Chapter 89

11:37 PM.

Old Town District, Xiangliu Street No. 101.

Lao Jiu Shuanrou Fang.

“There’s still a shuanrou place here?”

Zhang Fan followed his two uncles to the door and paused in surprise.

This place was only two streets away from Hongfu Huayuan; he’d lived here for years but never noticed it—its facade looked like an old-established shop, just a bit secluded.

This old street was nearly deserted, filled only with elderly people; the young had long moved away.

With summer at its peak, business was even quieter; inside, several worn tables had grease hardened into crusts, and the wooden benches looked like they’d been discarded from old schools, some missing legs.

A dangling bulb hung from a long electrical cord, swaying in the air, blindingly flickering.

That this place hadn’t shut down was nothing short of a commercial miracle.

“This… Uncle, maybe we should go somewhere else,” Zhang Fan couldn’t help saying.

“This one… Your father used to come here often,” Xiong Sanqi said calmly.

“My father? Why didn’t he ever bring me?” Zhang Fan asked.

“Didn’t he bring you? Ever since you ate…”

“Cough, cough, cough…”

Before Xiong Sanqi could finish, Liu Fusheng coughed twice.

“Ate what?” Zhang Fan pressed.

“After you ate… and got sick, your mother stopped letting you come,” Xiong Sanqi chuckled.

“Was my mom that strict?” Zhang Fan asked; his memories of his mother were fading.

“Strict? Of course she was… Everyone feared her, especially when she ate…”

“Cough, cough, cough…”

Liu Fusheng coughed again, and meeting Zhang Fan’s gaze, he forced a nervous laugh: “Old age—too much air conditioning lately, my throat’s been bothering me.”

“Sanqi Uncle, what were you just saying about my mom?” Zhang Fan turned to Xiong Sanqi.

“I said… she had a fierce appetite. When she ate, none of us dared speak,” Xiong Sanqi chuckled awkwardly.

“Come on, let’s sit over there.”

As he spoke, Xiong Sanqi pointed to a corner table and led Zhang Fan over.

Behind them, Liu Fusheng yanked Xiong Sanqi hard.

“Can’t you keep your mouth shut?”

“I was going to say the same to you—why do you keep coughing? What’s with the dramatics? You’re an old man already…”

Xiong Sanqi shot him a glare, then walked over.

“Jiuye, order.”

Xiong Sanqi tapped the table; soon, an old man with a hunched back and a shaved head emerged from the kitchen…

Though it was the height of summer, he wore a long-sleeved black shirt, looking stifling.

“Xiong’s brat, you’re back,” the bald elder said, glancing at Xiong Sanqi.

“Xiong’s?”

Zhang Fan’s heart stirred—this Uncle Sanqi was surnamed Xiong!?

“Jiuye, it’s been years. Still alive, huh?” Xiong Sanqi grinned.

“Liu Fusheng, how’d you bring this foul mouth back?” Jiuye looked at Liu Fusheng beside him.

“Please bear with him,” Liu Fusheng chuckled nervously.

“Who’s this…”

At that moment, Jiuye’s eyes sharpened, fixing on Zhang Fan.

In this old shop, young faces like his were rare.

“He’s Zhang Fan.”

Xiong Sanqi and Liu Fusheng exchanged glances, then lowered their heads and spoke softly.

“That brat from Zhang Lingzong’s family!?”

Jiuye’s cloudy eyes suddenly flared with unusual brightness, brighter than the old bulb above.

“Grandpa Jiuye, hello,” Zhang Fan stood and bowed respectfully.

He could tell the old man wasn’t just the owner—he knew his two uncles well, and by all rights, was his elder.

“Good people don’t live long; evil ones last a thousand years,” Jiuye stared hard at Zhang Fan, then grinned.

“Wait—I’ll get the dishes ready.”

“We haven’t ordered yet,” Xiong Sanqi called after Jiuye’s retreating back.

“No need. Just the usual.”

“Uncle, did he just mean me?” Zhang Fan asked, his expression odd.

“Ignore him—he’s senile.”

As he spoke, Xiong Sanqi pulled out bottle after bottle of Malanshan Erguotou, popping the caps; a strong alcohol scent spread through the air.

“Come, have a drink with Uncle.”

He pushed a bottle straight in front of Zhang Fan.

Zhang Fan grimaced but couldn’t refuse.

Soon, platters of sliced fresh meat arrived—unknown meat, three parts fat, seven parts lean, sizzling on iron trays, paired with onions and leeks; the savory aroma could fill half the street.

“Uncle, what meat is this? So fragrant.”

Zhang Fan picked up a piece, wrapped it in lettuce, dipped it in soy paste, and swallowed it whole; grease dripped onto the table, the meat flavor almost melting his tongue.

