Chapter 621: Buried Bones on the Sacred Mountain

Chapter 621: Buried Bones on the Divine Mountain

Snowflakes swirled across the sky, the north wind howled and danced wildly, and the distant, ethereal chanting of sutras enveloped the wilderness of the divine mountain.

The fleshy tendrils sprouting from the mountain’s fissures had silently crept up the mountainside, moving soundlessly toward the summit.

In the night sky, a great star shone like the moon.

Its pallid light traced the outline of black clouds, stacked layer upon layer like towering edifices, concealing colossal silhouettes that resembled deities.

“Zhang Siyuan, if you won’t step aside, don’t blame us for striking without mercy!”

The angry shout burst forth like rolling thunder from the clouds, laced with icy wind that lashed Zhang Siyuan.

Whoosh!

An arrow sliced through the air, carving a straight channel through the dense snowflakes and piercing the cloud from which the voice had come.

Boom!

A burst of orange‑red exploded aloft, the scorching shockwave tearing this sea of clouds into fragments.

The fleeting firelight illuminated a golden body inscribed with scriptures, and the red‑robed Buddhist order perched upon its shoulder.

Before Zhang Siyuan could make out the opponent’s face, the re‑condensed clouds swelled again, obscuring the figure once more.

“I said, I won’t yield!”

Zhang Siyuan stood alone at the end of the mountain path, his longbow raised high, the bowstring trembling incessantly.

“If you have the guts, today you’ll trample over this young master’s corpse to pass.”

“Zhang Siyuan, this is an internal affair of our Buddhist order; even the New Donglin Party hesitates to intervene. I advise you to know your limits, lest you bring ruin upon yourself.”

A vast, hollow voice descended from the heavens.

“Young Master Zhang, no matter what favor you owe them, getting her up the mountain already repays the debt. We’ll clear a path—consider it giving due face to the Prime Minister Zhang.”

“Everyone has already shown utmost benevolence and righteousness; if we let this farce continue, I fear none of us will end well.”

Some sang in red, some in white, but their purpose was identical: to coax Zhang Siyuan into sensibly withdrawing.

Zhang Siyuan of course understood what these people were thinking—nothing more than forcing himself to retreat in the face of difficulty.

He knew that, whether it was the foreign transmission or the Han tradition, whether it was the Eastern Emperor Palace or the State Altar, none of those present wished to be the first to strike him hard.

The reason was simple: once true combat began, no one could guarantee they could restrain themselves.

Zhang Siyuan was no pliable persimmon to be squeezed at will; he was a rare Confucian order specialist devoted to the art of archery.

And if he misfired and killed himself, the consequences for others need not be discussed now—the one who became the scapegoat would surely be targeted by his father, Zhang Fengyue, and the New Donglin Party, meeting a miserable end.

It was precisely because of this that Zhang Siyuan could delay until now.

“But such a stalemate cannot last long.”

Zhang Siyuan sighed inwardly, remained silent on the surface, and glanced sideways with the corner of his eye.

Upon the ruined temple atop the summit, Yuan Mingfei hovered cross‑legged, eyes closed, hands forming seals upon her legs; the Buddhist thoughts emanating from her grew ever stronger, lifting the shattered bricks and stones of the ground and coalescing behind her head into a vast dharma ring.

Yuan Mingfei’s breakthrough this time was unusually protracted; even now she continued to gather strength.

Yet no matter how long the process takes, it will inevitably reach an endpoint.

Once she shows signs of breaking the seal, proving that the path left by Lin Jiapo is correct, these people will instantly act without hesitation.

If I then refuse to retreat, I may very well lose my life here.

The thought made Zhang Siyuan’s head ache; he silently cursed Li Jun—what was he doing, still not arriving? A mere Ji field, could it really have trapped him?

“My elder brother Li, you’re supposed to be the unprecedented lone fire‑keeper; you can’t possibly die so simply?”

As Zhang Siyuan heaved a long sigh, a voice rang out from the cloud‑tower.

“Zhang Siyuan, since you are the son of Prime Minister Zhang, you ought to know the antecedents and consequences of today’s affair, and you should realize we have waited for this moment a long time. Even if Prime Minister Zhang himself were to descend personally, he could never compel us to relinquish our hold—let alone you.”

