Chapter 292: Entering the Dao Through Martial Arts

"Friend, what are you searching for?"

A voice suddenly sounded.

Though the voice was soft, to the thin tall Daoist, it rang like a thunderclap.

"Shall I help you find it?"

In the silent night, two thunderclaps followed one after another.

The thin tall Daoist whirled around; under the faint starlight, he saw a figure standing by the tree, also clad in a Daoist robe.

Where did this person come from?

He had checked this place thoroughly!

"Who are you?"

The thin tall Daoist snapped out sharply.

"Lin Jue."

The man spoke slowly, stepping forward toward him.

"I've been waiting."

The thin tall Daoist's eyes widened abruptly.

Lin Jue? Lin Zhen?

The one who slew Long Wang?

His heart lurched.

Though he considered himself capable, and had honed his combat skills over the years, he feared neither a dozen constables, nor a small squad of soldiers, nor a band of martial artists—even skilled killers among them—but how could he possibly fight someone of such renown?

Just as he thought to retreat, footsteps sounded behind him.

The thin tall Daoist spun around again—

Eastward, a faint white glow had begun to creep into the sky; thick night mist lingered, half-translucent, and a warrior's silhouette slowly emerged through it, wearing a wide-brimmed hat, shouldering a long blade, radiating the aura of the martial world.

"It really is you."

In the darkness, the warrior was little more than a silhouette, yet his voice carried calm authority.

"Who are you?"

The thin tall Daoist nearly fainted from terror.

"Lin Zhen's guardian," the warrior said. "I've been investigating for days. Among all of them, I suspected you most."

"H-How do you know?"

"You disguised yourself as a physician outside the city, running a clinic, specializing in women's ailments, particularly in tonifying the body and replenishing qi and blood. The women murdered last year and the year before all returned from Fengshan weakened, chilled, and mentally confused. You knew this, and used it to pinpoint them precisely." The warrior had drawn near. "I also know why you chose them."

The figure of Lin Zhen had also approached.

They flanked him, standing close on either side.

The thin tall Daoist glanced left and right, his heart in turmoil.

Was today the day he would die here?

Then the warrior spoke again: "Name your master, and you'll die swiftly."

"To die swiftly is too cheap!"

"I cannot let you live."

"No chance at all? Then why should I tell you?" the thin tall Daoist barked. "Even if I did, do you dare go after them? Lin Zhen, Lin Zhen—he's no true immortal! Even if he were, there are countless immortals in heaven—who among them can do as they please?"

Yet the warrior's resolve remained unshaken; he was unmoved by the words.

Only a voice came from the other side:

"If you dare, we'll go at dawn. If you don't, we'll go tomorrow. The sun and moon alternate, the stars turn—the world changes constantly."

In his calmness lay undeniable grandeur.

The thin tall Daoist froze for a moment.

"Who are you?"

"I am Luo Seng, your grandfather!"

"Luo Gong! Luo Captain!"

"Since you've heard my name, choose: confess, or offer your neck."

"Hah!"

Knowing his fate was sealed, the thin tall Daoist's fear gave way to ferocity.

"Lin Zhen may be a true cultivator, but true cultivators aren't necessarily skilled in combat! Those skilled in combat aren't immune to missteps! And you, Luo Gong—your martial skill is great, but your arts are no match for my alchemical methods! To declare my death now is far too soon!"

As he spoke, he suddenly tore open the cloth sack at his waist!

Though the sack was small and tightly tied, he ripped it wide open, aiming it straight at Luo Seng—

Luo Gong's name was legendary among the martial world near the capital; from his experience, at this distance, the warrior posed a far greater threat than the Daoist.

"Hummm… hummm… hummm…"

A buzzing erupted from the sack.

Dozens of flying insects burst forth—each the size of a fist, resembling hornets or beetles, flying through the air like birds or floating stones.

Simultaneously, the warrior gripped his blade and drew it in an instant.

A hiss—the long blade slid free; whether from the faint light or its own icy gleam, the thin tall Daoist suddenly saw a flash before his eyes.

