Chapter 87: Chasing Light Northward, Treading Wind Southward Home (Combined Chapter)

Sun Chaoen appeared beside Xiang Weiyuan without warning; after reading the entire letter, he said, “You can let it go, but not bring it back—reckless and unbridled. If Master saw your handwriting, you’d surely get another scolding.”

“Indeed.” Xiang Weiyuan nodded, and suddenly two tears fell, shattering on his breastplate.

Xiang Weiyuan wiped his face with his hand—his palm was warm. When he turned to look at Sun Chaoen, the man’s robes were already soaked with tears.

Xiang Weiyuan wiped his face again and suddenly noticed an arrow resting in the corner—it was the signal arrow he had left for Fang Hetong; once fired, it would alert him to an enemy assault, and he would rush back immediately.

Yet the arrow lay within reach, and Fang Hetong never used it.

Xiang Weiyuan pondered for a moment and understood. The Liao barbarians had launched a massive southern invasion; the surrounding lands were already engulfed in the flames of war. Those with the strength to come to aid had already moved. Xiang Weiyuan himself had no deep roots—no one would turn back to save him. Fang Hetong, perceptive to the ways of the world, had long seen this by comparing Xiang Weiyuan and Li Zhi.

If the signal arrow were fired, the first to arrive would be Xiang Weiyuan—and only Xiang Weiyuan.

Xiang Weiyuan wiped his face again, set down the signal arrow, then swept his spiritual sense across the mound of skulls—and froze. “Where’s his head?”

Fang Hetong had achieved the Dao Foundation; even if dead, a trace of spiritual essence would linger in his mind sea, not vanishing instantly. But Xiang Weiyuan’s spiritual sense swept through the mound—hundreds of skulls showed no signs of Primordial Spirit refinement. Fang Hetong’s head was not among them.

Sun Chaoen also swept his spiritual sense—and his face paled. “The Liao barbarians’ tradition: they forge the skulls of strong enemies into drinking cups! Fang’s head…”

Xiang Weiyuan felt something surge upward from his core, rushing to his crown—and exploded there.

Wang Delu was still kneeling before Fang Hetong’s corpse, banging his head on the ground. Sun Chaoen, now enraged, strode forward, drew his long sword, and raised it to strike.

Wang Delu screamed, urine and feces streaming down his legs, collapsing to the ground as he scrambled backward. “Commandant Sun! We’re both imperial officials! You—you can’t kill me! By law, only the Prefect can order execution, reported to the Provincial Governor, and only after autumn! If you kill me, you’re murdering an imperial official!!”

Sun Chaoen’s sword halted mid-air. He was only half a rank above Wang Delu; under Jin law and Tang law, he could not kill Wang Delu—otherwise, it was unlawful murder, punishable by death and clan extermination.

As Sun Chaoen’s fury warred with imperial law, his hand suddenly felt lighter—the sword was gone, now in Xiang Weiyuan’s grip.

“Immortal Master, spare—” Wang Delu’s scream cut off. Xiang Weiyuan raised his sword and brought it down—Wang Delu’s head flew far away, blood spurting onto Fang Hetong’s feet.

Xiang Weiyuan slew Wang Delu without a word, turned, and walked out—step one out of the ancestral hall, step two at the fortified compound’s gate.

With a neigh, his warhorse galloped over on its own. Xiang Weiyuan leapt up and landed lightly on its back. A flash of lightning—a spear two zhang long pierced the air and landed in his hand.

The horse was ordinary. The spear was iron.

Sun Chaoen burst from the hall to see the spear suddenly thicken and lengthen, its aura deep and boundless, its shaft adorned with mysterious patterns. Black qi seeped into the warhorse’s body; the horse screamed in agony, pawing the ground helplessly. Yet each step made it grow larger—within moments, it became a beast one and a half zhang tall, terrifyingly majestic.

The horse’s hooves now measured the size of water jars, faintly glowing with pale blue flames. When it stamped, the entire village trembled, leaving behind charred hoofprints.

With a warhorse’s roar that shook heaven and earth, Xiang Weiyuan spurred north, charging into Liao territory.

