Chapter 390: Caged Bird! (Requesting Monthly Tickets)

Chapter 390: A Quail in a Cage! (Please vote for the monthly ticket)

Wu Zong emerges, and the Hall of Ten Thousand Tombs rises.

Pei Yonglin’s expression is solemn, his aura reaching a level of unnatural strangeness that stirs the very fabric of the air and space, causing them to flicker and shift.

In an instant, the wooden house he occupies unfurls, spreading crimson radiance that spreads across the land like a vast glow, stretching thousands of li.

All manner of tombs materialize—some mere small mounds of earth, others marked by wooden epitaphs, and some extraordinarily opulent, their interiors crafted from fine camphor wood, resembling the chambers of a wealthy household.

But the most conspicuous of all is the tomb behind Pei Yonglin.

It is a massive palace forged from bronze, its towering door standing five zhang high, sealed shut. Flanking it are four bronze sculptures: coiled serpents, upright beetles, toads crouched in a posture of thunderous bellowing, and seated mice.

And upon that bronze door, in three bold strokes of red ink, is inscribed: Wu Wang Palace!

Chen Yi halts in his tracks, gazing at Pei Yonglin before the door, his eyes sweeping over the surrounding tombstones as he murmurs:

“Cang’s method of binding heads pales in comparison to the shamanic arts of the mountain clans.”

Pei Yonglin stands with one hand clasped behind his back, his tone cold. “How could the light of fireflies rival the brilliance of the moon?”

He scorns the art of binding heads entirely, then fixes his gaze on Chen Yi, asking: “You must be ‘Chen Yu’—what tower do you hail from? The Fengyu Tower?”

Fengyu Tower? Him?

Chen Yi falls silent, a humorless chuckle escaping his lips. “I suppose I may be counted among the masters of the Fengyu Tower… Chen Yu.”

Pei Yonglin snorts. “This journey through Sichuan concerns me a great matter in Jizhou’s merchant guild.”

“Then you shall find no quarter, Pei the Elder, at my hands!”

“Ah… then let us test this.”

Chen Yi flicks his wrist, a golden spear flash erupting from his fingers.

Spears of light shoot forth in the four cardinal directions, their might like a rainbow’s arc, instantly enshrouding the vast cemetery in a radiant dome.

Like a birdcage, the space is enclosed.

Then the spears burst open, their dazzling light flooding the crimson, eerie tombfield, revealing the previously hidden corner of a chessboard.

With the veil of mist lifted, the terrain and rivers of the board are now clear, each black and white piece resembling a city in size, scattered across the grid like stars.

Pei Yonglin tilts his head, studying the board that might be called a “chessboard,” his face darkening slightly.

“Your ‘Lord’… how mighty he is!”

Earlier, he had glimpsed the true intent of the board through the paper effigy technique, but only in fragments. Now he realizes the depth of this person’s mastery—already reaching the pinnacle of the Complete Realm.

When unfurled, all things upon this board condense into reality, as if the board itself were a true world—surpassing his own Wu Wei art by several ranks.

Chen Yi smiles. “I warned you not to return to Sichuan.”

His words hang in the air, and he says no more. His form swells instantly, like the legendary sages who transform into beings of cosmic magnitude, his vast body dwarfing the chessboard in width, height, and expanse.

In an instant, Chen Yi settles on one side of the board, his eyes alight with a brilliance like stars and moon, surveying the tombfield below as he speaks:

“Exterminate the dragon!”

The white and black pieces upon the board rise one after another, striking the tombs with force.

The so-called “Wu Wang Palace” is crushed beneath three completed characters formed of white pieces.

Pei Yonglin bites his lip, both hands pressing together, then thrusts them toward Chen Yi.

“Wind!”

From his palms surge ten crimson arcs of light, shooting outward in all directions.

Each piece that lands on a tomb splits into two arcs, then four, then eight… until every tomb glows with a crimson flame, emitting unnerving wails.

A crimson wind howls toward Chen Yi.

Yet Chen Yi remains unmoved, his hundred pieces like celestial soldiers, steadily descending upon the tombs.

Though the crimson wind blows upon them, the black and white pieces shift not a thread.

“Obstruction…”

Seeing this, Pei Yonglin’s eyes bulge with desperation, shouting: “Wu Zong, open!”

From the tombs crack open, black and white spirits drifting forth, rushing toward him.

The bronze door of the Wu Wang Palace behind him also opens, revealing a shadow vast as a mountain slowly emerging.

Step by step, each footfall sends the ground trembling.

Boom, boom, boom…

Only after it fully manifests does he see it is a giant clad in the unique attire of the mountain clan.

His face bears three similarities to Pei Yonglin’s—dark skin, rugged features, a robust frame—but his eyes are milky white, hollow and lifeless.

Upon stepping from the bronze door, he senses movement, raising his head to meet the three white pieces hurled at him.

