Chapter 696: False Immortals, True Villains

Chapter 696: False Immortals, True Villains

"Why must I die?!"

A trembling question, filled with inexorable bitterness.

Such words should never have come from the mouth of a Daoist Heavenly Sovereign like Zhang Jiji.

As the originator of the New Daoist Order, when had he ever needed others' reasons or explanations?

Now, having reached a point of total defeat, Zhang Jiji, aside from a lingering lonely soul and a heart full of resentment, had only this unsolvable doubt left in his mind.

Even now, Zhang Jiji still did not understand what this elderly man before him truly intended.

In the distance, the blood‑stained white‑clad Yuan Mingfei supported the faint‑fallen Li Jun, using her gaze to restrain the restless Zou Sijiu.

"Fidgeting, dragging, unable to lose or win, unable to take up or let go—damn, it's ridiculous."

The Horse King, nearly torn to scrap iron, lay supine on the ground, a dull red eye emitting a scornful curse.

"Unwilling?"

Zhang Fengyue lifted his head, gazing at the fading figure before him, and spoke softly.

"How could I be willing? If it were you, could you be willing?"

The old man asked: "If you remain unwilling, you are already dead—why linger?"

Zhang Jiji shouted furiously: "Then at least let me die with understanding!"

"I have said it before—orders should not exist."

"Don't try to fool me with that nonsense!"

Zhang Jiji's expression turned feral, he snarled: "Whether it's the division of martial arts under heaven or the three teachings vying for supremacy, at most there is a factional rivalry between this Heavenly Master and you, Zhang Fengyue—there has never been any personal grudge. Even in the New‑Old Daoist struggle, I let your Confucian Order freely reap enormous benefits, securing the chief seat among the three teachings. And now you still use such words to placate me?"

"Ah"

Zhang Fengyue heaved a deep sigh, the helplessness in his eyes as if he had repeated the same phrase a thousand times, yet still not understood or accepted—indeed, it was even being used as an excuse and a lie.

"Have you already found the ritual requirements for promotion to Sequence One? Yes, that must be it."

Zhang Jiji suddenly realized, as if he had pierced the secret hidden in Zhang Fengyue's heart, his face lighting up with excitement and madness.

"So during the fierce internal strife of the New Daoist Order's 'Four Mountains, One Palace,' you chose to stand aside, never intervening, merely to mislead me into thinking I had not been discovered, thereby setting your scheme in motion."

"Zhang Chongcheng, Zhang Chongyuan, Liang Gongming, Fuli, Ge Fenghuo—you long ago saw through what they desired and what they feared. Thus, rather than waste energy eliminating them one by one, it would be better to let me personally sweep them all away."

"In that way, you could wait until all the New Daoist lineage returns to the Dragon and Tiger, then the Dragon and Tiger Mountain would fall in one sweep, allowing you to step upon my corpse and ascend to godhood—right?"

Zhang Jiji's voice rose higher and higher, finally becoming sharp as a blade, piercing ears with pain.

The relentless barrage of questioning reached Yuan Mingfei's ears; her brows furrowed slightly, her eyes flickering with an inscrutable light.

Zou Sijiu's face also turned somewhat unsightly at this moment; his disheveled hair began to redden from the tips.

"Sixty years of laying grass‑snake gray lines, a whole cycle of plotting scheming. Thirty years of fame reduced to dust and earth, eight thousand li of road beneath clouds and moon. Zhang Fengyue, you are sufficiently scheming, indeed sufficiently vicious!"

Having believed he had seen through the truth, Zhang Jiji bowed his head and let out a few self‑mocking bitter laughs, appearing to have found release, accepting his defeat with equanimity.

Yet that tide of resentment and hatred showed no sign of abating; in the next moment it grew even more turbulent and intense.

"But this Heavenly Master sees you now, clinging to life in your feeble state—perhaps you have still not succeeded in breaking the Sequence?"

Zhang Jiji snapped his head up, his eyes filled with mockery and ridicule.

"After exhausting all your efforts, pouring heart and blood into deceiving the world, even sacrificing your own students and disciples, you still end up drawing water with a bamboo basket—utterly futile. Zhang Fengyue, you are truly hateful, and indeed pitiable."

Zhang Jiji burst into loud laughter: "I have cleared this path for the Heavenly Master—so what? You still have no chance to continue forward. Sooner or later you will be nothing but a handful of yellow earth, a skeleton."

Contrary to the Daoist's expectation, faced with such mockery and provocation, the old man's face showed not a trace of anger.

