Chapter 167 – A Great Profit, Compassion!

The sword qi was like frost, lingering for a long time before it finally dispersed.

The old Daoist opened his eyes and looked ahead.

He had already prepared himself for death. Yet in that instant, the clamor and uproar around him froze still. The sky became clear, all things fell silent—suddenly, it was as though the world had returned to the tranquil state it was always meant to be. The ferocious demon before him revealed a trace of fear in its eyes, and then, as the wind passed, the creature slowly crumbled into dust and vanished.

Soundless.

What a vast and magnificent sight it was.

Within a thousand li, every demon lay dead. When the wind blew, their remnants scattered like dust upon the ground. And at the same time, the grand and towering Daoist divine manifestation—so mighty that it seemed unmatched under heaven—also collapsed and dissolved. The colossal “Heaven and Earth Dharma Image” of that young Daoist vanished completely into the wind. The boundless power he had borrowed from all beings, from the mountains, rivers, and deities of the land, now returned to where it came from.

The majestic Xuantan altar—of the twenty-fourth grade of Dharma Drums—had gathered the strength of countless powers across the Central Plains, yet it could only sustain a single strike.

But that one strike was enough to annihilate hundreds of millions of demons.

The young Daoist slowly opened his eyes.

Wounds appeared all over his body in an instant—the backlash from forcibly wielding such dreadful power. Though his heart and mind did not lose themselves within the might of the “Heaven and Earth Manifestation”, the surging qi he had commanded was not human qi, but the qi of Heaven and Earth itself; and for a mortal body to wield it inevitably invited retribution.

Even though he was merely the one who initiated the altar’s ritual.

He clenched his hand. The circulation of his Innate Primordial Qi within his body grew slightly sluggish. The Daoists with Innate Primordial Qi had already reached the stage of “Knowing Fate”. Qi Wuhuo’s Primordial Spirit perceived that his lifespan had been reduced to roughly a hundred years. This loss of life could not be restored through any elixir—the burden of bearing the lives of all beings had consumed his allotted years.

It could no longer be replenished.

Ordinary methods of extending one’s life might rejuvenate the body and Primordial Spirit, yet now his very lifespan limit had been cut short by three cycles of sixty years. This was the price of shouldering the sentient beings of Heaven and Earth—what the Daoists called [Heavenly Wound].

The young Daoist leaned back, gazing up at the sky. The wind brushed his cheek. He merely closed his eyes.

“A great profit indeed.”

In the void, the horde of demons was utterly shattered, and a single figure was forcibly driven out, coughing up great mouthfuls of blood. His expression was dazed and tangled with disbelief as he muttered, “Impossible… How could there be such a divine ability…?”

He had believed himself to be in no danger whatsoever—

For he possessed a supreme divine ability.

His true body was meaningless.

He had already abandoned his mortal flesh, leaving only a trace of spiritual essence that roamed and transformed among the foul energies and myriad demons. Among the countless demonic creatures, as long as even one remained alive, then he, too, would continue to exist. Even if besieged and slain, even if annihilated by the thunder laws of the Northern Exorcism Court, he could always resurrect himself through another body.

This was what was called: the undying Primordial Spirit—a single spark of True Spirit that endures through ten thousand calamities, impossible to sever, impossible to destroy. It was a most profound and unfathomable Daoist scripture and method.

He had even hidden away many tainted fiends, not allowing them to join the battle—

They were meant to serve as his fallback, his escape route.

Only with such preparations had he dared to provoke the Northern Exorcism Court so brazenly.

But just now—just that one sword—

A single sword!

Every body he had prepared—

All of them, all of them, utterly destroyed!

Body and soul, completely annihilated!

The man, wreathed in a dense miasma of corruption and malice, had a face twisted in ferocity and fear. Clutching his chest—where his defensive immortal armor had been cleaved open by that sword, leaving deep wounds—he snarled: “This is… the art of the Xuantan!”

“He gathered the power of the heavenly stars, the earth deities, the water officials, the human realm, and the fortune of all living beings—then forged it all into a single strike!”

“Whose Dao does he follow?!”

“Whose method has he cultivated?!”

“Why is it so chaotic—and yet so pure?!!!”

“Where did this mad Daoist come from? Has he no regard for his own life?! The weight of Heaven, Earth, and all living beings—how could a mere Daoist possibly bear it?! Such a burden is like shouldering ten thousand jun; it must carry immense karmic consequences! It will drain your lifespan, diminish your fortune, and leave you without even a place to die and be buried!”

Overwhelmed with resentment, he was about to rush forward and cut down the exhausted young Daoist when suddenly a chill rose up from behind him. His pupils contracted sharply—instinctively, his body split into tens of thousands of forms and scattered. He barely managed to avoid the incoming strike.

