Chapter 164 – This Body Here, All Is but a Legend!

When all the people were still steeped in the joy of the New Year’s festival, the demonic disaster suddenly erupted. Or rather, as with all disasters, it came at a time when none were prepared. Along with a sound like shattered qi, a colossal ferocious bird descended from the heavens and fell into the mortal world. 

It spread its claws and seized a man’s shoulder, then tore him apart as though crushing bean curd.

Blood and entrails burst forth, scattering.

They splattered upon the ground, splattered across the bodies of those nearby, still steaming with heat.

Beside him stood his parents, their temples already streaked with white. Just moments earlier, they had been speaking of the New Year. The man had said that he had earned a little money this year and would buy some better things for his parents, a fine jar of wine, and cloth for a new garment in the latest style. His parents, unwilling for their child to spend too much, murmured a few words of dissuasion. Yet the man grew somewhat annoyed, purchasing on his own accord, while his parents followed after, somewhat uneasy.

“Enough, enough. The clothes at home can still be worn.

Even wine of a few coppers drinks the same.

You are at the age when silver must be saved. How can you be so wasteful?”

And then, in the blink of an eye, he perished here.

His mother, dazed, instinctively flung herself upon the blood-soaked remains of her son. Another vicious bird swooped down. The old man, his back slightly hunched, snatched up a stool from a nearby stall and hurled it with a furious roar, shielding his wife and child. He was torn to shreds in an instant. The white-haired woman, tears streaming from her eyes, became the third to fall upon the earth.

In a breath, tragedy transformed the entire street. What had moments ago been festival and merriment turned into carnage and terror.

People clutched their children and fled in frantic haste, their eyes filled with panic. And this very same scene was repeated in more than two hundred markets across the prefectural city of Zhongzhou. Blood-stained horror engulfed that towering city as savage demonic beasts descended from the firmament, rending human flesh and wantonly destroying mortal bodies.

The people fled in panic, rushing into their houses to hide. Yet soon they discovered—the thatched roofs of the poor were needless to mention—even the homes of the wealthy, built with stone walls and timber beams, could not withstand the piercing attacks of these demons. A man huddled inside, clutching his child as they shivered. Looking up, he saw cracks spreading across the stone above.

Terror welled up in his eyes. The child asked: “Father, the house is shaking…”

“It is nothing, nothing at all.”

Forcing a smile, he gathered the child in his arms, turned his back to face outward, shielding with his own body.

Suddenly, a gigantic, fierce bird swooped down. The man’s face went deathly pale—yet at that very instant, an invisible current of qi swept across.

The bird was instantly reduced to a pool of blood and flesh.

A talisman flared forth within the house. An old Daoist, hair white as frost, stood with sword in hand and spoke: “Do not move.”

“Remain within the talisman’s boundary.”

“You are…”

The man stared wide-eyed, still pale, but before he could ask, the Old Daoist of Lianyang Temple once more leapt out.

His long sword swept horizontally, slaying fiends and demons. With each talisman he cast, the foul miasma scattered, preserving a brief span of safety.

Before the Daoist’s “Innate One Qi”, one must first retrieve the Life Treasure. When the Three Powers are complete, the Daoist’s state remains forever at the peak of condensed Innate One Qi, unwithering with age. Yet even so, there is a limit. The Old Daoist’s talismans were being consumed without end, and he knew full well—this was no longer a matter that a mere Daoist of Innate One Qi could resolve.

Even a True Person could not quell such a calamity—plotted long in advance, set to engulf an entire city of several million lives.

Yet how could one, for the matters of the world and the people under Heaven, simply fold one’s hands and watch?

Though impossible, it must still be done.

Not in vain have I cultivated the Dao for two hundred years.

“Radiant Void above, disperse the foul qi!”

The Old Daoist swung his sword in a great arc.

He exerted every shred of his strength to save lives. Though his power was but frail, yet to save even one life was enough—for cultivation requires the cultivation of the heart, and the Great Dao has never been without compassion.