Sun Chaoen snapped back to reality, grabbing the Assistant County Magistrate and shouting, “Send word at once to General Li Zhi! Inform Liao Jingwu—he must mobilize immediately! He must intercept—”

He strained, and fresh blood burst across his chest and back. His vision darkened, and he collapsed to the ground.

In an instant, Xiang Weiyuan tore through rolling yellow mist and entered Liao territory. As soon as he crossed the border, an invisible net descended over his head—he felt greasy, sticky, coated in foreign particles; his vision halved, his Dao power slowed.

But in Xiang Weiyuan’s eyes, a faint white light flickered ahead—like a candle in a storm, ready to be snuffed out. It was a trace of spiritual essence left by Fang Hetong’s unextinguished Primordial Spirit—undetectable even by a True Person, visible only to Xiang Weiyuan, whose innate senses surpassed ordinary men, bordering on divine hearing.

Far ahead, another faint light glimmered. Beyond that, another. Tiny lights marked a path northward for Xiang Weiyuan.

As he galloped, a thought surfaced in his empty mind: “If Brother Fang knew I could see these drifting glows, he might have self-destructed his Primordial Spirit…”

The thought vanished instantly into the void of his consciousness.

The flames beneath the warhorse’s hooves grew brighter; each step now lifted slightly from the ground, treading upon empty air. The spear’s tip twisted and sharpened, no longer resembling any known weapon. Where it cut through the air, it left behind a black streak—like ink dragged across paper, lingering long after.

Liao territory stretched endlessly, a churning sea of filth. One rider, one steed, cut through the murky sea northward, leaving a long trail behind.

Ahead, the wind had thickened into substance—not a gale against his skin, but a crushing wave crashing down. Xiang Weiyuan felt as if coated in countless spiderwebs; every movement required several times his usual effort. The yellow mist he shattered and left behind refused to yield, rolling after him relentlessly.

Xiang Weiyuan’s mind sea boiled; years of accumulated black qi dissolved strand by strand, countering the world’s malice.

Yes—malice.

It seemed as if all of Liao territory had awakened, glaring at this arrogant insect with hatred, pouring forth ever greater force to block, strike, and destroy him.

Xiang Weiyuan did not know how long he had galloped—but the faint lights ahead were gone. The yellow mist had become a storm, utterly extinguishing Fang Hetong’s final spark.

In his mind sea, the Jade Toad surfaced, its eyes turning pure black. No—not black. Emptiness. Emptiness that devoured all—even black.

Faint lights reappeared along the path ahead.

Xiang Weiyuan suddenly understood: the lights he saw were not real—they were the last flickers of lights that had just been extinguished.

Xiang Weiyuan lowered his body, merging with his steed, speed surging again—he chased the light northward!

Far ahead loomed a colossal yellow storm, swirling slowly into a vortex dozens of li wide, stretching from earth to sky. Within the storm, faint lights flickered. Xiang Weiyuan did not hesitate—he spurred his horse into the storm.

At the storm’s heart lay a small, crystal-clear lake, its waters blue and transparent, revealing the bottom. The lakebed was not yellow sand, but countless multicolored pebbles, shimmering like a sea of rainbows in the rippling waves.

Around the lake stretched dense forests, beyond which lay endless grasslands carpeted with countless unnamed wildflowers.

This was a land blessed by heaven—vibrant, serene, beautiful. Snow-white tents dotted the grass. Nearby stood herds of snow-white warhorses, each two chi taller than ordinary Liao horses, magnificent beyond compare. These horses did not graze on grass; they ate carefully from their troughs. When they lifted their hooves, they did so gently, afraid of harming this sacred gift from heaven.

From the tents came men, robust even by Liao standards, entering and exiting. Some fetched water; others tended the horses. All went barefoot, fearing to damage the grass.

In the largest tent, the young Liao man who had kicked over the cartwheel sat at the center. He towered a head taller than the others, nine chi tall, chest open to reveal a muscular, densely furred torso. His face was young—seemed barely twenty—with flawless bronze skin.

