Chapter 578: Ascending the Mountain to Kill (2)

Chapter 578: Killing on the Mountain (Part Two)

Guanxin Prefecture, Guixi City.

Night rain scattered, neon like lanterns.

Projections of Taoist classics drift through the streets, seal, regular, and running scripts weaving a vast blue ocean.

Beside the fiery trees and silver blossoms, disciples bow in contemplation; beneath fish, dragons, and divine beasts, lay practitioners sit in meditation. Before mortal doors, door gods brandish swords to guard, while spirit officials stand solemn amid the bustling incense.

The linked halls of the monastery hide countless splendid dreamscapes, and the temple’s tolling bells soothe the hearts of millions seeking the Tao.

Such a radiant, flourishing city of enlightenment—a colossal mountain rises at its center, piercing the heavens, its slopes ablaze with lights illuminating the grand Taoist palaces.

A celestial staircase winds along the mountain’s flank, and two lifts large enough for a thousand souls shuttle day and night, ferrying those who have attained immortality.

Before the mountain gate stands a ten-zhang-high archway, its fierce sword-like patterns twisting around the pillars, the eaves taking the forms of dragons and tigers.

A massive carved tablet of talismans and seals hovers midair, replaying the thousand-year history of this ancestral Taoist court.

Rumble!

Thunder cracks, wind and rain darken like dusk.

A blade of light howls into the city, tearing through fiery trees and silver blossoms, piercing fish and dragons, its gale upending the streets’ kneeling disciples. Sharp divine thoughts sever every consciousness linked to the dreamscapes.

Where the light passes, all the city’s splendor vanishes.

Pairs of fearful eyes follow the blade, fixating on that mountain gate—Dragon Tiger Mountain—which in their hearts is an unassailable majesty.

Clang!

Sparks erupt before the blade’s edge, as if an invisible barrier blocks its path.

As the sword’s force presses forward, ripples spread through the air, layers of spell barriers revealing themselves.

Click!

Beneath the blade’s tip, cracks race outward in a web, their brittle echoes unending.

In the next moment, the spell barriers shatter in silence, their sharp wail scattering into countless minds, drowning the disciples in agony.

Amid the dispersing light, the carved tablet recounting Dragon Tiger’s glory explodes into fragments.

Beneath the archway, a white-haired Daoist suddenly appears, hands still in the gesture of a seal. His cold gaze fixes on the inverted silver flying sword.

The blade descends, hovering five feet above the ground.

Its chilling glow illuminates a face of unyielding resolve.

“Possessed by a demonic force, seeking to breach the mountain gate? First, pass through me, Zhang Ximao!”

The old Daoist’s white brows bristle upward as he shouts with fury.

“Are the other juniors of Longhu Mountain so spineless as to let you block the way?”

Chen Qisheng steps forward, the storm and rain parting like a blade’s slash, retreating to either side.

“The old master’s divine thoughts endure; I shall slay these invaders to protect future generations.”

Zhang Ximao’s voice is firm, resolute, without hesitation.

As if it were only natural for him alone to face Chen Qisheng before the mountain gate.

At his words, Chen Qisheng frowns slightly, halting. The trembling sword behind him quiets, its killing aura dimming.

“Move aside—you need not die.”

“Foolish dreams.”

When Chen Qisheng speaks, Zhang Ximao sneers coldly: “Chen Qisheng, you were once of Longhu Mountain. Why aid the wicked, betray your sect? Now, lost in confusion, you still have a chance to redeem your sins.”

“I’ll say this once more—move aside.”

Chen Qisheng slowly raises his arm, a different fluctuation rising with it.

A faint mist escapes his body, coalescing into a human-shaped shadow.

The shadow’s features blur, indistinct.

Yet its white Daoist robes are crystal clear, every detail vivid, the embroidered sleeves on each side bearing the characters “Subdue Demons” and “True Martial” in stark clarity.

“Zhenqi Wudang?!”

Zhang Ximao’s face twists in shock, then radiates a murderous aura and battle spirit.

“So it’s a remnant of Wudang. Chen Qisheng, you are doomed today!”

The Daoist laughs in rage, his crown of Taoist glyphs scattered by the surging divine thoughts. His white hair whips in the storm, and with the power to release all things, he instantly conjures dozens of Five Phases spells.

A floating dust-like ancestral artifact lies hidden within the spell’s radiance, waiting for its moment.

Chen Qisheng opens his five fingers, the silver long sword falling into his palm.