And when more people realized their own houses could not shield them, they instinctively rushed toward the temples and Daoist monasteries.

Within the Zhongzhou prefectural city stood the Jueming Temple. Vast and grand, it was richly adorned, with halls and shrines, and within, a thousand statues of Buddhas, golden-bodied and exquisitely wrought—treasures beyond compare. At this moment, the masses surged toward it, seeking refuge. Yet the temple gates were shut.

Outside, people wept and howled, pounding upon the doors.

But the gates would not open. The monks within bore faces of sorrow. The old abbot sighed—when suddenly a harsh voice rang out.

“What is all this noise and clamor?!”

“Ah, Uncle Overseer of the temple.”

“This is…”

The young monks drew aside. From among them strode a tall, heavy-bodied monk, his face slick with oil, a gluttonous air about him. A string of prayer beads dangled in his hand. He furrowed his brows for a long while, then brusquely brushed aside those around him and confronted the elder monk, speaking without courtesy: “Abbot, what are you doing? Why do you not open the gates!”

“Will you watch them die and not save them?!”

The old abbot answered bitterly: “The side halls and guest rooms are already packed with people.”

“All the monks here have given up their chambers to the common folk. Yet the demons descend from the skies. The halls within the temple, long steeped in the incense of Dharma, can still ward off some measure of evil. Without shelter, anyone entering here will die. Their death will draw even greater swarms of demons. If that happens, those already sheltered here will perish as well…”

“Zhenjing, do you understand this choice? To save some, or in arrogance attempt to save all—and in the end let all die?

“The disciples of the Buddha still have the strength to fight, and we will protect those who are already within these temple walls.”

The Overseer Monk, Zhenjing, fell silent, then suddenly cursed: “Stupid bald donkey!”

“I have a way!”

He turned and strode off at once, directly into the Hall of a Thousand Buddhas. Soon there came the sound of crashing and shattering—Buddha statues breaking apart. That monk was smashing the sacred images, worshiped for a thousand years, and flinging them aside as if they were refuse.

Still unsated, he charged into the Main Hall. The old abbot started, then his face paled with shock.

“Zhenjing, what are you doing?!”

“What am I doing?”

The monk laughed aloud. The multitude of monks, aghast, rushed after him—only to halt, stunned, as they saw him stride forth bearing upon his back the great golden statue of the Buddha from the Main Hall. Step by step, he carried it outward, eyes raised high. And because he bore the Buddha upon his back, none dared to bar his way. Thus, he walked forth, proclaiming:

“To tread the Buddha’s Dharma—

to save the world and ferry all beings across!”

“Now we have enough room, do we not? Hahaha—old man, you are still not as clever as I!”

“Abbot, you should yield your seat to me!”

“The Hall of a Thousand Buddhas has received the incense of the common folk for a thousand years. Disciples, take the Buddha statues and inscribe the sutras upon them, that we may form a great array!”

“Yes!”

Monk Zhenjing burst into loud laughter: “My disciples—open the gates!”

The younger monks hurried to unbar the doors. The people surged in all at once, shoving and jostling, desperate to press themselves inside. The place filled with chaos—cries, wails, shouts, curses—an uproar without order, everyone wishing those before them would fall away so they could press forward. But then a furious roar rang out:

“Whosoever moves in disorder again—I, this poor monk, will hurl you all out, smash you upon the ground, and leave you as pulp to draw the demons!”

The crowd froze in terror, their hearts seeming to stop. They turned to see a monk standing there—it was the Overseer, Zhenjing.

His gaze rose, his voice low and steady:

“Disciples of the Buddha, form the staff array. The young children first, then the youth, and lastly the elders.”

An old man, drunk with wine, cried out indignantly: “Why?! Is it not taught that the aged are to be honored, the young cherished?”

Zhenjing sneered coldly: “You have already lived for decades, with but a few years of life left. The youth have decades yet to live. You would go in, and leave them outside to wait for death?”

The elder froze, then shouted angrily: “What sort of monk are you?!”