A heavy, long blade, its edge over a li in length, cleaved down with a roar. Thunder coiled around the blade as it fell, and the sheer force of the strike split a distant mountain range apart.

The figure behind the attack had reawakened.

It was Lingmiao Gong—his armor now discarded, abandoning all defense in pursuit of absolute slaughter.

Though his first strike missed, he felt no fear. Twisting his body, he brought the long-handled battle blade around once more, the second strike carrying the might of the first, crashing down with even greater ferocity. The usually gentle and kind-faced Lingmiao Gong now had his hair standing on end in fury, roaring—

“Die!!”

“It’s nothing more than revealing one’s true form—who wouldn’t know how to do that?!”

The corrupted man seemed to realize that escape was now impossible. The miasma of demonic energy around him surged violently as he revealed his own true form—a figure somewhat shorter than Lingmiao Gong’s mountain-like manifestation, yet still vast and towering.

This transformation placed tremendous strain upon his Primordial Spirit, but in return, his Primordial Qi swelled, and the speed at which he could command his essence increased drastically—a complete elevation of strength in every aspect.

The two colossal beings—one divine, one demonic—clashed fiercely.

Suddenly, a dragon’s roar resounded through the heavens. Thunder and flame rolled across the sky and came crashing down upon the demon’s back. The massive thunderfire coursed and seethed over his body, freezing his movements, forcing him forward—right into the path of Lingmiao Gong’s descending blade.

The strike landed squarely, nearly shattering his Primordial Spirit.

Above, a true dragon coiled within the void, its golden eyes cold and unyielding.

Its qi surged, burning brightly, transforming into clouds of gold and crimson—its aura faintly approaching that of a Dragon Lord.

Ao Liu took the enemy’s ultimate killing art head-on with his own body. Blood trickled from the corner of his mouth, but his eyes were resolute. “Lingmiao Gong—strike!”

A son uneducated is the father’s fault. Even if some hidden hand had orchestrated this calamity, he bore the duty of his office—dereliction was dereliction. At that moment, his fighting style became one of utter self-sacrifice, as if he no longer cared for his life.

Lingmiao Gong was not one to hesitate either; his bladework grew ever more domineering.

That momentum—it was as though even if he were to cleave Ao Liu down along with the enemy, he still would not let that man go.

This battle had cost the Earth Deities dearly.

Lingmiao Gong saw the younger deities he had once guided and cherished fall one after another before his eyes. His heart filled with grief, and his fury blazed to the heavens.

Meanwhile, beneath the battlefield of gods and immortals, the people of the mortal realm had finished their own struggle.

They had truly, by their own strength, defended their homeland beneath the shadow arrangements of gods and demons of True Lord rank, and beneath the madness of countless fiends. Though they paid a terrible price—soldier against soldier, general against general—this calamity, which had been prophesied to annihilate the entirety of the Central Plains within half a day, had far exceeded the region’s foundations in its brutality.

Yet men are neither grass nor stones, nor pieces upon an abacus.

Humanity is often baser than predictions suggest—but when pressed into desperate straits, they also surpass all expectations.

A single warrior stood panting heavily, gripping the shattered shaft of his spear, his entire body trembling. Seeing the demons disperse completely, disbelief filled his eyes. Then came the realization that he had survived—an almost dreamlike feeling. He murmured, “I’m… alive…”

“Hahaha! I’m alive! Li Laosan, do you hear me? I’m alive!”

“Li Laosan, Li—…”

He turned around—only to see his comrade lying on the ground, eyes dim, staring blankly at the sky.

No one answered him.

Looking around, he saw the battlefield strewn with the bodies of his fallen brothers-in-arms.

He opened his mouth—then suddenly broke into bitter, wrenching sobs.

There was joy at surviving, yes, but far greater was the grief.

And within the City Lord’s mansion—the very heart of this catastrophe—the monstrous mass of flesh and branches, upon which countless faces of agony twisted and screamed, began to collapse. Yet though the demon was slain, the miasma here was dense beyond measure. The foul energy lingered still, ready to erupt again, to seek new human hosts to infest.

But at that moment—the boundless Buddha’s radiance that had long held it in check suddenly vanished.

There stood only a single monk in gray robes.

His palms were pressed together, his expression serene.

He did not resist.

Thus, the miasma of demonic energy, as if by instinct, surged straight into his body. His face turned deathly pale in an instant, his frame trembled slightly, and great beads of sweat rolled down his cheeks. Yet he neither retreated nor avoided it. He simply endured, forcing himself to contain all the lingering evil qi within his own body. His gaze remained calm and peaceful; sensing the anguish and attachment of the countless souls trapped within the corruption, he softly uttered a single phrase: “Compassion.”

At once, Buddha’s light began to flow around him.

He formed the Mudra of Vows and extended it forward.

