Chapter 145 – Behead and Slay!

The sound of rain whispered and pattered; the downpour grew heavier and heavier.

Boundless moisture drifted and circulated as it fell from the skies, yet for some unknown reason, it remained ever so calm. It was as if the murderous aura and killing intent sensed by Zhou Nuchang were merely an illusion—there was instead a sense of vast emptiness, as though the one they faced was not a person, but this very Heaven and Earth itself. Formless and intangible, yet vast, majestic, and boundlessly grand.

If the enemy were human, he could still be cut down.

But if the enemy were this firmament, this falling rain—what could the blade possibly do?

Zhou Nuchang’s palm, gripping the hilt of his blade, was faintly damp with cold sweat.

The murderous aura of the military formation, born from the Human Dao’s Fortune, surged upward.

At first, the momentum was vast and mighty, like a flood dragon letting out a resonant roar.

But amidst this rain, the killing intent merely coiled and lingered, without dispersing—like a supremely skilled commander, it lured forth the military formation’s might of the Human Dao, only to then quietly draw back once more. As a result, the murderous aura of their formation swiftly began to weaken.

Suddenly, a fierce wind howled.

Stimulated, the soldiers within the formation turned instinctively, slashing out with their blades. The cold gleam of their edges tore through the falling rain—but there was nothing there. After a sudden surge, the formation’s murderous aura declined again, even weaker than before.

Once may flourish. Twice must fall.

Cold sweat soaked Zhou Nuchang’s back.

—The one who made a move, was he also a commander of the art of war?

—Such a style, was this a stratagem of military law and authority?

Zhou Nuchang knew this could not go on. Clenching his teeth, he summoned the killing aura of the military school into his own body. Then, he swept his palm along the blade. The edge was icy cold; fresh blood flowed across it. In the next instant, a fierce, savage aura of grim slaughter exploded outward. Zhou Nuchang’s bearing seemed to grow ever more imposing, and when he opened his mouth, it was as though countless voices roared in unison:

“Demonic heretics and those beyond the Dao who refuse enlightenment…”

“Withdraw!”

A surge of power, mixed with the thoughts and ideas of countless people, suddenly exploded outward. It was as if a force erupted from a central point, shattering the curtain of rain into a haze of drifting mist. As the mist spread, Zhou Nuchang saw a young Daoist seated not far off atop a slab of green stone—clad in black robes, wearing a mask.

The Human Dao Fortune was forged from the thoughts of millions, from the vital essence of the multitudes.

It stood in stark contrast to the Daoist path of purity, singularity, and self-cultivation.

Thus, true Daoist cultivators did not serve in the imperial court.

And for that reason, it was exceedingly rare for the human royal clans to attain deep attainment in the Daoist arts.

Yet ironically, the Fortune of the Human Dao was also one of the few powers that could directly suppress the mystical arts of the Daoist path.

Laughable as it may seem, it came down to but a single word—“mixed.”

Zhou Nuchang’s eyes suddenly lit up. The blade in his hand dragged low behind him, and he suddenly strode forward. His right foot slammed into the earth, sending a burst of force outward. The rain scattered in all directions, crashing toward the figure ahead—Qi Wuhuo—like the momentum of a ferocious tiger. The dozens of soldiers behind him, drawn along by the power of the Human Dao, followed close behind. Blades in hand, they slashed forth.

“Cut!!”

A thunderous shout, like a bolt from the blue.

The young Daoist leaned back slightly, five fingers of his right hand spreading open.

Countless threads of rain converged, forming fine strands—as though Heaven and Earth themselves had become a vast ancient qin. His fingers plucked the air, and the strings rang out in clear tones that shook the soul. Rain swirled with the wind, transforming into sword-like auras that slashed toward Zhou Nuchang. Zhou Nuchang’s eyes widened with fury. All traces of earlier restraint had vanished. His blade-work turned savage, each strike vicious and unrelenting—cleaving down again and again.

Every streak of sword-aura formed from rain was shattered, splintered, and dispersed.

At the same time, the soldiers behind him—some were struck in the waist or abdomen, others had their sword-wielding wrists injured—gradually began to fall behind.

Zhou Nuchang surged forward like a blazing rainbow.

Suddenly, he unleashed a sweeping strike with the weight of ten thousand catties, scattering all the rain before him. The force condensed at his blade’s edge, strong enough to cleave through three layers of iron armor, to slice a fierce beast from brow to tail in a single breath—splitting it clean in two. The might of this strike was immense. Raindrops falling upon the blade’s edge burst into clear, crystalline sprays. Zhou Nuchang roared: “Traitorous rebels!!”

