Chapter 446: Rat Catching (2)

Chapter 446 Catching Mice (Two)

Thud!

The heavy wine jar shattered into fragments, its spilled contents washing over the fresh blood spilled upon the ground.

In the silence of falling needles, a piercing scream erupted, splitting the air like a stone through a golden vessel.

Though Zhang Yuehui’s nature was reckless, daring one to flee from the Empire’s heartland to the Wa region as a broker, there was still a sharpness to his resolve—crushing the wine jar with his fists before finally succumbing to unconsciousness.

“The method of shaping Huang Liang hosts into human forms has long been exhausted by those barbaric fools from the south, yet you dare present it so brazenly to our guests. There is, however, a certain audacity in your folly.”

Yuan Mingfei swept her gaze around, a smile playing on her lips. “One last thing—you continue pretending to be dead, and I’ll slaughter every soul in this establishment. See how you face Wise Woman Qingxiu.”

The moment her words faded, the musician, once frozen in terror at Zhang Yuehui’s self-mutilation, stirred again. His voice, however, no longer carried the soft cadence of Wu Nong’s songs but a strange, discordant melody of Wa bandits.

On stage, the puppet ‘Skinny Horse’ lowered its slender arms from their high position, standing motionless like a wooden effigy. Its eyes—black on one side, white on the other—stared directly at Yuan Mingfei.

Whether on stage or below, whether embraced by devoted patrons or loosened by courtesans in flowing robes, all shared the same expression: vacant, rigid, cold, lifeless.

The red lantern’s glow no longer held any trace of ambiguity, replaced by a suffocating, eerie chill.

Hostile intent surged like a tidal wave, as though within this pavilion, only Yuan Mingfei remained alive.

“Hmph. It seems the Huang Liang hosts hidden in this ‘server room’ number more than one.”

“If you wish to stay alive, flee. You have only three breaths.”

A cold, emotionless voice echoed from the side.

Yuan Mingfei turned. Zhang Yuehui, who had lain motionless, now stood again—his posture awkward, his bloodstained attire glaringly conspicuous.

“Possession? So you must be from the Ming family?”

“Zhang Yuehui” replied, expressionless. “One breath.”

“Lead us to Qingxiu. You need not face the imperial court’s punishment.”

“Two breaths.”

“We came here for a reason. You know what that signifies. You must abandon your impractical fantasas. Compliance is your only path.”

“Three breaths.”

Thud!

“Zhang Yuehui” suddenly rolled backward, sending tables and chairs flying.

“You dare think I’ll simply obey? You’re nothing but a fool who thinks I’ll let you boss me around!”

Yuan Mingfei’s eyebrows shot upright, her voice a whip of frost. “Comply early, live long. If you wish to be a loyal dog, there’s a place for you in my Buddhist realm.”

Hum.

All the Huang Liang hosts simultaneously opened their mouths, unleashing an audio frequency powerful enough to rupture skulls.

Thud!

The heavy wooden door of the pavilion was kicked out with a single blow, shattering the limbs of several motionless hosts.

Where the fissures gaped, intricate metallic frameworks were exposed, sparking and smoking.

The wearer of the Flying Fish uniform, his face grim, spat out a bitter rebuke: “I told you this was useless, Yuan Sister. You insisted on making a spectacle of it. These Wa bandits are as treacherous as they come—no mercy, no remorse!”

Slumped amid the wreckage, the ‘Zhang Yuehui’ figure’s face was streaked with blood, his eyes fluttering, his expression turning ashen.

“You dare try to flee after entering the cage? Too late. Meeting a corpse and still daring to crawl inside—that’s the bravado of a Huang Liang rat.”

Yuan Mingfei smiled faintly, leaning back against the table, her hand lifting a wine cup.

In the instant her words fell, a biting wind struck her face.

She seemed unaware, standing perfectly still, her gaze fixed on the clear liquid within the cup.

Snap!

A severed limb flew through the air with a tearing sound, its crimson spray arcing high.

A long blade pierced ‘Zhang Yuehui’s’ chest. His remaining left hand clutched the sword, blood dripping steadily from its edge.

Before him, Fan Wujiu pinned the weapon with one arm, his expression scornful.

“Flee?”

“Zhang Yuehui’s” eyes were hollow, his smile neither genuine nor mocking. “Why should I flee?”

At that moment, ripples spread across the wine’s surface in Yuan Mingfei’s cup.

The mechanical hum rose like a crescendo, a deafening roar engulfing them both.

The sound erupted and vanished in an instant. The scene before them remained unchanged, save for the once-puppetlike Huang Liang hosts, now animated with malevolent spirits, their faces twisted in feral rage, closing in from all sides.

The eerie Wa bandit melody lingered in the air, making the scene resemble the gates of hell.

Yuan Mingfei murmured to herself: “Their dreamcraft is laughably crude. Far inferior to Zhou Siu’s skill.”

“Yuan Sister, I’m not complaining, but… why go through the trouble of making me look this bumbling?”

Fan Wujiu wore a red monk’s robe, his left shoulder bare, his skin charred away to reveal a raw, demonic body inscribed with crimson Sanskrit scriptures. His right hand still gripped the embroidered Spring Cutter sword, while his left clutched a golden demon-sealing rod.

“You’re welcome to play along. Besides, Buddhist golden arms battling hell demons—it’s quite the fitting spectacle, isn’t it?”

Scritch!

The sharp blade scraped across the smooth scalp, Fan Wujiu licked his lips. “This taste… not half bad. Reminds me of Yellow Turban warriors.”