The immense mass of flesh and branches that had engulfed the entire City Lord’s residence—a demon tree of endless vines and countless human faces, men and women, young and old, all twisted in torment and obsession—was now enveloped by his light. The monk bore upon himself all the hatred and madness that the demon had absorbed.

Under the radiance of the Buddha’s light, the cruel and tormented expressions on the faces of those who had been devoured and killed by the demon began to fade. The malice and madness were purified, and they were delivered from the demon’s bondage.

“All of you… go now.”

“When the Northern Exorcism Court arrives, they will not care whether you were victims or accomplices.”

“We, we…”

“But you—you are not demons. You are living beings ensnared by corruption. You still have the chance to return.”

The gray-robed monk pressed his palms together, his pallid face still gentle. “Go in peace, all of you.”

The remnants of demonic will, wild and unyielding, shrieked furiously: “What are you doing?! What are you doing?! These people killed too! They are accomplices—accomplices! What are you doing?!”

The monk replied, “All beings who kill for the sake of survival — that is not sin, not guilt, nor evil.”

“It is suffering.”

“What brings about such suffering among all beings—that is evil.”

“Then why won’t you destroy them?! Why?!”

The monk stepped forward. His eyes were calm, the prayer beads turning slowly in his hand. Buddha’s light flowed under his feet as he answered even the raving resentment before him:

“Compassion.”

“Why take the evil qi upon yourself?!”

“Compassion.”

If this corruption were allowed to escape, it would certainly taint more lives—and that, too, was the demon’s last hope of survival. Its fragmented divine will went nearly mad, its voice hissing in deranged temptation: “And what about you?! You’re human too! You’ll change under the weight of my foul qi—hahaha! In the end, you’ll become one of us…”

“If your strength were to fall into Asura’s path, your slaughter would far exceed the weight of taking in this evil qi! Letting me revive would be the lighter sin!”

“What, do you think you won’t be tainted?!”

The monk’s voice remained calm. “When that moment comes, before I succumb to inner demonic corruption, I shall take my own life.”

“You—!”

“To witness the suffering of all beings and do nothing—that is not compassion.”

“As for you, steeped in evil, delighting in the slaughter of the innocent, this poor monk need say no more—only one word.”

The gray-robed monk stepped forward. His right hand lifted; the prayer beads in his palm spun once and coiled around his fist.

He clenched it tight.

All eighteen bodhi beads shone with clear, radiant light.

Then he struck.

Qi surged forth, transforming into the image of a great lion’s roar. Buddha’s light blazed like burning fire, its sound resounding across heaven and earth—righteous and unyielding.

“Die!”

Even the Buddha roars in wrath as the Lion’s Roar of Enlightenment!

Buddha’s light erupted in full, sweeping across the City Lord’s mansion, dispersing every trace of demonic miasma. His strike was pure and absolute—merciless in its justice. When at last the prayer beads fell still, the final remnants of the demon’s consciousness whispered faintly: “You have compassion for all beings, for the innocent, for even those who have fallen to the demonic path… But what of yourself?”

The monk’s bodhi beads hung low. He answered gently:

“This humble monk’s body—needs no compassion.”

The demonic will fell silent, then crumbled into nothingness.

The monk, burdened with the corruption he had taken upon himself, walked away step by step, blood dripping from the corner of his mouth.

He softly recited the Diamond Sutra—imprisoning the evil miasma within his own body, resolving it through Dharma rather than annihilating it by force. Had he chosen instead to strike it down in an instant of thunderous might, the souls of the many innocents devoured by the demon would have been utterly destroyed.

He had seen those people—they were good. Their fall into this fate was already sorrow enough.

They did not deserve to die.

They did not deserve to die.

Buddhism has the Great Vehicle and the Lesser Vehicle. The world reveres the Great; this monk follows the Lesser.

The Lesser Vehicle saves oneself. The ascetic path—mocked by the world as foolish and dull.

Yet the Dharma teaches that all things under heaven correspond. The suffering and joy of all beings, when taken together, are in balance.

If that is so—then let this poor monk bear a little more suffering.

So that the world may suffer a little less.

To suffer in place of the world.

Step by step, the monk walked forward, leaving blood-red footprints behind him. His body trembled with pain, yet his eyes remained tranquil. He spoke softly—

“Compassion…” [TL_Note: “Cibei” (慈悲) is a Buddhist term often rendered simply as “compassion.” In full, however, it combines two distinct virtues — “ci” (慈), meaning loving-kindness or the wish to bring happiness to all beings, and “bei” (悲), meaning compassion or the wish to relieve all beings from suffering. Together, “cibei” expresses the Bodhisattva’s ideal of both giving joy and alleviating pain — mercy born of understanding. In xianxia and Buddhist contexts, it carries the deeper sense of selfless, universal benevolence rather than mere sympathy.]