Deep night, the flickering flames cast eerie shadows as the old man, with black blood staining his hair and an ancient sword embedded in his skull, exuded an indescribable strangeness. Suddenly, he moved—grabbing Little Rascal by the scruff and swinging his palm with astonishing force, delivering a series of painful slaps. Even with Little Rascal’s formidable physique, the pain was unbearable. He nearly cursed aloud—after all, he had gone out of his way to retrieve the broken sword, only to be rewarded with a beating instead. What kind of twisted logic was this?
Little Rascal struggled fiercely, but the ghostly elder’s strength was overwhelming, his hand like a millstone as he spanked him relentlessly. “Damn you!” Little Rascal fumed. This was the first time in his life he’d been beaten, and by an old ghost who owed him a favor, no less!
Enraged, his body erupted with radiant light, runes intertwining into a golden barrier as he unleashed a powerful aura. His limbs thrashed with the force of hundreds of thousands of pounds, enough to topple a small mountain. Yet the old man stood unshaken, rooted to the ground like a boulder, only increasing the force of his strikes until Little Rascal saw stars, nearly passing out—mostly from sheer fury.
“Old ghost, I’ll fight you to the death!” He bared his claws, unleashing his treasure spells—golden lightning, silver moons—but none could pierce the elder’s defenses, clanging harmlessly against his ancient robes. In desperation, Little Rascal summoned the Divine Slaying Stone with a rune and hurled it at the old man, only to be beaten even more viciously.
“Ouch!”
“It hurts!”
This time, both Little Rascal and the Divine Slaying Stone cried out in pain. It was like striking an immortal mountain—their bones nearly shattered from the impact.
“What’s happening?” Qing Feng woke with a start, quickly realizing the situation. Though he couldn’t see the ghostly elder, he had heard of ancient supernatural legends. The silver-robed youth also stirred, bursting into laughter at the sight—this was karma at its finest.
Even Er Meng, now fully awake, grinned crookedly. “You little terror, always bullying others—now you’re finally getting what you deserve, hahaha!”
The golden-furred ball, sensing danger, swiftly retreated without a shred of loyalty, content to watch from a safe distance.
Little Rascal, battered and furious, was at his wit’s end. This was the first time he had ever suffered such humiliation. He even summoned the Golden Scissors, but a barrier of light blocked their strike.
“Why are you hitting me? You ungrateful old wretch!” he roared, writhing in indignation.
Only after what felt like an eternity did the elder finally tire and release him. Anyone else would have been reduced to mist under such blows, but the holy terror was resilient—still full of energy, he jumped up, cursing and ready for a rematch.
“You heartless old man! I helped you, and this is how you repay me?” His eyes blazed with fury.
Strangely, the angrier he got, the more amused Xiao Tian and Er Meng became. Seeing the little menace finally put in his place was deeply satisfying.
Little Rascal glared at the elder, weighing the insurmountable gap between them. This was an ancient being, unfathomably powerful—no amount of effort could bridge that divide.
Noticing Xiao Tian and Er Meng’s laughter, his face darkened. With a flick of his wrist, he hurled the Divine Slaying Stone.
*Thud!*
Xiao Tian clutched his forehead, howling in pain—already covered in bumps, now sporting a new one that threatened to sprout water. Then, Little Rascal lunged at the still-grinning Er Meng, sending him flying. If he couldn’t beat the elder, he’d settle the score with these two.
“Why did you hit me?” Little Rascal demanded, still fuming at the ghostly elder. After risking his life to retrieve the broken sword, he got no reward—just a beating.
The elder seemed dazed for a long moment before murmuring, “It was for your own good.”
“Hahaha—” Er Meng couldn’t help but laugh again, his mouth twisting crookedly. Beating the brat senseless and then saying *that*? That would surely infuriate him further.
Xiao Tian, though less bold, also smirked in delight. Oh, how he wished he had the strength to give the holy terror a taste of his own medicine.
Er Meng yelped as Little Rascal sent him flying again.
“You’ve advanced too quickly in your cultivation,” the elder explained. “It’s left hidden flaws. You must temper your foundation before progressing further.”
Little Rascal paused, his anger momentarily forgotten. This was something he had worried about—breaking through multiple minor realms in such a short time was unprecedented. Even the Willow God had warned him of the dangers of rapid advancement.
In that ancient pocket world, the spiritual energy had been overwhelming, and his deep comprehension of runes, combined with consuming rare treasures, had forced breakthroughs. Though he felt no immediate ill effects, the elder’s words struck a chord.
“Is it serious?” he asked urgently.
The elder’s eyes gleamed with rare admiration. “Not dire. You are… remarkably resilient. Only minor issues. Meditate daily at the Sacred Guardian’s shrine, and you’ll recover swiftly.”
“I knew it—I’m the strongest!” Little Rascal declared, his confidence flaring once more.
Then it hit him—had he been beaten for nothing? If there was no real danger, why the thrashing? His indignation reignited.
“You can’t hit me for no reason! Compensate me!”
“Go to the Scripture Pavilion. Learn all you can. One day, these mountains and rivers will be no more—and that day is not far.” The elder sighed deeply before erupting in blinding radiance, engulfing the bamboo grove.
When the light faded, he was gone—only the broken sword remained, clattering against the stone with a crisp ring.
“What the—?” Little Rascal scowled, scanning the area, but the elder’s presence had vanished entirely.
The golden-furred ball darted over, snatching the sword and biting down—only to yelp and drop it with a metallic *clang*.
Picking it up, Little Rascal noticed another patch of rust had fallen away, revealing a translucent, gel-like substance. The sword was clearly two pieces fused together by some divine adhesive.
Er Meng leaped up, eyes wide. “Let me see that!”
Little Rascal refused—this was a deadly weapon. Who knew what the featherless bird would do with it?
“Could this be… phoenix beak and qilin horn fused into divine glue to mend the sword? Impossible… right?” Er Meng stared, transfixed.
Little Rascal was equally stunned. Had this blade been reforged using the beaks and horns of mythical beasts?
“No… it lacks the divine aura of true ancient spirits,” Er Meng muttered, then noticed the pagoda nestled in Little Rascal’s hair. “What’s that? Let me see!”
“No.”
“That pagoda… it’s flawless. Like jade, yet… it feels like celestial bone.” Er Meng shook his head. “You’ve got too many replicas.”
To shut him up, Little Rascal pummeled him again. The pagoda’s origins were too mysterious—and far more terrifying than the broken sword.
At dawn, golden sunlight bathed the bamboo grove, dispelling the mist in a dazzling display. Little Rascal strode toward a forbidden zone—a sacred mountain range where waterfalls cascaded amidst radiant splendor.
The Scripture Pavilion stood there, an ancient, indestructible monument from the primordial era, its stone walls towering and majestic, its tiles shimmering with golden light.
This was the heart of the ancient Pure Land—and Little Rascal had arrived.
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