Chapter 167 – Forming an Array with Illusions, Using Paintings as Soldiers 

Chirping sounds filled the air—

A flock of birds glided across the mountain forest, one alighting upon the branch of an ancient pine. It tilted its bright eyes toward the scholar by the grave below, then fluttered down, landing atop the tombstone and hopping along it.

On a sheet of pristine white paper, lines of ink took shape, outlining one figure after another—arrayed in formation, long spears standing like a forest. The brush tip danced, tracing armor plates and iron helms, sketching the proud stance of warhorses mid-neigh.

The scholar’s wide sleeves billowed as his brush swept across the page. A battle flag seemed to ripple in unseen wind, and all around it, countless soldiers charged forth, the air thick with the spirit of iron and blood.

He knew well that the Emperor of the Chen Dynasty was not one fond of slaughter. Yet to guard against desperate retaliation, he had to lay down barriers around Lu Family Village and North Village—ideally encircling the region of Mount Qixia.

“Let’s hope you know enough to retreat on your own.”

Setting his brush beside the inkstone, Lu Liangsheng sat down on the stool. With a gesture toward the old pine, the dewdrops gathered upon its needles quivered and drew together into fine threads of water, condensing into a bead the size of a fist in his palm.

In the next instant, it dispersed into a soft mist that fell upon the painting.

“Kill——!”

Hiiyaahh!!!

From the painting erupted countless cries of battle—horses neighing madly, weapons clashing. A great white banner began to flutter, as though caught in a gale. Beneath it, the soldiers’ painted faces twisted into savage, warlike visages; weapons raised, they stormed across the scroll. Cavalry thundered through the crowds, hooves pounding the ground. Horses reared, tails lashing, and the cloaked general atop his steed swung his sword in a sweeping arc—his mantle snapping in the wind.

Within the wash of ink and color, the figures seemed truly alive.

“Liangsheng, this will not do.”

At some point, the Toad Daoist had appeared upon a nearby green rock, the black-patterned gourd on his back glinting faintly as he gazed at the sea of clouds between the mountains. Only when his disciple called out, “Master,” did he nod and turn his face.

“You have taken the path of Illusion to great heights—but form without spirit is still mere illusion. Against one of profound cultivation, such tricks are of no use.”

He leaped down from the boulder, his webbed feet slapping against the ground as he waddled past his disciple’s knee and sat cross-legged by the cliff’s edge, much as he had back when they stood atop Mount Qi at his peak.

Lu Liangsheng steadied his breath, eyes fixed upon the “White” character emblazoned on the flag within the painting. Suddenly, an idea struck him. “Master, please wait a moment.”

With that, he cast the spell Shrinking the Earth into an Inch, traversing swiftly back to the village. Ignoring Lu Laoshi, who was busy harnessing the donkey to the millstone, he went straight into the house to retrieve a certain book—and a blank sheet of paper.

“Perhaps this method might just work!”

Returning to Mount Qixia, Lu Liangsheng conjured a stone platform with a wave of his hand. Laying a sheet of paper upon it, he let the tip of his brush glow with spiritual power and dance rapidly across the surface. Beside him lay an open book; on the upright title page were the words — “The Lord of Martial Peace.”

“Qin had a famous general, his glory unending, his fame shaking the realm. He conquered Ying in the south, buried Zhao Kuo in the north, and took over seventy cities in all. He forged the foundation of the Qin Empire—his achievements complete. Let him be honored as the Lord of Martial Peace…”

The spread-out paper held a lengthy sacrificial ode—dozens of stirring, majestic lines, recounting the life of that pre-Qin great general. After carefully checking every word, Lu Liangsheng took the finished text and approached the painting. With a whoosh, flames rose before the scroll, consuming the paper completely.

In the next instant, at the lower right corner of the painting, fine script seemed to etch itself into the surface—like a sword carving upon stone:

— Lord of Martial Peace.

“It worked.”

Sure enough, the spiritual power within the painting began circulating on its own. Even without use, it could likely remain stable for five years. Unlike the earlier Taowu painting, this one faintly emanated a sense of consciousness—rudimentary, yet real.

