Chapter 790

On the black river, three boats— one large, two small— were racing through the night.

The large boat was a Jiujiang patrol vessel; the small ones, flat-bottomed speedboats. Both had been specially modified: vulnerable key sections sheathed in iron, and talismans to ward off evil hung at the prow.

Yet all three vessels were battered and scarred, barely holding together.

“Stay alert—we’re almost there!”

A Daoist stood on deck, sword in hand, shouting.

He had clearly endured many fierce battles: his robe was tattered and caked in blood, one eye gouged out and crudely bandaged with white cloth, giving him a grotesque appearance.

But the others on board were even more drained, their eyes filled with despair.

After boosting morale, the one-eyed Daoist turned toward the cabin.

Inside lay the Dali Bronze Bell, transported from Jiang-Zhe—a national treasure. Even among the Tai Xu Zheng Jiao, this favor had cost dearly.

The escort team sent by the other side had all perished; they would still have to visit and apologize later.

If even this failed to save Jinling, his years of cultivation would be wasted.

Yet whether it would succeed, the Daoist had no confidence at all—he could only pray the reinforcements arrived faster…

“Look! They’re coming again!”

A terrified cry rose from the side boat.

The one-eyed Daoist spun around—behind them, the river had been swallowed by thick black mist, swirling like a living thing, quickly blotting out the moonlight.

Then, an icy chill struck out of nowhere.

The crew’s breath turned to fog; ropes froze solid with frost.

The hull’s wooden planks cracked with popping sounds from the cold, and the accumulating frost slowed them further.

On deck, the few remaining warhorses reared and neighed in panic.

The surviving garrison soldiers gripped their weapons, glancing wildly around—they saw no enemy, yet felt suffocating pressure, their skin pierced as if by icy needles.

But to the cultivators, the scene was different.

Some had activated their ear spirit-sense, hearing the howls of chāngbīng like wild beasts.

Others had activated their smell spirit-sense, detecting the stench of beasts mixed with rotting corpses.

The one-eyed Daoist, meanwhile, formed the Yang Seal and activated his sight spirit-sense.

He had awakened the most common Yin-Yang Eyes—yet the ability to see malevolent spirits was the most practical of all, and it had earned him considerable renown in Jiangnan’s Daoist circles.

But the moment he opened his sight, his face turned deathly pale.

“It’s over…”

Before him, dozens of rotting ghost ships emerged from the mist, their hulls coated in moss and barnacles, sails torn like shrouds.

They swarmed with chāngbīng—some bodies decayed, others human torsos with animal heads, clad in rusted, broken armor, their forms translucent like waterlogged corpses.

Each eye socket burned with eerie green ghostfire, screaming at them endlessly.

The one-eyed Daoist’s heart sank into utter despair.

After repeated bloodshed, even many had sacrificed their souls to unleash powerful secret arts, eliminating countless foes.

Yet just as they neared Jinling City, the strongest wave of attack struck.

Huh~

Before he could think further, a gale surged across the river.

In the one-eyed Daoist’s terrified gaze, the yin-sha mist surged like a carpet, spreading across the entire river—chāngbīng trod upon it, flooding toward them.

To the others, it appeared as howling wind and frost rapidly forming over the water, with damp, dense footprints materializing atop the ice.

In an instant, they were surrounded.

Wherever they passed, soldiers’ necks suddenly bore purple-black handprints; they spat frost, turned pale, and collapsed.

Surrounding cultivators resisted with secret arts or talismans.

Yet even they could barely protect themselves.

The one-eyed Daoist gritted his teeth, pushed off the deck, and sprinted toward the cabin.

The only chance now was to ring the Dali Bronze Bell.

But this national treasure could not be activated by one person alone—it required many Daoist masters to set up a ritual altar.

He could barely strike it with all his strength.

But the cost would be the dissolution of his soul—eternal damnation.

The one-eyed Daoist had already accepted death—he would fight to give the others a chance to live.

Boom!

At that moment, a roar erupted from the opposite hilltop.

Flames flashed—and the river exploded, spraying water dozens of feet high.

The epicenter was precisely the black mist.

Though the chāngbīng were formless malevolences, the rotting ghost ships were real—constructed from sunken vessels infused with yin-sha energy, carved with talismans, and buried with human bones.

These vessels served as temporary ritual altars for the chāngbīng.

Through them, the chāngbīng could sink into the river by day and attack continuously by night.

The violent explosion shattered and overturned seven or eight ghost ships.

The once orderly formation now had gaping holes.

Huh~

The howling yin-wind over the river halted.

There’s an opening…

The one-eyed Daoist froze, then turned to the opposite hilltop.

The moon was dark, the wind fierce, and the river’s mist obscured vision—even with his spirit-sense, he could only make out blurred figures.

Yet even this stirred his heart.

The reinforcements have arrived!

…

On the hilltop, Wu Ba dragged a long trail beneath his feet.

He shook his body—CLANG!—a tiger-crouch cannon cartridge, as thick as a bowl, fell to the ground. He loaded another, stepped forward, and aimed at the river below.

The officers beside him nearly popped their eyes out.

A new-style cannon, carried and fired by a single man.

Even a scaled-down tiger-crouch cannon was absurd.

Was this thing even human?

The other Twelve Yuan Chen paid no attention.

Wang Daoxuan had already set up the ritual altar, placing the Five Directions Luo Feng Flags around him.

As he waved his ritual sword, spat Xun Water, and ignited talismans, the five flags leapt into the air—then a gale roared, and five streams of black mist howled forth.

They were the Five Camps of the Yin Court.

The Five Directions Luo Feng Flags had many advantages: with only five Gang Orders consumed, the five camps could remain permanently within the flags, eliminating the need to capture, tame, or train them daily—and they could be carried anywhere, summoned at will.

But one limitation: the power of the summoned troops depended on the user’s cultivation.

They had barely scratched the flag’s true potential.

Even so, it was enough for this situation.

The river roared with wind—the five camps’ black mist arrived at the bell-escort fleet in an instant.

Unlike the chāngbīng’s beastly stench and corpse odor, the five camps’ mist was pure yin energy—it scattered the chāngbīng and formed a protective ring around the fleet.

Two streams of black mist churned violently, colliding on the river.

The soldiers on the boats perked up at the sight.

“Li Shaoxia, shall we engage?”

The battalion commander from the Commandant Si bowed and asked.

He wasn’t a fool—the attitude of the Qiu official from the capital toward Li Yan had been clear to everyone in the Commandant Si; no one dared assert official authority.

“Not yet.”

Li Yan said calmly: “Those below are all chāngbīng. You’d accomplish nothing descending. Wait for whoever’s hiding behind them to show themselves.”

The battalion commander hesitated. “Things below seem dire…”

Though not a sorcerer, his eyesight was sharp.

The black mist from the Five Directions Luo Feng Flags, though stronger, was vastly outnumbered by the chāngbīng—barely holding the fleet together.

Li Yan shook his head slightly. “No problem. We don’t need to lift a finger against these.”

Boom!

No sooner had he spoken than Wu Ba’s tiger-crouch cannon fired again.

More ghost ships on the river shattered.

Boom!

Two consecutive explosions— the ghost ship formation was utterly shattered.

The gathering of so many ghost ships formed a formation, concentrating yin-sha energy to sustain prolonged chāngbīng combat.

Once the fleet scattered, it became water without a source.