The monk shouted back: “I am just such a monk! Come in if you will; if not, then get out!”

At last, all those nearby who had survived to reach this place were taken into the temple. The monks ground down the shattered Buddha statues of the Hall of a Thousand Buddhas, and with these, long steeped in a thousand years of incense, they inscribed the sutras upon the walls and pillars. Thus shone forth the majestic and upright buddhist spirit, luminous and grand.

Zhenjing stood before the temple’s mountain gate, eyes shut, expression calm. His shoulders eased, and the great Buddha statue of the Main Hall thudded heavily to the ground, barring the gate.

The Buddha’s countenance was compassionate, gazing upon all before it.

Zhenjing gripped his iron staff. Behind him stood monks, both young and old. He spoke:

“Brothers, form the array.”

“Yes!”

So many people, so noisy and clamorous—already in their frantic flight, they had drawn countless demons. Zhenjing’s eyes opened slightly, and with a thunderous shout, he swung his great iron staff, charging into the horde of monsters. The staff swept through with a weight and dominance overwhelming; though the Dharma of the Buddha is compassion, once one wielded such a heavy weapon, it became a blunt instrument crafted solely for breaking armor. His martial skill had already reached the pinnacle of the mortal world.

His Buddhist realm was equal to the Daoist’s Innate One Qi, sufficient to make one the abbot of a temple.

Even demons armored in scales could not withstand the full force of his staff—they were crushed into pulp and blood.

At this moment, he stood in the front line, blocking the onslaught of the fiends, bearing the brunt of nearly all attacks. The disciples at his sides struck in support. But the assault of the demons was too fierce. Where foul miasma and turbid qi filled every corner, here alone shone a clarity like firelight in the night, a beacon impossible to miss—drawing the demons in waves unceasing, their charges layer after layer without end.

Gradually, casualties began to appear among the younger monks.

One cried out in agony—while swinging his staff, he was seized by a demon, dragged away, and in a blink torn apart and devoured. The staff-lines of the monks faltered. Zhenjing roared in fury, his iron staff sweeping in a mighty arc, Buddhist qi surging forth: “Hold fast!”

“Hold fast!”

“In the Buddha’s Gate, Nirvāṇa is bliss—no suffering, no suffering…”

Zhenjing clenched his teeth. His iron staff whirled like a dragon, smashing the demons back. The monks resisted the horde for more than the time of a full incense stick, yet the sutra inscriptions were still unfinished—when suddenly a woman’s voice cried out: “Save me! Master, Master, save us!”

The monks looked up and saw a woman stumbling toward them, her body covered in grievous wounds, on the verge of death.

In her arms, she carried a child.

Seeing the monks ahead, light flared in her eyes. Before a savage demon wolf struck her down, she lifted her arm and hurled the child toward the monks. At such a moment, though knowing in his heart something was amiss, Zhenjing still acted by instinct—he strode forward, his weapon cleaving through several wolves’ skulls. With his left hand, he caught the child. In the next instant, pain lanced through his wrist.

The child clung to him with unnatural strength, sinking its teeth deep into his flesh.

It had bitten through even the tempered body of a Buddhist cultivator.

Zhenjing blankly lowered his head and saw that the child’s body was already tainted by miasma and demonic qi, a wound on the neck exposing white bone—it was clear he had long since been killed. When he raised his head again, he saw the woman peel off her own skin, revealing a visage like that of a mountain fiend. Zhenjing’s body trembled slightly, then he let out a furious roar, performing the Lion’s Roar—each resonant cry forced the surrounding demons back several steps.

After retreating several steps, he looked down and saw that the child’s face still bore traces of fear. Yet the corpse was now parasitized by a demon, trapped in a state neither living nor dead, and still lifted its eyes to gaze at the monk, with a faint shred of humanity remaining—fearful tears glimmering in its eyes.

On the child’s wrist was a talisman of five-colored threads woven as a ward against evil.

Zhenjing’s expression was filled with grief. His left hand was being bitten by the demon, yet he lifted his right hand, gently pressing it against the child’s face.

