Chapter 555: Heartless Deeds, Sentimental People

Chapter 555: Heartless deeds, unjust affairs; yet there are those who feel and uphold righteousness.

The prosperity was driven away by the night rain, the sound of rain drowned out by shouts of slaughter.

Armor and white robes swayed, fist wind and blade light collided.

Wails, howls, roars, and the clamor of impact rose together amidst the downpour.

On the chaotic street, a valiant Wudang Daoist plunged into the enemy throng, single‑handedly battling four encircling golden‑clad heavenly soldiers.

In an instant the slick pavement was littered with shattered armor plates, his white robe likewise soaked through with blood; even amid such flesh‑rending, blade‑blood carnage the battle fell silent save for the tearing of flesh and the dull thud of bodies hitting the ground.

Three heavenly soldiers conjured by Zhang Qingyu’s authority were blasted apart one after another, yet before the wounded Wudang Daoist could catch his breath, the corpse strewn on the ground was kicked aside by a more stalwart, majestic heavenly general, who swung his long blade in a wide arc and brought it down upon his head.

At the critical moment, the Wudang Daoist tapped his toe, flicked a long sword into his hand, met the blade with an offensive guard, and sliced upward.

A clear, ringing clang exploded, the surging wind tearing through the continuous curtain of rain.

Overpowered, the Wudang Daoist stumbled back, his sword split in half at the hilt, his chest heaving like a bellows, blood gushing from his wounds to stain his robes a glaring crimson.

"Mount Longhu"

The besieged Wudang Daoist let out a hoarse roar, his eyes devoid of fear, he stepped forward resolutely, allowing the heavenly general’s blade to pierce his heart while his right hand, fingers like knives, viciously thrust into the gap beneath the foe’s jaw armor.

The heavenly general’s brain was reduced to mush, and his chest became a gaping hole from front to back.

"Plop."

The general’s corpse toppled into the mire, dissolving into a haze of golden specks.

"They’re all trash."

The Wudang Daoist, his white robes now stained crimson with blood, stood where he was, his bowed head uttering a contemptuous sneer.

Suddenly, a fire that no rain could extinguish ignited beneath his feet, in an instant engulfing his whole body, reducing him to ash that scattered on the wind.

At this very moment, along the length of the street, scenes like this unfolded everywhere.

The specks of disintegrating divinities and the ash of fallen Daoists drifted together on the breeze, distinct yet intertwined, drifting toward the fortune‑teller’s stall.

"Although this is the pocket realm you have fashioned, you have never entered the White Jade Immortal ranks, so you can never grasp how heavy the two words ‘earth immortal’ weigh in the Yellow Millet Dream."

Before the stall, the two locked eyes.

Zhang Qingyu smiled faintly: "Zhao Yandong, to brandish a mantis’s arm against a chariot is merely to invite humiliation; if you lay down your resistance now, there is still time."

Zhao Yandong tightened the corners of his mouth, his peripheral vision sweeping over the distant trails of Wudang mountain souls reduced to ash, his face growing ever colder and harder.

"In the campaign that besieged Wudang, I took no part, my hands never stained with the blood of your Wudang Daoists, so between us there is no blood‑deep grudge demanding a life‑for‑life reckoning. On the contrary, if you are willing to cooperate with me, once our aim is achieved I can privately send you a batch of pure Daoist lineages for your brethren to possess, allowing them to return to the world of the living. How does that sound?"

"Zhang Qingyu, spare me your empty talk."

Zhao Yandong sneered: "Possession is the sordid trick of those new‑school cultivators; we Wudang Daoists scorn such deeds."

"Are you not yourself infiltrating Longhu Mountain by means of possession, changing your face to slip in? When faced with survival, nothing is off‑limits. And your refusal to resurrect these Wudang spirits through possession is merely because it would strip them of the proud identity of the old‑school cultivators they cherish—am I right?"

Zhang Qingyu gave no quarter, laying bare the truth.

"But your worry now has a solution."

