Chapter 666: Dragon-Tiger Eats People

Chapter 666: The Dragon and Tiger Devourer

Within a makeshift infirmary erected upon the ruins of the Chengdu prefectural office.

Ping Xianji burst through the door with a flurry, his gaze instantly falling upon Zhang Siyuan reclining upon a sickbed.

At that moment, Zhang Siyuan was swaddled like a rice dumpling; the skin, nearly carbonized by thunderfire, had been cleansed, revealing tender pink flesh newly regenerated. A wound upon his chest still seeped blood, staining a crimson streak that arced from his left shoulder across his abdomen, all but cleaving him in diagonal.

"How could such recovery be so slow?"

Ping Xianji surveyed him from head to toe, his countenance dark and unsavory: "Are those agrarian-sequence physicians merely feeding themselves, squandering the resources we poured into their training, yet unable even to tend this wound?"

"Do not blame them, you know; the divine sense of Dao Three is not something lowly agrarian-sequence can oppose; merely stabilizing the injury is already a triumph."

Zhang Siyuan, ever optimistic, lifted a hand to pat his own head and grinned: "That old buffoon of Fuli truly possesses a couple of tricks; he nearly split my skull open."

"You've reaped the benefit, yet you dare to act coy; he is far more wretched than you. Others' Dao foundations were shattered by your bullet; though they live, they may never ascend again, perhaps even be demoted."

The two exchanged a glance and burst into simultaneous laughter.

"From now on, never be so reckless; if aught befalls you, how shall I answer the old patriarch?"

Ping Xianji's smile faded; he turned to Zhang Siyuan and spoke in a grave tone.

Zhang Siyuan, unconcerned, waved a hand: "Our Confucian sequence is ill-suited for direct confrontation; in such moments, if we merely push others forward and hide to watch, the old man's reputation will be further tarnished."

"What matter a few jeers?"

Ping Xianji snorted coldly: "If anyone disputes, the Spring and Autumn will be their downfall!"

"The words are as such, yet fewer rebukes would be preferable."

Zhang Siyuan laughed: "Besides, am I not living splendidly? Spare me your worry."

Ping Xianji, seeing his perpetual levity, retorted sharply: "Your luck holds; were those celestial trajectories struck even a moment later, you'd be reduced to mere bone fragments now!"

'The times have changed; you can no longer single-handedly play the hero. Lower sequences contend by numbers, higher ones decide by essence; at the crucial moment, one must strike down the enemy leader, delivering a decisive blow—this is the true martial purpose of a Shooting Art Confucian Sequence Three.'

Ping Xianji admonished sternly: "Excessive benevolence not only endangers you, it may doom the entire Confucian sequence; do you comprehend?"

Zhang Siyuan sighed inwardly; though he did not agree with Ping Xianji, he found no retort.

Indeed, the current landscape is no longer petty squabbles between houses, but an escalating clash of sequences against one another.

The battle of Chengdu was but the opening act; what follows will be far more savage and on a grander scale.

The 'contending by numbers' Ping Xianji mentioned is not mere theory but a reality unfolding covertly among the sequences.

Given Zhang Siyuan's stature, he knows certain secrets; today, the hereditary lineages no longer restrict offspring, their ancestral tablets removed from the shrines to nurture fresh Confucian seedlings.

Because of the empire's millennium-old 'dual-capital system,' a 'minor court' preserved in Nanjing now, under Liu Junxun's stewardship, operates fully, widely recognized by the realm and the Great Ming statutes, yet deliberately vacant posts are being filled anew.

Likewise, the caverns freely opened by Dragon Tiger Mountain in Jiangxi, and the artificial Dao foundations issued there, serve to swell the ranks of its subordinates swiftly.

The Eastern Emperor's Palace is also moving; recent Confucian mansion reports declare that demonic Yellow Beam possessions erupt throughout the empire with frequency and volume that border on the terrifying.

Moreover, those Yellow Beam specters that have succeeded in possession are not as hostile as before, nor do they wreak havoc; they hide with organization and intent, making them nearly undetectable.

Presently, the entire Yellow Beam dreamscape has become the demographic foundation of the Eastern Emperor's palace.

As for the Zhu house, though it appears dormant now—perhaps bruised by the Spring and Autumn's losses—Zhang Siyuan knows that its great crane never ceases its erosion of the fundamental plates of every sequence.

The strategic agility of the Zong-Xiong sequences, amidst such chaos, is genuine profit without cost; others' diligently cultivated subordinates may at any moment be duped and turn traitor.

