Chapter 116: You Don

Tap-tap-tap-tap!

Dululululu ……

In the distance, riders and horses surged forward; a thousand-strong procession blew suona horns as they advanced toward this place.

The melody was mournful, sorrowful, and solemn, like a funeral dirge, heavy with profound grief.

“Surely the Divine One has already crushed that little scoundrel Fang Can into kneeling by now.”

On a chestnut-brown steed, the leader of Wan Chenyu’s fan club smiled.

Another warrior beside him shook his head with a wry laugh: “Of course. That little scoundrel Fang Can has trained for barely a month—how could he possibly stand against divine power?”

“I think this is overkill. Just one prodigy—was it really worth traveling all the way from the capital?”

“Hey, watch your tongue. The Divine One’s thoughts are beyond our comprehension—we only need to obey.”

…

The warriors chatted and laughed as they drew near; seeing Fang Can’s procession in the distance, the fan club leader frowned: “Why is their procession so calm?”

This was not the first time Wan Chenyu had shattered someone’s faith in a deity.

Every previous time he destroyed a god, the believers had been as if bereaved, as if their parents had died—why was this time so quiet?

“Could something have gone wrong?” asked a nearby warrior.

“Impossible!” the middle-aged warrior leader frowned. “I’ll go take a look myself.”

As he spoke, apparently impatient with his horse’s slowness, he dismounted and strode forward through the gale toward the opposing divine procession.

But as he drew closer, his mood sank further, for atop the distant flagpole hung four figures, dried like cured meat.

Three of them, by appearance, were fellow devotees of their own god, their expressions listless.

Only the fourth had sunken features, his face utterly unrecognizable.

‘This must be Master Li Xiangyang, the Divine One’s friend,’ the man hoped—but a bad premonition rose from his gut.

Wan Chenyu, whom his followers called Li Xiangyang, now had burst eyes and saw nothing, yet the distant suona horns filled him with terror.

A man so proud as he could never endure such humiliation.

Some in this world would even confess to crimes just to protect their browsing history.

For Wan Chenyu, so arrogant, to be seen by his followers in this pitiful state would be worse than death itself.

“The divine procession ahead, halt! I am a devotee of Wan Chenyu, the Divine One—could you tell me the whereabouts of our god?”

A familiar voice came from nearby, causing Wan Chenyu’s heart to freeze, as if caught in adultery.

“Wait—the child on the palanquin! You hold the Divine One’s sacred artifact! What have you done to him?!”

“Young Master Li, how come you’re standing with Fang Can’s procession?”

In the pitch darkness, questions and accusations hammered like sledgehammers against Wan Chenyu’s soul—the boomerang he’d thrown now struck his own forehead.

The balance of power had reversed.

‘Don’t ask, don’t ask, don’t ask—just go, pretend this was a misunderstanding…’

Wan Chenyu began to pray—but fate never bowed to his wishes.

“Oh… you truly don’t know where your Divine One is?”

From beside Wan Chenyu’s ear came Fang Can’s mocking tone: “Or are you lying to yourself, pretending that lump of cured meat isn’t your master?”

“Damn you! You heretic, how dare you insult my master!”

Beside Wan Chenyu’s ear, amid the furious roars of his devotees, came a dull thud the next instant.

From his martial experience, he could tell: his followers had leapt forward to rescue him—but were knocked to the ground by warriors.

“You came to us—yet now you act as if we’re the ones bullying you? You’re the ones complaining?”

Fang Can’s arrogant voice rang through the darkness—his own arrogance, now horribly out of place.

“What’s the matter? This is a fair duel. You want to take your master back?”

The chanting and recitations continued around them, and the distant suona horns rose louder and louder—then suddenly, Wan Chenyu heard a sharp *crack*.

In reality, Fang Can stared in surprise at the middle-aged man kneeling before him.

“I beg you, Young Master Fang, spare my master.”

The middle-aged man knelt, his voice earnest: “Myself and all of my master’s devotees are willing to suffer in his place—only beg you to show mercy.”

As he spoke, the man slammed his head against the ground repeatedly before Fang Can’s eyes.

Devotees stake everything on their god.

This is a faith firmer than oaths sworn by sea and mountain—even if the deity is shattered, the believer walks the path to the end.

To break that vow brings either a shattered Dao-heart and madness, or the complete loss of one’s cultivation.

Thus, now that Wan Chenyu was captured, the middle-aged devotee unhesitatingly cast aside his dignity and begged Fang Can.

For the devotee, the god’s well-being outweighs his own.

“Tch. Boring.” Fang Can’s once-curious gaze turned flat.

Looking down at the kneeling man with indifference, Fang Can said: “Your god hasn’t done this for the first time, has he?”

The man froze, opening his mouth to speak—but had no reply.

Seeing the mute devotee, Fang Can understood, and said calmly: “Then when other gods’ followers knelt before you, how did you treat them?”

As the two spoke, the distant devotees had noticed the scene—dozens of Xinxiang warriors were charging toward them.

Fang Can glanced coldly at the approaching Xinxiang warriors and waved dismissively: “Take care of these guys.”

He pointed at the hanging Wan Chenyu: “If they act up, beat the god—hard. Give him a good smoking.”

As he spoke, Fang Can turned and stepped into the palanquin; his good mood had been ruined by these fools.

He’d expected a brutal brawl—instead, they knelt and begged for mercy on the spot. Who’s the one pretending to be pitiful?

Watching the figure vanish behind the curtains, Ye Yonglie sighed: “Our master still lacks street experience—he’s too merciful.”

“If so, since the world is cruel, let us handle what the Divine One won’t,” Ye Yonglie said, turning to the kneeling heretics.

“Our Divine One has already crushed the false god into kneeling. We won’t release you before we reach the capital—but this is only the beginning.”

He smiled as he continued: “You wouldn’t want your own god to suffer worse treatment, would you?”

“Then hand over your redemption scrolls, martial arts manuals, heart methods, land deeds, and property titles.”

As he spoke, Ye Yonglie smiled at the heretics’ humiliated stares: “If you refuse, I can’t guarantee what will happen to your god.”

“I… I understand.” Under coercion, the heretic bowed his head.

(End of Chapter)