Zhang Qingyu fixed his gaze on Zhao Yandong’s eyes and said: "You know well that Chen Qisheng is merely a failed experiment of Longhu Mountain; even he, by a fluke of yin‑yang misalignment, rose to become one of the four celestial masters of the old Daoist lineage, proving that within the Daoist genotype still lingers a spark of the old school’s vitality. Likewise, these Wudang souls, after rebirth through possession, retain the hope of reclaiming their old‑school status."

"Your earlier willingness to risk exposure to aid Chen Qisheng was not merely to forge a good karmic bond with him, hoping to find through him a way to resurrect your fellow brethren, was it?"

Zhang Qingyu chuckled: "With my help, your chances of success grow greater."

Zhao Yandong fell silent, the complex expression on his face laying bare his wavering resolve.

"Junior Brother Zhao, I mean no slight toward you; I merely point out that with your present power and authority, the pocket realm you have forged can only be so vast, its duration so limited, and its drain on authority so great—you surely know this."

"As a Daoist of Longhu Mountain, without my aid you could never extract much authority from the Heavenly Master’s Mansion; at best you would be a lowly earth immortal holding a ninth‑department post, unable to sustain yourself long. From your scheme to frame Zhang Qinglü we can see you have no desire to spend eternity as a living tomb. Even if you were willing, would you really wish to watch your brethren endlessly repeat their brief lives, becoming hungry ghosts for whom existence is worse than death?"

Zhang Qingyu saw through Zhao Yandong’s shifting expression as clearly as seeing fire through water; he quietly eased the pressure of the golden‑clad heavenly soldiers’ encirclement, seizing the moment to press his persuasion.

"What does it matter whether one is man or ghost?"

Zhao Yandong’s voice sank: "I"

"Well said! Then what of new versus old? They are different paths leading to the same end—both merely seeking immortality. If so, Junior Brother Zhao, why remain shackled to past hatred, blind to awakening?"

Zhang Qingyu cut him off, his tone solemn: "The Wudang Orthodox and Longhu Zhengyi, once the two great ancestral seats of the Dao, have never ceased their contention over which school is the true orthodox Dao. Before the celestial ranks were revealed, they opposed each other over doctrine; the Wudang Orthodox denounced the Zhengyi’s permissiveness—no wine abstention, no meat taboo, no marriage restrictions—as ‘chaotic Dao,’ holding that cultivating virtue and nurturing nature is the sole true Daoist path, requiring the shedding of emotion and desire, the realization of mind and nature, a tranquil heart to return to simplicity and authenticity."

"But after the Yellow Emperor established the celestial ranks, do these doctrinal differences still matter? Not at all, for the true determinant of cultivation path is the gene! Looking back, the millennia of strife was nothing more than the meddling of human hearts."

Zhang Qingyu continued: "After the Yellow Millet Dream was established, the new‑school cultivators abandoned flesh for spirit, using the dream’s cycle of rebirth to temper their souls and bodies, advancing a thousand miles in a single day. The old‑school chose dual cultivation of spirit and flesh; though their progress is slower, their power far surpasses that of same‑rank new‑school cultivators, even allowing them to contend with the martial cultivators. Thus the two Daoist paths each have their own merits, a flourishing myriad of blossoms that truly signals the prosperity of a celestial rank."

"Do you not know that within the old‑school Daoist ranks, there were those who secretly researched and developed techniques to plunder and devour the new‑school’s divine thoughts? They even colluded with the yin‑yang rank, which is antithetical to the Daoist rank, exchanging Yellow Millet Dream authority for their aid?"

Zhao Yandong snapped: "Is it not the new‑school that covets the old‑school’s Dao foundation, seeking to compensate for its own fiery deviation through such means?"

"A single palm cannot make a sound."

Zhang Qingyu’s voice was grave: "So I tell you, the sectarian grudges you cannot set aside are, at bottom, merely a struggle for interests—just as they were a thousand years ago, merely the workings of the human heart. This is the real truth behind the Daoist internecine conflict. You cannot say who is right and who is wrong, for it is a matter of ‘if you do not kill me, I will kill you’; right and wrong have no place, only victory and defeat, win and loss."

"It is a matter of no feeling, no duty—why then must you become a person of feeling and duty?"

The deafening, awakening voice echoed down the street.

Meanwhile, the surrounding battle, which had only just eased, flared up again with sudden ferocity.