He stomped forward with his right foot, sweeping his blade in a wide arc before bringing it down in a vertical slash.

Like thunderclap descending from the heavens—

“Die!”

The might he revealed in that instant was immense, wholly unlike his usual bearing. It was now clear that his standing as the Crown Prince’s right-hand man was not earned merely through flattery or sycophancy. Nor was he the incompetent civil and military officials had assumed him to be. With such skill, even among the border troops, he would have been a fierce warrior at the vanguard.

Blood burst forth violently—yet Zhou Nuchang’s movements came to an abrupt halt.

The blade in his hand had slashed down, had cleaved into that young Daoist.

But what it struck… was no more than a ripple of water.

At the same time, an excruciating pain tore through his body.

The force he had gathered scattered instantly.

He slowly lowered his head, and through the curtain of rain, saw that more ripples were spreading outward. As the ripples dispersed, something appeared in the place he had thought to be empty—a pitch-black sword, wider than a typical blade, nearly the breadth of a palm, quietly resting there.

Half of it had already pierced into his body.

Zhou Nuchang’s eyes widened slightly. He murmured:

“A water-concealing method…”

The sword had been placed here all along.

And then hidden using an exquisite water-bending technique that refracted light.

He had been the one to charge in, faster than a galloping steed.

Thus, the sword had effortlessly pierced through the soft armor beneath his robes, stabbing cleanly through his body, the tip now jutting from his back. This sword strike was a devastating blow. He looked ahead and saw the form of the young Daoist begin to ripple, then dissipate completely, falling to the ground and leaving behind only faint patches of water.

Zhou Nuchang murmured: “…A True Person of the Daoist path?”

“Who?!”

“Who was it?!”

One hand clutching his wound, the other gripping his blade, Zhou Nuchang stared into the boundless curtain of rain and roared:

“Who killed me?!”

“Come out!”

“Come out!!”

“Come out!!!”

Suddenly, the sound of birdsong echoed in the air.

Zhou Nuchang froze for a moment, then raised his head and looked toward a high place in the distance. Guided by the current of Human Dao fortune, this time he finally saw it—amidst the drizzling rain, a young Daoist sat upon an outcropping extending from the mountain. In his hand was a small cup, which he casually tipped over. The water poured down, transforming into mist, then clouds, and then rain once more.

Pitter-patter, the drizzle became a downpour.

This entire storm—

Was nothing but the result of that Daoist tipping a single cup.

Zhou Nuchang pressed against his wound, dazed for a moment. His body swayed, then he propped himself up with his blade against the ground. Though darkness crept into the edges of his vision, he forced a laugh and said: “A True Person of the Daoist path. The Innate One Qi. With a single thread of true qi, you evolve the myriad phenomena. Such methods—I had only heard of them before. Today, I have truly witnessed them.”

“I am an official of the court—Fifth Rank, Commander of the Left Division of the Hidden Dragon Guard. Acting on orders of the Crown Prince and His Majesty!”

“If the True Person does not wish to suffer the calamity of body perishing and Dao dissolving, then it would be best to withdraw at once!”

“As for today’s matter, this official can let bygones be bygones and refrain from reporting it to His Highness the Crown Prince!”

The little peacock stood upon Qi Wuhuo’s shoulder, transmitting its thoughts through spiritual sense: “This guy is so weird. Just now he clearly wanted to kill someone, and now he’s acting like everything’s perfectly fine?”

“And also, what does he mean ‘you killed him’, Ah Qi?”

“He clearly ran himself into the tip of the sword.”

“He killed himself!”

The young Daoist lifted his gaze. In the depths of his eyes, it was as though a storm had been stirred—dark and unfathomable.

When he blocked the road earlier, he had still harbored some concern that he might be killing the wrong person.

He had learned the Fearless Seal from Medicine Master Glazed Light Tathāgata, which encompassed within it the Buddhist secret of divine mind-reading.

With this Dharma and divine ability, Qi Wuhuo influenced the mental states of these Hidden Dragon Guards, drawing out the truths within their hearts. It was precisely because of this that the cup of rainwater had gradually expanded until it encompassed them all beneath this rainfall. Qi Wuhuo’s deep eyes were calm as he spoke: “A man of Jin Zhou. Qi Wuhuo.”

Seven characters.

And Zhou Nuchang’s words were all instantly caught in his throat.

Seven characters. A man of Jinzhou blocks the road and strikes to kill—that alone made everything painfully clear.

He opened his mouth, and then, hearing the howls of anguish from behind, suddenly burst into wild laughter. Then, cursing aloud, he roared: “Jinzhou people!”