He instinctively squinted—and when his vision cleared, the silhouette of the hat-wearing warrior was already swinging a blade toward him.

They were more than two zhang apart.

How could the blade be so long?

But the legendary Luo Gong would never act recklessly.

The thin tall Daoist had no time to think—he twisted sideways instantly.

"Shhh!"

The sound reminded him of his youth, when he worked the fields: the sharpest hoe, wielded by a skilled hand, raised overhead and brought down with perfect angle—no force needed, it simply split the soft earth.

He barely steadied himself, turned his head—and saw, on the ground beside his own path, a hairline crack, nearly invisible.

Just as effortlessly.

Had he not dodged, he'd be split in two.

No time to think—he thrust both hands out, pointing at Lin Jue and Luo Seng.

"Go!"

The giant insects split into two groups—dozens flew toward Luo Seng, dozens toward Lin Jue.

In the dimness, they were in their element; the air buzzed from all sides, black dots darting rapidly like birds.

Yet the warrior swung his blade horizontally, releasing a wave of blade qi.

Right where the insects were thickest.

"Bang! Bang! Bang!"

In one strike, at least a dozen insects were severed—wings cut off, bodies split down the middle, abdomens severed, heads cleaved.

The insects tumbled diagonally downward; before they hit the ground, their fluids and blood spilled out.

"With martial arts, one enters the Dao…"

The thin tall Daoist's eyes widened—he suddenly recalled the phrase he'd only heard whispered, and his heart turned cold.

His gaze flickered to the other side—

The Daoist faced the swarm of insects pouring toward him, utterly calm, and merely swept his sleeve.

It was a sleeve-wind Gangqi.

Dust on the ground traced its path; the insects flung back revealed its range.

Even from the impact sounds alone, it was clear these insects were hard—flung back, they didn't die instantly, but quickly regained balance or landed and took flight again.

The thin tall Daoist still clung to a sliver of hope—that one insect might reach the "Lin Zhen," pierce him with a sting, bite him, even once—perhaps enough to ambush him, and save his life today.

Yet Lin Zhen's serene composure told him this hope was vanishingly slim.

Sure enough, the Daoist opened his mouth and exhaled.

In the dimness, it looked like a wisp of yellow smoke.

A long breath, a long trail of yellow mist, shifting with his head's turn, drifting with the breeze in all directions—every insect was shrouded in the mist.

The moment they touched the yellow mist, they all fell to the ground.

"What kind of art is this?"

The thin tall Daoist stared, eyes wide.

These were his painstakingly bred Gold-Silver Insects—gold and silver varieties. Gold insects were indestructible, with stingers that killed instantly upon piercing flesh, and withered plants on contact. Silver insects induced hallucinations, then drained essence and blood. Both were immune to fire and water—his ultimate weapon against enemies.

Many cultivators with higher cultivation, caught off guard by such a swarm, had met their end in ambush.

Why, before this Daoist, did they all fall instantly?

Was he truly an immortal?

The heavens and earth were dark; the thin tall Daoist could not see clearly.

Only upon close inspection could one tell—the insects' surfaces, even their wings, had turned to stone; at first glance, they looked not alive, but carved from stone—

Their wings were as thin as cicada membranes—how could stone wings fly?

The thin tall Daoist had no time to ponder—the sword-wielding warrior was charging at him, followed by the remaining insects, which, though swift, now lagged helplessly behind.

Meanwhile, the young Daoist shook his head, expression calm, stepping forward, ignoring both the warrior and the thin tall Daoist, exhaling only toward the insects behind the warrior.

Those insects fell again.

The thin, tall Daoist was utterly panicked; his pupils shrank instantly as he swiftly formed a hand seal and chanted:

"Spirit of Earth Virtue, build a wall as barrier."

A muffled boom echoed; the ground trembled, and the soil and stones beneath their feet surged upward, forming an irregular, steep mound as tall as a man—though not a wall, it could still block passage.

The thin, tall Daoist immediately stepped back quickly.

Yet beneath the night mist and faint light, a figure leapt into the air, crossing the earthen barrier with almost no obstruction whatsoever, even using the momentum to leap directly toward him.