He leaned back in a beast-hide chair, holding a rhino-horn cup, lost in thought, looking weary and resigned. Before him on a low table lay vegetables and fruits—no meat at all. Only milk tea and milk wine counted as Hunxing . On this sacred lake, Hunxing was considered an insult.

Beside the young Liao man lay a tray holding a human head.

“Young Master, a southern sheep—killed, and that’s the end of it. Why dwell on it?”

The young Liao man stared into his cup. “You don’t understand. He was a hero. Even among southern sheep, there are heroes.”

The men exchanged glances, confused. One said, “But he died at your hands.”

The young Liao man shook his head. “Some heroes aren’t measured by strength. He lost, but I never saw fear in his eyes—or the false rage born of fear. He was calm. Calmly exerted his greatest power, killed the most men, then calmly welcomed death. Too bad he refused my goodwill. Such a man, if he submitted to me, would be my finest, wisest hound. A good hound is worth more than dozens of cavalry.”

No one knew what to say. Suddenly, the tent floor shook. All dishes on the low table leapt. Outside came several screams.

“Enemy!” The warriors in the tent surged out. The young Liao man moved slowly, picking up a long-handled battle-axe. Before stepping out, he glanced at the tray. “Is that your friend?”

The head naturally did not answer.

The young Liao man lifted the tent flap and stepped out.

At the grass’s edge, Xiang Weiyuan swung his spear, flinging a mounted warrior to the ground. Around him lay seven or eight corpses.

The warhorse snorted, spewing two bursts of flame, then stepped forward. Its blazing hooves scorched the grass, leaving a wide patch of charred earth.

A tall Liao warrior stepped from the tent, saw this, and roared in fury. He leapt into the air, axe raised to strike Xiang Weiyuan. His blade was five chi long, handle three chi—fearsome. This warrior surpassed even a standard hundred-commander in strength. Xiang Weiyuan’s gaze swept the scene—there were at least seven or eight more like him!

As the axe came crashing down, Xiang Weiyuan did not dodge. His spear shot out like a dragon—late to start, first to strike—piercing straight through the Liao warrior’s chest.

The axe still descended, striking Xiang Weiyuan’s shoulder. Armor, robe, flesh—all cleaved open, finally halted by bone.

More Liao warriors poured from the tents, howling as they charged. Each was at least equal to a standard Liao squad leader—equivalent to a human body-cultivator at peak cultivation.

Xiang Weiyuan spurred forward, unyielding. Each Liao slash met a spear thrust. In moments, he bore dozens of wounds, leaving a trail of charred earth littered with corpses.

In Xiang Weiyuan’s eyes, this idyllic lakeside paradise was thick with yellow qi—dense as rippling waves. Every movement drained his Dao power wildly. Had it not been for years of accumulated celestial fortune countering it, his Dao power would have collapsed long ago. So he chose without hesitation: trade wounds for lives, kill as many as possible, as fast as possible.

In moments, only the young Liao man and two hundred-commanders remained before him. The young Liao man had watched silently, not moving. Now he nodded in satisfaction. “You’re strong. But too young—a fledgling. You cannot defeat me. Join me. I’ll ask the State Master to give you a Liao body. Then you’ll be my finest hawk! I’ll take you hunting across this endless sky! With you, my hunting grounds won’t be limited to Agula!”

Xiang Weiyuan said nothing. He leapt from his horse, strode forward, spear dragging across the grass, rising to thrust straight at the young Liao man’s heart.

The young Liao man’s pupils shrank. Xiang Weiyuan’s spear held no flourish—only speed, only weight—faster and heavier than imaginable!

The young Liao man never expected Xiang Weiyuan’s first move to be a suicide strike. He had no time to dodge. He roared, seized the spear shaft with both hands, and swung his axe down with all his might toward Xiang Weiyuan’s head.

The young Liao man’s strength was immense—but could not match Xiang Weiyuan’s body, equivalent to several Mingwang Palace Heavenly-grade Dao Foundations. The spear shaft scraped against his palms, shrieking as it drove forward. When the tip met his bronze skin, the very tip bent under the hardness of his flesh—but still pierced through, then lodged between his ribs.

