Chapter 95: Come, I

It was past noon, and in the desolate hills around Tiansha Peak, after the sun’s peak, the sky grew strangely dim. This place had no beautiful scenery—only jagged, twisted rocks; not a trace of clear mountains or fresh waters, and though it was midsummer, all vegetation had withered to yellow.

The cypresses near the cliff were gnarled and twisted, their trunks covered in knotted scars, curving like serpents.

Their stunted crowns exposed bare, leafless branches.

Perhaps because the demon wolves often appeared here, no animals remained nearby—only the distant, mournful caw of a crow…

Qian Chen sat cross-legged on a massive boulder outside the cave entrance, lazily basking in the sun. Though direct sunlight struck his body, it could not dispel the faint, lingering chill; soon, the blue stone grew coated with a thin layer of frost.

At that moment, the cypresses on the cliff behind him began to stretch their branches—the black, twisted limbs slowly writhed like snakes, reaching toward Qian Chen below. On the towering cliff, dozens of feet high, withered vines and cypresses slowly crawled along the crevices toward him…

“Ssssh… ssssh… ssssh…”

The faint friction between rough cliff and wood was barely audible, but in such silence, no cultivator could miss it—yet Qian Chen remained utterly oblivious.

“Creeeak… creeeak…”

The cypresses, now near his head, emitted the sound of twisting wood. Two crows landed atop them, their blood-red eyes fixed on Qian Chen’s back. They opened their beaks and cawed twice—revealing rows of grotesque fangs… The withered vines writhed like a swarm of snakes, coiling into balls; thousands of black-and-yellow tendrils surged toward Qian Chen.

At that moment, Qian Chen suddenly let out a sharp “Ya!” and stretched his voice in an operatic tone: “I stand upon the city wall, gazing at the mountain view… I hear chaos outside the gates…”

“Banners flutter, casting empty shadows…”

The countless vine-tendrils recoiled as if startled, jerking backward a short distance.

Qian Chen sang two lines, then burst into a fit of coughing. He covered his mouth with his sleeve. When the coughing subsided, he lowered his white sleeve—clearly blooming across it was a plum blossom, drenched in blood. He continued singing, breath ragged: “It turns out the troops sent by Sima have arrived. I sent scouts to investigate—they reported Sima led his army westward. First, Ma Su lacked talent and ability; second, the generals were at odds, hence the loss of Jieting…”

As he sang, Qian Chen even shook his sleeves, striking two classic Peking Opera stances.

“Cough… cough… cough…” Qian Chen coughed blood nonstop, each spatter staining his sleeve with another plum blossom.

The withered vines and branches hesitated, pausing a moment before slowly creeping forward.

A crow landed beside Qian Chen. The Silver Boy seemed rusted solid—he lifted his small face, covered in black, rusted blotches. Step by step, like a rusted, unlubricated automaton, he shuffled toward the crow.

The crow stared with blood-red eyes, locking gazes with the Silver Boy.

The rust had blurred the Silver Boy’s features; this faceless little silver figure tilted his head, staring back at the crow.

Across the barren, empty wilderness, the operatic tune still drifted: “…You seized three cities by sheer luck, greedy and insatiable—you stole my western city… cough… cough… I, Zhuge… cough… wait upon the watchtower, awaiting Sima… to come… and… talk… talk…”

At last, the withered vines and cypresses reached Qian Chen’s side, curling around him like snakes, climbing onto his shoulders. He still did not turn, continuing his operatic chant. When the vines stretched like long fingers toward his neck, Qian Chen’s singing suddenly paused…

Then, as if nothing had happened, he resumed singing.

Qian Chen’s black hair, flowing in the wind, suddenly fell upon the cypress branches and withered vines—and instantly, the strands began to writhe, slowly spreading, entwining with the vines…

Slowly, slowly, his hair grew longer, thicker; it covered all the withered vines, then climbed up the cliff’s own vines and branches.

Clusters of hair had already reached the cliff, spreading through crevices, slowly entangling the writhing cypresses and vines—more and more…

As the hair tightened, the cliff’s vines writhed in struggle, tugging at the vines around Qian Chen’s neck—then, suddenly, his entire head rolled off, tumbling backward, face down, plunging into the earth behind the rock.

Yet the singing continued, emerging from the empty neck—now louder, resonating more freely without obstruction.

With hollow, echoing reverberations…

The crow flapped its wings, wobbled, and tried to fly away—when the Silver Boy suddenly bared his fangs, lunging forward. Feathers and flesh exploded outward. A grotesque little silver figure crouched atop the crow’s corpse, tearing at it. The Ear God stepped calmly down from Qian Chen’s body.

