ladle stuck.

Qi Wuji, being an Ancestor, didn’t just use snot—he used other means, gluing Genzi’s ladle to the barrel.

The snot flew toward his face; if it touched, it would tear the flesh from his skin.

Genzi was too slow to dodge—the snot was inches away—when a flurry of snow surged up, wrapping the snot.

The snot rolled, as if about to burst through the snow.

The snow spun through the air, coalescing into a single character: “ice.”

Snowflakes whirled upward and coalesced in midair into a single character: “Ice.”

The snot froze into a solid lump and fell to the ground.

“Remarkable literary cultivation technique!” Qi Wuji exclaimed. “Old Shu—is that you?”

Shu Wanjuan didn’t answer—it wasn’t his technique.

A man stepped out from the willow grove: short, slender, shaved head, mustache, holding a pipe. He smiled at Qi Wuji.

Qi Wuji frowned: “Zhou Badou? You attack elders without greeting? You’re getting worse with manners!”

Lu Laoban didn’t respond. He drew a deep breath, burned the tobacco in his pipe, and exhaled smoke mixed with snow, encircling Qi Wuji.

Qi Wuji laughed: “Zhou Badou, you switched Dao paths? Are you a smoke cultivator or a cold cultivator?”

He inhaled the cold wind, sneezed—and his spittle froze the surrounding snow into clumps that fell to the ground. The smoke didn’t fall—it curled around Qi Wuji, forming the character “poison.” The toxic mist surged toward his mouth and nose.

Hard to dodge. Qi Wuji spat snot to seal his mouth and nose. Chang Jiuhai sent two ghost servants—one each—to inhale the poison.

These two ghost servants were true smoke cultivators; controlling smoke came naturally to them.

Qi Wuji glared at Chang Jiuhai, blaming him for acting too late.

Chang Jiuhai was always like this—he wouldn’t act until he understood his opponent.

Genzi was just a lowly gold cultivator; Chang Jiuhai ignored him. Zhou Badou was no easy foe—he needed to observe first.

He only sent out the ghost servants, keeping himself hidden. He calculated: Qi Wuji led the charge, the ghost servants followed behind—enough to defeat Zhou Badou. No need for him to risk himself.

Qi Wuji didn’t hold a grudge against Chang Jiuhai. He rolled two globs of glue, ready to charge Zhou Wencheng—when a shadow flashed before him.

He sent out only his ghost servant, remaining hidden himself; according to his calculations, Qi Wujiann led the charge, and having the ghost servant follow behind was sufficient to defeat Zhou Badou—he had no need to risk himself.

A muffled sound echoed across the snow.

Qi Wuji stood frozen, motionless.

Chang Jiuhai was startled—he realized, besides Zhou Badou and the boy, someone else was here.

Why was Qi Wuji frozen?

Chang Jiuhai couldn’t tell why, but since he himself hadn’t revealed himself, he decided to let the ghost servants stall a while longer.

This bought Qi Wuji time—if he recovered, good luck; if not, Chang Jiuhai wouldn’t be blamed for abandoning him.

Chang Jiuhai released over twenty ghost servants, surrounding Lu Laoban.

Lu Laoban fought the ghost servants, then unfurled a bamboo scroll—twenty-five slats, each releasing a armored soldier, sword in hand, charging Chang Jiuhai.

Chang Jiuhai scrambled back—he hadn’t expected Zhou Badou to see him.

But these twenty-five soldiers moved with astonishing speed and skill, adjusting formation to block his escape routes, leaving him no opening.

Chang Jiuhai was baffled: his invisibility technique was flawless. Zhou Badou seeing him might be through tracking the ghost servants’ movements.

But why could these soldiers see him? Weren’t they just ink-formed figures? How could ink figures possess such intelligence and tactics?

After a brief exchange, Chang Jiuhai tripped and fell. As he rose, he realized the truth.

He was glowing—faint light auras, barely visible, but enough to reveal his position to all.

Was this “Carrying a Torch Through the Night Without a Path”?

In Chang Jiuhai’s memory, this technique was obscure—no traveler on the Clouds had ever learned it. Had Zou Youlu himself come?

Is this walking at night with a torch down a roadless path?

As he pondered, Chang Jiuhai fell again. He struggled up—then fell once more.

