Chapter 142
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The clamor of the city faded into the wind. Amid the woods and wilds, branches and leaves rustled and swayed chaotically as a dark shadow darted through with a sudden swish.
Moments later, it halted in an open clearing.
“Ah-hmph, ah-hmph…”
The donkey snorted heavily, and with that sound, a human figure atop its head was flung high into the air, then slammed to the ground with a thud, rolling through a scatter of fallen leaves.
Lu Liangsheng looked at the unconscious cultivator from the Fire-Worship Sect lying on the ground. He dismounted silently from the donkey’s back, retrieved a folding painting stand and a blank scroll from the bookshelf on the saddle, and set them up nearby.
Creak…
A small compartment in the bookshelf swung open. The Toad Daoist, clutching his mouth to stifle a donkey-sickness-induced retch, leapt down unsteadily and staggered over to his disciple’s side. Raising his toad face, he glanced at the scroll now unfurled across the stand.
“Liangsheng… aren’t we interrogating him? What are you doing?”
“We’re no experts in torture and forced confessions, with ordinary questioning, we won’t get anything useful.”
The scholar cradled the inkstone and gently ground the ink stick. Casting a glance at the unconscious figure, he swept his fingertip along the hem of his sleeve, took up a brush with his other hand, dipped it in ink, and scraped off the excess along the stone’s edge.
As the brush tip fell upon the blank scroll, drawing strokes onto the page, his voice continued calmly:
“…Then we can only use another method!”
The ink radiated a faint glow. A cold wind stirred through the pitch-black forest, and flap flap flap—birds took to the sky, flustered, wings beating madly.
Howl~~~
A wolf’s cry echoed from the depths of the woods. High above, through gaps in the treetops, drifting night clouds parted, revealing the dim yellow light of the moon pouring down.
“Ugh…”
The figure lying on the bed of fallen leaves slowly stirred, eyelids fluttering open. Clutching his aching head, he pushed himself up in a daze. As his awareness returned, a sudden thought struck him—his hand darted instinctively toward his crotch. Then, he let out a long breath of relief.
…Still there. Thank the heavens.
“I’ve been brought outside the city?”
The cultivator on the ground propped himself up with trembling arms, finally managing to stand. His gaze swept around. Under the clear, icy moonlight, the wilderness was shrouded in a faint mist.
“Matters within the city must be reported to the Honored Lord at once.”
His steps were unsteady as he attempted to cast a spell to contact the other members of his sect—only to find, to his shock, that his spiritual power could not be channeled out of his body at all. He instantly furrowed his brows, retracted his hand, and scanned his surroundings.
“What’s going on…”
Rustle—crack—!
As confusion gripped the cultivator, the branches of the forest thrashed wildly all around. Thin mist rose under the moonlight, and a chill, ghostly air swept in, smothering him all at once.
“Who’s there?!”
He shouted toward one side, only to see two figures appear out of nowhere, gliding over drooping branches through the air, iron chains trailing behind them and clanking with a metallic clang clang.
“Chang’an City’s underworld officers—official business!”
The cultivator froze in place, feeling a shiver run up the back of his neck as an icy coldness pierced his spine. He quickly clasped his hands in a respectful salute: “A mere worldly cultivator, Fang Qingde greets the two honored underworld envoys.”
The two underworld emissaries halted a few paces away. Before Fang Qingde could finish his salute, one of them flung the chain in his hand. It whipped through the air and coiled tightly around Fang Qingde’s arms and shoulders.
“You, a cultivator who has stepped beyond the mortal world, dared to stir up chaos within the city, disturbing the peace of its people—come with us at once to face the City God’s judgment!”
The City God was once a heroic soul of the mortal realm, worshipped by the people. Nourished by incense and faith, he gained divine power to protect the region from evil spirits. Though Fang Qingde had risen from mortal origins to walk the path of cultivation, he still harbored a deep fear of the name City God.
But he was, after all, a cultivator—and naturally knew more than most.
“The City God’s duties lie in the affairs of ghosts and demons! Since when does he have the authority to meddle in the affairs of us cultivators?!”
“Hmph!”
The two underworld officers paid him no heed. With a sudden yank of their chains, Fang Qingde felt his body go weightless. Turning around, his eyes widened in horror—his physical form still stood stiffly on the spot, utterly motionless.