Facing the axe descending upon him, Xiang Weiyuan bent his arm to block. The golden axe nearly severed his forearm, then pressed down. Xiang Weiyuan tilted his head—the blade sliced into his left shoulder, cleaving half his shoulder bone, finally stuck.

The young Liao man had reached the Dao Foundation’s Spirit Nurturing realm, beginning to cultivate his Law Form—yet never imagined a first clash would end in mutual ruin. Xiang Weiyuan’s body was even stronger than this young master, whose physique had long been famed across the entire Agula tribe.

“This must be his limit,” the young Liao man thought, preparing to plead once more. Many southern sheep died fearless—but a fledgling hawk, once dead, was a terrible loss. One good hawk could replace an entire fierce tribe.

But before he spoke, he saw Xiang Weiyuan’s eyes. Deep beyond depth—like a portal to another world.

Dozens of black qi strands vanished from Xiang Weiyuan’s mind sea. The Heaven’s Rebel technique activated. A chilling, brutal killing aura surged upward. The stuck spear’s shaft shimmered with mysterious patterns, propelled by unstoppable force—cutting through the ribs, exploding every organ in its path, then bursting from his back!

The two subordinates gasped, rushing to rescue. Xiang Weiyuan snatched the Liao young master’s golden axe and stabbed them both with its haft.

The spear, now embedded through his body, felt as heavy as a mountain. The young Liao man’s knees cracked with bone-shattering sounds as he collapsed. For the first time, fear flashed in his eyes. “Don’t kill me! If you kill me, my father will know instantly—you’ll never escape our territory! Spare me, and I’ll grant you Liao warrior status, free you from your lowborn caste, make you part of my tribe—”

Xiang Weiyuan yanked the spear free, slashed once—the young master’s head flew upward.

Xiang Weiyuan seized the young master’s head, entered the largest tent. In his vision, a faint light still flickered within. His gaze fell on the tray. He paused, then walked over, slowly lifting the head.

Blood dripped from Xiang Weiyuan’s arm, down his hand, onto the head, flowing over Fang Hetong’s face, mingling with his blood.

Xiang Weiyuan turned and left the tent. The lakeside paradise before him shattered like foam—the grass and trees remained, but the lake vanished. Before him stood a jade bowl, filled with clear water, its bottom lined with multicolored fine sand.

Xiang Weiyuan picked up the bowl, silently estimated the return distance. He had come only to reclaim Fang Hetong’s head. But his Primordial Spirit had recorded every step. Now he recalled—he realized this place was eleven hundred li from Liao territory’s edge. Unknowingly, he had penetrated a thousand li into Liao land.

Xiang Weiyuan placed Fang Hetong’s head and the jade bowl into his pack, slung it over his warhorse’s back, and prepared to return.

At that moment, yellow qi erupted far away, towering like mountains. From within soared a colossal white eagle, wings blotting out the sky!

“You dare kill my child? I will make you wish for death—your Primordial Spirit shall suffer eternal torment!” The voice thundered, amplified by heaven and earth. Countless yellow qi surged like tidal waves, forming chains to lock Xiang Weiyuan in place. With a piercing eagle cry, a colossal claw descended from the sky—over ten zhang long, crushing down upon Xiang Weiyuan’s head!

Xiang Weiyuan remembered the eagle’s aura—it was the same Liao Law Form powerhouse who had clashed with the human True Person above Baoyun Fortress. Back then, from ten thousand zhang away, it had shot four arrows, downing a flying vessel, and wounded the human True Person in return.

The claw, mountainous, descended with unstoppable force!

Though legends abound, no one had ever heard of a cultivator who had not yet achieved the Dao Foundation defeating a Law Form. Now that he was within the Law Form’s range, Xiang Weiyuan had no chance of survival.

The claw’s tip was wrapped in thick yellow qi—the very heavens lent their power to this strike.

Xiang Weiyuan smiled bitterly. Is heaven overestimating me?

As he prepared to close his eyes and die, a green sword qi shot from his brow, transforming into countless rain threads that wrapped around the claw. Though slender, the threads held the claw aloft—locked in stalemate!

The threads spread rapidly, climbing up the eagle’s claw, engulfing its entire body.

