51 The Tables Turn

Section Four.

As Ghost Seven craned its neck forward, stretching out its ghastly face, those within the formation wore expressions of grave concern. They focused intently, holding their breath; only the pounding of their hearts could be heard. Cold sweat dripped into their eyes, yet none dared to blink, their gazes fixed on Ghost Seven as it approached with slow, deliberate steps.

Suddenly, Ghost Seven stumbled over a stone, lurched, and fell headlong onto the hemisphere of light. Neither fully ghost nor wholly human, upon touching the luminous barrier, it dissolved into a swirl of grey smoke, enveloping the group and obscuring their forms from those outside the array.

Now Shanglu grew anxious. If he failed to seize the advantage within ten breaths, all previous efforts would be wasted. Yet with Ghost Seven cloaking the barrier, the final outcome was utterly unpredictable.

“Brother Lu, Ghost Seven is no ordinary spirit beast. Perhaps we should wait a moment, see how matters unfold, and then decide our course,” Shangqi whispered softly into his ear, anxious not to see the spirit harmed, for he was rather fond of Ghost Seven. Besides, though Shangba controlled the formation, their own spells, weakened as they passed through the barrier, could scarcely deal an effective blow.

“So be it. Let’s hope Ghost Seven truly drains them dry!”

Fifth breath, sixth breath.

Suddenly Ghost Seven let out a howl. The grey mist lingering outside the barrier swiftly contracted and darted back into the wooden cup, cowering within.

Shangqi activated a secret art to communicate with Ghost Seven inside the cup. Moments later, he frowned. “Sister Wantong hides her cards well. I’ve no idea what spell she used, but Ghost Seven has been severely wounded.”

Yet within the formation, pale-faced Wantong was herself bewildered. Was Ghost Seven merely a performer hired by the sect? She hadn’t done a thing—how had it suddenly retreated?

Qinchuan, standing by, sighed quietly. He had only wanted to observe the prohibitions and the array up close, and so had been forced to direct Ghost Seven’s little act. But he could delay no longer, or his trick would be discovered.

Seventh breath.

The three Shang brothers could not help but marvel—the Talisman Law of Lvfushan truly dominated Mount Qing. Even at such a disadvantage, these techniques had all been withstood.

“No choice. I must take matters into my own hands,” Shanglu murmured with a sigh. His mind stirred, and the power of his fourth-layer Qi Refining cultivation surged forth, making his long robe billow.

He walked up to the barrier, seemingly at a slow pace, yet arriving in a flash. Placing both palms firmly on the luminous surface, he exhaled, without forming seals or chanting spells; instantly, the ghostly winds within the array intensified.

Within half a breath, sweat beaded on Wantong’s brow. She had already been barely holding on, resisting the pressure of four opponents alone—a far cry from her outward composure. Her cultivation, at the peak of the fourth layer of Qi Refining, was nearly depleted.

Yet her heart was not overly anxious. The four of them had known each other a long time. Though their ship seemed ready to capsize, it only lacked a single opportunity to turn the tables.

To Qinchuan’s eyes, the scene was a marvel: Shanglu was using the light barrier as a cauldron, seeking to refine the group alive—it was an alchemist’s art!

Time pressed on. The seventh breath ended; the eighth was soon to follow.

Qinchuan saw Wantong’s party in dire peril and was preparing to intervene, to snatch victory from defeat, when the situation abruptly reversed.

Shanglu saw Wantong’s face turn ashen, her whole body trembling as if sieved, the murderous intent in his eyes deepening. He poured all his spiritual energy into the barrier.

But the barrier suddenly shattered!

Two breaths remained of the appointed ten. This was the four’s tacit understanding at work; they had tricked their opponents with mere words. Even Qinchuan, watching from outside, was surprised.

The formation was broken by Big Waists and Nan Jin. As the barrier shattered, it was no different than a cauldron exploding. Shanglu, who was channeling all his spiritual energy, was struck by the backlash; the shockwave ravaged his dantian and internal organs.

Blood surged from his mouth uncontrollably. He staggered back several steps, breath disordered, feet unsteady, barely able to stand with the support of Shangqi and Shangba.

Yet those within the barrier had fared little better. Big Waists and Nan Jin were drained from overexertion, faces deathly pale, eyes vacant. Wantong was utterly spent and nearly fainted, but managed to stabilize herself with a deep breath, hurriedly swallowing a recovery pill. After a moment’s meditation, a flush of color returned to her cheeks.

It seemed both sides had returned to the starting point, yet things were not so simple.

Suddenly, Fang Mu opened his eyes, a strange light within. He alone saw what others could not: a mass of blood.

He had not truly fainted; all had been a ruse. As an alchemist, his cultivation was weak—if he acted as recklessly as others, he would have died a hundred times over.