“Chess…”

The word is grated out, his teeth clenched hard.

Yet his actions are swift. He pats his waist, and a staff of immense length materializes—golden all over, its tip carved into the shape of a coiled serpent.

Bending slightly, the giant leaps upward, spinning the staff in both hands to meet the three white pieces.

Not only that.

Behind him, the four bronze sculptures that had stood motionless spring to life, joining the assault in unison.

Chen Yi, seated above it all, calmly watches the giant and his four guardians, his voice steady as he speaks:

“The Three Talents.”

The Three Talents—Heaven, Earth, and Humanity.

The three white stones hurled at the sorcerer king’s palace then morphed from a cross shape into a stacked trio—top, middle, bottom—each one crashing down in succession.

The massive figure’s swaying staff struck the ground with a thunderous crack, his hands gripping the rod as he drove it straight at the incoming white stones.

Clang!

A sound like a temple bell’s deep resonance boomed through the air.

The white stone wobbled under the blow, yet the force continued unabated, striking again.

But as the next stone descended, four bronze statues rising behind the giant collided, their combined weight holding the line before him.

They managed to shove the first stone aside, just barely.

Yet the falling stone then crushed both of them into the earth.

Seeing this, the giant shifted his stance, his golden staff arcing downward to meet the final white stone.

Clang!

Another earth-shaking boom followed, and the stone struck true, slamming into his chest and sending him staggering.

Before he could recover, the remaining two white stones converged on him from all sides.

No matter how he twisted or wielded his staff, he could not deflect them.

Even with the four bronze statues aiding him, it was futile.

Clang, clang, clang—dozens of such sounds rang out in rapid succession—as the giant was battered into pieces.

His head vanished, his legs crumbled to powder, and only his right hand, still clutching the golden rod, remained.

Pei Yonglin looked up, his voice a whisper: “Ancestor…”

The giant seemed to hear him, turning his head with a hollow gaze fixed upon Pei.

“Run…”

The word hung in the air, then faded.

In an instant, the three stacked white stones obliterated Pei, the four statues, and the giant alike, reducing them all to dust and pressing them into the courtyard outside the sorcerer king’s palace.

At that moment, elsewhere in the realm, the chessboard had already claimed every land, leaving no graveyard shadows in its wake.

Even the eerie crimson mist that once clung to the air was replaced by bright golden radiance.

The entire world stood still, dominated by the towering figure of Chen Yitai, his vast chessboard scattered with hundreds of black and white pieces, and the lone Pei Yonglin standing amidst the wreckage.

He gazed blankly around him, the proud aura born of the mountain tribe’s dark victory techniques dissipating, leaving him hollow and lost.

Chen Yitai loomed above, his voice a quiet murmur: “Mountain tribe sorcery, child—do you admit it?”

Pei’s eyes flickered with turmoil as he came to, his face a mask of complexity: “I never imagined the chessboard could unravel my mountain tribe’s dark arts.”

In the world of martial artists, most wielded fists or blades, charging headlong.

Even the highest-tier experts, those of the third or higher grades or masters, relied solely on their techniques.

When they faced the mountain tribe’s sorcery, they often fell helplessly into its grasp, dragged to the depths and transformed into sorcery graves.

None had ever met it with the chessboard—least of all a master of spears and fists who played the game with such skill.

Pei stared at Chen’s spear, realization dawning: “You’re… you’re ‘Dragon Tiger’ Liu Wuji!”

Chen nodded without a word.

“You…”

“Pei Yonglin, by now, it no longer matters who I am. What matters is you—you’re finished today.”

With a sweep of his hand, the world shattered like porcelain.

After the sharp cracks of breaking earth, the scene reset: a small wooden hut, facing Pei inside.

Beside him, countless grubs swarmed, closing in like a living wall.

On the ground lay countless grub corpses—victims of his earlier poison mist.

Pei’s eyes turned cold as he sneered: “Wind and Rain Tavern went all this blood to help Xiao Family, and sent someone like you to aid me?”

He paused, then pressed on: “Do you know what happens if this reaches the Merchant Guild?”

Before Chen could answer, Pei continued: “The Merchant Guild will wage war on Wind and Rain Tavern.”

“In the three prefectures of Jiuzhou, all trade in Wind and Rain Tavern will be slaughtered by the Merchant Guild.”

“Even with ‘White Deity’ within their walls, they cannot stop it!”

Chen’s lips curled into a smile: “What of it? It’s none of my concern.”

Not that he was part of Wind and Rain Tavern—even if he were, he cared nothing for their clash with Jiuzhou Merchant Guild.

He’d grown tired of the “White Deity’s” arrogance.

Here was a man who, high in rank and strength, came to meddle in affairs he had no business with—elderly exploiters, bullies, and tyrants.

These people, he found most detestable.

As he spoke, he raised his spear and moved past Pei.

