Chapter Sixty-Five: The Invasion of Xiuguo

Just as Li Ruoyu was about to leave, the Hengjiu Sect was engulfed in war. Li Ruoyu could never have imagined that in the short time he had been away, the sect would be strewn with corpses—some belonging to the Hengjiu Sect, others clad in foreign garb. Both sides fought with utter ferocity, sparing nothing in their efforts. Whenever they met, it was a contest of life and death, a bloody struggle to the bitter end.

Where snow had not yet melted, it was now stained with the fresh blood of cultivators, the crimson patches blooming like blood-red plum blossoms—strikingly beautiful, yet perilously deadly. For every new blossom on the snow, someone had been gravely wounded or killed. The peaks of the sect, once lofty and proud, had half-collapsed, torn down by the devastating force unleashed in the battle for supremacy. It was clear how intense and desperate the fighting had become.

The conflict showed no sign of abating. Towering peaks, reaching toward the heavens, crumbled one after another beneath the onslaught. From the second to the ninth peak, the sect’s pillars—Fucheng Hong, Miao Huiyu, Ji Changyuan, Ling Qianyue, Ji Boyu, Tian Shuling, Tan Yatong, Liu Piaopiao, and others—were locked in fierce combat with their foes. The master of the second peak, Fucheng Hong, had already lost his sword arm and was fending off his opponent with great difficulty; his enemy, dressed in flamboyant attire, wielded the art of insect control with uncanny skill. The other peak masters fared no better, most struggling desperately.

At this moment, Jing Hong and Wang Bo were embroiled in their own battles. It was clear Jing Hong did not intend to tarry; she fought to break through toward Wang Bo’s courtyard.

“Barbarians of the Southern Kingdom, how dare you invade Hengjiu!” roared the sect master, Heng Yi, slaying ten veteran enemies with a single sword stroke.

At that moment, a figure in white appeared in the sky, distinctly different from the attackers. Clad in scholar’s robes and wearing a white jade pendant at his waist, he looked every bit the genteel teacher. He drew out a portrait, glanced from the image to Heng Yi, and announced, “That is the master of Hengjiu Sect. Proceed as planned: kill him.”

With that single word—kill—the call to attack was sounded. Three figures, cloaked in black from head to toe, materialized in the sky, each wielding a sword carved from withered wood.

Seeing them, Heng Yi frowned. He recognized these swords—they were crafted from the mother tree of the Southern Kingdom, imbued with the essence of desolation. For a thousand years, only ten such swords had existed in the Southern Kingdom. Each one, in the hands of a master of the sect’s unique withered sword technique, was a terrifying weapon. Now, three appeared together—each bearer clearly an expert, likely trained in a combined assault.

The three swordsmen took positions that, according to geomancy, represented the balance of heaven, earth, and man—the three cosmic forces. Their stance also implied the cycle of life, death, and destruction. The trio advanced steadily toward Heng Yi, and as they drew near, an aura of utter desolation pressed upon his spirit, threatening to overwhelm him.

As the bloodbath raged between Hengjiu Sect and the Southern Kingdom, the entire Yan Kingdom was swept up in war. Major strongholds of cultivation—Taiyi Sect, Sword Sect, Tianyi Gate, the Ancient Sect, Putuo Temple, and the royal palace—were all engulfed in fire and blood.

“Fatty, where’s the little radish?” Jing Hong, after evading several attacks, caught sight of Wang Bo’s besieged courtyard and called out.

Wang Bo was fending off nine attackers alone, a black vortex manifesting above his head, suppressing his enemies. He looked surprisingly untroubled. The courtyard was littered with more than a dozen corpses—his handiwork. Yet anxiety flickered in his eyes; he knew that, for all the enemies he had slain, these were but pawns—the real threats were still locked in deadly combat with the elders of his sect. He was eager to break through and join the main battle.

Hearing Jing Hong’s shout, Wang Bo replied as he fought, “I don’t know. I woke up to the sounds of fighting, and as soon as I stepped outside, I was surrounded. But with Ruoyu’s cultivation, I’m sure he’s safe for now.”

Jing Hong fell silent for a heartbeat, then charged at the attackers with renewed ferocity.

Meanwhile, Li Ruoyu had already left the auction house. As soon as he learned that powerful cultivators were present, he lost all interest in the final two auction items and fled decisively. “Better safe than sorry,” he reminded himself, always careful to avoid unnecessary risk.

On his journey, he did not encounter the anticipated assassins but was repeatedly attacked by four groups of strange cultivators in identical flamboyant attire. Even the slowest mind would sense something amiss; each encounter came in quicker succession. Li Ruoyu concluded that something catastrophic must have happened at Hengjiu Sect. He traveled with utmost caution, but even so, he ran into two more groups of such enemies—he dared not linger, seeking only to escape pursuit.

His urgency to return to Hengjiu Sect was not a death wish, but necessity. He cared little for the fate of the others, but could not rest easy without seeing Wang Bo and Jing Hong safe with his own eyes. He was not one to abandon his friends; until he saw their safety, he could not forgive himself. No matter what awaited at Hengjiu Sect, he was determined to go.

Stealthily, after several hours, he finally reached the outskirts of the sect. Overhead, beams of devastating power clashed, their shockwaves spreading far and wide. The duels between powerful cultivators could last interminably, especially when the opponents were evenly matched. Unless one struck with the intent to kill from the outset, it was rare for such a fight to be decided in an instant. Above, six bursts of radiance collided, forcing Li Ruoyu to avert his eyes from their blinding brilliance. He advanced cautiously toward Jing Hong’s quarters, ready to flee at the slightest sign of danger.

On his way, even with his guard fully raised, he had to kill more than a dozen enemies before reaching her residence. There, a great fire raged, engulfing the place. Strangely, this sight eased his heart—such flames posed no threat to Jing Hong. If she had perished here, the fire would surely have been extinguished by her hand. Still, he remained uneasy. Gripping his bone sword, he slashed at the base of the flames. The fire did not go out, but diminished considerably.

Li Ruoyu approached the burnt house. Finding no corpses, he let out a long-held breath, his taut nerves finally loosening a little.