Now he was humiliated. Every time he rose, he fell. Tried dozens of times—couldn’t stand. Not only could he not handle the twenty-five soldiers, but Genzi stepped forward and dumped a ladle of golden fluid on his head—he couldn’t even block it.

Chang Jiuhai had over five hundred ghost servants—how could he suffer this?

He left two hundred to hold off the soldiers, and sent the remaining three hundred rushing at Zhou Badou.

The ghost servants lunged—only to splash themselves with ink. This Zhou Badou wasn’t his true body.

If he couldn’t kill Zhou Badou, kill the gold cultivator first.

The ghost servants regrouped and charged Genzi—when a figure flashed before Chang Jiuhai. His body spasmed—BOOM! BOOM!—twice. He instantly lost control of the ghost servants.

The now-uncontrolled ghost servants refused to approach Genzi, standing frozen in place.

Chang Jiuhai realized he’d been hit by “Galloping Through Flowers”—but he didn’t understand why he’d exploded twice.

Had Zou Youlu truly come?

In his confusion, the ink on the ghost servants pooled together, forming the character “kill,” and slammed into Chang Jiuhai.

Could it be that the path has truly arrived?

In an instant, the ink on the ghost servant’s body coalesced into a single character—“KILL”—and slammed onto Chang Jiu’s corpse.

Chang Jiuhai made no sound, his body shattered into a pile of bloody flesh.

Li Banfeng stood beneath the willow tree, lit a cigarette, and shed tears.

The demonic sect’s founder was gone like that.

Previously, Li Banfeng had wondered why these founders, so full of resentment toward the peddler, didn’t fight back to reclaim their honor, instead choosing seclusion.

Now Li Banfeng understood: it wasn’t that they didn’t want to fight, but that there were differences between founder and founder.

Chang Jiuhai’s combat power was clearly inferior to Song Qianhun and Gui Jianchou; whether he could defeat Yuan Youshang was still uncertain.

He had secluded himself too long and forgotten his own limits; no matter how many chips the Inner State offered him, this business at Ink Fragrance Shop was beyond his reach.

After crying, a shower of ash fell from the sky.

The previously out-of-control ghost servants now stood bewildered, unsure where to go.

Lao Lu unfurled a blank scroll, rubbed the pages for a moment, and sealed all five hundred ghost servants inside.

Only after the area was cleaned did Qi Wujian break free from his Self-Imprisonment Technique.

Lao Lu pointed at the book in his hand: “Do you come in on your own, or wait for me to take you?”

Qi Wujian shouted: “Zhou Wencheng, you’re not worthy to speak to me. Call your master out—you’re not even in the same generation as me!”

As his words ended, Qi Wujian flung a sticky sweat that glued itself to the book in Lao Lu’s hand.

It must be said that, compared to Chang Jiuhai, Qi Wujiang's combat power has increased significantly, as he can engage in several rounds of fierce combat with Zhou Wencheng.

As the two clashed, Qi Wujian’s body suddenly split open.

Lao Lu didn’t know what technique he’d been struck by—he only saw Qi Wujian’s left hand pull left, his right hand pull right, tearing himself apart alive.

The Sui Shen Ju gained two new rooms: one from Arrogant Disregard, one from Five Horses Tearing Apart.

Five Horses Tearing Apart originated from Solitary Shadow; even without using a shadow, Li Banfeng tore apart foes by brute force.

Now, combined with the East-West Running Technique, forcing the opponent to cooperate in the division, this technique was finally complete.

Li Banfeng shed tears again; as the ash fell, he glanced toward Shu Wanjuan.

Shu Wanjuan had never moved, standing silently in the snow.

Fighting wasn’t impossible—Shu Wanjuan knew he had no chance of victory, but he could buy time, delay until the Blood Fang Monster arrived with reinforcements, and perhaps turn the tide.

But what good would that do?

Could his situation truly turn around?

Li Banfeng leaned against the willow, silently smoking.

Lao Lu packed tobacco into his pipe and struck a match.

Both finished their cigarettes and departed one after another.

Genzi picked up his bucket and left too.

Shu Wanjuan bent down, picked up the puppet of Chang Ranxusheng from the ground.

He tugged the silk threads; the puppet’s limbs twitched.

He carried the puppet to the back of the red stage and returned it to the troupe leader.

The troupe leader was terrified, trembling, too afraid to take it.

Shu Wanjuan placed the puppet beside the stage and ran off into the snowstorm.