Chapter Sixty-six: If One Day You Return

Nanluo had once told Luoshui among the Yangping clan that after stepping through the threshold of the immortal path, the strength of one’s magic was no longer the deciding factor for everything.

Back in that valley, when he shouted “Where do you think you’re going?” from the sky, he hadn’t sensed the depth of that person’s power. Careless for a moment, he suffered a heavy loss. Later, when the heroic man playing the zither saved him with his music, he still pursued recklessly without hesitation.

After exchanging blows and being sent flying, it was clear his own magic was far inferior, and his combat experience was lacking as well. Yet he continued the pursuit undeterred. To others, he seemed ignorant of his own limits, no different from seeking his own doom. It was obvious that the black-robed man had left because he feared that heroic zither player...

Though Nanluo was usually quiet, it didn’t mean his mind was simple; on the contrary, he often saw things more clearly than others.

Within the Yangping clan, the children all called Nanluo an immortal, but he would always say he was just like everyone else. Thus, when he saw humans being slaughtered and devoured by demons, he would lose himself in a killing frenzy. When he encountered an entire valley of human corpses, he chased after the culprit without a second thought.

Whether or not he could actually kill the enemy no longer mattered to him; his heart was filled with a singular desire to kill. The Qingyan Sword in his hand radiated murderous intent, carrying with it a desperate resolve that soared to the heavens.

But he did not know that while he was slaughtering demons, his own Yangping clan was facing the threat of annihilation...

The clan chief, Huangyuan, had assumed, as before, that the white wolf demon would rest for several days after each kill. But now, as everyone knew the white wolf had resurfaced, who would dare venture onto the mountain? To go was to die—of course no one dared to climb the mountain.

While the Zhaoyan, Shanyin, and Youqiong tribes were considering when to migrate away, one evening, a blood-red cloud suddenly appeared above the Yangping clan. The cloud churned and transformed into a blood-drenched wolf.

Under the setting sun, the blood wolf dripped with fresh blood. There was no scent of rot, but its mere appearance evoked visions of mountains of corpses and seas of blood.

Without any visible movement from the wolf, a grinding voice echoed through the void: “From this day forth, every nine days, bring a child to this king on the mountain. Otherwise, your entire clan will be wiped out...”

Before the people could react, a young boy from the Yuanji Temple was suddenly snatched into the blood wolf’s maw. Only then did the Yangping clansmen realize what was happening. Terror-stricken, they all fell to their knees, banging their heads on the ground, begging for mercy in voices trembling with fear and sorrow—among them, the boy’s parents wept bitterly.

At that moment, a figure appeared in the sky—it was Master Yuanji. He shouted in fury, “You go too far, far too far!” Floating in the air, he pointed a trembling finger at the blood wolf, his black beard quivering with rage.

“Hmph, and what if I do? Should this king grow bored one day, I’ll slaughter you too, just for sport! Ha ha...” The blood wolf threw its head back and laughed, then turned away, strolling off as if wandering through a back garden.

“You... you should know that I too am of a noble lineage! Humanity is not without its own extraordinary figures! How dare you act so brazenly? Are you not afraid that one day, our great human cultivators will come for you?” Master Yuanji declared, his bearing less that of a sage and more that of a man of unyielding righteousness.

“Haha... So what if you have a noble lineage? Exceptional humans? What a joke! Am I supposed to be afraid? You’re just a frog at the bottom of a well, ignorant of the world. How could you know the tides of fate, or that the demon race is about to rule the world, or guess at my origins? Even if your so-called human experts come knocking, I’ll kill them all the same! Ha ha...” The blood wolf dissolved into a blood-red cloud and drifted away into Yangping Mountain.

Luoshui, unlike her clansmen, did not kneel. Ever since that day at the altar when her uncle Nanluo held her hand and wouldn’t let her kneel, she had resolved never to kneel again.

Standing there, watching and listening to the exchange between Master Yuanji and the blood wolf, Luoshui seemed slender and frail, as if a gust of wind might blow her over. Yet her eyes, and the trace of heroism in her brows, revealed a quiet stubbornness and resolve.

Master Yuanji hovered in the sky, his face ashen, but his power was no match for the enemy. The magical artifact he’d borrowed to deal with the Green-faced King had been instantly corrupted by the white wolf’s blood mist; it was now useless. In terms of power and spells, he was far outmatched. If not for his own courage, he might never have dared to leave his temple at all...

