Chapter 661: Unswerving Determination

Chapter 661: Unwavering Resolve

“You needn't worry at all; do you not know what sort of man Li Jun is? That lad is like greasy meat that refuses oil—if a single Six Strategies could have encircled him, that would be the joke.”

High, towering peaks rise into the clouds; Zhang Fengyue faces northeast, gazing at the distant, gloomy horizon.

“Moreover, he and his ilk would not lay all their cards on the table for a shattered Spring and Autumn Meeting. The Zhu family, after all, must still endure!”

“One step back, step by step back.”

A clear female voice sounds behind Zhang Fengyue.

After learning Li Jun would not meet misfortune, the chill of suspicion on Yuan Mingfei's face eases slightly; she ponders and says, “If one knows only to endure, how can the Zhu family achieve the revival they desire?”

“That, precisely, is the unique advantage of the Honglou Sequence.”

Zhang Fengyue smiles, “When other sequences strain over their promotion rites, they can sit back and reap the benefits. As long as man remains the master of heaven and earth, ambition and strife never cease; the chaos they crave is merely a matter of sooner or later. Thus, concession for them is not surrender, but a fresh period of accumulation.”

A family that has founded a thousand‑year empire, a royal house that bears its surname before the nation's name, now longs desperately for a cataclysm that will sweep the whole realm, hoping to use it to fulfill their so‑called renaissance.

The world is absurd—how ironic.

“How could the Zhu family become so heartless?”

“The cause lies right before our eyes—all for the sake of the Sequence.”

The mountain wind is bitter and fierce, stirring the old man's robes.

“In the mortal realm, a king is the one who stands highest among mortals. But what if, one day, the sovereign who rules ten thousand subjects realizes he is no longer supreme, that countless existences can stand beside him, even surpass him—what would the holder of royal power do?”

“Kill.”

The white‑clad Yuan Mingfei answers without hesitation, “Any who dare to chase, to stand beside, to surpass me must be utterly eradicated. Only self‑supremacy qualifies as true royalty.”

In the era of Yi, the Great Ming executed treacherous ministers, expelled foreign foes, established Sequences, and nurtured ten thousand subjects, reaching an unprecedented zenith of royal power. Yet such prosperity marks the beginning of decline; at that time the Yi Emperor, unaware, had already sown the root of the Ming's collapse beneath his endless praises of civil and martial achievements.

Yuan Mingfei gazes at the figure a yard away, the wind‑carried words sounding faint and elusive.

“When an individual's power can detach from the myriad order, the enemy of royalty is all under heaven.”

Zhang Fengyue says softly, “Now that you stand on the opposite side, do you still care about chaos?”

“Three Teachings, Nine Schools, twelve pathways—none are immutable; the Buddhist path debates right and wrong, the Dao path knows new and old disputes, the Mo path blends craftsmen and wanderers, the Martial path passes fire through sects and lone wanderers.”

Yuan Mingfei asks, bewildered, “Since Honglou can found a state in chaos, why cannot it ascend to divinity through a golden age?”

“Conquering the realm is a straight road of victory and defeat; a single hegemony suffices. To govern the realm, however, is a thousand tangled threads, especially when no precedent exists. How many emperors of the Zhu house have walked this path to its end, and how arduous that is?”

Zhang Fengyue declares, “Winning hearts is never as simple and effective as killing and punishing.”

“Therefore, the purpose of all your deeds is to cut off every Sequence under heaven?”

Yuan Mingfei falls silent for a long while, finally uttering the question that has pressed upon her heart.

“Do you think the Sequence has meaning?”

Zhang Fengyue does not answer directly, but asks softly in return.

Yuan Mingfei's lips part, a single “yes” poised on her tongue.

Suddenly, a memory surfaces from the Buddha realm where she once played the role of a celestial maiden—those indelible, bleak years make it impossible for her to utter that word.

“It seems even one who is about to ascend to Sequence Two, to become the source of the Buddhist path, cannot remain steadfast.”

Zhang Fengyue does not turn, yet seems to see the complex expression on Yuan Mingfei's face.

“In truth, when I first entered a Sequence, I believed it held profound meaning, even a grand, far‑reaching significance—everyone like dragons, striking together, surely the Great Ming could be lifted to heights beyond imagination.”

“When I stepped out of the academy, I saw force used not for stability but for slaughter; faith not for consolation but for subjugation; technology not for progress but for destruction—then I fell into bewilderment and hesitation.”

“Nearly three decades have passed; though I have not witnessed the mountains and rivers change, I have surveyed the ugliness of human hearts. When I realized the Great Ming before me was indistinguishable from the world I first entered, showing no progress at all.”

Zhang Fengyue suddenly raises a hand toward the valley below, his voice deep, “Even when they sink from men to cattle and sheep, then to mere tools, I have become utterly disillusioned.”

“From that moment, I resolved to seek and exhaust a lifetime’s effort to rectify these errors. In essence, either to forge a new order with power no one can match, or to return the present power to the old order.”

At this point, Zhang Fengyue laughs to himself, shaking his head, “Others deem the first path correct, yet only I walk the second. Truly solitary, bleak, and alone.”

