Duan Rui’s mind was nearly completely blank. An encounter unprecedented and unimaginable left this Hundred-Flawed Heaven Devil, who in recent years could stop children from crying at night, with a familiar yet strange sense of vulnerability, just like when he was young facing “Furious Blade” Su Meng—no matter how he fought, he couldn’t overcome or escape, until the Demon Sage intervened and he barely escaped.
Moments ago, before his eyes were “Brocade Weaver Hermit” Shao Changge and the disciple of Joyful Bodhisattva, Yingning, and the boundless green prairie where the wind blew the grass low to reveal cattle and sheep. Now, it was a withered monk in gray robes, a frail young master, and a swordswoman fairy; it was the mighty east-flowing river, the iron chains stretched across the water’s surface. North and south of the sky, in an instant, had he entered another world?
On the grasslands, Shao Changge and Yingning stood dazed, eyes wide, staring at the spot where Duan Rui had vanished, mouths slowly opening but emitting no sound.
What had just happened?
A hand suddenly emerged from the void and snatched away the Hundred-Flawed Heaven Devil. As it moved, a faint aura was revealed, and the scene beyond appeared faintly, strangely familiar!
After several breaths, Shao Changge’s pupils suddenly constricted, and he cried out in shock: “Furious Blade!”
“Furious Blade” Su Meng!
He could never mistake this familiar aura. Although he had never seen the Furious Blade in person, his young lady had once collected a Thunder Saber called “Evil Calamity,” often playing with it until it was destroyed after returning from the Ninth Heaven. The original owner of that blade was Su Meng, and the aura had never faded from it; he had often sensed it.
Meanwhile, Yingning murmured almost to herself: “Eastern Jiang.”
That feeling, those sights, were definitely from Eastern Jiang. She had been born there and cultivated and trained there after opening her meridians; she couldn’t be mistaken!
Almost simultaneously, the two spoke, then instinctively exchanged glances, combining their words into a terrifying conclusion:
Furious Blade, from afar in Eastern Jiang, had acted remotely, directly snatching away the “Hundred-Flawed Heaven Devil” Duan Rui!
In today’s world, besides the omnipresent Su Wuming, who else could accomplish such a feat?
Was this the hallmark of an omnipresent legend, or something uniquely wondrous?
To what realm had the “Furious Blade” ascended?
The two were so frightened that they hastily fled, flying toward the place where the Longevity Heaven had returned, just like young martial artists fresh from their sects seeking refuge from elders after suffering setbacks.
After the blankness, countless thoughts surged through Duan Rui’s mind. Soon, he recognized “Calculating All Beings” Wang Dazigong and “Supreme Divine Sword” Jiang Zhiwei. Then, he noticed the gray-robed monk before him was very familiar.
Ignoring the deeply buried, deathly aura and the withered, weary exterior, this was an exceptionally striking face: thick, uncluttered black eyebrows, eyes seemingly capable of drawing in one’s soul…
Suddenly, a realization struck Duan Rui:
“Furious Blade” Su Meng!
For over a decade, he had roamed the world, unyielding even in dire straits—the “Furious Blade” Su Meng, the ever-present shadow in his heart!
“This is Eastern Jiang; he reached across half of the Great Jin, the entire Northern Zhou, and half the grasslands to seize me here…” The prior realization and the current epiphany caused Duan Rui’s body to tremble uncontrollably, his legs nearly giving way.
A flash of brutal, savage energy passed through him, soon crushed by extreme fear. Though not restrained, he dared neither resist nor flee.
Wang Siyuan leaned back slightly, raised his head, and murmured softly, as if sighing:
“The cause of all consequences…”
Yuan Shi Tian Zun (Primordial Celestial Venerable)!
Jiang Zhiwei’s eyes sparkled with interest.
“Back then, I was soft-hearted, pitying your dual souls and inability to control yourself, giving you a chance to redeem yourself instead of mercilessly eliminating evil,” Meng Qi looked at Duan Rui and spoke slowly. “In these dozen years, countless have died needlessly. My moment of mercy satisfied myself but caused others to suffer. It was my mistake, and today is the time to atone.”
Thud, thud, Duan Rui’s heart raced, his body gradually chilling. The approach of death filled him with terror, his mind flashing images of countless mutilated corpses—his subordinates’ spirits. Was he now to follow in their footsteps?
With a plop, Duan Rui suddenly prostrated himself, crying: “Senior, spare my life! No, Master, spare me! Yuan Jing is frail, my child is young, they cannot lose me. Please, take my martial arts, but do not kill me. Let me live to care for them.”
Meng Qi gazed at him, eyes indifferent, like a true monk practicing ascetic meditation: “When you killed innocents, did you soften at their pleas?”
With a bang, terror exploded in Duan Rui’s heart, black qi seeping from his eyes, ears, mouth, and nose. Suddenly, his body tore apart, limbs flying, blood and filth filling the air.
He used a secret technique to attempt escape.
A blade of swordlight flashed, quickly dividing into countless threads forming a net, enveloping the black qi and severed limbs, compressing them into a glowing sphere.
Inside the sphere, blood and filth writhed, and Duan Rui reappeared.
Seeing Meng Qi had not acted, Jiang Zhiwei, glancing thoughtfully at the wound on his chest yet to heal, drew her sword with a casual flick, subduing Duan Rui effortlessly.