Countless black ashes drifted in the air, blotting out the moonlight above, yet unable to hide the blade’s flash before the eyes of fellow disciples.

These Wudang Daoists had been uploaded into the pocket realm at the brink of death; decades within have weakened their souls and bodies far below their former strength, making it impossible for them to slay the endless heavenly soldiers and generals arrayed before them.

Within the Yellow Millet Dream, authority is the fundamental, the ultimate weapon.

Zhang Qingyu, a high‑rank earth immortal of the White Jade Capital, wields an authority that Zhao Yandong could never match.

Zhao Yandong has held out thus far only because his opponent has deliberately held back; his reliance is merely the slight home‑field advantage of the pocket realm and the fearless ferocity of the Wudang heroic spirits.

Cries of life exchanged for life, shouts laden with hatred, and Zhang Qingyu’s relentless, bone‑racking questioning made Zhao Yandong feel his blood surge like a pump, hot currents pounding his brain, his body trembling incessantly.

"I can step back one more pace and spare Chen Qisheng. Thus, even if you doubt I will aid you, you may still seek answers from him yourself. As for Li Jun, he is merely an outsider, indeed a true blood‑enemy of your Wudang; betraying him is both just and reasonable."

Zhang Qingyu spoke sincerely: "Junior Brother Zhao, think well of yourself—long ago Wudang made you a living tomb to confine the souls of your fellow disciples, binding you with the pretext of sectarian righteousness while actually ruining your life. Was it worth it? Have you not endured enough of such days?"

"I"

Zhao Yandong wanted to speak but stopped, his face a picture of defeat, his eyes filled with struggle and hesitation.

"Hatred and enmity, new and old, are fleeting clouds; only by living does the Dao’s true intent reveal itself. Join me, and you will live; your elder brothers will live too. Trust me, they will not blame you, but will be grateful for granting them a second chance at life."

Zhang Qingyu kept urging with his lips, while covertly marshaling his authority, sending heavenly soldiers and generals in wave after wave to invade this pocket realm, cutting down the remaining Wudang heroic spirits.

One side slays flesh, the other slays the heart.

Both approaches together ceaselessly erode Zhao Yandong’s spirit.

Just as the overseer of the Heavenly Master’s Mansion’s Platform Hall believed everything was under his control, a bell tone suddenly pierced the night, ringing out from afar.

"Dong."

The bell began as faint as a breeze tapping a window, then grew like rain striking tiles, finally swelling into rolling thunder that shook the entire ancient city.

"Ha ha ha ha."

A burst of laughter rang out nearby; Zhao Yandong’s visage shifted instantly, and he turned his gaze.

A tide of golden‑clad heavenly gods occupied most of the street, the scattered red specks at its center being the Wudang heroic spirits who had fought to the bitter end.

Flames symbolizing the exhaustion of spirit and soul coiled around their bodies, searing forth the blood‑courage that fears neither life nor death and a unrestrained, hearty laughter, they lunged once more at the surrounding, expressionless heavenly soldiers.

"Wudang disciple Yan Yun, today I shall slay the Longhu bandits again—how satisfying!"

"Wudang disciple Yan Qian, in life I worshipped only Zhenwu; in death I shall worship only Zhenwu!"

"Damn you, new‑school cultivators! My Yan Shi stands irreconcilably opposed to you!"

In the fierce blaze, countless silhouettes turned to ash, leaving only the two characters 'Zhenwu' embroidered on their robes untouched, drifting in the mid‑air wind, glowing brightly.

The radiant light struck Zhao Yanlong, his face paling, his eyes reddening, while his previously furrowed brows gradually relaxed.

"A pack of wandering souls and wild ghosts, ruining my grand design."

Zhang Qingyu cursed silently in his heart; a sudden stir caused the heavenly soldiers' blades and spears to flash with cold light, grinding those irritating glowing characters into dust.

"Junior Brother Zhao, don't let these—"

Zhang Qingyu had not finished speaking when the clamorous gust forced itself back into his mouth.

His figure, together with the stool beneath him, slid backward, dodging a heavy punch aimed straight at his face.

"You don't know death from life!"

