Chapter 738

In a small courtyard in the capital city, at dusk.

The setting sun dyed the courtyard crimson, with withered vines crawling over the mottled earthen walls.

Beneath an old locust tree in the corner, a little girl in a floral cotton dress squatted beside a pile of wood shavings, carving a wooden bird with a small knife.

Though young, she was extraordinarily focused.

Humming a nursery rhyme, her nimble fingers flew up and down, sending wood shavings fluttering down like dust.

In an instant, a lifelike wooden bird was complete.

To an ordinary carpenter, this would have earned praise, but the girl felt nothing special, showing not the slightest trace of pride.

Because she was the only granddaughter of Master Carpenter Lu Chengye.

She had shown extraordinary talent since childhood and was destined to become an unparalleled female artisan.

The girl did not notice that from between the cracks in the firewood pile behind her, thin tendrils of black mist were slowly seeping out, twisting like living things.

Under the moonlight, a pale paper doll’s face faintly emerged from the black mist.

A night breeze blew, and the nursery rhyme abruptly stopped, replaced by a faint “rustling” sound, like fingernails scraping coarse cloth.

In the courtyard, the girl was gone—only leaves stirred by the night wind remained.

Inside the room, an oil lamp flickered like a dying ember; Lu Chengye bent over his desk, polishing a wooden carving.

Crack!

The carving knife suddenly snapped.

The old man frowned, looked up—and saw the shadow of the locust branch outside the window swaying like a demon’s claw, while the girl’s singing had vanished.

Lu Chengye’s body stiffened instantly; he rushed out of the courtyard.

“Hua Niuniu, Hua Niuniu!”

Lu Chengye called out anxiously a few times; just as he was about to leave to search, a scrap of paper drifted down slowly on the night wind.

The old man’s fingers trembled as he unfolded it.

The paper was yellowed, its dark red blood characters crooked like crawling insects: “Your granddaughter is in my palm. Obey my command, or I’ll send you one body part each day!”

…

“Master Lu, Master Lu!”

A nervous voice interrupted Lu Chengye’s thoughts.

A disciple of the Xuan Gong Guild hurried over with a wooden tray: “They’re pressing hard over there—we must speed up, or Master Tao will scold us again.”

“Hmm.”

Lu Chengye glanced at Tao Fengchun, who was furiously directing from afar, then lowered his head and replied mechanically: “Alright… alright, let’s get to work.”

It was now deep night, yet the workshop glowed as bright as day.

Tao Fengchun was leading over a hundred artisans in the final adjustments and engraving of the magical array onto the crucial top component of the divine statue—the “Sui Lun Zhenjun Crown,” symbolizing knowledge, power, and transformation.

Sweat dripped onto the scorching bronze mold and instantly vaporized into white mist.

“Stay alert! Anyone who wants to sleep, go sleep outside the academy!”

Seeing a disciple nodding off, Tao Fengchun erupted again in rage—he was now fully consumed, like a madman.

Lu Chengye, meanwhile, clutched the unremarkable charred piece of wood, silently weaving through the bustling crowd toward his solitary workbench.

He secured the black wood on the stand, picked up his carving knife with calm, flawless precision.

As the blade descended, it shaved off a thin layer of charred surface.

“Grandpa, Grandpa, save me!”

Instantly, his granddaughter’s cries echoed again in his mind.

Lu Chengye shuddered, stole a glance around.

Everyone was busy—only he had heard it.

Lu Chengye knew this was a warning from the other party.

He did not know who they were, nor how they had concealed all traces of their aura.

But he knew they meant to plot against the Sui Lun Zhenjun.

How many would die because of this…

But he was old—he only wanted his granddaughter to live.

After calming himself, Lu Chengye picked up a charcoal stick and carefully sketched a contour on the wood: a cloud-patterned Taotie belt buckle.

Making it into a belt buckle was their demand.

Though exquisite, it would be inconspicuous amid the entire divine statue.

Ding-dong!

The surrounding noise, the clatter of tools—perfect cover.

His movements were swift as a ghost; the carving knife danced, sending wood shavings flying.

Under the admiring gaze of nearby disciples, a Taotie cloud belt buckle the size of a washbasin gradually took shape, then was polished smooth.