“Hahahaha! What a fine bunch of Jinzhou people! How dare you come to seek vengeance?!”

“If the ruler commands the subject to die, the subject cannot but die! With your lives paving a road of bones for the Sage, you ought to feel honored! How dare you come seeking vengeance? How dare you! Under the clear heavens, you strike me down—Human Dao Fortune will not permit it! All beneath heaven belongs to the Emperor, and all who dwell upon the land are his subjects. You will die! You will die!”

The young Daoist lightly tapped the little peacock with a finger, then gently pinched its head between two fingers, turning it away. He said: “Let’s play a game. Count five hundred numbers. If you manage to catch me, I’ll give you something delicious—anything you want.”

“No peeking.”

“Huh? Okay, Ah Qi!”

“Then I’m starting to count. You go hide fast…”

The little peacock chirped with excitement.

The young Daoist’s fingers moved slightly, sealing the little peacock’s senses with his own spiritual power, blocking out all external noise.

Then, he rose to his feet.

A fierce wind suddenly surged around Qi Wuhuo.

The young Daoist’s robes flared violently, and in the next instant, he descended through the air—landing before Zhou Nuchang.

The latter burst into wild laughter, then suddenly rose to his feet. Even as fresh blood sprayed from his mouth, he charged forward fearlessly, brandishing his blade in a sweeping strike.

The momentum of the blade was overwhelming and fierce, stirring up violent winds and slicing through the curtain of rain.

But just as the blade gained weight—

The young Daoist stepped down with his right foot directly onto the blade.

Both hands were clasped behind his back.

The black hair at his temples lifted slightly in the wind.

In an instant, the falling rain dispersed—then resumed falling once more. The blade was pressed downward underfoot. Zhou Nuchang tried to draw it back, but at that moment, he heard the cry of a sword. Qi Wuhuo’s right hand, still behind his back, curled his fingers slightly. The Kill the Thief Sword leapt into his hand. He turned his body and struck with a single sword—its edge whistled, splitting air and rain alike, stirring flowing wind in its wake.

There was no elaborate form.

It was not some profound divine technique.

The blade simply chopped down at Zhou Nuchang’s throat.

The sharp edge tore through flesh, sinew, and bone, cleaving the throat cleanly.

Human Dao Fortune erupted from Zhou Nuchang’s body—but it could not withstand the Fortune upon this sword.

That Human Dao fortune, which could repel evil, render blades and spears useless, make one immune to water and fire—at this moment, as if encountering its greatest nemesis, surged and writhed violently. Zhou Nuchang staggered backward, but Qi Wuhuo was faster. Sword raised, he struck again—the sword’s cry exploded into a chorus of shrieking whistles. He forcibly cleaved through Zhou Nuchang’s protective fortune, shattered the safeguarding granted by his official status, and drove the sword through his throat.

Zhou Nuchang uttered a hoarse, ghostlike screech filled with horror: “This—!!!”

“What is this?!”

“Why can’t my Human Dao Fortune resist it?!”

The young Daoist replied calmly: “What I hold in my hand—this is the Human Dao fortune.”

“The true Human Dao fortune.”

In Zhou Nuchang’s eyes flashed a fear far deeper than death itself!

The sword edge swept across.

A head flew upward into the sky.

Flowing wind circled around Qi Wuhuo as he twisted sharply, lunging straight toward a Hidden Dragon Guard whose wrist had been severed.

With a sweep of his Kill the Thief Sword, he tore through the man’s throat, then spun and drove the sword into his heart, lifting his foot to kick the corpse off the blade.

Turning.

He raised the sword and cleaved downward.

Someone had attempted a sneak attack from behind.

This sword embedded itself directly in the face of the youth who had earlier mocked the old soldier’s dulled sword—splitting his face right down the middle.

The intense pain robbed him of all focus. His eyes went vacant as blood streamed from his mouth.

His gaze empty, he murmured with a choked sob: “Father… Mother…”

“It hurts…”

The young Daoist’s eyes remained tranquil.

Then came a fierce sweep—

Half a head had already vanished.

With a kick, he forced the body down, suddenly crouching low, spinning and slashing horizontally.

One sword strike shattered the armor of a handsome young man.

It cleaved in from his waist, crushed his kidneys, broke his ribs, and nearly cut him in two at the waist.

Qi Wuhuo appeared behind him and kicked the back of his knee.

Struck in the knee, his body reacted on instinct.

The handsome youth dropped to his knees by reflex—and just as instinctively raised his head.

Only to meet a descending blade.

Thus, another head flew into the air.

The sword is a weapon of killing.