All manner of techniques once discarded as heretical are now laid out openly, their purpose to contend by numbers.

Furthermore, beyond the dominant Confucian, Daoist, Yin-Yang, and Horizontal schools, even the Martial, Martial Arts, Mo, and Legal sequences labor ceaselessly, each amassing their foundations in its own way.

In such a climate, even a lofty Sequence Three, unless they are a demon beyond rational comprehension like Li Jun, risk being surrounded and slain by misstep.

Should the crude consumption of numbers exhaust the carefully nurtured essence, defeat becomes a foregone conclusion.

"I understand."

Zhang Siyuan, ever the straightforward one, replied, his tone shifting: "By the way, Uncle Ping, how do these troublesome celestial trajectories of the new Dao sequences arise? Surely we cannot have laboriously struck down a few only to have others produce a multitude?"

"How else could they arise, but by the gourd-children of the Mo sequence forging them?"

Ping Xianji fetched a chair, sat, and sneered: "It is not merely the celestial trajectories; Dao, Yin, Martial, Buddhist, and Martial-sequence artifacts—each birth bears the imprint of the Mo shadow."

"The Mo sequence forged many a ghostly masterpiece, yet the gains are naught; they become mere bridal gowns for others. Had it not been for that band of luminous specter wanderers shielding them, these artisans would have been annihilated."

"No wonder the Eastern Institute rushes to leap onto Old Li's vessel, binding themselves to that slaughter deity; evidently they recognize themselves as coveted morsels for all."

Zhang Siyuan's epiphany deepened; yet his heart tightened: "But if the celestial trajectories are Mo-crafted, does that not prove the possibility of continued creation?"

"Rest assured; if such creation were still possible, the elder Zhang Xiji, upon his revival, would have rushed to the Mo institute's branches; how could they remain untouched until now?"

Ping Xianji recounted: "In the past, it was those Mo who forged the celestial trajectory technique for the new Dao sequence—the later Middle Division. In its original design lay the Three Garments and Twenty-Eight Mansions, a total of 1,764 celestial trajectories forming a Great Circle of Stars that could encompass the empire's lands."

"So many?!"

Zhang Siyuan gasped, a chill running down his spine.

"More, and the Mo sequence is not truly so foolish; they did not give everything away to the new Dao, but subtly altered some things."

Ping Xianji explained: "Later erupted the 'Division of Martial Arts across Heaven'; the old Dao, bolstered by the new's borrowed trajectories and sect martial sequences, even gained a slight edge. Some Mo adherents, eyeing the martial path, employed their prior mechanisms to blast nearly five-tenths of those trajectories."

"Why is the Mo sequence so fickle, devouring and spitting, straddling both sides?"

Zhang Siyuan, hearing such ancient tales for the first time, could not help but stare in awe at the Mo's machinations.

"Otherwise, how could the death of the head's ruler cause an instant shattering into quarters? These craftsmen, save for forging, are nothing."

Ping Xianji scoffed, then continued: "When the Martial sequence collapsed, Zhang Xiji sought to grind the mill and kill the donkey, sparking a new-old dispute within Dao. In that battle, half of the remaining were exchanged by ruthless Dao brigands from Mount Wudang; the survivors, eroded over years, are but few."

"After the Mo split, the elder began orchestrating the Central Institute, aiming to discern whether any trajectories could be restored, to forestall a resurrection of dead ashes."

Zhang Siyuan asked: "Such a technique, surely Dragon Tiger Mountain cannot lack a backup?"

"The technique remains, but the Mo of that realm is gone; none will follow."

Ping Xianji's voice was flat, without ripple, yet Zhang Siyuan's brow rose, a cold dread settling over him.

The Mo's research domain encompasses all, its fields intertwined and interlinked.

To utterly extinguish the possibility of forging celestial trajectories, Zhang Siyuan cannot fathom the number of lives required, let alone the depths of killing into the Mo where none dare tread.

Beneath the sequences, all are but ants.

Above the sequences, even in the eyes of a figure like my father, they are merely slightly larger ants.

"Very well, to converse with the old man for so long, it seems your injury is inconsequential; thus I may depart with peace of mind."

Lost in thought, Zhang Siyuan snapped back, urgently asking: "Uncle Ping, are you about to leave Chengdu? What of the Qingcheng Mountain devotees?"

"Those who must flee have fled; the rest are handled, no need to linger here wasting time."

Ping Xianji rose, lowered his gaze to Zhang Siyuan, and smiled: "The Premier's edict commands me to proceed to Jiangxi Province at once, to bolster Li Jun's formation, and to seek any cheap gains along the way."