“Forgive me…”

The luminous qi of Buddhism vibrated.

The child’s qi was instantly dispersed.

The demon gnawing on his wrist still did not release its grip—this was a demon specialized in breaking through his physical body. He could feel the miasma seeping into him from the bite wound, and the bite was so vicious it had already reached bone and sinew. The monk remained silent, then suddenly snatched a precept knife from a disciple’s hand and, with a single stroke, severed his own wrist.

The faces of the many monks changed drastically.

Holding the knife in his right hand, Zhenjing used his body’s strength to seal off the bleeding and shouted angrily: “Form the array!”

That day, Jueming Temple withstood the demonic assault—vast as mountain and sea—for nearly an hour. At last, the entire temple was inscribed with Buddhist scriptures, and when the formation was completed, it radiated the warm aura of the Buddha’s Gate, briefly sealing away the miasma and evil qi. Yet outside, of all the monks who had resisted, only six remained alive.

“Go!”

“Go!”

With the knife in his right hand, Zhenjing shoved at the monks beside him with his severed left arm. But they seemed to have been consumed by bloodlust, unwilling to retreat. With a roar, he unleashed the Lion’s Roar again, the sound shaking the disciples’ bodies into stillness. At last, they came to themselves, tears streaming from their eyes. One of them, still only a boy of a little more than ten, choked out:

“Master Overseer… they’re all dead… my… all my fellow disciples in that room… now only I remain…”

Zhenjing answered: “In the Buddha’s Gate, Nirvāṇa is bliss.

No suffering, no tears…”

He rubbed the boy’s head with his severed arm and gave a faint smile. Then, all at once, a tremendous force erupted from him, and he hurled the young monk over the wall. The youth realized what was happening, and wanted to cry out—but before he could, he had already fallen. Zhenjing turned, and as the knife he cast spun through the air, it tore forth great gouts of blood. Then, one by one, he threw each disciple over the wall.

With a kick of his right foot, the statue of the Buddha toppled down like a boulder tumbling from a high mountain, crashing with a thunderous rumble.

Zhenjing strode swiftly toward the great gates, intent on soaring inside. But suddenly his body sank heavily—he looked down and saw that two monks, who had earlier perished, now corrupted by miasma and devoured by demons, had latched tightly onto his legs, holding him fast so he could not rise. The temple gates opened a narrow crack, and within, the monks cried out in anxious voices, urging him to hurry inside.

“Close the gates! Close the gates!”

Zhenjing roared: “Shut the gates! Old monk, seal the formation! No one else is to enter! No one is allowed to enter again!”

“We’ll seal the formation if you come in. We’re ready!”

“Rubbish!”

Zhenjing exerted his full strength, blasting the demons away, and hurled himself at the gate. Lifting his right foot, a long iron staff leapt up into his palm. He spun and swept it across, scattering several demons. He saw that these fiends, sensing the formation was about to be completed, had gone even more frenzied; if he entered the array, they would surely break through as well.

Resolving himself, with a fierce heart, he thrust the heavy bronze staff through the massive outer door bolts, barring the gate from outside.

Then, bringing his palms together in prayer, he locked the bronze staff tight against his bent elbows. His body’s power surged, transforming into a second chain that sealed the doors.

“Lock the formation!”

“Uncle Master…”

“Complete the formation!”

Outside the gates, Zhenjing bellowed. His body, already at its very limits, suddenly shuddered. He looked down and saw his abdomen pierced through—what little strength remained was swiftly draining away. The veins on his face bulged red as he felt the evil qi invading his body. Yet with both hands—or rather, with one hand and his severed wrist—he still barely maintained the mudra of offering to the Buddha, his eyes lowered gently.

Within the gates, the monks bit down hard, tears streaming, as they inscribed the final lines of the sutra.

“All conditioned dharmas,

Like a dream, illusion, bubble, shadow,

Like dew, and like lightning—

Thus should one contemplate them.”