The mist shadow follows, wielding a blade forged from condensed true energy.

Facing the oncoming tide of spells, Chen Qisheng and the shadow raise their swords in unison, cleaving downward.

The two blade auras intertwine, slicing through waves and seas, breaking through like bamboo.

Click!

The chaotic floating Daoist implements shatter into fragments before they can manifest their miracles, under the blade’s onslaught.

The backlash of divine thoughts leaves Zhang Ximao’s eyes streaked with pale tears, his mad form barely holding back the agony of his Daoist foundation seizing. He seals his prints, chants scriptures, and commands the stars above.

Boom!

Thunderlight crumbles, shattered by the mist-formed shadow leaping through the air.

The horrified Longhu Daoist has no time to recover before a figure passes through his peripheral vision.

“Stop!”

Zhang Ximao’s voice booms low, but a cracking sound erupts within his body. His ferocious expression freezes, his gaze falling to his abdomen.

A cold wind pierces the hollow, leaving no trace of his Daoist foundation’s golden elixir.

Zhang Ximao’s body cracks like shattered porcelain, horrific fissures spreading across his skin and mechanical bones, flaking away under the rain’s patter.

“……”

No words remain. Zhang Ximao tugs at his broken lips, revealing a helpless grimace. The desolation in his eyes lasts but a moment before being replaced by a hatred as tangible as substance.

“May the Tao protect Longhu, may the ancestral court endure! Wudang shall never rise again!”

Boom!

As Zhang Ximao’s form collapses, the mountain gate’s archway crumbles in the blade’s light.

Chen Qisheng rides his sword skyward, racing toward the grand Taoist palace atop the peak!

Before the Tian Shi Fu’s tribunal office, Zhang Qinglee gazes toward the distant mountain’s night, his eyes hollow, his gaze vacant, lost in thought.

Until that unparalleled blade of light enters his sight, his scattered gaze slowly refocuses.

“Master Yang Xuan, you’ve come.”

Clang!

The name stirred unrest, the blade moved without pause, unfurling a slender flame that stretched toward the solemn brow of reverence.

At this moment, a single thread of profound emotion erupted, as though a vast expanse of cloth had tore open, trapping the flying sword midair.

Here, a cascade of three tiers of contemplation materialized abruptly, mirroring the grand expanse of a loom, ensnaring the blade in its expanse.

“You have altered the threshold, indeed, this path should no longer bear the sigil of ‘Yang Wen.’”

Clever hands dismissed the flailing sword, eyes steady upon the figure before them.

“Esteemed friend, the humble servant awaits your counsel, awaiting the transmission of news.”

Clever hands bowed once, stating plainly: “The first decree, the sage Zhang Hui stood firm above, not granted by the celestial court.”

“The second decree, when strife divided the realm, the Dragon and Tiger Mountain had been overtaken by new forces, their allegiance to the fallen master uncertain.”

“The final decree, this ascent today marks the end of your present strife, severing ties with the past causes. If you yield to this, the celestial court will aid your brother’s endeavor, reviving the old path, restoring the old order.”

A sharp strike echoed, and the blade fell, severing two arms.

The gate collapsed, the chill of the mountain wind howling through the halls.

In the dim chamber, a shadow lingered—a figure seated atop a throne, adorned with a crown of chains.

Who is this figure, the rebel of the Dragon and Tiger?

Though entangled, Zhang Hui’s pride remained unshaken.

If the mountain demands submission, then let it be so, for only by yielding can the brother’s legacy endure.

Yet here, beneath the weight of expectation, his resolve remains unshaken, a quiet calm amidst the storm.

The sword fell, yet the spirit endured.

Now, with a direct gaze, the only four words that lingered in Chen Qijuan’s mind were those sharp with scorn: “Tragedy is done, the Dragon and Tiger Mountain is twofold in its fate.”

He tilted his head, gesturing toward the mountain path, and a slow smile spread across his face. Suddenly, a flash of blade struck the air.

Chen Qijuan stepped forward, wielding his sword with purpose, rushing toward a distant peak shrouded in night. The temple standing there was the sacred hall of the Dao of the Dragon and Tiger, a place where all those who had inherited the legacy of the Dragon and Tiger paths converged.

It was the very spot where Chen Qijuan’s spirit would soon be bound to the world.

“Chen Qijuan, if you wish to spare yourself further trouble, you might as well stop now,” he said softly, his voice carrying the weight of wisdom.