Zhang Fengyue grasped a sleeve in his hand, carefully brushed away the dust piled on the broken stone steps beside him, and looked at Zhang Jiji, speaking softly: "You are a soul about to depart on a distant journey; I am a dying man half‑buried in yellow earth. Let us not oppose each other fiercely—sit down and talk."

"Still putting on an act, day after day wearing a false mask—you truly aren't tired of it. Well, this Heavenly Master wishes to see what else you have to say."

Zhang Jiji gave a cold snort; his illusory form drifted like a gentle breeze to settle beside the old man.

Amid this desolate ruin, beneath a shattered eave, the founders of the Confucian and Daoist Orders sat side by side.

Yuan Mingfei, the origin of the Buddhist Order, stood afar watching this scene, her heart inexplicably stirred with a feeling she could not put into words.

The once‑glorious three teachings now lay beneath this heavy, dark sky, as if a beam of light leaping from the distant mountain's shoulder were about to rend it apart.

"Zhang Jiji, in your view, every affair of mine is driven by selfish desire. Yet I ask you—why must I act solely for myself?"

"If not for myself, then for whom?"

Zhang Jiji snorted derisively, his tone mocking: "Could it be for the common people of the world?"

"Indeed, it is for the common people of the world."

Zhang Fengyue gave a slight nod, his expression unusually solemn.

"You Confucians don the mantle of serving the people and never take it off—your whole life, you are like that, from old to young, each a hypocrite."

Zhang Jiji's shoulders remained still, but his head jerked sharply to the right, fixing his gaze on the old man; a flicker of panic appeared in his eyes.

"Zhang Fengyue, if you killed me to gain entry into Sequence One, I would die convinced. But now you still use such words to deceive me—is it necessary?"

"I have not deceived you; from beginning to end, I have only ever worn this one skin."

The old man asked slowly: "Is this answer hard to accept?"

"I, the Heavenly Master, have spent my life contending for myself; now you tell me I die because of those lowly common folk—such a ridiculous reason—how am I to accept it?" Zhang Jiji snarled.

Zhang Fengyue murmured to himself: "Perhaps it truly is absurd, which is why Jingxun would rather die than understand."

"If you truly intend to sever the connection between heaven and earth, why did you not stop Huang Liang from being completed back then?"

"I once believed I could rely on the Huang Liang dream to change the world's state—if wishes could be fulfilled in the dream, then reality would not be an insatiable abyss."

Zhang Fengyue's eyes showed a faint bewilderment: "Unfortunately, I was mistaken."

"Then why do you protect the declining Legal Order, even granting them a tenth of authority to establish the Huang Liang Law Realm?"

"I once thought I could rely on law to straighten twisted hearts, to restrain the words and deeds of those who follow the Sequence—but I was wrong as well."

"Then why do you keep this festering, ulcer‑ridden dynasty? Even giving Zhu Yi Yan the saddle and reins to serve as imperial tutor for thirteen years?"

"I once believed I could rely on imperial power to reunify the rivers and mountains, to dissolve Sequence struggles, to have each order fulfill its duty and jointly develop—but I was still mistaken." A series of dialogue, answering the pressing questions of mortal enemies, also as if spoken to Liu Jingxun behind him and to Yuan Mingfei and others far away.

Yet it is more like speaking to the old man himself, as he speaks to himself.

Speaking to the former headmaster of the New Donglin Academy, high‑spirited, who wrote the 'Great Confucian Order'—Zhang Fengyue—listen.

Speaking to the former Grand Secretary of the Great Ming Empire, who alone could suppress the world with his own might—Zhang Fengyue—listen.

And speaking to the present Zhang Fengyue, abandoned by kin, half‑buried in yellow earth, yet unable to wash away the blood on his hands—listen.

Eight thousand li of road beneath clouds and moon—the old man's feet have never walked a smooth, broad highway; they have never known untroubled passage.

Instead, his steps are laborious, his gait staggered as he presses forward.

This too is wrong, that too is wrong—so many paths, and you have gotten them all wrong.

Where does this so‑called 'technique' come from? It is merely that you have made too many mistakes.

Who would have thought that even you, Zhang Fengyue, would be lost? Truly rare.

Zhang Xiji's cold laughter never ceased, and his words suddenly shifted: "In my eyes, I can clearly see how you have been honing your edge step by step, until today you finally placed the blade at our throats!"

"You did not stop Huangliang's completion, because if Huangliang had not appeared, the new school Dao order would not have risen thus, and no one would have taken the lead to unfold the curtain of the world's martial division. Nor would the old school have fallen, nor would Buddhism have severed itself!"

"You extended your hand to protect the Fa order, because if the law collapsed and the Fa order perished, you would lack a blade sharp enough to deter the various aristocratic clans."

