Chapter 689: Fanatical Belief Like Poison

Chapter 689: Fanaticism Like Poison

On Longhu Mountain, the rumbling never ceased.

Sea‑like talismans unfurled across the night sky, their vermilion lines blazing bright and piercing, exploding in vast, variegated, lethal hues; myriad magical implements shot forth, stirring storm‑like sound waves as they chased a silver‑white figure swathed in azure true qi.

Yet, whether talisman or implement, for the New Dao Sect their mightiest weapon remained the divine sense forged a thousand times in the crucible of dream‑cycle reincarnation.

Alas, the surging divine sense filling the heavens, though it could somewhat suppress Chen Qisheng, fell far short of being lethal.

An elder cultivator of flesh and spirit, Sanmu Jun of the Old Dao Sect, possessed a resistance to psychic assault so formidable it surpassed Zhang Qingli’s expectations.

Though deeply reluctant, he could not deny that, though both were Third Order, he and his opponent were incomparable in combat.

Chen Qisheng bore the brunt of the New Dao Sect’s collective assault, still vigorous as a dragon and tiger; yet even a single strike from him would exact a grievous toll, possibly costing his life.

"No wonder the Celestial Master once risked everything to uproot Wudang Mountain root and stem; if they continued to command the Dao, the New Dao Sect would never see the light of day."

Zhang Qingli sighed helplessly, then thought: if Chongyuan the waste had not squandered Longhu Mountain’s sealed Dao Sect, I would not be fighting so hard today.

"But as the present source of the Old Dao Sect, if Chen Qisheng is not strong enough, would I not be wasting the opportunity I have waited years for?"

Zhang Qingli hovered with hands clasped behind his back, gaze fixed on the distant Chen Qisheng flickering through the tempest of spells like a peerless flying sword hurtling straight toward him.

"Better to ally with the orthodox than with heretics. Celestial Master Zhang, what you failed to accomplish, I, your disciple Zhang Qingli, shall fulfill!"

Zhang Qingli’s eyes shone with focused excitement; he raised his arm and swept forward!

Yellow Liang Talisman Record, Spirit Sigil – Chaos of Ancient Mortals.

From his body the divine sense spread, bearing a silent edict; the surrounding Longhu Mountain Dao Sect, upon receiving the order, moved like moths to flame, faces alight with fervor, hurling themselves straight at Chen Qisheng.

Boom! Boom! Boom!

Beneath cracked skin black radiance flared; the fissures on his dao‑bone writhed like serpents, each sect member becoming a human talisman that detonated around Chen Qisheng.

The tremendous self‑explosion succeeded in gripping Chen Qisheng’s assaulting form; the true qi binding him was whittled to a thin veil, like a guttering candle in the wind, ready to sputter out.

When the New Dao Sect cultivated via Yellow Liang, their ranks ceased to be rare; the low‑ranked became the most useful tools in the hands of the high‑ranked, likewise the most potent talismans and implements.

This was the modus operandi of Zhang Qingli and Zhang Ji extreme—identical, if not more ruthless!

"Uh"

Chen Qisheng let out a muffled grunt; his concentrated divine sense, like a awl, bored into his skull, a lingchi‑like agony blanching his face.

The trouble did not end there; the invading divine sense of the New Dao Sect carried within it vast, ocean‑like memories—each thread a thousand‑year mortal saga, countless worlds of struggle and rebirth.

In the chaos, Chen Qisheng’s vision flooded with bizarre, fantastical scenes.

On the temple halls, a feather‑clad minister inscribed a prayer to immolate the heavens.

In the jianghu, a sword‑wandering immortal roamed, slaying demons and evil.

Deep in the mountains, a hermit built a hut and temple to contemplate nature through austere cultivation.

In the marketplaces, a barefoot Daoist burned yellow paper and splashed fraudulent holy water to deceive.

In every disparate scene, the figures appearing were without exception Chen Qisheng’s own face.

Yet he himself was merely an onlooker, unable to move as time stretched infinitely.

Such a bizarre technique—Chen Qisheng had never seen nor heard of it.

"Chen Qisheng, the genius born of destiny’s qi is not unique to you. The unresolved old‑new conflict that never settled in dust shall finally be punctuated today."

Amid the rising and falling self‑detonations, Zhang Qingli’s voice remained clear and audible.

Chen Qisheng, gritting his teeth against pain and dizziness, lifted his gaze and saw Zhang Qingli raise both hands overhead; beneath him, the lantern‑lit Longhu Mountain suddenly tolled a grand bell.

Dong!

Not a morning bell, nor an evening drum, the bell that rang in the deep night possessed a power that pierced the heart like a mighty deity.

At this very moment, whether one was practicing cultivation in a dream‑cavern or reviewing gains and losses in a mundane daoist temple, none could resist the summoning force carried by the bell’s toll; they all fell to their knees, bowing before the hovering Zhang Qingli.

Their expressions shifted from initial panic to devout satisfaction; specks of fire sparked from their skulls, meeting and merging into a phantom black sea of flame, like storm clouds crowning Longhu’s summit, a magnificent sight.

Moreover, the bell’s resonance spread outward in all directions, enveloping the city of Guixi at the mountain’s base.

Following it, a vast black fire‑sea, dimmer and less substantial but far larger in area, rose and mingled with the first.

Countless voices rose from all sides, a mysterious chant swelling, while an oceanic fervor of fanatic faith surged simultaneously—an awe‑inspiring spectacle!

This scene was not unfamiliar to Chen Qisheng.

Back in Fuliang City, he had witnessed it many times at the hands of Zhang Ji extreme.