This mass was the very blood he had ‘vomited’ in his feigned collapse—a blood pill, to be precise, a treasure akin to Qinchuan’s three grey threads. It was not meant for consumption, but used like a magic artifact in battle.

This blood pill had been refined from the Shang family’s ancestral bloodline. Under Fang Mu’s direction, the dissipated blood mist now gathered, as if time flowed in reverse.

Though lengthy to describe, all this occurred in a flash. No one had anticipated the pill’s formidable power, and they were immediately ensnared.

Before the three could react, the blood mist settled before them—followed by a thunderous boom and two piercing howls from within the smoke.

“If we’re doomed, we might as well fight them to the death. I’ll kill Fang Mu to avenge Xiao Ba!”

“Good, good! The three of us, let’s descend to the Yellow Springs together today!”

As the smoke cleared, it was revealed—of the three, Shanglu and Shangqi’s robes had been torn to shreds, their bodies soaked in blood.

Shangba, it seemed, had shielded the others at the critical moment, bearing the brunt of the blood pill’s explosion and narrowly saving their lives. All that remained of him was a few scraps of flesh gripped in Shanglu and Shangqi’s hands.

Above the domain, rare thunder rolled, white light illuminating their faces and reflecting in their eyes—now red with blood.

Wantong forced herself upright, gripping her talisman sword, jaw clenched so as not to appear weak. She even placed herself in front of Big Waists and the others.

Qinchuan watched as the tide turned. Had he been embroiled in the struggle, he doubted he could have fared better.

Though the ghostly winds and dust in the field were under his control, his own cultivation was only at the first layer, at least outwardly.

Wantong’s group stood wary, guarding against a desperate counterattack from the remaining two.

But unexpectedly, the two, full of bluster, suddenly whirled up a cloud of dust—and ran.

The others were left staring at each other in disbelief.

Qinchuan had intended to take advantage of the chaos, perhaps to abduct someone, but the shifting situation had left him watching helplessly from the sidelines.

“Ahem…” Emerging quietly from the grass behind, he coughed softly when he saw the others were distracted.

But the four, still tense, reacted instinctively, swords and blades at the ready the moment a sound came from their rear.

“Wait, it’s me—Qinchuan!”

Wantong’s nerves, taut as a bowstring, snapped and slackened in quick succession. She nearly rolled her eyes and fainted, but was caught and supported, spiritual energy trickling into her to keep her conscious.

“Where did you go just now?”

“I… got lost…”

—

Once Wantong had mostly recovered, she looked at Qinchuan with a strange expression. The others’ gazes were equally varied—Big Waists angry, Nan Jin cold, Fang Mu disdainful, and Wantong’s eyes… even held a trace of relief.

Luckily, he hadn’t been trapped in the formation, or she would have been too constrained to act. Lost? Does he take us for children? Still, his quick wits were a blessing; without them, who knows how things would have turned out?

As these thoughts passed, she caught sight of a few scraps of flesh by a large rock, and shivered involuntarily. If I fall here, will the sect even bother to bury me? Most likely not…

Unintentionally, her outlook had been changed by the tale of Shanglu.

What of the sect, what of the mission? Survival was the true foundation. She looked up at the sky, where rain began to fall, cool droplets landing on her brow and lashes. Was the world weeping—and for whom?

For the Shang family? For humanity?

The Domain had indeed changed. According to the sect’s ancient records, there should be no rain in this place.

Wantong silenced the others’ complaints, intent on finding a safe place to rest and recover before pursuing further.

They advanced cautiously, even Qinchuan now grave. He had thought his control over the terrain and its hidden dangers would suffice, but events had proved him wrong.

Following the valley for about a hundred yards, Big Waists suddenly halted.

“Wait!”

“There’s a trace of a formation here!” His voice trembled, still haunted by memories of the Northwind Tower’s shadows. If they fell into another trap, not even another Wantong could save them—let alone with an extra burden.

He pointed to one side of the valley.

The group peered into the dim light, finally spotting something lying quietly in a corner. The wind howled, nerves stretched taut; they missed not a single detail.

Lacking spiritual sense, they relied on their eyes, wary of stumbling into another illusion.

Fully focused, sweat beaded on Big Waists’ brow. The chill wind, damp with sweat, sent icy needles down his back.

“There are two people lying ahead!”

“Sister, the formation ahead has been broken!”

“No prohibitions, either.”

Big Waists and Nan Jin’s words eased their worries somewhat. Only Qinchuan remained uneasy, a trace of doubt in his heart.

Drawing closer, they were appalled by the scene before them.

Charred remnants of shadow serpents lay in heaps, forming a ring around two figures, piled in a grotesque mound.

A nauseating stench filled their nostrils.

“Judging by their clothing, it’s Kongqing and his companion!”

No one knew what ordeal they had endured. One of the bodies showed no signs of burning; even the clothes were relatively intact, though the flesh was shriveled and dry like cured meat.