“Jiuzhou’s Merchant Guild in Shuozhou brings nothing to the world, nothing to the people, nothing to the mountain tribe. How could you justify this?”

“Do you think Shuozhou’s lives burn to ash while your mountain tribe stands unblemished?”

“Even if you could protect them, would the rest of your tribe simply watch as Shuozhou descends into chaos?”

Question after question struck Pei’s ears like blows.

His eyes flickered with unease: “My Merchant Guild’s actions have reason.”

“Reason?”

Chen’s smile deepened, then he sprang forward, spear aimed at his throat.

“Let’s see whose reason is stronger—yours or mine!”

Pei scoffed, flipping his wrist to grasp two short blades, dodging the spear’s thrust with a ghostly lunge.

The blade sliced upward.

Chen missed, as expected—the spear’s tip arced back in a crescent, its haft bending like a moon.

The spear’s point drove toward Pei’s back.

Pei sensed the danger, his body jerking sideways in the air, abandoning his assault and shifting his form.

He spun back into the fray, the blades flashing toward Chen once more.

The speed of his movements was like a ghost’s whisper.

A trail of lingering shadows flickered into view, then vanished one after another.

Yet in Chen Yi’s gaze, his footwork left a trace so clear it seemed carved into the air.

He stood motionless, one hand gripping his gun, pulling the trigger.

The bent barrel snapped tight with a metallic cry,

And the recoil’s flash—swift as a striking viper—struck Pei Yonglin before he could blink.

It slammed into his chest, hurling him through the air like a discarded puppet.

Even with the talisman warding his waist, the spear’s muzzle pierced his robes,

A jagged hole blooming at his midriff.

His skin blazed crimson and indigo in an instant.

Pei Yonglin crashed through the wooden hut, sliding across the rain-slick floor for dozens of feet,

Before skidding to a halt. He stared up, breath ragged, at Chen Yi.

Chen Yi did not press the attack. He stood still, gun trained steady on him.

“Come.”

“I want to see more of your ways.”

Pei Yonglin’s lips parted, teeth clenched, his jaw tightening as he surged forward again.

But this time, his Meteor Butterfly Step carried him inches from Chen Yi—

When a gun barrel flashed between them, cold and lethal.

The spear tip pressed to his throat.

Pei Yonglin froze.

He shifted left. The blade remained.

He shifted right. Still, the spear held.

“You brat—how dare you—!” Pei Yonglin’s face twisted with rage.

“Your cultivation lags behind!”

Chen Yi’s eyes remained calm. “Enough. You’re dead.”

Pei Yonglin had no retort.

Stripped of his spells and insects, he stood like a wounded beast, claws torn.

For years, his strength had lain in sorcery and the countless insects he’d forged.

Ordinary cultivators, even those of the Third Rank or masters, would bow before him.

Yet these arts—magic and insects—held no power over Chen Yi.

A wave of helplessness flooded his veins.

He cursed his years of neglect, his refusal to master fist, blade, or step.

Had he perfected even one of these, he might have stood against Chen Yi.

But he knew, too, that splitting his focus to train other arts was a fool’s dream.

How many in all of Ji Zhou could master two techniques to perfection?

Rare were the names in the realm who could claim such mastery.

Pei Yonglin looked at Chen Yi, then dropped his short knife. His voice steadied.

“Kill me.”

Chen Yi said nothing. He studied him for a long moment, then moved.

Silver needles plunged into Pei Yonglin’s meridians, circling thrice before sealing his meridians and spirit, severing his body’s channels.

Pei Yonglin’s face drained of color. “Y-you—”

Before he could finish, a thunderous *shing* split the air.

A blade’s fury, sharp and commanding, surged toward Chen Yi’s sanctified space.

Chen Yi glanced sideways.

Realizing the strike wasn’t meant for him, he stepped back—two paces to the left—

And planted himself between Pei Yonglin and the incoming sword.

The blade’s edge met his spear, and the two forces collided.

Chen Yi’s gun flared, its power swelling like a coiled dragon.

Dragon Spear—Rending the Earth!

A dragon-shaped spear intent erupted from his palm, clashing with the distant sword’s strike.

BOOM.

A deafening roar split the sky.

Chen Yi’s brow furrowed. “Mother and Son Loop?”

Before he could react, a faint sword ray slipped past him—

Straight through Pei Yonglin’s chest.

Then onward, into the mountain rock behind him.

Silently, the blade carved through stone, cleaving a path dozens of feet deep.

Pei Yonglin stared at the wound in his chest, his face paling to death.

He glanced at the spot where the sword had come from, a bitter smile touching his lips.

“Song Jinjian… thank you…”

A crimson spray bloomed.

Rainwater mixed with blood, staining the earth.

Chen Yi glanced back once, his face grim, then turned toward the horizon.

There, on the ridge, a figure gripped a long sword, staring across the battlefield.

“Song Jinjian!”

(End of Chapter)