Encouraged by this success, Lu Liangsheng joyfully continued painting several more scrolls: a many-headed behemoth, a monkey pinned beneath a mountain, a great bird wreathed in fire, and a giant raising a wine jar high in the air…

“Once I obtain proper materials and refine these paintings into artifacts, their effects may be quite different still.”

The Toad Daoist stood nearby, watching him work so fervently that his round eyes nearly bulged from his head. To combine the supreme realism of Painting Dao with Confucian sacrificial soul rites—and if these were to be refined into actual Dharma treasures—what manner of power would that be?!

“By Heaven, this old man merely gave a word of advice, and he’s already drawn such inferences from it?”

Even as that thought arose, his body suddenly grew light—Lu Liangsheng had plucked him up and set him upon his shoulder. “Master, while there’s still daylight, let’s call the Daoist over and lay down the Illusory Array around Mount Qixia.”

“Slow down! Slow—ahhh!”

The Toad Daoist’s voice stretched thin in the air as Lu Liangsheng leapt into the sky, his figure blurring. In the next instant he landed upon the mountain path below, then whistled sharply toward the village at the foot of the mountain.

The whistle carried spiritual power, echoing through the valleys.

In the village, the old donkey pulling the millstone twitched its ears and suddenly lifted its head, excited. Beside it, Lu Laoshi was still scolding, “You lazy beast, standing idle all day—no strength at all—”

Before he could finish, the donkey brayed loudly, pawed the ground, and bolted toward the village gate. The rope about its harness went taut, yanking the heavy millstone with a boom as it crashed to the ground and scraped a deep furrow through the earth. Only when the rope snapped did the beast finally stop.

“My millstone!” Cried Lu Laoshi, staring at the half-shattered stone, nearly in tears.

By the drying ground near the village entrance, the Daoist flipped through the air, palms slapping rhythmically against a sweat-slick, muscular chest—hard as an iron plate. The rapid strikes left no mark at all, not even a red imprint of his five fingers.

With a sudden shout of “Ha!”, the eight men gathered their strength, each assuming their stance. Their bones gave off faint cracking sounds as the air around them rippled and twisted slightly—Qi force burst forth from their bodies.

“…Lu Liangsheng only taught you fellows body-forging techniques?”

Sun Yingxian stared at the eight burly men before him, muscles bulging all over, and couldn’t help but swallow hard. He had just sparred with them and realized—they knew no fancy moves at all. All they practiced was pure body refinement, yet their flesh had reached a level almost impervious to blades and spears. When the eight of them stood shoulder to shoulder, they were like an iron wall before him—he could neither strike through nor push them aside.

Eight monsters, every one of them!

Then came the sharp whistle from afar. The Daoist, seeing the eight roar in unison and charge toward him like a tide, hurriedly waved his hands and backed away.

“No more fighting! No more fighting!”

Ahead, the old donkey brayed and galloped past. Sun Yingxian turned on his heel and leapt onto its back, riding it at full speed down the village road. Through the golden, harvested fields, farmers toiled here and there. Upon a raised path between the paddies squatted Lu Liangsheng, his white robe and blue outer coat fluttering faintly as he played with a little girl of three or four, her hair tied into small braids, handing her a piece of candy.

Hearing the jingling of the bell, he rose to his feet and patted her gently on the head.

“Don’t run off—wait here by the field for your parents.”

“Mm!”

The little girl licked her candy and nodded obediently, then waved her tiny hand toward the passing scholar. “Goodbye, Mister Lu! Goodbye, Big Toad!”

“Goodbye.”

The Toad Daoist, lying sprawled on his disciple’s shoulder, rolled his eyes. “Why must I always be that… Bah, forget it—no need to argue with a child.”

Hearing this, Lu Liangsheng smiled faintly, brushing the hem of his robe as he walked onto the path. The old donkey trotted up to him, licking his palm with its tongue. The Daoist, having jumped off the donkey’s back, glanced about.

“Old Lu, what did you call me out here for?”

The scholar stroked the donkey’s mane, his gaze sweeping slowly across the long ridges of Mount Qixia. His voice was calm, each word steady and deliberate:

“Here—we will lay down the formation.”

As the morning sun climbed higher, the little girl still sat by the field, licking her candy. When she looked up again, hoping to glimpse the kindly Mr. Lu who had given it to her, the road was already empty.