The tiny figure, no bigger than a dried bean, radiated an ominous aura.

“Ssssh… ssssh… ssssh…”

The eerie, sinister friction grew louder—the cliff face was now entirely covered in hair. It writhed like a carpet, lifting the skulls from the ground. Then, from the cliff, came a shriek—a grotesque demon, its body stitched together from countless limbs, its torso a tree trunk, arms turned to branches, fingers into leaves—as if dozens of people had fused and grown into one monstrous tree—let out a terrified scream…

From the pores of its limbs, from the nail beds of its fingers, sprouted hair identical to Qian Chen’s…

Gradually, skulls began emerging from the tree’s body, pulled along by the hair.

The tree demon let out a chilling howl—like the collective screams of countless souls facing despair. Its skulls screamed too, their pupils shrunk to needle points. The demon realized in horror: these skulls… were all the original owners of the bodies from which they had grown.

Hundreds of miles away, in the demon lair, the giant locust tree screamed in agony.

The demons stared in shock—suddenly, thick hair burst from its branches, entangling its entire body. From its roots to its trunk, it sprouted hair like banyan trees sprout aerial roots.

One crow demon exploded mid-air into a spray of blood and flesh…

The root-like hairs writhed toward the blood.

All nearby demons recoiled in terror!

“Aaaahhhhh!”

The grotesque tree-man on the cliff suddenly split apart! The skulls drove their twisted bodies and limbs, tearing the demon apart—as if dozens of fused, twisted human bodies had suddenly unraveled into separate forms, cleanly dividing the demon into dozens of pieces… In the demon cave, the locust demon split into the same number of pieces—each draped in hair, walking like a human.

The entire demon cave fell utterly silent—the demons were struck mute.

Among the demons, one even more monstrous creature strolled calmly… The scene was grotesque beyond words.

At last, the great demon with a tiger’s head in the midst of the horde moved. Violent demonic energy whipped up a black wind, instantly reducing the tree demon’s scattered limbs to wood chips, scattering them everywhere. The demons fled the chips and hairs as if avoiding plague. Some demons with hairs clinging to their bodies screamed in terror—only to be instantly crushed by the impatient tiger demon’s claw. The dead demons showed no transformation—but the tiger demon’s expression remained grim. He slowly spoke: “Quickly report to the General…”

The lesser demons sprang into action, yet their terror and trembling could not be hidden.

Qian Chen’s body on the rock slowly picked up the skulls from the ground and placed them back on his neck. The skull twisted once, as if checking whether it was securely attached.

Only then did his face reappear, wearing a strange smile: “Playing tricks with me? Your creativity’s terrible!”

As he spoke, his head dropped again—another head grew in its place, this one grinning mischievously.

He picked up his own fallen head, tucked it into his sleeve, and transformed it into a white bone śarīra… During this time, Qian Chen hadn’t been idle—he had suppressed the Nine Sons of Heaven’s Ghosts, preliminarily refining the evil spirits into the white bone śarīra, gaining slight control over this cursed artifact.

“You promised one-tenth of my power—so one-tenth it is. If you can’t even withstand one-tenth, what would happen if I used three-tenths? Would I become invincible?”

“You should’ve taken the city by now—why hesitate, stuck between advance and retreat? What’s your motive? Two attendants with lutes stand by—I have no ambush, no troops. Don’t let your mind wander…”

“Come, come, come.”

“Come up to the wall and listen as I play my qin…”

Qian Chen hummed “The Empty City Strategy,” stretched his waist slightly, adjusted the cushion beneath him, leaned back against the rock, and reclined in a new posture.

The Gold and Silver Boys beside him obediently fanned him and held the gourd. The Ear God stuck out his tongue, draping Qian Chen’s hair over his face to scare them—but the Gold and Silver Boys teamed up and batted him away. The three little figures swung their clumsy monkey fists at each other, inflicting zero damage.

The dead crow beside him lay intact, as if asleep. All that had happened seemed like an illusion. Qian Chen kicked it off with his foot, muttered a few words, and leaned back against the cushion, feigning sleep.

This was only the first probe. He wanted to see how patient the demon behind him truly was—how many times it would dare to test him!

“Just charge straight up and surrender—wouldn’t that be easier?”

“What’s with this cautious playstyle? Is this even your style?”

Qian Chen sighed helplessly. With only one-tenth of my power… I really want to have some fun!