His long blade gleamed with cold light, slashing straight for the Daoist's forehead.

Right from the start—a killing move!?

The thin, tall Daoist, terrified, hastily raised his sleeve.

"Flying sand, rolling stones!"

No wind blew from his sleeve, yet every stone on the ground—tiny as a fingernail, large as a palm—suddenly shot upward, hurtling toward the airborne warrior, all at terrifying speed.

The air filled with whistling cracks.

With no choice, the warrior changed his strike, turning the downward slash into a twist; his wrist flicked, spinning the blade into a whirl of steel.

Ding! Ding! Ding! All the stones were blocked!

But these flying sand and rolling stones had bought him only a single breath—before the warrior's feet touched ground, he didn't pause a moment, charging straight at him again.

Fighting a warrior meant this: once they closed in and seized an opening, they unleashed a storm of attacks that left you gasping, denying you even a moment to chant or gather your spirit. And this Luo Gong's skill was clearly unmatched by any warrior he'd ever faced before.

The thin, tall Daoist had fought many warriors before; he'd honed the ability to chant under duress. Now, as he retreated swiftly, he raised his sleeve once more.

Shu-shu-shu!

Countless shards of stone shot skyward again, angling upward toward the warrior's head.

But the warrior remained calm, his expression unchanged; he simply dropped low, sliding forward with his charge, perfectly dodging the flying stones—before his body even stopped moving, his long blade had already swept horizontally across.

The thin, tall Daoist could only watch helplessly: in less than two breaths, he'd used every trick he had to flee and block—and still, the warrior caught up.

As the blade swung toward him, a chilling cold pierced his skin; in an instant, he knew—he couldn't dodge.

So he retreated while chanting.

"Mountain God, protect my body!"

This man could also turn to stone!

In an instant, the thin, tall Daoist's entire body turned to stone.

The long blade slashed down beside his leg.

In that same instant, the warrior spun on the spot, his blade tracing a full circle, cleaving twice before him.

Two explosive cracks!

The first cut did indeed differ from striking a normal man's leg—but amid flying stone chips, the stone statue's legs shattered. Before the statue could fall, the second cut swung back, its momentum unchanged, severing his head clean off.

A stone head thudded heavily to the ground.

Only then did the headless, legless stone statue collapse.

The entire process lasted no more than two or three breaths.

"Hmph…"

Luo Seng snorted, sheathing his blade instantly.

Thought turning to stone would make you uncuttable?

In ancient times, generals and warriors had fired longbows at night, mistaking stones for prey—and accidentally shot through them. At dawn, they searched for white feathers and found them embedded deep in the stone's edge. That was an accident. But now, he had entered the Dao through martial prowess, wielded his most perfect treasure blade, and struck with heart and blade as one—his will and motion unified. A stone? Even a solid iron statue, he could slice halfway through.

Moments later, the stone, stone legs, and stone body slowly reverted to flesh and blood; blood oozed out, soaking the ground.

A sudden whoosh—a flicker of flame ignited nearby.

By the firelight, the fallen insects on the ground gleamed silver and gold; every silver insect was filled with essence-blood, while the others had turned to stone statues, now slowly reverting.

"I didn't leave him alive," Luo Gong said. "He had two apprentices—they probably won't be as tough."

"Mm."

Lin Jue nodded. In truth, it made little difference.

By now, even if they couldn't pinpoint the mastermind behind it all, they could guess the general identity.

"What kind of technique is this?"

"I don't know," Lin Jue said. "But he likely feeds by draining blood through these silver insects."

"Mm…"

Luo Seng stomped on the stone insects, turning them over with his foot, frowning as he examined them closely.

Lin Jue walked over to the decapitated, legless thin, tall Daoist, glanced at his corpse with distaste, then spotted the cloth bag beside him. Before the blood could stain it, he extended his hand through the air, palm open in a gesture of reception—and the bag flew into his grasp.

Quick eyes, swift spell.

…

It's the end of the month—if you have no other place to cast your monthly votes, you can give them to Jasmine; they're about to expire.

Bowing, baring chest!