“When the Sequence ceases, human desire never wanes; thus conflict and killing endure!”

Yuan Mingfei frowns and retorts, “Before the Great Ming, were there not rises and falls of kingdoms, dynasties changing? Was there not famine, cannibalism?”

“Yet at least they were still people.”

Zhang Fengyue slowly says, “The world is never fair; some cannot speak at three years old, some recite poetry in the same year, some achieve the crown at twenty, some die unfulfilled at the age of destiny; I cannot change that. My life's grand ambition is merely to have written the character ‘min’ a million times in the books, fulfilling a scholar’s duty.”

“If the Sequence is rooted in the blood of all peoples, how can you sever it?”

“A goal that seems unattainable is precisely a grand ambition, is it not? Without such attachment, I might have already cast off this mortal coil.”

Yuan Mingfei’s expression grows solemn, “You will become the target of countless arrows.”

“I have long been accustomed to it.”

The old man, unable to resist the mountain’s chill, tightens his robe, turns, and meets Yuan Mingfei with a smiling countenance.

“When that day arrives, will you strike me?”

“I will,” Yuan Mingfei answers without hesitation.

If Zhang Fengyue’s lifelong grand ambition truly aims to cut the Sequence, he will leave no high‑ranking cultivator of the Sequence behind, himself included.

Otherwise, this would not be a transcendence of heaven and earth, but a mortal’s ascent to godhood.

Facing Yuan Mingfei’s frankness, Zhang Fengyue’s aged visage shows no anger, only deep empathy, and he nods.

“I have taken a path that isolates me from all under heaven; those who follow or aid me gain nothing, and ultimately lose everything they possess because of me. In the eyes of many, I am the greatest calamity of this empire, the most cursed wretched man without burial.”

Zhang Fengyue lets out a booming laugh, his brows and eyes brimming with magnanimity and nonchalance.

“Yet it matters not; though a thousand obstacles stand in my way, I stride forward willingly—who can block me?”

“Since you remain steadfast in your resolve, why aid me in completing the Buddhist Sequence Two? Does that not contradict itself?”

In the courtyard behind Yuan Mingfei, a sea of blossoms blooms; lotus seats rise from its midst. Lotus petals unfurl, scattering countless lights, within which a faint, cross‑legged figure appears.

“If you could kill me, it would prove you can walk the first path, and my lifelong ambition would be fulfilled, leaving no regret!”

Zhang Fengyue smiles faintly, “Why should I block myself?”

Buddha light floods the area, dispelling the night.

Yuan Mingfei lowers her brows and asks, “What would you do if, in the new order you build, the people are like grass and the humans like cattle?”

“Those you kill will not be the Confucian Sequence of Zhang Fengyue of the Great Ming.”

The flowing robes rustle like wind; a figure ascends as if riding the breeze.

Zhang Fengyue stands with hands behind his back, gazing down at the flickering lights of the village below.

“A single spark can start a prairie fire. This empire is finally ready to be lively.”

Meanwhile, a thousand miles away in Chengdu Prefecture, a shrill alarm tears the night sky.

Above the heavens, the Big Dipper shines like a bright moon, its light washing the whole city into daylight.

Fireworks from the sword’s tail explode, boiling and distorting the air; a god‑like Dao Sequence steps on a sword, hovering, while countless talismans surge like an ocean.

In the city, silhouettes rise and fall constantly, standing atop towers, looking up to meet the beings of heaven.

They are either in blue robes bearing swords, or in black cloaks bearing spears; arrows rest on strings, bullets load into chambers.

The rhythm of the artistry ignited the spirit, the careful arrangement of skill echoed in the depths of the heart. The master’s performance was the frontline’s battle cry, while the refined artistry stood like a commander’s order pressing the ranks behind.

Within the central hall of the palace, the old man shed the outdated, worn garments of his age and donned a crimson cloak, a bold change from the faded robes of his former life.

Yet the patch pinned to his chest was not the typical ceremonial fabric for a scholar-official—it was a lion of silk, long vanished from the court of the Ming dynasty.

Dressed in this regal attire, the scholar-official bore the weight of his role, a silent witness to the shifting tides of power.

Speaking with a wry smile, Liu Xin said, “It’s better to live than to forget your ancestors, isn’t it? Just like the great sage, you should take the lead.”

Liu Xin chuckled softly, “Foolish ones, do you think only you could outwit me in the halls of Chengdu?!”

His words rang across the courtyard, drowning out the fluttering winds and the distant clatter of seals.

Standing aloft like a phantom, the scholar’s voice echoed like a sword raised, striking the air and sending tremors through the control seals.

Thud! Thud! Thud!

The explosion of flames blotted out the stars, and the thunderous waves shattered the silence, leveling the ruins around him.

“Today, you’ll all be remembered,” the old man declared, his voice steady despite the chaos. “No matter how many branches of your family you carry or how many treasures you guard, you must act now.”

Liu Xin stepped forward, his expression resolute. “If you cannot hold your ground, then let your youthful bravado be your only shield.”

With a measured glance, Liu Xin turned and vanished into the shadows, leaving behind only the lingering scent of incense and the echo of a lesson etched in time.