Where the rain threads fell, yellow qi dissolved. Amidst the mist appeared Zhang Sheng’s figure—he stood with hands behind his back, gazing up at the mountain-sized eagle, utterly fearless. In that moment, Xiang Weiyuan understood: this was the heart of invincibility.

The claw bound by rain threads retracted—but the eagle extended another claw, slashing down! This time, the claw tore through the rain threads, slicing through Zhang Sheng’s figure. As Zhang Sheng shattered, another figure appeared—then was torn apart too.

Xiang Weiyuan had long forgotten Zhang Sheng had sealed a sword qi into him. He never imagined, after so many years, it would still be there. When Zhang Sheng’s figure appeared, Xiang Weiyuan nearly thought his master had arrived. But that sword qi carried a fragment of Zhang Sheng’s Primordial Spirit—and as the qi was torn apart, so was that fragment.

Xiang Weiyuan felt his heart clench—then erupted in rage!

Vast swathes of black qi vanished from Xiang Weiyuan’s mind sea. A colossal shadow loomed above his head, ancient and winding. Xiang Weiyuan stepped forward, raised his spear to the sky, and thrust with all his might into the claw’s tip. Spear met claw—and held!

The claw alone was over ten zhang wide; the eagle’s wings blotted out the sky. Xiang Weiyuan, man and spear combined, was barely two zhang tall—a mere insect before the eagle. Yet this single spear held firm, ignoring realm gaps, defying heaven’s resistance, ignoring fate’s oppression.

If heaven collapses, one spear shall hold it up!

Xiang Weiyuan had never used spear techniques—only speed and ferocity. This was the first spear he had forged from despair and fury: Counter-Strike.

A shadow darkened the claw. Countless cracks spread upward along its talons. The sky-eagle shrieked in agony, its wings blackened with feathers falling. The mountain-eagle retracted the claw, folded its wings, shedding countless blackened feathers. It let out a wail, shrinking rapidly, retreating to the distant horizon, motionless. Countless yellow qi surged toward it, gathering around its body—new feathers faintly sprouting where the old ones had fallen.

The Snow Mountain Great Eagle had already been wounded in battle; now, after suffering repeated blows, it could no longer fight and was forced to rely on the spiritual energy of heaven and earth to heal, leaving it utterly immobilized.

Xiang Weiyuan looked up at the sky, casting one long glance at the yellow qi surging frenziedly toward the Great Eagle, then turned and walked away. Yet with every step he took, he left a bloodstain behind. The Great Eagle’s strike had ignited all his hidden wounds; even with his formidable body, he could no longer stop the bleeding.

Time to flee.

But Xiang Weiyuan had no intention of fleeing simply.

He gestured with his hand, and from afar, a towering, purely black Liao horse suddenly erupted in furious neighs, leaping wildly as if possessed. In Xiang Weiyuan’s spiritual sense, this Liao horse’s soul was ten times stronger than an ordinary one—already an entity on par with a Dao Foundation cultivator. It was ferocious and violent, having shattered several attempts to control it with black qi. Yet Xiang Weiyuan remained unmoved; one after another, strands of black qi sank into the horse’s body, crushing its soul utterly.

The Liao horse fell still, trotting up to stand before Xiang Weiyuan. He transferred his satchel onto its back, then picked up the Liao prince’s severed head and golden axe, hanging them behind the saddle.

Xiang Weiyuan mounted the horse. The Liao horse let out a long neigh, its hooves igniting in flame as it galloped away on the wind.

The Snow Eagle Riders revered white; the entire camp held only one black horse—this was the Liao prince’s mount, chosen to signify its uniqueness. Now Xiang Weiyuan rode it, carrying the prince’s head and his personal weapon—this was a direct provocation.

He provoked the million Liao archers, he provoked the Great Eagle’s celestial manifestation spanning the heavens, he provoked the ever-present yellow qi, he provoked the very land and sky of this Liao domain!

Xiang Weiyuan had come intent on advancing north, yet his flight now was wild, unrestrained, and defiant.

A single rider, like lightning, galloped southward on the wind.

PS: Tomorrow’s release. I’m ready. Are you?

(End of Chapter)