Chapter 12

Without waiting for Li Yu’s answer, they saw a clump of dark clouds in midair stretch and twist.

Pop! The dark clouds vanished.

A strange eagle with white horns on its head flew out, transforming into a human form with a pair of black feathered wings, its face and neck marked with a sinister “black mist” demon rune.

In the blink of an eye, the White Horn Eagle Demon landed before Li Yu and Lu Fang.

Lu Fang frowned, studying the demon; this White Horn Eagle Demon had taken the form of a young man, his expression and posture strikingly similar to the White Horn Eagle King.

Ying Li’s gaze was haughty; his brown eyes outright ignored Lu Fang, sneering mockingly at Li Yu:

“I’ve often heard my father and other great demons say human women’s flesh is especially tender and delicious, but I don’t like that. If you surrender, I can beg my father to spare your life and make you my pet.”

This White Horn Eagle Demon was none other than Ying Li, the youngest son of the White Horn Eagle King, who had come to Da Zhou with his father to assassinate human elites.

Unexpectedly, the White Horn Eagle King and the Crimson-Eyed Wolf King had been held up by two great Confucians.

Seeing Li Yu and Lu Fang far from the battlefield, and realizing he had arrived too late, Ying Li, who had been lurking in the shadows, knew his chance had come.

Killing the daughter of a great Confucian isn’t impressive!

But taking the daughter of a great Confucian as a pet—that would truly be glorious!

“You?”

Li Yu’s gaze turned sharp; her earlier weakness had been feigned. Vast Confucian righteous energy surged forth, her posture brimming with readiness to strike.

“Hahaha…”

Ying Li scoffed, tossing his head back in laughter, certain:

“Don’t pretend. You’re wounded. Even if you weren’t, you still couldn’t match me—humans and demons of the same realm aren’t even in the same league.”

“Try me,” Li Yu said coldly.

The battlefield fell silent.

Suddenly, both sides moved at once. Confucian righteous energy and demonic energy erupted from Li Yu and Ying Li, their colliding winds uprooting trees and hurling stones and sand.

Thunder cracked sporadically overhead; the storm intensified, drenching everything, blinding the eyes.

Lu Fang instinctively stepped back, retreating from the battlefield before squinting to watch.

A sharp feminine cry rang out!

The rain before Li Yu froze midair, then transformed into arrows—ten thousand arrows fired in unison at the demon eagle.

“Good!”

Ying Li shouted loudly, his body swelling like a balloon to over ten feet tall, his human form vanishing as his true demonic battle form emerged.

Aside from differences in fur and wing color and the absence of a “demon wheel,” he was identical to the White Horn Eagle King.

Facing the torrent of rain arrows, he flapped his wings violently.

A gale laced with surging demonic energy shattered the rain arrows like dry grass, then surged onward toward Li Yu with undiminished force.

Hum!

Just as it neared Li Yu, a square inkstone spun into existence before her, effortlessly neutralizing the attack.

“Great Confucian’s Ink Treasure: Ink Stone Seal!”

Li Yu pointed at the square inkstone—swoosh! It transformed into a flash of inklight, and amid the chanting of ancient texts, it hurtled toward Ying Li like a hammer.

Bang! Bang! Bang!

The inkstone struck Ying Li three times like a wooden mallet; each blow dimmed his expression further.

After the third strike, the “black mist” demon rune on his face and neck flared brightly; the trapped demonic energy burst free, and without hesitation, he reverted to his monstrous white-horned eagle form and fled.

“Heh! All that bluster, and you turn out to be nothing special.”

Lu Fang sneered at the sight.

Plop!

The square inkstone fell to the ground.

Li Yu swayed, lost her balance, and toppled backward.

She was truly wounded; had she not carried the Great Confucian’s ink treasure to scare off Ying Li, prolonged combat would have meant certain defeat.

Forcing out the Great Confucian’s ink treasure had drained all her Confucian righteous energy.

“Lady Li.”

Lu Fang moved swiftly, catching her as she fell. Her face was pale, her voice weak: “Go… quickly…”

“Mystic Flying Armor!”

He asked no questions, scooped her up in his arms, activated the mystic armor, and fled at full speed.

They ran for an unknown length of time; the sky grew dim.

Seeing Ying Li had not followed, Lu Fang assumed he had been frightened by Li Yu’s power, and stopped before a cave.

With the scent of books to replenish him, he could still run.

But Li Yu’s forehead burned hot; even after taking some pills, her consciousness remained hazy.

If they continued bouncing through the rain without healing her, she would suffer lasting damage—or worse, lose her life.

The scent of books couldn’t be consumed by others; if only he could give her some, she wouldn’t be so vulnerable.

Lu Fang broke off branches heavy with lush leaves and placed them at the cave entrance as camouflage, then slipped into the dark cavern.

The cave entrance was narrow, but the interior was spacious—more than enough for two people.

“Cold?”

Lu Fang had intended to lay her on a flat rock, but sensing her shivering, he pulled her into his arms instead.

Confucian righteous energy flowed from him, healing her wounds while radiating warmth to dry their soaked clothes.

Lighting a fire risked drawing attention, so this was their only option for warmth.

Besides, even if he wanted to light a fire, the relentless rain left no dry wood to be found.

Gradually, their clothes dried; as time passed, Lu Fang’s righteous energy dwindled to near nothing, leaving only his body heat to keep Li Yu from feeling cold.

Fortunately, Li Yu’s condition stabilized. In her dreams, she clung to Lu Fang like an octopus, greedily drawing warmth from him.

After surviving death, his mind relaxed, and Lu Fang grew drowsy. He yawned, summoned his Book Spirit Yan Chixia to stand guard, leaned against the cave wall, closed his eyes—and fell asleep without realizing it.

…

“Hey, wake up.”

A faint, dreamlike voice sounded.

Lu Fang, sound asleep, was shaken twice; he blinked drowsily at the figure before him.

“It’s pouring outside, and you’re sleeping like a log? Get up—the water’s boiled. Where did you put the rations?”

Li Yu glared at Lu Fang playfully, then turned to add split firewood to the iron stove inside the cabin.

On the iron stove sat a pot, its water bubbling steadily; outside, rain poured in torrents as the small boat rocked on the Wujiang River.

“I just had a strange dream.”

Lu Fang murmured, trying to recall what had happened in his sleep—but the more he thought, the more it slipped away.

Something felt off, but he couldn’t say exactly what.

Boom!

A thunderclap split the horizon.

Lu Fang chewed his rations slowly, drank half a bowl of hot water, then stepped out of the cabin to stare into the distance.

Dark clouds blanketed the Wujiang River and Mount Luojia; the downpour hung like a vast curtain of rain.

“Ink-Book Realm!”

Lu Fang startled—he saw a patch of pitch-black ink amid the mountain’s contours, as if ink had become sky and earth, and a colossal ancient brush hung suspended between heaven and earth.

Figures of shimmering, luminous books frolicked there, endlessly reciting the finest lines and verses from their texts.