A fissure split the clouds, as if someone could no longer restrain themselves, revealing a thick‑lipped, lion‑nosed visage, skin like black charcoal.

Zhang Siyuan recognized the speaker at once: the Buddha of the Great Zhao Temple on the border, Longsheng!

“If you descend the mountain now, I will guarantee your safe departure from the borderlands. Should you also wish to claim a share, I can grant you this traitor’s fragment of wisdom. But if you still fail to discern right from wrong…”

Longsheng’s deep voice boomed: “The borderlands are vast; there is plenty of room to bury your Zhang clan!”

“Longsheng, you claim to be a Buddha‑made ancestor—can’t you refrain from such foolishness? So many here stay silent, clearly watching. How is it that only you are blind to the situation, insisting on playing the vanguard?”

Thud.

The tall bow pierced the earth, sending shards of stone flying.

Zhang Siyuan’s gaze locked onto Longsheng, a cold smile curling his lips: “I suggest you ponder well who pushed you to step forward as the vanguard, and what deep grudge they bear against you; otherwise, why would they drive you down a dead‑end road?”

“Zhang Siyuan, in the art of sowing discord you fall far short of your father—don’t embarrass yourself here.”

Longsheng sneered: “I advise you not to overestimate yourself; clear out at once!”

As his words fell, Zhang Siyuan’s vision shifted.

A smear of dark red spread across the air, within which a forest of hell appeared.

Eerie green ghost‑fire ignited in the eye sockets of the hellish specters; a raised axe cleaved a bloody, mangled head, which lifted to reveal a ferocious grin toward Zhang Siyuan.

Wails and shrieks rang across the heavens; within the surging blood‑mist lay countless tormented barbarians, blood flowing like rafts, heads piled like mountains—a horrifying spectacle.

At the apex of this hell, Longsheng sat upon a golden dharma throne, manifesting a three‑headed, six‑armed dharma‑form, clutching prayer beads, thangkas, axe‑halberd, divine pestle, vow‑wood, and a skull‑bowl filled with human hearts; his mouth bore fangs, the aspect of a blood‑thirsty wrathful deity.

Countless evil spirits swarmed around him—some armored, wielding sharp weapons as subduing vajras; others naked celestial maidens entwined with serpents; still others mere bleached skeletons, two‑armed, right hand hoisting a skull‑crowned staff, left hand cradling a vessel brimming with blood.

Inhuman eyes fixed on Zhang Siyuan; the pervasive killing intent made one’s blood run cold.

Such a terrifying Buddha‑realm unfurled before him, an invisible pull seeking to drag him into this endless hell.

“Ah, indeed, sound advice cannot sway the damned.”

Zhang Siyuan rubbed his aching brows, sighed, and muttered to himself: “Li Jun, this time I’m laying my life on the line for you—surely you won’t later come looking for trouble with my father? If you’re so ungrateful, I’ll have to curse you to your face for your lack of gratitude.”

“Zhang Siyuan, if you don’t leave the divine mountain now, you’ll only fall into hell.”

The evil Buddha Longsheng, seated upon the dharma throne, glared and roared: “I ask you—will you roll away or not?”

Bang!

Not the sharp whistle of an arrow cleaving the void, but the violent report of a bullet leaving the barrel.

An insubstantial flash of light exploded across Longsheng’s face, shattering his entire head into mirror‑like shards, a fragment of his features flying outward in all directions.

Longsheng’s empty neck revealed a vortex‑like void, sucking in every apparition of the hellish Buddha‑realm and vanishing in an instant.

One gunshot, the Buddha‑realm shattered.

Zhang Siyuan lifted his head to the once‑again revealed dark, heavy sky; the ferocity on his face burned bright as flame.

“Pretense, endless babble—clearly you’re a bunch of gutless scoundrels, posing as blood‑thirsty maniacs? You dare not risk your lives to break through and open a path, only know how to scavenge cheap gains here; that’s already shameful enough, yet you still clamor before this young master.”

“I still say the same: if you have the ability, come charging! See whether your borderlands are wide and spacious enough to bury my seven‑foot frame.”

Bang!

Another explosive gunshot rang out.