He’d never eaten such delicious grilled meat.

“Heh, this is just that…”

“Pork belly… pork belly,” Liu Fusheng interjected.

“Pork belly? Why’s their pork belly so fragrant?”

“Local pigs, raised on the mountains, drinking spring water, eating grains—how could they not be fragrant?” Liu Fusheng said casually.

“Come on, Xiao Fan, eat more.”

As he spoke, Liu Fusheng picked up a piece of meat and placed it on Zhang Fan’s plate.

Zhang Fan couldn’t stop eating; out of the corner of his eye, he saw Jiuye standing by the counter, his narrowed gaze never leaving him.

Night deepened; heavy rain fell outside, thunder rumbling endlessly.

On a summer night, hiding in this small eatery, listening to the rain and thunder, eating meat and drinking liquor—there was a unique charm to it.

“Uncle Sanqi, did I ever see you as a child?” Zhang Fan asked, emboldened by alcohol.

“Of course I saw you—often. You used to have a bit of baby fat…” Xiong Sanqi opened up.

“You were more likable back then—especially when you killed…”

“Cough, cough, cough…”

Liu Fusheng’s throat really was bothering him; he coughed twice, cutting off Xiong Sanqi’s words.

“Killed!?” Zhang Fan froze.

“Killed… You heard too many stories and kept begging Uncle to tell you more,” Xiong Sanqi picked up his wine and drank it down in loud gulps.

“See? I told you not to tell so many bloody tales—unhealthy, bad for a minor’s growth,” Liu Fusheng grinned.

At the same time, he shot Xiong Sanqi a furious glare.

“By the way, nephew, do you remember that… that guy…?”

“Li Changgeng!?”

“Li Changgeng?” Zhang Fan chewed the name, racking his brain, then shook his head—he had no memory of it.

“Who is he?”

“Oh, forget it if you can’t remember,” Xiong Sanqi waved his hand. “Not important.”

“Come on, drink, have another glass with Uncle.”

As he spoke, Xiong Sanqi pulled out two more bottles from his bag.

Half an hour later, Zhang Fan finally collapsed, reeking of alcohol, slumped on the table, head resting on his arms, snoring loudly.

“Nephew’s got no liquor tolerance,” Xiong Sanqi grinned, his breath reeking of alcohol.

“Why are you back this time?”

In the small shuanrou place, only Xiong Sanqi and Liu Fusheng remained. “The Boss said… he went to Zhenwu Mountain, and came back a different man.”

Xiong Sanqi set down his bottle, his face showing no sign of drunkenness.

“Is this fate?”

“You haven’t answered my question,” Liu Fusheng said gravely.

“You know… the Three Calamities aren’t easily overcome,” Xiong Sanqi said coldly.

The Divine Demon Sacred Embryo must endure the Three Calamities.

Eternal Night is merely one of them.

“The Qianlong must not use its power… our nephew isn’t some pond-dwelling fish—he’s already fully prepared.” Xiong Sanqi murmured, gazing at the unconscious Zhang Fan.

“He’s breaking free from the calamity.”

“Correct… From the moment he descended Zhenwu Mountain, he began breaking free,” Xiong Sanqi said solemnly.

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"The Divine Splitting Technique splits one into three: the virtuous spirit returns to the body, the malevolent spirit is sealed in darkness, as for the evil spirit..."

Xiong Sanqian paused his words, his expression turning grave.

The Divine Splitting Technique is mysterious and unpredictable; one misstep leads to eternal ruin.

This was a desperate gamble taken back then to break free from the [Great Dark Unlit].

The original spirit was split into three: the virtuous spirit remained dominant, still within the body; the malevolent spirit was left behind in Yin Mountain Xiong Clan; as for the most critical evil spirit...

"It might be in Baihe Temple," Xiong Sanqi said grimly.

"Why there?" Liu Fusheng frowned.

Baihe Temple is not the largest Daoist temple in the land, nor does it occupy a famed mountain or river—but it stands in Shangjing, in the capital...

That represents supreme authority.

"That Li Changgeng of Baihe Temple... is extraordinary. So young, yet he already possesses the bearing of a startled dragon—far more terrifying than he was back then," Xiong Sanqi said solemnly.

"Each generation produces its own talents, each dominating the scene for centuries."

"Have you seen that boy? Back then, after our one encounter, I should have killed him," Liu Fusheng said coldly.

He knew how terrifying this disciple of Baihe Temple was—no reason other than that he cultivated one of the Nine Legendary Arts: [Heaven and Earth Stealing Fate].

"That boy is no longer something you can crush at will."

Xiong Sanqian softly flicked his fingers, his gaze involuntarily falling upon Zhang Fan.