“Now the City God does have the right to question you!”
Without giving him a chance to argue further, they hauled his soul with the chain and dragged him away, vanishing into the cold netherwind.
Whoooosh…
The rushing wind scraped past his ears. Disoriented, Fang Qingde was dragged through the air, clouds and mist swirling around him. Below, the forests and fields blurred past as they receded at great speed. In the distance, a grand city aglow with ten thousand lights came into view. The very next moment, his vision tilted downward—descending toward the city’s outskirts.
The scent of sandalwood wafted through the air. Still gripping the chain, the two underworld envoys pulled him along a white stone path. They ascended a flight of steps, where a massive blue signboard loomed overhead, bearing three imposing characters: “City God Temple”.
Fang Qingde’s very soul trembled at the sight.
Inside the temple, the clay statues of the judgment officials—silent by day—were now crouched behind long desks, brush and ink in hand, peering down as if recording the fate of the living and dead.
At the head of the hall sat the City God himself—donning an official’s hat and robed in the garments of an imperial magistrate. His sharp eyes, hawk-like and penetrating, fixed silently on Fang Qingde as if weighing every sin he’d committed.
Dragged forward, the soul of the cultivator was shoved to the center of the hall, forced to kneel with his head lowered. He gritted his teeth. Deny everything. Let’s see what this City God can actually do to me. Once the Honored Lord senses something is wrong, he’ll surely come to my rescue…
High above, on one side of the altar, the scribe from the Department of Punishing Evil flicked his brush across a bamboo scroll.
“Fang Qingde, worldly cultivator—sentenced directly to the netherworld for reincarnation…”
Fang Qingde was still lost in thought, trying to devise a clever excuse, when he froze. His mouth opened slightly as he looked up at the scribe in disbelief.
“You’re not even going to ask what I did?”
“What use is there in asking? Your name and deeds are already recorded in the City God’s Book of Virtue and Sin!”
As the Judge of the Office of Punishing Evil was speaking, the City God, who had until now remained silent behind the central desk, slowly narrowed his eyes. “You, a mortal realm cultivator, imprisoned innocent women and used them as tools for your lust—this not only violates the laws of the living, but also transgresses the karmic code of the underworld. What more is there to say? One crime warrants one retribution: those who force themselves upon women shall in turn be violated. In your next life, you will suffer this fate.”
“City God! City God! Wait!!”
Fang Qingde hadn’t reacted much to the first part, but the latter half sent a chill ripping through every pore of his body. Even if he were to be reborn as a beast, its short life span would see him return quickly to the cycle of reincarnation. But should he be born a woman—and suffer that kind of torment—he feared he’d neither be able to live nor die.
“Wise City God, please observe! Those imprisoned women were not taken by me—it was the bandit rabble under my command, unable to withstand their loneliness, who captured them for their own use!”
Off to the side, the judge let out a disdainful snort. “You cultivate both Dao and worldly affairs, yet lack the virtue that forms their foundation. Instead, you gathered mundane martial fighters and failed to restrain them. The sins they committed naturally fall upon your head.”
Around them, several underworld officers stepped back silently, faces shadowed and expressionless. A tall, thin figure drifted forth with a swaying gait, a bamboo hat covering his face.
Out of the corner of his eye, Fang Qingde caught sight of the figure and felt his very soul tremble. He hurriedly kowtowed.
“City God, honored judges—those men are not truly under my command!”
“Oh?”
That ambiguous sound made the cultivator below tremble. In the silence, he heard what sounded like pages turning. Lifting his head just slightly, he caught a glimpse from the corner of his eye—a faintly glowing register lay open upon the long table. That had to be the City God’s Book of Virtue and Sin.
A moment later, the City God raised his head. “You are a disciple of the Fire-Worship Sect. The evil deeds you have done ought to be attributed to those above you. Now tell this City God—where is the Fire-Worship Sect located?”
At this point, he added coldly, “Fear not. You are now but a wandering soul, and within the domain of my authority. The seals placed on you will not activate.”
He even knows that?
Then why doesn’t he know where our sect is… Ah, right. A City God oversees only one region—our Holy Sect lies far outside his jurisdiction.