At this moment, Wang Siyuan coughed twice, smiling faintly: “You still have a thread of survival.”
Hmm? Despairing, Duan Rui desperately clung to this final straw.
“Help us open the stone gate at the back of Shaolin, and we will merely strip you of your martial arts, destroy your foundation, imprison you beneath the relic pagoda at Shaolin’s back mountain to reflect on your sins, and allow you to see your wife and child once a year.” Wang Siyuan laid out harsh conditions, but compared to death, Duan Rui accepted without hesitation.
Meng Qi said nothing, nor did he acknowledge Wang Siyuan’s offer.
Wang Siyuan then transmitted mentally: “His demonic art is an inverted version of the Muscle Transformation Sutra, extremely strange, deeply rooted in malice. Without power to suppress it, and unable to vent, he will go mad and die within seven days.”
This conclusion was drawn from numerous failed captives.
Jiang Zhiwei shook her head with a faint smile: “A mystic is still a mystic; he can trick people without even lying.”
Light beams soared, and the group headed directly toward Shaolin.
…
This time, Wang Siyuan did not attempt to hide from Shaolin but approached openly.
Inside the Great Buddha Hall, numerous high monks gathered.
“Master…” Meng Qi bowed to Xuan Bei without further words, merely calling him “Master,” his tone lingering, as if choked with emotion.
Xuan Bei wore a yellow robe and red kasaya, gazing at Meng Qi with a kind expression, filled with sentiment. He sighed: “They say a nephew resembles his uncle; indeed, it is so.”
He stepped forward, turned to Wu Si who was holding a nine-ringed staff, and said: “Namo Amitabha, Abbot. This old monk shall take care of the matter regarding Ananda’s Pure Land at the back mountain.”
Wu Si did not object, merely chanting a Buddhist mantra.
No longer hiding, the group soon reached the stone gate.
The gate shimmered with lapis lazuli light, exuding eternal Zen meaning. The eight characters “Kindness and righteousness, do not enter this gate” seemed as pure as Bodhi and as solid as Vajra.
“Open it,” Wang Siyuan ordered Duan Rui.
Jiang Zhiwei lightly flicked her sword hilt, threads of swordlight bursting from Duan Rui’s body, restoring his power.
Duan Rui’s eyes turned pitch black, his aura sinister and filthy, his expression twisted and hideous. His right hand extended into a pitch-black demonic claw, striking the stone gate fiercely.
As the black qi silently seeped in, Wang Siyuan’s right hand flickered black and white, forming an illusory Luo Shu chart, pushing forward.
The Buddhist seal on the stone gate remained unchanged, the lapis lazuli undisturbed, yet the gate itself strangely shifted backward, slowly opening, as if something distant was responding.
Behind the gate was the same as Meng Qi had seen within the Chrono-light fragment: no sun or moon, no wind or clouds or mountains, only pitch-black earth, dark red blood everywhere, and countless severed limbs.
Xuan Bei softly chanted a Buddhist mantra, his back revealing the image of Ksitigarbha Bodhisattva, using the Sutra of Delivering Souls to dispel all attachments and demonic intent.
Wang Siyuan once again subdued Duan Rui, fearing his demonic arts might still be needed within Ananda’s Pure Land.
With their current cultivation and strength, the group proceeded smoothly to the foot of the seven-leveled Mount Sumeru. Looking ahead, arrays like “Sever Purity,” “Fall into the Mortal World,” and “Entangle Karma” were completely destroyed, either by Han Guang or by Meng Qi and Wang Siyuan’s actions.
Flight was impossible here; even without the arrays, Meng Qi and the others had to ascend the mountain path. Walking beside Meng Qi, Xuan Bei suddenly spoke: “Back then, when I caused the Tang Clan’s annihilation, I was filled with guilt and self-reproach. Not that I regretted intervening when I saw injustice, but I hated myself for not doing it well or secretly enough. Had my enemy not still existed in this world, I might have lost all will, my heart like a dead lake, ending my life. But fortunately, Old Man Ku survived, and my deep hatred and pain supported me forward, though I knew it contradicted Buddhist teachings, I could not forget.”
“And precisely because of this, your killing of Old Man Ku avenged my hatred, freeing me from its torment, finally achieving great enlightenment. Today, I have only one wish: someday to master the mysteries of life and death, reviving my family, returning peace and happiness to their lives.”
He spoke not to express himself, but to tell Meng Qi through his story: keep going, and you will eventually find your way. If you cannot endure, find a reason to keep going—like hatred! Like the hope of resurrection!
Meng Qi turned to his master, fire flickering in his eyes, soon calming as he softly replied: “Disciple understands.”
At this moment, the group passed through the ruined first six layers of arrays, reaching the seventh and the mountain peak.
Everywhere were deep pits and cracks, signs of destruction, as if a great battle had occurred in ancient times. Had the Pure Land not been indestructible, and the mountain not collapsed, this place would have long vanished.
Naturally, no traces of arrays remained in the seventh layer.
Meng Qi, Xuan Bei, Jiang Zhiwei, and Wang Siyuan walked forward cautiously when suddenly a sigh arose from the ruined scene: “If the heart is not tranquil, emotions not calm, even through red dust reincarnations, breaking and receiving precepts, how can one ever see the Tathagata?”
The voice was filled with sorrow, echoing through countless ages.
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