Chapter Thirty: A Melody Sweeps the Wild Sands

The sound that reached his ears was unsettling, neither masculine nor feminine, as if someone were calling out to the youth from far away, ethereal and distant.

Before the youth could react, an inexhaustible force surged within him; the true energy that had lain dormant in his lower abdomen began to rush wildly, swirling rapidly around his body.

Who is helping me?

Zhong Ming wished to ask, but did not know whom to address.

His body trembled from the frenzied movements of the true energy, his plain robe billowing with the force.

“Draw your blade quickly, you cannot hold out!”

The voice sounded in his ear once more, and the true energy within him had reached its peak, pressing outward.

Now the youth felt as if he held the power of the primordial world, a feeling of urgency that demanded release.

Normally, his blade technique was simple; none of the usual slashing or thrusting matched his current mood. He wished for a single move that could unleash all the power within him.

Naturally, the image of Old Sun’s technique from earlier that day surfaced in his mind—the Whirling Sands.

With winds sweeping up the sands, the blade’s force moved like a dragon beneath the earth.

Only such a move could match his state of mind; subconsciously, the youth prepared to execute it.

Though he had seen it only once, the path of the blade was etched in his memory.

He dragged his blade along the ground, twisted his wrist, and the Infernal Resonance Blade scraped the earth. The unknown force coursing through his body surged into his hand and the blade, whose dark edge burst forth with alternating crimson and green light.

Crimson formed the core, green shaped the blade, enveloping its length.

All the boldness in his heart culminated in a thunderous cry.

“Whirling Sands!”

At his shout, the youth moved, dragging the blade; its edge split the ground, shattering stone. The dragon and sparrow motif on the hilt screeched, its piercing cry causing pain in the ears.

He swung the blade upward, raised it to shoulder height, reversed his grip, and slashed horizontally.

Red and green energy burst from the Infernal Resonance Blade, hundreds of hair-thin strands radiating outward.

The blade force struck the ground, sand and stone flew, and a fierce wind arose.

Before him, a force as thick as a thigh burrowed into the earth, splitting it as it sped toward the two opponents.

The underground blade force surged forward like a dragon in a river, crashing ahead. Upon impact, it shredded their garments, and countless tiny cuts erupted across their bodies.

The two men in black were hurled backward, blood spraying, reduced to figures bathed in crimson, falling to the ground, their fate unknown.

Meanwhile, the steward Chen finally reacted, shouting loudly, “Fall back! Everyone, retreat!”

Such a scene, he had witnessed only once in his life—on Sunset Road, when an unknown swordsman challenged the famed Water-Fire Staff of Yingcheng from the Earth Fiends list.

That Water-Fire Staff drew a circle, unleashing a similar energy, with sand and stone flying in the aftermath.

But it was already too late; as Chen cried out, blade energy had already reached his face. He could only raise an arm to shield his head and hold his blade before him in defense.

Chen had not reached the Qi-Seeking realm and could not summon true energy for protection; he had to withstand the blow physically.

After the blade force swept through, a dozen men in black were thrown to the ground, sand and stone still swirling in the courtyard.

The ruined temple before the youth collapsed with a crash; the earth-dragon formed by blade energy snaked forward dozens of yards before stopping, leaving a trench two fingers deep in its wake.

Not only was Chen stunned, the youth himself was frozen in place.

When had he ever managed to execute such a formidable technique?

But circumstances did not permit him to linger; though the Whirling Sands move was grand and imposing, its depth was only a fraction of its true intent.

Whirling Sands demanded the force to break mountains and rivers, a power that must be thick and profound. What the youth had unleashed was mere form—his blade energy too scattered, not enough to claim the lives of all his foes.

The voice sounded in Zhong Ming’s ear again: “Don’t stand there, leave quickly!”

The ethereal voice snapped him from his daze. He cried out, hastily sheathing the Infernal Resonance Blade, vaulted onto his restless, neighing horse, and with a flick of the reins, prepared to flee the temple.

The wall had collapsed, allowing him to ride through.

He spurred his horse into a mad gallop, plunging into the night and escaping the ruined temple in the west of town. He rode far before thoughts began to flood his mind.

The events in the temple had been bizarre and abrupt; he felt like a puppet, all his actions guided by unseen hands.

As his mind returned to clarity, his thoughts raced.

He had first ridden toward Muddy Village, instinctively wishing to return home when danger struck.

But upon reconsideration, he realized Muddy Village could not guarantee his safety; he should seek refuge in the city instead.

His uncle Yang Yanlang was there, and even if the Wu family wanted to kill him, they would have to pass the gate captain first—the hundred or so scale-armored cavalry were no easy foe.

Resolving himself, he turned his horse and raced toward the city.

Clouds obscured the moon, and in the pitch-black night, he and his horse fled for their lives, heading for the city.

…

Meanwhile, in the ruined temple, dust settled as the clouds drifted and moonlight once again bathed the courtyard.

A dozen men in black lay scattered about, more than half already lifeless, slain by the powerful blade force.

Chen was not among the dead. Though his clothes were tattered, he had avoided mortal injury. Struggling to his feet, he gathered the surviving men.