Yet compared to the oppressive, heaven‑like pressure Zhang Ji extreme exerted when unleashing his art, the technique in Zhang Qingli’s hands bore an eerie, scalp‑tingling quality, as if it sought to flay him alive, leaving nothing untouched.

Zhang Ji extreme drew his fanaticism from the Yellow Liang Dream‑Heaven, but what Zhang Qingli now offered as sacrifice was clearly a chain of living human lives!

The black flames of faith enveloped the self‑detonating sect members; Chen Qisheng’s hallucinatory visions in his mind shifted abruptly.

Perhaps he, dwelling in the temple halls, suddenly awakened, renouncing all worldly glory.

Or, wandering the jianghu, he met his lifelong nemesis and, in bitter defeat, came to a sudden realization.

Or, in mountain seclusion, he found a kindred spirit, pledging to travel the world together.

Or, drifting through the market streets, he at last obtained a rare opportunity to seek refuge at the mountain gate.

Coincidentally, each of these varied experiences culminated in him ascending Longhu Mountain, kneeling before the Celestial Master’s manor, begging for mercy from the Zhang clan.

Chen Qisheng’s forehead veins bulged, his face flushed crimson; countless altered images invaded his original memories.

If everything were overwritten, the outcome was clear: Chen Qisheng would lose himself entirely, becoming a lackey in Zhang Qingli’s service.

"Chen Qisheng, when the world’s martial division had just fallen, Wudang Mountain stood at its zenith, boasting a hundred thousand flying swords and a million law fists; yet the final result was still annihilation, utter defeat—do you know why?"

In this predicament, the close‑combat ink‑armored warrior, a mere long spear, could do nothing but strain to shield Chen Qisheng’s immobile body, barely dodging the incoming ‘human talismans.’

Yet the psychic shockwave from the self‑explosion wounded him just as severely; soon his armor lay shattered, its core riddled with cracks.

Pfft!

His trembling wrist suddenly snapped the long sword inward; in the long spear’s astonished gaze, the sword sheared a large chunk of flesh from the arm bereft of its armored covering.

The pain of the torn flesh granted Chen Qisheng a fleeting lucidity; ignoring the spear’s violent resistance, he tore off his armor and kicked the opponent away with a reverse strike.

Such a simple act left Chen Qisheng drenched in sweat, panting, when another figure lunged at him.

Beneath the mottled, peeling skin lay a steel framework wreathed in black fanatic flames, which exploded with a roar.

Boom!

Chen Qisheng’s figure was hurled backward; clusters of flame, like living things, continually burrowed into his body.

"Because the Old Dao Sect’s people are too arrogant! Too hypocritical! Too greedy!"

Zhang Qingli’s Daoist robes snapped in the wind, arms outstretched, palms upward; behind him, an endless ocean of black faith surged, undulating.

"They are arrogant, believing a single sect can shield myriad daoists!" "They are hypocritical, clinging to the false prestige of the ‘Daoist Ancestral Court’!"

"They are greedy, seeking to hoard the world’s faith to birth a Second‑Order Hong Ancestor who would lead all under heaven!"

Zhang Qingli threw back his head and laughed loudly: "In the eyes of the Old Dao Sect, these daoist followers are no different from fattened cattle and sheep, tools for comprehending the Way, steps to climb to heaven. Thus there is no distinction between new and old—clearly they are all thieves of heaven and earth; who is purer than whom?"

Zhang Qingli furrowed his brows, gazing at the distant figure kneeling on one knee in mid‑air, swallowed by the Longhu fanaticism.

“Let me enter your door, guide me on your path, and help me understand what true Dao truly is!”

In the fervent cries of the moment, Chen Zhongsheng’s inner fire burned ever brighter within him.

Before his eyes, countless shifting scenes converged at a single point, and thousands of individuals—each with a unique appearance—stood before the grand, open gates of the Sage’s Hall.

Beyond the gate, Zhang Qingli sat on a golden lotus cushion, his gaze warm and kind, his smile radiant, radiating an irresistible charm.

He was a being of the true Dao, a performer of the ancient arts. The truth was within reach; by learning its ways, one could attain immortality.

The seal of power, the treasure of golden jade, the authority to enter the heavens—all lay hidden beyond the gate.

But as long as Chen Zhongsheng could cross that threshold, all would be possible.

With a trembling rise, he stood up, startled by the emptiness before him.

Yet as his feet lifted, a single step brought him to the threshold, not across, but upon it.

“Fool! Why should I let you kneel?!”

A roar erupted, and the voices of countless spirits surged forth, their voices like a storm tearing through the sky.

His form flickered like lightning, his spirit aflame.

“Foolish mortal, your life is doomed. Why should I let you suffer this?”

The blade of his long sword sliced through the air, its edge glowing with icy fury. The sound of steel striking flesh echoed like thunder, scattering crimson streaks across his face.

Chen Zhongsheng’s lips curled into a bitter smile, the tips of his fingers clenching as if striking a drumbeat.

In that instant, the last of the dragons and tigers that had once bowed before him rose, their eyes blazing with fury, ready to confront him.

For now, he would not let his master witness the humiliation.

With a sudden burst of strength, Chen Zhongsheng raised his sword, the blade crackling with cold fire, and stared down at the aged sage before him.

“Hmph!”

The shadows of the blade cut through the air, and a voice, distant yet piercing, rang out in the silence.

“A gathering of kings and eightfold children. You have all remained steadfast, though your strength has waned.”

The words struck like a storm, shaking the very air.

Yet just as the moment seemed to close, Zhang Qingli, cloaked in anger, stepped forward.

“Master!”