Not the gentle wind of noble gentlemen.

Where there is slaughter—

There must be bloodshed!

Such was the violent force carried by the aura of this sword—what it used was precisely the swordsmanship of the Xuan Armor Army of years past.

Sword qi ripped through the streaming wind, coated in Innate Qi, and tore its way forward. In the blink of an eye, this Kill the Thief Sword had already cut down nearly all of the thirty-some men here—some decapitated, some run through the heart. Every strike was ruthless. Blood poured down, and the sword’s wailing cry was mournful, reminiscent of the calamity in Jinzhou in days gone by.

Qi Wuhuo could have executed them using Daoist mystic arts, but after invoking a Buddhist divine technique, imprinting mind upon mind—

A wave of violent, vicious anger surged from the depths of his heart.

Daoist or not, a Daoist is still human, not the Dao itself.

And in the end, humans still possess the seven emotions and six desires.

The last one still alive was a youth about Qi Wuhuo’s age—the very one who had indulged in cruelty and wickedness most wantonly. Coughing up blood, he fell to the ground, scraping at it with his elbows as he tried to crawl away. He whispered: “You… you’re too cruel… You… you’ll go to the eighteenth level of hell… to the eighteenth level of hell…”

The young Daoist lifted his sword and replied: “Only using your own methods, returned upon yourselves.”

“That is all.”

“If I am cruel—then what were you?”

The sword in his palm fell again. Another beheading.

At last, Qi Wuhuo released the Kill the Thief Sword. Its blade stood upside down, embedded in the ground, wailing ceaselessly. He formed a seal with both hands, and countless souls rose into the air. One could glimpse the deepest fears they held in their midnight dreams, and the deeds they had committed—killing wounded soldiers, even slaughtering their own kin without remorse.

Though his cultivation was still shallow, aided by the formation within the falling rain, Qi Wuhuo was able to perceive their gathering souls.

And they, too, seemed to finally realize—

Realize that this young Daoist could see their souls.

When they saw him standing in that pool of blood, hair tied back with a wooden hairpin, robed in Daoist garb, his gaze clear as water—yet carrying a faint, indelible stain of blood, and an icy coldness that seeped into the bones—at last, their souls began to freeze.

The immense terror shattered them completely.

Their souls instinctively fell to their knees, repeatedly kowtowing while crying out: “True Person!”

“True Person, have mercy!”

“True Person, please spare us! We have already accepted our fate. We truly know we were wrong, shouldn’t have done this, shouldn’t have done this…”

“Please, we beg you, Heaven cherishes life!”

The young Daoist asked: “When they begged you, what did you do?”

The souls of the many Hidden Dragon Guards stiffened.

With the rain formation aiding him, Qi Wuhuo saw Zhou Nochang’s soul still sneer coldly: “Come and kill me if you have the guts!”

“…Heaven cherishes life, Daoism has the virtue of non-killing.”

The young Daoist’s left hand hung down while his right hand formed a Daoist seal as he answered:

“I am not one who loves killing.”

“Nor am I one who never kills.”

“It is but one drink, one bite—cause and effect.”

“I kill you, I also enter this calamity. Others may use this cause and effect to kill me. No difference at all.”

He stood quietly, then with his right hand swept horizontally.

In the void, sword cries echoed.

A sword formation born of his own enlightenment, also infused with three-tenths of the calamitous sword qi of the Shangqing lineage.

The sword formation descended.

In that instant, every single raindrop in the shroud grew sharp and fierce like countless swords.

Rain like mist, mist like swords—each raindrop a sword strike.

In an instant, it was like thousands of cuts, like being torn apart a thousand times, like ten thousand swords piercing the heart in calamity.

The rain varied in thickness, determined by the grudges of the dead souls clinging to those spirits.

The young Daoist suddenly recalled a line his teacher had taught him:

[Fortune and misfortune have no gate, only people summon them themselves.]

Turning around, his sleeves falling, exuding sharpness and calamity.

Qi Wuhuo sensed the souls collapsing under the sword intent, stimulated by the sword qi, writhing madly, tangled by the grudges wrapped around them.

He heard Zhou Nochang’s painful roars and screams, and those desperate howls—just like the thousands he had slain before.

Something seemed to settle within the young Daoist’s heart. His mind grew peaceful. 

On the Thief-Slaying Sword, the endless unwilling hatred dissipated somewhat. 

Yet still thickly lingered.

Qi Wuhuo felt this deeply, rose, and stepped into the carriage.

He saw the things hidden away, the money—the [scroll] that contained the Human Dao Fortune.

It is also the treasure that the crown prince treasured and could not bear to part with.