“How are we faring?”

Chen’s expression was grim, blood still flowing from the wound on his bald head, his face contorted.

One man in black quietly reported, “Chief Chen, we lost five brothers, three more are wounded, we can’t fight any longer.”

Chen slapped his bald head furiously, cursing, “Useless fools! All who can still stand, grab your blades and follow me to Muddy Pond! Even if we have to slaughter the village tonight, we will drag out that brat Zhong!”

The men beside him immediately bowed their heads in terror; Chen’s authority over his subordinates was clear.

Tonight, his identity had been exposed; if this matter were brought before the magistrate, he would not survive.

The family head had already been slain by Yang Yanlang; if news of tonight’s attack on Zhong Ming leaked out, the Wu family would hand him over to take the blame.

A man in black whispered, “Chief Chen, word is the people of Muddy Pond are linked to the young master’s death. Why don’t we finish the job tonight, kill them all, and make it look like bandits raided the village? What do you think?”

Chen grinned wickedly, “Excellent. That’s what we’ll do tonight. Bring back more heads, and the mistress will reward us handsomely!”

After a brief discussion, Chen left the wounded to deal with the bodies and led five able men toward Muddy Village.

Just as they prepared to leave, a sudden gale swept the courtyard, and amid its roar, a distant, ethereal voice was heard: “All these years, Wu family, you remain as disappointing as ever!”

Chen and his men were startled; Chen gripped his blade, scanning the area, and shouted, “Who’s playing tricks?”

No reply came. Instead, within the wind, a figure stood up, swaying as he walked toward them.

It was one of the men in black who had just died, his luck terrible—his throat slashed by the blade force, blood covering his chest. He should have been dead beyond doubt, but now his eyes shone with an eerie green light, and his face was expressionless as he approached.

“Ah! Sixie’s alive again!”

One of the men cried out in horror, staring at the corpse.

Sixie, now with green glowing eyes, said nothing—perhaps his severed throat could not produce sound.

He raised his blade, expressionless, and charged at Chen and his men!

In the ruined temple’s courtyard, the carnage resumed.

It was a one-sided slaughter; the reanimated Sixie was impervious to blades. Even as a blade was thrust into his abdomen, he kept slashing. When Chen finally severed his head, Sixie, in turn, decapitated Chen.

The night wind swept through, making the old willow in the temple sway, its leaves rustling.

Sixie’s headless corpse turned toward the town, as if gazing at something.

The ethereal voice rose again: “All Wu family must die!”

The wind grew stronger, blowing clouds to shroud the moon.

On the battered clay statue of Zhang Daoling in the temple, cracks like spider webs appeared without warning, rapidly spreading over its surface. The statue crumbled, raising a cloud of dust.

The old willow in the courtyard suddenly shone with dazzling light, green rays shooting skyward.

…

In the rear garden of the Tian estate, beside the pond in the pavilion.

The boy in blue played chess with Tian Xingjian, the two enjoying their game. The boy pinched a white piece, about to place it, but his hand trembled and the piece fell onto the board, disrupting the arrangement.

He had reached the endgame; one more move would annihilate Tian’s dragon group, but he suddenly withheld his play.

Tian, hoping for his move, was disappointed. If the blue-clad boy struck, Tian could overturn the situation, reverse the game, and counter his opponent.

He had carefully lured the clever boy into his trap, but to his surprise, the boy broke the rules, ruining the match. Tian’s mood soured instantly.

Tian exclaimed angrily, “Li Que, what’s wrong? Why abandon your move?”

“Something big has happened.”

Li Que, the blue-clad boy, gazed toward the west of the city, the rare emotion in his cold eyes not just movement, but fear.

Tian lifted his head, seeing a green light shooting skyward from the west, its glow piercing the stars.

He was dumbstruck, his peach blossom fan dropping to the ground with a snap.

Li Que stepped onto the railing, ice-blue shards forming beneath his feet. He leaped atop the pavilion, staring toward the west, hoping for a clearer view.

The little qilin, Tian Xingjian, craned his neck toward the glow, muttering, “How can this be? Even with Zhang Daoling’s statue suppressing it, the old willow tree cannot be contained?”

…

Muddy Village, in the cottage of the solitary Wu Granny.

The pitch-dark room was unlit, Wu Granny sitting alone by the bed, mumbling to herself, the words too faint to discern.

She suffered from an eye disease, her eyes clouded in an eerie gray-white, unable to see people clearly, so she rarely used lamps.

Her troubles extended beyond her eyes; her mind was afflicted, unable to perform labor.

She survived on the charity of villagers; rumor had it that during famine years she resorted to eating human flesh to live.

Earlier in the month, Liang Hei had brought her grain; thanks to such kindness, she was able to endure.

Suddenly, Wu Granny stood, leaning on her cane, hurriedly stumbling outside.

She tiptoed toward the ruined temple in the west. When the green light illuminated her gray-white eyes, she staggered back, her cane falling, collapsing in the courtyard.

“He’s out? Impossible, impossible!”

Suddenly, she clutched her eyes, rolling on the ground in pain, blood-red tears streaming through her fingers.