When finished, he seemed to have expended all his strength—cold sweat beaded on his forehead—but his hands never paused.

He fetched special wood lacquer, applied one coat, then said: “Done. Leave it here to dry. Apply two more coats tomorrow morning and noon.”

“Yes, Master Lu.”

The disciples carefully carried the buckle and placed it on a wooden rack.

Rows of racks held all manner of wooden components.

Because time was short and no sufficiently powerful spiritual materials could be found, Tao Fengchun had decided to construct the statue using iron frames and mortise-and-tenon joints.

The night grew darker; flames flickered.

No one noticed that the wood of the buckle had undergone some uncanny refinement, taking on an unsettling dark red hue, emitting a faint, sweet, rotting odor…

…………

While the academy was busy, the court was not idle.

In the southwest of the imperial city, the main hall of the Commandant Office.

The hall was dim, lit only by a few flickering bronze oil lamps, casting light on the mountain maps and ceremonial banners hanging on the weathered stone walls.

The air reeked of rust and old ink; even breathing felt oppressive.

Zhao Wujiu stood with his hands behind his back, his crimson python robe like congealed blood in the shadows.

Before him knelt several Commandant Office Battalion Commanders, all clad in black robes with silver-threaded Taotie embroidery, iron plaques hanging at their waists, heads bowed, eyes lowered.

“Gentlemen,” Zhao Wujiu spoke, his voice rasping like a rusty blade scraping bone, “the Jiaozhu of all Xuan Men sects have left their mountains and arrived in the capital.”

All held their breath, sweat beading on their foreheads.

“Yu Chanzi of Wudang, Zhang Tianshi of Longhu, Qiu Changchun of Zhongnan, Chen Confucius of Qingcheng, Wang Miaoyin of Emei…”

He slowly recited each name, each syllable hammering their hearts; his voice turned icy: “They claim to ‘protect the Zhenjun,’ but in truth, they seek to seize divine authority and counterbalance the court.”

He turned his head slightly; his eyes, hidden in shadow, were cold: “Issue orders to all prefectures and provinces—”

“From today, set checkpoints along all rivers. Any Xuan Men cultivator passing through shall be strictly interrogated under the pretext of hunting ‘Jianmu Demon Cultists!’”

The Grain Transport Office, the Inspectorate Office, and the Water Army outposts must all cooperate. If any sect asks, say that Japanese demons have infiltrated the Central Plains and are hiding along the waterways—the court must remain vigilant.

One Battalion Commander summoned courage and raised his head: “Your Excellency, what if the Xuan Men sects force their way through?”

Zhao Wujiu sneered: “Let them force their way.”

From his sleeve, he slid out a black iron token and slammed it onto the desk—startling everyone into a shiver.

“Secret imperial decree: troops stationed along the route shall remain secretly alert. Any Xuan Men cultivator who forces passage shall be charged with ‘colluding with demons’ and executed on the spot!”

“Remember—”

He tapped the token lightly with his fingertip, speaking calmly: “Yu Chanzi of Wudang is the most sensible. Wudang has long enjoyed imperial favor. Local officials must ‘treat him with warm hospitality’—make sure he drinks plenty of tea.”

“Zhang Tianshi of Longhu is cunning and volatile—he was always the biggest troublemaker. At checkpoints along the route, allow ‘occasional oversights’—let him pass first.”

“As for the others… Chen Confucius of Qingcheng is new to power—block him first, probe his intentions. Wang Miaoyin of Emei is proud—insult her. Qiu Changchun of Zhongnan is suspicious—confuse him.”

“Use any means necessary to delay them.”

As he spoke, he slowly straightened, his withered face in the shadows appearing ghostly and sinister: “Within three days, there can be only one ‘Tianshi’ in the capital.”

“That shall be—the Sui Lun Zhenjun upon the Sheji Altar!”

“Yes, Supervisor!”

…

Clack-clack~

Mountain wind swept fallen leaves across the imperial road.

Yu Chanzi of Wudang’s green donkey plodded slowly.

The Daoist leaned back on the donkey’s back, holding a book in one hand, humming a vulgar folk tune: “Don’t say the Xuan Men path is pure and still—better to gaze at the Zhenjun through drunken eyes…”

“Jiaozhu!”