"If he cannot escape this calamity, I hope he never crosses paths with him."

As his words faded, Zhang Fan, who had been slumped over the table, forehead resting on his arms, face downward, slowly closed his eyes—no one could see his expression.

Late night, Shangjing City.

Baihe Temple.

Inside a alchemy chamber, flickering firelight faintly illuminated a human silhouette in the corner. At this moment, a pair of bright eyes stared at a television screen, displaying a blurry video filled with white static.

Beneath a high moon, a dense forest echoed with roars.

"Fall back... fall back... don't treat him like an ordinary ghost..."

Amidst the roars, a dozen figures burst from the thick woods, appearing on screen.

Beneath the shifting moonlight, a boy slowly stepped forward—about eleven or twelve years old, wearing a tracksuit and white canvas shoes, his face slightly chubby.

His expression was cold, his gaze sharp as a thread, sweeping over the crowd.

"Don't clash your spirit with his... you can't win... this little ghost cultivates..."

"The Divine Demon Holy Embryo!!!"

Hum...

The moment the words ended, the boy took one step—and vanished from where he stood. Instantly, he appeared behind the man who had warned them, like a phantom.

Boom...

The overwhelming spiritual pressure instantly paralyzed the man; blood streamed from his eyes. He clutched his head, face twisted in agony—then his skull shattered on command.

Thud...

At that moment, the ground rippled like waves. Two massive hands shot up, grabbing the boy’s legs.

"Earth Burial," the boy murmured, one hand forming a seal.

Instantly, the earth beneath his feet boiled like a storm, sand and gravel crushing and grinding—within an instant, the underground figure was reduced to a pulp of flesh.

"Wind Grasp Technique!"

At once, two Daoist priests struck together, summoning howling gales like blades, engulfing the boy.

"Fire Burial!"

The moment he spoke, a true flame erupted—reversing the gales, flowing backward, instantly igniting the two Daoists’ bodies.

Screams of agony echoed through the moonlit night, as if from hell itself.

"The Five Elements Great Burial Art!?"

A middle-aged Daoist’s face twisted in terror. At the same instant, the boy vanished from his sight.

"Damn!"

The middle-aged Daoist’s heart lurched—a small hand landed on his crown.

The Immortal strokes my crown; inch-strength opens the heavenly gate.

Hum...

Blood sprayed, staining the sky. The middle-aged Daoist collapsed stiffly into a pool of blood.

Almost simultaneously, a blade of light splashed forth—a young Daoist appeared behind the boy, holding a ritual sword.

Whoo...

The sword sliced through the air like a white ribbon—when suddenly, the boy opened his mouth, his silver teeth clamping down like pincers, biting the long blade firmly.

"Soul Passage!"

He formed hand seals; chanting voices echoed around him. The young Daoist shuddered violently—his three souls vanished, his seven spirits perished; his body melted into mud, collapsing lifelessly to the ground.

"Can the Taiyi Soul Passage Art be used like this?" The crowd trembled in horror, fear now clear in their eyes.

"Little ghost, don’t get cocky."

At that moment, a Daoist with streaks of gray in his temples roared fiercely. His palm trembled, lightning dancing along its lines, wild and chaotic.

East three, south two, north one, west four—these are the primal numbers; the center five—thus, [Five Thunder Orthodoxy].

Boom...

Torrents of lightning, like artillery fire, struck the boy at impossible speed. A thunderous explosion followed, dust rising high, leaving a massive crater where he had stood.

"Got him!"

The crowd rejoiced wildly.

Hum...

Suddenly, a terrifying aura surged, scattering the dust. The boy slowly stepped forward, lightning swirling around him like living serpents, ceaseless and unbroken.

"Shenxiao Thunder Art!!"

The gray-haired Daoist, seeing this, trembled, his face finally twisted with utter despair.

He couldn’t understand how such a child could be so terrifying—mastering techniques from multiple schools, ruthless and utterly without restraint.

All of them together couldn’t subdue him.

"Don’t be afraid! Baihe Temple’s experts are coming!" someone stammered, retreating while trying to rally courage.

Li... li...

At that moment, a mournful crane cry echoed, drifting through the moonlit night.

"Baihe Temple’s experts have arrived!" The crowd cheered, turning toward the sound.

"I never thought someone my age could hide such a monster besides myself..."

"A worthy rival!!!"

A light voice came from deep within the forest. A boy in white robes stepped forward, also about eleven or twelve, radiant as the moon, untainted by dust, his bright eyes fixed ahead.

"Who are you?" the boy asked softly, staring at the newcomer.

"I am Li Changgeng."

The white-robed boy spoke softly; his five fingers interlaced, thunder surging—deep purple, profoundly mysterious.

(End of Chapter)