Boom!

The tip of the demon-sealing rod exploded, its muzzle flaring as a bullet engraved with sealing runes burrowed into ‘Zhang Yuehui’s’ eye socket, reducing the completed host to a spray of crimson mist.

Watching Fan Wujiu carve a path through the horde of demons, Yuan Mingfei raised her cup to her lips and drank the wine in one gulp, her face alight with a satisfied smile.

“With all these permissions, how much computational power might I gain?”

Boom!

Orange flames and thick smoke churned through the narrow corridor.

Gunfire, shouts, screams, the sharp whine of breaking air, and the tearing of flesh mingled in chaos.

Whoosh!

A figure burst through the smoke, black light trailing behind, slicing through the air until it became a dripping cascade of blood and shadow.

The flying sword “Crack the Abyss” bellowed its starting note, flying backward to rest beside the figure emerging from the smoke—a man in flowing robes.

“Fire!”

At the corridor’s end, a wall of gun barrels bristled. A group of fully armed members of the Desolate World faction, upon seeing the stranger, immediately pulled their triggers.

Gurgle.

Chen Qisheng’s throat convulsed as he swallowed a gene-altering pill.

There was virtually no delay; the heatwave sparked by the medicine surged through his entire body.

Three golden seals rose into the air, swirling around his form, colliding with the rain of projectiles that came head‑on and sending dazzling sparks flying.

Chen Qisheng pressed his two fingers together and gave a gentle tap upon the blade of 'Zhuang Yuan', and the delicate patterns instantly spread across the obsidian sword.

With a ringing clang, 'Zhuang Yuan' shattered into a legion of needle‑thin flying swords.

Go!

Chen Qisheng lifted his chin, and the rain of swords instantly swarmed forward.

The rain of shells and the rain of blades resembled two daring cavalry charges meeting head‑on, their clamor dense as the clatter of beans.

Defeated shells scattered the corpses along the whole passage, while the shattered remnants pitted the surrounding walls with countless holes.

Chen Qisheng strolled leisurely, his soles treading on still‑warm shells that emitted a sharp, twisted screech.

The victorious rain of blades re‑coalesced into the flying sword 'Zhuang Yuan', and a single drop of bright red blood slowly dripped from the tip.

Indeed, wealth is the smooth road to immortality.

Chen Qisheng stroked the revived flying sword, now reborn from the treasury notes, his face etched with contemplation.

The Taoist stepped over the scattered limbs and broken arms littering the ground, and at the tunnel’s end his view opened wide.

In a cavernous factory stretching a hundred zhang in both directions, a hundred human‑shaped sorghum machines hung suspended, their eyelids forever unable to open no matter how the eyes trembled.

Chen Qisheng scanned the surroundings, saw no further change, and whispered softly, "Sorcerer, it's your turn."

Leave it to me.

Zou Siqiu's voice suddenly rang out, echoing through the empty chamber, each shout higher than the last, finally surging like thunder and deafening the ears.

Hundreds of tightly shut eyes suddenly opened, and within the pupils a 'Zou' character slowly emerged.

Thump… thump… thump… thump.

The sorghum machines, freed from their bindings, fell to the floor like dumplings, knees on the ground, bowing fivefold toward Chen Qisheng.

We pay homage to the old master.

Can't you tone down all this flamboyant display?

Chen Qisheng sighed helplessly at the empty air, "Besides, calling me the Daoist Grandfather is better than calling me the Earth Immortal; perhaps I'd be happier that way."

"A person needs a dream; is an Earth Immortal enough to satisfy you?"

Chen Qisheng, loath to waste words on Zou Siqiu, pointed at the cluster of human‑shaped machines and asked, "How should these be dealt with?"

"Old Li already said it; how many we catch this time will decide our fate."

Zou Siqiu smiled, "You kill, you take sixty percent; I handle the aftermath and take the authority, forty percent. Fair, right?"

Agreed.

Chen Qisheng sat cross‑legged on the spot, the human machines mirroring his posture, the scene reminiscent of a sutra lecture.

"Sorcerer, you say the wilderness sect's martial manual has no bearing on the sorghum authority, so why does he help Ming Zhiying Xiu do this?"

While waiting for Zou Siqiu to strip the authority, Chen Qisheng, bored, suddenly asked.

"How would I know?"

Zou Siqiu seemed to gritt his teeth as he spoke, evidently finding it taxing to strip so many sorghum machines at once.

"But between men and women it's basically just those matters; what else could there be?"

Chen Qisheng sneered, "So the wilderness sect is something of a romantic kind after all?"

"Acting rashly in fury for love is their doing, as the martial manual says."

"Then why does Ming Zhiying Xiu split Gaotian Yuan into so many human‑shaped sorghum machines?"

"To hide the aspect, of course."

Zou Siqiu replied without hesitation, "Scattering them means even if discovered the loss is minimal; concentrated together, anyone who strikes would find nothing. How could you not know this, haven't you ever built a sorghum cavern?"

Chen Qisheng said nothing, his sword trembling beside him, his whole being poised like a foe.

A machine that had been kneeling suddenly rose, the 'Zou' mark vanishing from its eyes, and offered Chen Qisheng a respectful fist‑and‑palm salute.

"We meet again, junior Yang Xuan."

The tone from the machine was bold and grand, and Chen Qisheng instantly recognized its master.

The Taoist of the Tiger‑Tiger Mountain 'Formation Division', Yang Long!