"You did not destroy the Ming dynasty, for if the dynasty utterly collapsed, the Ru order would lose the reliance it depends on to advance. Moreover, once chaos erupts, the Zongheng order would become an intractable trouble, and those declining orders might even reignite from ashes."

"Zhang Fengyue, you claim you have only a single skin, yet why can I never discern whether you are man or ghost?"

The Daoist's words remained sharp, each syllable piercing, pressing forward.

Unbeknownst when, the intense resentment and hostility that clung to him like a tangible substance had slowly dissipated.

"Perhaps in the eyes of a ghost like me, there is truly no living person in this world."

Zhang Xiji suddenly burst into laughter, "Moreover, I do not wish for anyone to remain alive; otherwise, compared to them, I would be far too base and contemptible."

Boom!

The moment his voice fell, a distant rumble thundered.

The earth, ravaged by devastation, could no longer support the structures upon it, and a building's ruins collapsed with a crash.

Shards of stone flew like vengeful spirits, shooting straight toward Zhang Xiji.

Though he was now merely a lone soul, the Daoist instinctively raised his hand to grasp, yet a tiny pebble pierced straight through his palm, meeting no obstruction.

Realizing his feeble spirit could not even block a pebble, Zhang Xiji's expression grew inevitably darker.

Just as he closed his eyes, bracing for this humiliation, a withered hand extended from beside him, blocking his front.

Pa.

The pebble struck the ground, a sound barely audible.

Yet Zhang Xiji's gaze lingered, fixed upon the crimson droplet that traced across his vision, unable to look away.

Have you truly decayed to this extent?

Zhang Xiji sighed, lost and forlorn, and the last vestige of resentment in his heart vanished like smoke.

"I must go."

A murmured voice, about to drift away on the wind.

"Wait a moment."

"Hmm?"

The faint phantom of Zhang Fengyue stared back, bewildered.

The old man lifted his eyelid, irritated: "I have endured your endless prattling, you cursed ghost, spitting upon my face; now that you have vented your spite, you think you can simply walk away?"

Though the Daoist himself bore a head of white hair, he had never before seen such a worldly, mortal Zhang Fengyue.

"Hahaha, Zhang Fengyue, the Heavenly Master truly cannot fathom you."

"You need not understand; just produce the thirty percent of Huangliang authority granted by your union with the Dao."

Seeing the old man extend his palm, demanding, Zhang Xiji could not help but smile: "So this old coot covets the Heavenly Master's immortal seat? Yet that is the foundation of my rebirth and cultivation—why should I yield it to you?"

"Zhan Shun now waits for you in the Huangliang Nether Sea; without the Dao order's fervent talisman protecting you, should you dare return, your fate will be to become one of his Huangliang ghosts—would you, Zhang Xiji, consent to be among the Nine Lords of his Eastern August Palace?"

"What objection could there be?"

Zhang Xiji, expressionless, said: "You have cut off my forward path, Zhan Shun my rear; since death awaits either way, why favor you over him? Let him seize the authority, break free of his bonds—perhaps he can slay Li Jun, making this scenario all the more splendid."

"Though Longhu Mountain is gone, many still revere the Dao."

"Zhang Fengyue, if you think to threaten the Heavenly Master with these, you are mistaken."

"I am not threatening you; I merely wish to advise you."

The old man spoke slowly: "Every incense stick you have offered, every bow you have made, these are debts you, Zhang Xiji, owe. Even if you have lived only for yourself, at the moment of departure, why not do a good deed?"

"Give it to Zhan Shun, let him exchange sun and moon; they may yet wander in the dream of attaining Daoist immortality—would that not be a good deed?"

Zhang Xiji retorted: "But if I gave it to you, with no order left in heaven and earth, who would hear the kowtows of the gods?"

"No gods may hear, yet they remain human; but should heaven and earth change, they would cease to be even human."

"What does that have to do with the Heavenly Master?"

Zhang Xiji snorted coldly, his peripheral vision catching a dried bloodstain at his feet, and he suddenly understood.

"Zhang Fengyue, you were still scheming against the Heavenly Master. Well, this false trinket I grant you."

The Daoist rose abruptly, turning to the old man with a smile: "Old man, do not come too late—I have not yet finished cursing you!"

As his words faded, Zhang Xiji's silhouette exploded like a firefly, dissipating into smoke.

Pa-da!

A thumb-sized copper seal fell to the ground, neither askew nor awry, perfectly covering that dark red stain.

"Twisting and turning, dragging mud and water, unable to bear loss nor win, unable to lift nor let go."

Zhang Fengyue repeated the words the Horse King had just spoken, shaking his head with a wry laugh.

"You are nothing but a false immortal, yet a true petty man."