But still… Should I say it, or not?
Fang Qingde hesitated, looking up at the City God. But when he saw a nearby reincarnation ghost hovering restlessly, his clenched jaw loosened. At last, he pressed his forehead to the ground.
“Reporting to the City God—the Fire-Worship Sect is located on Mount Yingshi, in Huaiyi Prefecture. The Sacred Flame Honored—”
Suddenly, his voice cut off. Fang Qingde began to tremble violently as a searing pain tore through his body. His head jerked up—and the surrounding scenery twisted and shattered. Darkness flooded his vision once more. Before him stood a donkey, a scholar, and a toad.
“You… you… ugh…”
He yanked open his robes, revealing his chest. The five fire sigils there glowed fiercely, casting an eerie light across the clearing. Fang Qingde staggered back two steps, let out a shrill, miserable scream, and stared helplessly at the scholar before him. “Save me—!”
And then—BOOM!
A crimson mist exploded. Chunks of torn flesh and viscera flew in all directions, smacking into nearby tree trunks and slowly sliding down, some even dangling from branches above.
“…That… doesn’t count as me killing him, does it?”
Lowering his wide sleeve that concealed his face, Lu Liangsheng withdrew the spell. With a flick of his finger, a chunk of flesh near his shoe was flung aside. He turned and packed away the painting stand, along with the scroll upon it—“The City God’s Judgment”—and stored everything back onto the bookshelf.
“Now we know where their base is. That leader must be quite powerful in cultivation. Master, do you have a plan?”
The Toad Daoist glanced at the bloodied remains strewn across the ground. He swallowed once, then looked away. Puffing out his pale white belly, he waddled back to the dangling rope beneath the bookshelf. As he climbed up, he muttered:
“If his cultivation’s too high to deal with, then we’ll just sneak in, take back what’s mine, and leave… You bleeding-heart fool—how come you didn’t give this one a proper burial like the others?”
“I especially despise men who prey on women. They don’t deserve to be treated as people.”
Lu Liangsheng mounted the old donkey, uncorked a gourd and took a swig of wine, then nudged the donkey forward. “So there’s no need to bury him like a man.”
“You hold your father as the measure for all men.”
“Haha!”
The scholar burst into laughter. He glanced once at the open compartment behind him, then turned back and gently reclined, gazing upward as the dense branches overhead slipped past his field of view.
“Not entirely. Master, you’re part of that standard too.”
The Toad Daoist crossed his webbed limbs over his belly, turned his face aside, and looked toward the night-cloaked forest. In the dark, the faint glimmer of lamplight from a distant village reflected faintly in his eyes.
A long silence passed before he finally spoke.
“This old toad… harbors no longing for matters of men and women.”
Night deepened with the passing of time. From far off, a warhorse neighed sharply, rearing up at the edge of a cliff.
Whinny—!
On horseback, Yang Su’s short beard danced in the wind. Narrowing his eyes, he gazed into the woods and wilds beneath the cold moonlight, as if able to glimpse what ordinary people could never perceive.
After a moment, he tugged at the reins and turned the horse.
“Hyah!”
With a longsword strapped to his back, he galloped down the mountain path.
Beyond the borders of Chang’an, southeast toward Huaiyi Prefecture, summer rains fell unceasingly for two days. Traveling nonstop through it, Lu Liangsheng felt drenched through with moisture—his entire body soaked and sticky with dampness, an unbearable discomfort.
During these two days, the old donkey seemed ill—listless and limp, refusing food or water, and constantly farting with a foul stench so vile that the Daoist Toad could no longer remain in his little compartment. He had no choice but to perch atop his disciple’s shoulder.
They passed a village near the official road, where a small inn could be seen. But it was already deep into the night. The innkeeper and staff had long since gone to bed, and no one responded despite several calls.
“Tomorrow morning, let’s buy some fodder from the innkeeper. See if it’ll eat.”
After tending to the old donkey, now sprawled weakly on the ground, Lu Liangsheng casually swept aside the dust beneath the eaves. Using a split piece of firewood as a pillow, he lay down and closed his eyes.
“Tonight, we’ll just make do and sleep under the eaves.”
Out in the world, sleeping rough beneath the wind and dew was simply a way of life.