The towering longbow had already been transformed into a firearm, which Zhang Siyuan gripped in his hand; the gun barrel, etched with Daoist seals and Buddhist sutras, blazed with radiant light, and from its muzzle erupted a blaze the size of a fist.

The flare shot forward with incredible speed; Long Sheng didn’t even have time to raise a hand to block it, and could only watch helplessly as the blast struck squarely the Buddhist deity beneath his feet.

Boom!

The gilded Buddha’s mechanical form shattered into a sky‑full of fragments, wrapped in fire, scattering down from midair.

Long Sheng flicked his sleeve, dispelling the shockwave that surged toward him; he emerged unscathed, though his face darkened with a grim, unsightly pallor.

“Everyone, are you really going to keep standing by and watch?!”

His words rolled like distant thunder, yet no one answered.

“You…”

Long Sheng’s eye twitched, a mix of shame and anger flashing across his gaze.

As the Buddha of the Great Zhao Temple, one of the three major Buddhist sects of the region, Long Sheng was certainly no fool.

His decision to step forward as the spearhead was not, as Zhang Siyuan claimed, the result of being bewitched; it was entirely his own choice.

The reason was simple: Yuan Mingfei had once been a defector from his own Great Zhao Temple’s Buddhist order, and between them lay a deep, irreconcilable hatred.

If Yuan Mingfei, at the critical juncture of her promotion, found herself with no escape, she would likely, among those waiting to feast, choose to trade lives with him.

By doing this, Long Sheng hoped, on one hand, to earn favors from all sides; should Yuan Mingfei truly seek mutual destruction, someone might come to his aid.

On the other hand, he wanted to act swiftly, to avoid any unforeseen complications.

But he never imagined these people would give him no face at all, still standing aloof, watching the fire from the opposite bank.

Long Sheng’s thoughts raced as he weighed whether to press the attack or retreat a step.

Yet, just as he hesitated, a sudden, powerful throbbing surged through him.

In an instant, Long Sheng lifted his gaze to the mountaintop plaza; his eyes flashed with sharp light, and a smile spread across his face.

Not only he, but Zhang Siyuan also turned his head at the same moment.

The black clouds over the summit swirled slowly, like an inverted funnel hanging in midair, within which pallid lightning flickered incessantly.

Yuan Mingfei now sat cross‑legged a zhang above the ground, her dharma ring spinning rapidly behind her; pink and white geshan flowers blossomed spontaneously around her, then withered, in an endless cycle.

“It seems this path is indeed the right one!”

“May the Buddha have mercy; the hope of the Buddhist order is not yet extinguished!”

In that instant, the crowd that had remained silent during Long Sheng’s questioning, like hyenas scenting blood, surged forth with myriad thoughts toward the direction where the geshan flowers bloomed.

“Everyone, it’s time this farce ended.”

A loud shout rang out, and instantly attendants gathered like clouds.

In Zhang Siyuan’s senses, illusions blossomed at once; the Buddhist realm and dreamworld intertwined, enveloping him, his consciousness clouded, his limbs moving as if mired in an invisible swamp.

Meanwhile, on Yuan Mingfei’s side, she too found herself in peril.

One after another, towering guardian deities screamed down from the clouds, crashing to the earth and encircling her completely.

Yet before they could act, the once‑tranquil sea of geshan flowers turned violent, engulfing them; the guardians froze instantly, as if deprived of control.

But looking closer, one could see their bodies trembling incessantly, fists clenching and unclenching, as if conflicting commands echoed simultaneously in their minds, vying for dominance.

“Damn it, this is trouble.”

Zhang Siyuan cursed under his breath, sparks of dazzling color spewing from his gun’s muzzle, his six arts pushed to the extreme.

Whenever the Buddhist realm or the dreamworld tried to draw him in, he would lock onto it with his ‘number’ art, raise his gun and shatter it, blasting it into shards that gleamed like solid mirrors.

Zhang Siyuan’s ferocity clearly exceeded the enemy’s expectations; the layered veils of Buddhist realm and dreamworld were torn open by him, creating a gap. He seized the moment, trying to withdraw and draw nearer to Yuan Mingfei.

But before he could take a few steps, a massive hand forged of flesh and blood lashed out from the diagonal, sending him flying.

Bang!

Even as his silhouette hung in midair, the Buddhist realm and dreamworld he had just escaped surged back, enveloping him in layer upon layer.