"How could I possibly miss such a thing?"

Zhang Siyuan flipped and leapt: "I must have my brother aid me in slaying Fuli, to vent this grudge properly."

Ping Xianji, evidently anticipating this, ignored Zhang Siyuan's flamboyant gestures and strode out on his own.

Fuliang, a modest town in the northern reaches of Jiangxi's Raozhou Prefecture.

Once, owing to its proximity to Jinling, it was abandoned by Dragon Tiger Mountain; its Dao halls fell into decay, its incense nearly extinguished.

In the wake of the new year, as Longhu Mountain rose again, throngs of believers poured into Jiangxi, and with the voluntary retreat of the Jinling Confucian order, the place sprang back to life.

During the lingering rains of May, Tang Daochen was escorted by several young disciples into a modest Daoist hermitage in the northern part of the city.

For such a poor little hermitage, in the past Tang Daochen, as a Daoist official of the Fuliang Dao Palace, would have scorned it outright.

Had he not heard rumors that spies from other forces might be hiding here, he would never have set foot in this impoverished slum where the poor gathered in the north of the city.

The hermitage, named “Chao Dao,” gave the impression of a tiny sparrow yet possessing all five viscera.

Upon entering, one faced a pair of black‑background gold‑inscribed couplets: the upper line read “Containing incense, playing with dreams, reaching the immortal realm,” the lower line “Reclining on cloud‑soft cushions, exhaling spring breezes.”

“Interesting,” Tang Daochen mused, “quite unlike those ostentatious hermitages plastered with various deity projections.”

He was not in a rush to burst in and seize anyone; instead, he strolled slowly, surveying the interior.

Just then, a ragged figure darted out from the shadows in the corner, and before he could get close, Tang Daochen’s disciples easily subdued him.

“You cannot enter, you cannot enter the Yellow Liang Cave‑Heaven!”

The beggar‑like man had his arms twisted behind him, yet he stubbornly lifted his head.

A gaunt, terrifying face stared straight at Tang Daochen—emaciated, his Daoist topknot like a clump of yellowed weeds, his lips muttering the same phrase over and over.

“Tell me, why can’t one enter the cave‑heaven?”

Tang Daochen narrowed his eyes into slits, a smile spreading across his face.

Yet the disciples who knew him well sensed that their master had already turned murderous.

It was only natural—anyone daring to speak such words within the domain of the Longhu Dao State was practically courting death.

“The Yellow Liang Cave‑Heaven is a beast’s maw that devours bones, a demon’s den that eats men; whoever enters dies.”

The beggar, as if bereft of soul, failed to notice the cold stares around him, staggered to the couplet, and began pounding the wall with his withered, branch‑like arms.

“Look what’s written here! Look!”

He fixed his cloudy eyes on Tang Daochen and chuckled softly:

“Don’t understand? Let this poor Daoist teach you the chant: ‘Riding the crane to ascend, beneath the green hills lie the bones of the faithful; becoming an ancestor on the spot, every chamber and dwelling filled with the corpses of Daoists. He wishes to devour us to become immortals, to devour us to become immortals.’”

The man let out a long, drawn‑out wail, then, as if exhausted of all strength, slid down the wall to sit on the ground.

“Even before we’ve entered, we’ve already met a reckless sparrow‑spy—looks like today the Daoist’s fortune is good.”

Tang Daochen felt a secret delight, gestured for his disciples to spread out, paced toward the man, and slowly sank into a squat.

“Tell me, who taught you to chant like that?”

The man’s eyes were hollow, he murmured: “It was a person in my dream; he told me that in Jiangxi, dragons coil and tigers crouch, and those dwelling on the mountains are monsters who eat people and never spit out the bones.”

“The Yellow Liang Ghost?”

Tang Daochen frowned slightly; if this man was merely addled by the Yellow Liang Ghost, then the credit would be worth little.

After all, those things flit in and out of the Yellow Liang unseen, and he had no power to enter dreams and seize them.

“Do you know who the greatest monster on the mountain is?”

As Tang Daochen pondered, the man, like a dying flame flickering back to life, surged with sudden strength, lunged forward, and clutched Tang Daochen’s shoulders with both hands, nearly smashing his face into Tang Daochen’s eyes.

“His surname is Zhang, a demon who would even eat his own son. Once he’s tired of devouring us ordinary believers, he’ll turn on you. If you don’t flee now, everyone here will die—none will survive. Hehe, hehehe.”