Having exhausted his eloquence, he saw victory within grasp, only for a few wandering souls to spoil his efforts; even though Zhang Qingyu's scheming ran deep, he could not help but flare with fury, malice surging in his gaze.

"Wudang disciple, the unworthy Yan Long"

Zhao Yanlong rose to his full height, spine straight, his face no longer showing the earlier dejection and struggle.

"Just now I listened to that Longhu Mountain bastard's nonsense; it was my fault, junior brother. Senior brothers, do not be angry—go ahead, I will follow shortly!"

Amidst hearty laughter, the drifting ashes gathered from all sides, rising like a curtain toward the heavens, obscuring the sky and moon.

Suddenly deprived of their foe, the golden‑armored heavenly deities lifted their heads in unison, mirroring Zhang Qingyu's motion as they gazed upon the dark, sea‑like firmament above.

Whoosh! Clap.

The rolling surge of sea‑like sounds arose from nowhere.

"Zhao Yanlong, what are you trying to do?!"

Zhang Qingyu's visage shifted abruptly; he shouted harshly, his voice brimming with panic.

"Humans and ghosts differ by but a thread; with an anchor one is human, without it one is a ghost. Though Wudang has dissipated in the mortal realm, Zhenwu dwells ever in my heart, thus we are no mere wandering souls."

Zhao Yanlong turned his head, fixed his gaze on the opponent, and sneered: 'Win or lose, victory or defeat? Zhang Qingyu, hear this—my Wudang has not yet lost, and I, Zhao Yanlong, have not yet been defeated!'

As his words fell, countless golden‑armored heavenly deities exploded, scattering into a sky‑wide shower of golden specks.

At this moment Zhang Qingyu finally realized: Zhao Yanlong intended to seal this Huangliang cavern completely, dragging himself down into the boundless abyss.

"He who refuses a toast will drink a penalty; Zhao Yanlong cannot escape—even if you sink into the nether sea, the Supervisory Bureau can fish you out. Then only Fengdu awaits you, only endless torment."

"What the senior brothers said is true: your new school merely farts, you cannot kill."

Zhao Yanlong's smile was contemptuous; his form flickered before Zhang Qingyu, and he thrust five fingers to seize the other's collar.

Yet Zhang Qingyu's figure was like a water‑reflection, twisting and wavering between Zhao Yanlong's fingers before vanishing without trace.

"Ah."

Zhao Yanlong sighed helplessly; the disparity in authority meant that even by sealing the cavern in a life‑for‑life exchange, he could still not prevent Zhang Qingyu from slipping away.

Whoosh! Clap.

The sea‑like roar in his ears grew louder, the cavern's light dimmer, as if it were about to plunge into endless night.

Having glanced once at the now‑deserted, empty streets of Xiangyang, Zhao Yanlong lingered no longer, stepping forward toward the city's outskirts.

Passing through the lanes, the signs on the houses lost their original hue, everything turning gray‑white, like a thin wave relentlessly chasing at his heels.

Zhao Yanlong's steps grew ever more hurried, until he broke into a frantic run.

Beyond the city, upon the green hills, a humble daoist temple of white walls and black tiles lay hidden amid groves of peach trees.

When Zhao Yanlong reached the hall's entrance, he was already panting, sweat pouring from his body like rain.

Inside the temple lay the same emptiness; the modest, somewhat shabby main hall housed a single statue of a daoist, roughly human‑sized, standing alone on the altar, before which a stick of sandalwood incense burned low.

"Master, do not blame me; your disciple has done all he could."

Zhao Yanlong knelt before the statue's feet, murmuring softly.

Behind him, the gray wave had reached the temple's gate.

"Esteemed fellow disciples, do not blame me either."

The gray surge washed over him, scouring his body; an instant of bone‑chilling cold swallowed his consciousness.

Gray‑white suffused his entire form; Zhao Yanlong became like a stone‑carved statue, unable to rise from his kneel.

Yet the ember atop the sandalwood did not fade or extinguish; instead it drifted down slowly.

In that dazed moment, it seemed a gentle‑eyed daoist reached out to stroke Zhao Yanlong's buried brow, his face wreathed in a smile.

No blame.