Zhenjing intoned the final four verses. He felt the warmth of Buddha’s radiance circulate, and with a faint smile, he lowered his head in recitation.

“Amitābha…”

Before the chant was complete, his body had already been torn apart—shattered to pieces, his flesh devoured by the demons, his very soul extinguished.

“Run!”

“Run!”

Chaos erupted throughout the city. Within its more than two hundred wards and markets, among millions of people, turmoil abounded. In such disorder, there were even crazed men who, instead of fleeing, took the chance to commit wicked deeds they normally dared not. A vendor who sold sesame cakes pushed his cart as fast as he could back toward his home. Demons and monsters leapt out at him along the way, yet all were knocked aside by the cart’s surprising weight.

Suddenly, a fierce bird swooped down to strike. The vendor rolled forward, narrowly evading it, and at the same time stretched out his arm with practiced ease.

Only then could one see how unusually long his arms were, just like those demanded in the army’s selection of warriors skilled in the “Ape Arm Seizing the Flying Monkey.”

With one motion, he clamped the bird’s neck, borrowing the force of its forward dive to tumble and release its strength, then smoothly drove a dagger into its throat. The demon was slain. He rushed home with blood-red eyes, and upon seeing his wife and children safe, his taut frame slackened. He threw his arms around them, trembling uncontrollably.

“It was a Daoist priest from Chunsheng Monastery who came by. He left us a talisman.”

“He… he said as long as this talisman remains, we will be safe.”

The sesame cake vendor then understood and murmured, “Chunsheng Monastery? A Daoist priest…”

“Those two young Daoists even bought sesame cakes from me. Earlier, when I fell ill, one of them came to check on me… I don’t know which monastery they belong to, but… this is too good, too good… You are safe, that’s all that matters…” Their little daughter, only five years old, clung tightly to her father’s leg, her face pale with fear.

His wife whispered a prayer, “Let us just hide here. The Daoist priests will surely resolve all this…”

“…Yes.”

“Don’t go out again, will you?”

Her voice was almost pleading.

“…Yes.”

From outside came the screams of slaughtered townsfolk. The sesame cake vendor clenched his teeth, his body still quivering. His wife, who once stayed awake tirelessly to care for him when he was ill — a fact he had even mentioned to those young Daoists — now seemed to understand something. She gently touched his cheek, then stepped back several paces, sorrow flooding her face. Turning away, she fetched a bundle, within it a key, and pressed it into his hands.

“…Take it.”

“!!”

The man pressed his lips tightly together, embraced his wife once more, then strode toward the corner of the house.

Outside, an old man who sold five-colored threads to ward off evil was knocked to the ground by a demon. Believing death was certain, grief filled his face. Yet in that instant, a heavy thud sounded. Some object came hurtling through the air, smashing into the demon. Whatever it was, it bore such immense weight that the creature was pulverized into pieces, its blood splattering across the old man’s face.

The heavy object crashed to the ground.

The old man lifted his head and saw that man stride forth, swinging a blow that struck a demon squarely. He seemed to carry some hidden ailment, for he had long been prone to sickness, and such violent exertion now made him cough uncontrollably. Yet the demon was forced back under his strike. The bundle wrapped in white trembled, as though a fierce tiger’s roar resounded from within.

The wrapping came loose, revealing a massive iron chest. The man flipped it open and reached his hand inside.

In that instant, it was as if strong wine had been poured upon a sharpened blade — the man who had scraped by making a living in this place raised his brows, his hand emerging with the object within. It was a sword, one palm’s breadth wide, incomparably heavy, its surface a dark black, emanating a chilling aura of slaughter. He drew the blade — and charged into the fray!

Many others like him appeared, each driven by instinct to converge upon the same place.

The armory of Zhongzhou Prefecture City.

The quartermaster hidden within the storehouse was dragged out, and seeing the men before him, his body trembled without cease.

“The claws of the demons are sharp. We need armor.”

“Just enough to guard our vital points will suffice.”

The quartermaster’s face turned deathly pale. “To open the armory without authorization… that is a capital crime! It means execution by beheading!”