He gazed deeply at Yangping Mountain, stamped his foot in the air, and then turned and flew away, vanishing from sight in an instant.

The people of the Yangping clan witnessed Master Yuanji’s departure. Many cried out in alarm, but more remained silent. Suddenly, someone in the crowd asked, “When will the priest return?” The words snapped everyone to their senses, and all eyes turned to the clan chief and Luoshui.

For some time now, Chief Huangyuan had already told the people that Nanluo had left to visit a friend.

Luoshui felt all those eyes upon her. Though she appeared calm, her heart was in turmoil. She had heard from the Zhaoyan tribe why they had come here, and knew her uncle had left after speaking with them. She knew he wasn’t simply out visiting friends—but could she say that? She wondered. She suspected that the “one year at least, two years at most” answer Nanluo had given was only meant to comfort her and the rest of the clan.

Luoshui dared not meet the others’ gazes, nor tell them her suspicions. All she could do was repeat what Nanluo had told her.

No sooner had the Zhaoyan tribe settled in than they moved away again. After a few years, the Shanyin and Youqiong tribes left as well.

There was no scene of weeping or uproar. The migration of the human tribes flowed as quietly as a mountain spring. Perhaps, they had grown accustomed to such a wandering life...

Now the Yangping clan, too, had to move. They had lived here for generations and never migrated before, but now they had no choice but to leave their homeland. After the other three tribes departed, the Yangping clan began their journey east—they had heard that in the east lay the sea and a moist climate.

Over five hundred members of the Yangping clan set out in grand procession, but after only half a day, they were forced to halt. Their path was blocked.

A white wolf stood before them, red light gleaming in its eyes. Its fur was pure as snow, and in those red eyes lurked a mocking expression.

Chief Huangyuan, startled at first, quickly regained his composure, and with a thud, dropped to his knees. At once, the Yangping clansmen followed, falling to the ground in waves.

Huangyuan crawled forward as he begged for mercy, his head knocking against the ground, pleading for the survival of the Yangping clan, hoping that by sacrificing himself he might spare his people from destruction—if only for a while.

Step by step, with blood staining his forehead, he crawled up to the white wolf.

The wolf watched silently—the chief, the clansmen, Luoshui, and the handful of men whose bows were drawn taut.

Behind the chief, a clear trail of blood marked his path. When he finally raised his head before the wolf, his forehead was bathed in blood.

Suddenly, the white wolf moved. In the instant the chief looked up, the wolf lunged and tore out his throat.

“Chief—!”

A bolt of lightning struck the wolf, but it did not so much as singe its fur. A hundred arrows whistled toward it, only to veer aside and fall harmlessly to the ground, as if blown off course by some unseen current.

Seeing that arrows were useless, the clansmen grabbed whatever weapons they could and charged with furious shouts. After so much fear and agony, their rage erupted in a wave of desperate courage.

But what could such courage do against overwhelming power? The white wolf moved in a flash, weaving through the crowd; wherever it passed, not a soul was left standing. Each throat bore a bloody wound, and blood sprayed in torrents. In an instant, the stench of gore filled the air and the land echoed with wails of agony.

Luoshui formed a spell with her hands, but she could not lock onto the white wolf. Watching it flash like white lightning among her people, hearing the anguished cries as if from a distant world, she thought of her uncle’s parting words: take care of yourself, take care of your mother. She was jolted awake by the thought, spun around to look, but her mother was nowhere to be seen. Then she spotted her, lying in a pool of blood.

A wave of grief crashed over her, her spell dissolved, and she ran to her mother’s side. Suddenly, a white blur flashed before her eyes, and a powerful force knocked her to the ground. She looked up to see the white wolf’s blood-red eyes fixed cruelly on her, its jaws stained with fresh, glaring blood.

“So this is death. Uncle, do you know? If you return one day to find the Yangping clan reduced to ruins, how will you feel...?”

At that moment, Luoshui’s spirit seemed to drift away, and time slowed to a crawl.

“Senior Sister, it’s that demon wolf...”

“How dare it commit such atrocities—Golden Flood Dragon Shears, kill!”

From the distant sky, a pair of violet-blue shears tore through the air, so fast they seemed to split heaven and earth. Before the words had even faded, the shears had arrived above the white wolf.

Fierce and unstoppable, like two enraged dragons, they swooped down with deadly force.