Zhang Siyuan half‑knelt on the ground, his robes stained with blood, his hair bun disheveled, a picture of utter disarray.

He had no time to attend to the invading hallucinations gnawing at his mind; gritting his discomfort, he lifted his gaze and saw that the fields of flesh and blood had, unbeknownst when, crept up the mountain, encircling the entire plaza and rapidly advancing toward Yuan Mingfei’s position.

Moreover, the geshan flower sea that shielded Yuan Mingfei was nearly shattered to pieces, and the guardian deities once submerged within it reappeared, clear as day.

At the brink of life and death, Zhang Siyuan instinctively reached for his gun, only to discover with horror that he could no longer command his own body.

An endless weariness washed over him like a tide, as if countless hands were pulling him down into a dream.

“Old Li, brother, I’ve truly given it my all—there’s nothing I can do; these bastards are just too many, I can’t even fight to the death, don’t blame me.”

Zhang Siyuan’s figure toppled backward, he slumped to the ground, his eyes vacant and unfocused, muttering to himself.

Just as his vision was about to fade completely, a series of sonic booms erupted suddenly in the distant sky!

Boom! Boom! Boom!

The roar exploded in his ears; Zhang Siyuan’s dazed pupils contracted sharply, and he summoned the last vestige of strength to lift his gaze.

All he could see was the far horizon, where the thick night was shrouded by an even deeper darkness.

The air crackled with explosive vigor; a pair of vast wings, flashing with cold light, tore through the clouds, leaving a trail of streaming vapor as they hurtled toward the Sangyen God Mountain.

“You son of a bitch… you’ve finally come.”

Zhang Siyuan’s lips twitched into a faint arc, as if a heavy eyelid had slammed shut, and he collapsed unconscious where he stood.

“Li Jun has arrived?!”

Someone whispered in astonishment.

“He’s just asking for death.”

Someone scoffed aloud.

The flower sea withered away, revealing Yuan Mingfei seated in meditation.

A colossal, pot‑bellied Buddha, several zhang tall, shattered the surrounding floral shadows, leapt upward, and brought down his divine pestle with fierce force upon Yuan Mingfei.

Boom‑rumble!

A sudden black‑red thunderbolt flared on the distant roc, flashing across the sky in an instant; a fist shot forth from the lightning, striking upward against the descending pestle.

At the moment of impact, the pestle shattered, turning to ash that drifted away on the wind.

Spider‑web cracks spread across the arm, shoulder, and entire body, as if sliced by countless blades into sky‑high fragments.

Boom!

The fragments detonated in succession, weaving a blazing sea of fire in midair.

A mountain‑like crushing pressure surged from the inferno, forcing the restless guardian deities around it to collapse uncontrollably to their knees, bowing low.

Bare‑chested, Li Jun drifted slowly from the flames, setting foot upon the head of a guardian deity.

The raging wind and snow dared not stir even a whisper, silently withdrawing from this realm.

Clang!

A silvery‑white sword‑light whistled forth, its tip inverted, aimed at a brilliant star set upon the firmament.

A colossal dharma apparition coalesced above Yuan Mingfei's head, shielding her beneath it.

The massive azure blade swung in a horizontal slash, carving a deep trench across the plaza, halting the spreading flesh-field.

"Whoever crosses the line dies!"

The armored Daoist stood to Li Jun's left, his words laced with icy killing intent.

*Crack!*

Dreams collided in the intangible, shattering like glass with a crisp, ringing crash.

Zou Jiujiu appeared to the right of the kneeling guardian deity, his fiery red-haired guardian following close behind.

"Which of you pulled Zhang Siyuan? You'd best willingly release your dreams, lest I, Grandpa Zou, enter your dreams and find you."

Zou Jiujiu brushed his fingers through his temples, lifted his chin, his arrogance blazing.

A piercing, metal‑splitting stone‑like keen note plummeted from the heavens.

The ink‑clad whale descended, bursting through the clouds, unfurling its wings to blanket the sky.

"Is it you lot?"

Li Jun stood atop the Buddha's head; a pressure seeping from his very blood surged forth, dragging out every hidden silhouette lurking in the black clouds.

His gaze, sharp as a blade, swept the four directions.

"Who will be the first to seek death?"