He swallowed hard, produced a key, and said, “Then… might I beg you all to knock me unconscious? That way, at most I’ll only be exiled, and not lose my life upon the execution ground.”

He held up the key and pointed not far off. “In that room are the reserve armors of the White Radiance Army of Zhongzhou.”

“And on the other side?”

“That side? That side holds only old armor. The gear was left behind by soldiers of Zhongzhou who retired from service. If needed, it would be transferred away… What? You want that old armor? The new armor comes in every size, but the old pieces may not fit you. The armor of a regular army is standardized and in circulation. What is stored here are discards — the remains of disbanded corps…”

The quartermaster suddenly seemed to understand, his frame trembling slightly.

The man replied:

“No — it will fit.”

---

“Hold the line, hold it fast! The Vice City Lord and the others have gone to find a way to restart the Qi Fortune Formation. Within the city, the formation has already been partially restored — at the very least, those beasts can no longer descend from the skies. But they can still force their way through the gates…”

“Before the Human Dao Qi Fortune Formation is reactivated, every last one of us shall die here, but none may retreat!”

The commander of Zhongzhou Prefecture City’s defenders roared, eyes wide with fury. A number of soldiers had already perished here. Yet because this was within Zhongzhou, they gritted their teeth and bore the pressure without collapse. But these Zhongzhou troops had never before faced demons; the price they paid was grievous.

Suddenly, a thunderous crash shook the gate.

At one side, a vast hole was blasted open. A demon, shaped like a ferocious tiger yet towering three zhang high, came charging in.

Without the Human Dao Qi Fortune to bolster them, the power of military formations was weakened. They could not possibly withstand it.

The commander’s instincts told him to fall back — but recalling his own words, his face twisted into a feral grimace. With a snarl, he shouted: “Damn it! A man dies, a bird flies to the sky — if not dead, then he’ll live ten thousand years! Your father will fight you to the end!!”

Blood-qi surged; heedless of life, ready to die upon his post. Yet in that instant, a sharp whistle split the air. With a sudden, earth-shaking crash —

A jet-black spear pierced through the void, nailing the demon in place!

The monster shrieked several times, then collapsed, bleeding, no longer moving. The spear’s shaft still quivered violently, proof of the terrible force that had been driven through it.

“A black spear…”

The commander muttered, and at once recalled the men he had been ordered to keep under watch — the very ones once branded as a crime army, reviled by all. He raised his head, turned, and saw the road ahead choked with corpses of demons. Every demon had been slain.

The ones who came wore only old armor. Yet the clamor of their iron was filled with killing intent. Only such heavy armor could stand against demons.

They wore dark armor, heavy and complete, with war helms and face guards.

Their fierce waists like tiger jaws.

Their shoulder plates are engraved with fine patterns.

At their waists hung tokens on one side, long swords on the other.

Their expressions were cold, their presence brimming with murderous resolve. Swords in hand, the outer ranks wielded sabers and shields, the ranks behind set their long spears in array. Everything was as the stories had recorded. They hacked apart demons, they broke through the storming rain, as if striding forth once more from the yellowed pages of history.

But that history was no further than seven years past.

The commander whispered: “The Shenwu(Divine Martial) Xuan-Armored Army…”

The man at their head drew his spear and replied coldly:

“Former Cavalry Captain of the Third Battalion of the Shenwu Xuan-Armored Army — leading my men to reinforce.”

“Stand aside. You are not their match.”

His tone softened, and he added: “You have already done well enough.”

The city’s soldiers withdrew. The black tide of iron took command of the battlefield.

After seven years of abandonment, after seven years of bearing the curse of the world—

The Shenwu Xuan-Armored Army once more set foot upon the battlefield.

Dark armor and black cloaks, calling back the name of the army of old, to uphold the good and punish the wicked, to defend the realm and shield the people.

The valor of the Nine Provinces — the Divine Martial Xuan-Armor!

“Form ranks!”

The affairs of humans are for humans to resolve.