Chapter 501: The Dead End! Jiang Lai and the Heavenly Master

The long night stretched endlessly, a black blade spanning the sky.

That ultimate black seemed capable of swallowing all light in this world.

Who could have imagined that a black iron fragment, no larger than a palm, could unleash such terrifying might, radiating an aura that made souls tremble and all things fall silent, embodying pure “end” itself?

A single horizontal slash drained all of Zhang Fan’s power; his Golden Core dimmed into dullness, his Nascent Soul stepping into endless night.

Boom…

Facing the sudden black blade’s light, Fan Lingzhou’s sneer froze instantly, replaced by an unprecedented, primal terror born of instinct.

He wanted to retreat, to activate the [Phantom Boat of Suffering] manifestation…

But it was already too late!

The black blade seemed to transcend the boundaries of space and time; in the instant his thought arose, it had already slashed across the heavens, ignoring all his cultivation and strength, slicing through his chest like a hot knife through butter—soundless, invisible.

No blood sprayed, no bones shattered; even these human remnants seemed erased at that moment.

The black blade’s power pierced through, leaving behind in the dim, endless night a brief yet eternal black trail, as if the sky had been torn open by an irreparable wound.

“You…”

Fan Lingzhou looked down in disbelief, staring at the bowl-sized hole in his chest—smooth as a mirror, utterly hollow.

His heart, along with all life and vitality in that region, had been utterly annihilated.

This great master of the Dao Alliance now had even his facial expression numb.

He opened his mouth, wanting to speak, but no sound emerged; his eyes reflected only the black blade, stretching across the heavens, raging and roaring.

…

Meanwhile, at Maoshan, the Pure Yang Hall.

Deep into the night, the hall held only the flickering glow of eternal lamps.

Thick incense curled around the altar, where an ancient stone, three inches square, sat unremarkable as ordinary brick or tile—yet carved upon it were complex, mysterious talismans, like celestial script, dragon patterns of profound mystery, concealing the great forces of yin and yang, revealing the wondrous principles of heaven and earth.

The Heavenly Talisman Treasure Scroll!

This was the Pure Yang treasure, venerated for generations by Maoshan.

Boom…

At that moment, the Heavenly Talisman Treasure Scroll, resting upon the central altar and bearing Maoshan’s thousand-year fortune, trembled violently without warning.

Thousands of talismans on the scroll flowed autonomously, flickering unpredictably, emitting unprecedented brilliance that illuminated the entire hall like daylight; auspicious qi descended in streams, radiant light rose in bands, strange omens erupted as if the scroll itself were wildly sounding an alarm.

A strange emotion emanated from the [Heavenly Talisman Treasure Scroll], as if it possessed human feeling.

It was angry, warning, even faintly brimming with hostility.

“That was toward Yujing.”

Chen Zhuoqing stood before the altar, gazing at the hazy night beyond the hall, his brows knitted tight.

This master of Maoshan had naturally sensed the unusual disturbance—like a ripple crossing the dim, endless night, disturbing the stillness of heaven and earth.

“Master, that disturbance was no ordinary thing—the Heavenly Talisman Treasure Scroll is sounding the alarm.”

At that moment, an old Daoist approached from the side.

Mao Xiaoyun, this old Heavenly Master, stared intently at the ancient talisman on the altar; only after careful observation could he discern a faint crack at its center, like a grotesque scar, forever unhealable.

“A Pure Yang enemy!?”

Chen Zhuoqing’s gaze sharpened instantly, fixed on the scroll’s center, lost in thought.

“Something monumental has happened in Yujing,” Mao Xiaoyun said with deep implication.

“What do you think it is?” Chen Zhuoqing asked.

“What else could it be?” Mao Xiaoyun’s aged face showed no expression, only calm: “The Zhang family always stirs up waves in this age.”

“Zhang Tiansheng’s grandson is now the Lord of Wuwei.”

“Lord of Wuwei!?” Chen Zhuoqing sneered: “Do you believe such nonsense?”

“How could that little brat possibly bear such a title?”

“Whether true or false, that title alone is enough to kill him,” Mao Xiaoyun sighed. “The incense of the Southern Zhangs…”

“Will surely be extinguished!”

Bang…

At that moment, the door was violently slammed open as Fang Changle burst in.

Several young Daoists tried to block him, but to no avail.

By right, even as a Maoshan heir, one was forbidden to enter the Pure Yang Hall at will.

“Little Fang, you’re growing increasingly disrespectful,” Mao Xiaoyun glanced at him coldly.

“Master, you felt it too, didn’t you? That disturbance came from Yujing…” Fang Changle said urgently.

He had sensed the unusual ripple with his Nascent Soul—even faint, it was undeniably real.

From so far away, he could still feel it clearly; clearly, something monumental had happened in Yujing. Thinking of it, his spirit stirred restlessly, filled with desperate anxiety.

“Little Changle, your cultivation has improved greatly,” Chen Zhuoqing said with deep implication.

“I’m going down the mountain!” Fang Changle clenched his fists, teeth gritted.

“What good would it do to go down now?” Chen Zhuoqing said calmly.

“Better than standing here watching helplessly,” Fang Changle said firmly. “Master, if I cannot fulfill my duty as a friend when he faces great calamity, what use is my Dao?”

“Little Fang, don’t forget—you’re a Maoshan heir. That little demon’s current status means you should avoid him at all costs; why rush toward him?” Mao Xiaoyun said sternly.

“If that’s the case…”

“I’d rather abandon everything and leave Maoshan!” Fang Changle spoke each word with steel, his eyes filled with unprecedented resolve.

“Insolent!” Mao Xiaoyun barked sharply.

“Foolish child!!”

A faint sigh fell. Chen Zhuoqing slowly walked toward the door; moonlight spilled over his lean face, unreadable in expression.

“Master!” Fang Changle fell to his knees: “Disciple…”

Chen Zhuoqing waved his hand, cutting him off; his gaze, complex, flickered toward Yujing, then toward the kneeling disciple, before finally sweeping his sleeve: “Go.”

“Master!” Mao Xiaoyun frowned.

Fang Changle shot up, eyes blazing with disbelief.

“Remember…”

Chen Zhuoqing’s voice drifted softly: “The path… you chose yourself…”

“Step through that door, and bear the karmic consequences.”

“Disciple is unfilial!”

Fang Changle looked at Chen Zhuoqing—the master who had raised and taught him since childhood—and bowed his head hard to the ground, striking three resounding knocks, his forehead smeared with dust and grass.

Then, Fang Changle rose, said no more, and turned, vanishing into the wild night below the mountain.

…