Chapter 1112: Treasure Seizure

At this moment, the gray-robed monk’s expression turned extremely grim.

This sword formation was far more profound than they had anticipated.

Han Li observed that although the two below had drastically changed expressions, they still hadn’t shown genuine panic. His eyes flickered thoughtfully, and the corner of his mouth twitched slightly.

Just then, the old woman and the monk took out several other treasures, attempting to fend off the approaching golden threads.

Han Li’s expression shifted slightly. The humanoid puppet standing behind him suddenly emitted a faint spiritual glow and vanished without a trace.

Moments later, the golden threads of the sword formation were now only about twenty zhang away from the two in the center.

Forced into desperation, the old woman and the gray-robed monk even resorted to self-detonating their ancient treasures. Though this briefly halted the golden threads, it still couldn’t stop them from continuing to close in.

“This won’t work! This sword formation is too bizarre. Ordinary treasures can’t break it. We must use that thing now! Only its power can shatter this formation!” The old woman, seeing the golden threads drawing ever closer, finally showed fear on her face. She turned abruptly and spoke anxiously to the gray-robed monk.

“Using that item would indeed break the sword formation, but how will we deal with that Han brat afterward?” The monk hesitated.

“We can’t afford to worry about that now! Breaking the formation is our only chance. Otherwise, once the formation fully closes, we’re dead. Keeping that thing won’t help us then!” the old woman snapped without hesitation.

The monk’s face twitched. Seeing the golden threads closing in another few zhang in mere moments, he finally gritted his teeth and nodded.

With a pat to his storage pouch, a peculiar object appeared in his palm—a fist-sized, fiery-red sphere, its surface obscured by a hazy red glow. The sphere was sealed with a talisman bearing gold and silver inscriptions. Holding it carefully, the monk wore an expression of extreme caution.

“Fellow Daoist Mojiu, hurry! If this thing activates too close, we’ll be caught in it too!” the old woman shrieked, eyeing the golden threads now only ten zhang away.

The monk sighed and reached to remove the talisman from the red sphere, seemingly ready to use it.

But at that moment, a faint silver light flashed behind him, and a figure materialized out of thin air—silent as a ghost, unnoticed by the monk.

The old woman, standing opposite the monk, spotted the anomaly immediately and cried out in alarm.

“Behind you!”

As she shouted, she flicked her sleeve, sending a streak of yellow light shooting toward the figure.

Hearing the warning, the monk’s heart lurched. Without thinking, he jerked sideways, trying to dodge while reflexively pulling the red sphere back into his sleeve. But he was too slow.

The figure behind him was the humanoid puppet, possessing the power of a late-Nascent Soul cultivator. In a flash, one of its hands stabbed toward the monk’s back while the other snatched at the fiery sphere—movements as swift as lightning.

A muffled grunt escaped the monk as he staggered.

Though the puppet’s silver hand easily pierced his protective spiritual light, the moment it touched his back, a phantom of a feathered bird emerged from his body.

The puppet’s hand, glowing with silver light, sliced through the phantom, but the delay allowed the monk to evade a fatal blow, leaving only a deep gash on his shoulder, blood pouring out.

Meanwhile, the hand reaching for the red sphere nearly grasped it—but the sphere suddenly shot away toward the old woman.

The yellow needle she had fired was now inches from the puppet’s head.

The puppet’s eyes flashed purple, ignoring the needle entirely. Its arm reaching for the sphere suddenly trembled, then snapped off with a crack.

The detached arm shot forward, seized the sphere mid-flight, and swiftly returned.

At the same time, the yellow needle struck the puppet’s head with a dull explosion, golden light flaring.

“No!”

“Ah!”

Two contrasting cries rang out—one of horror from the monk, the other of triumph from the old woman.

The monk was furious at losing the red sphere, while the old woman rejoiced, believing her centuries-refined lifebound treasure had struck a fatal blow.

The puppet staggered back several steps before steadying itself, its cold gaze locking onto the old woman. A thumb-sized hole marred its temple, but silver light flickered within, sealing the wound without a trace.

The old woman gaped, then shrieked, “My Yellow Plum Needle! What have you done to it?”

The puppet slowly raised a hand, revealing the yellow needle trapped in a ball of silver light, writhing futilely to escape.

The old woman paled, but before she could speak, the puppet clenched its hands together. A blinding silver light erupted, and the needle dimmed, its spiritual essence drained.

The old woman coughed up mouthfuls of blood, her vitality severely damaged.

The gray-robed monk, ignoring his injury, flung his hands outward, releasing countless silver orbs the size of fists, their passage roaring like wind and thunder.

Han Li, hovering above, smirked coldly. With a thought, the puppet formed a seal, glowing silver before vanishing once more.

The silver orbs struck empty air, useless.

The monk and the old woman exchanged glances, despair in their eyes.

The golden threads were now a mere seven or eight zhang away—escape was impossible.

Han Li watched indifferently from above, hands clasped behind his back.

The Great Geng Sword Formation finally closed completely, the golden threads merging into a colossal golden sphere. Explosions rocked the sphere, followed by the agonized screams of the old woman and the monk.

Through his spiritual sight, Han Li saw their bodies shredded in an instant.

Their Nascent Souls lasted slightly longer but were eventually reduced to motes of light, erased from existence.

Their storage pouches and treasures were obliterated, leaving only two small clusters of icy flames—one yellow, one green—floating quietly in the air.

Han Li sighed, his expression softening into melancholy.

After a moment of silence, silver light flickered beside him as the puppet reappeared, offering the stolen red sphere.

Han Li took it wordlessly, examining it closely.

The sphere was semi-transparent, containing a swirling crimson flame that resembled a tiny firebird, lifelike and mesmerizing. Around it danced multicolored runes, each resembling an archaic script Han Li couldn’t decipher—seemingly a completely unknown ancient language.

Frowning, Han Li pondered.

This item, their last resort, must have been a trump card of immense power.

Though the sphere’s fire-attribute spiritual energy was potent, it alone couldn’t possibly dismantle his Great Geng Sword Formation. The true power likely lay in the runes—yet he couldn’t decipher a single one.

Now wasn’t the time for study. Han Li retrieved a few more sealing talismans, affixing them to the sphere before storing it in a golden-wooden box for later.

Turning his gaze to the qilin phantom, he noted its size had shrunk slightly, while the fire crow inside appeared more vibrant, having grown by a third.

Han Li stroked his chin, deep in thought.

He wasn’t in a hurry to reclaim the true flame. Instead, he formed a hand seal and chanted.

From the void below, a hundred golden lights emerged, most dissipating until only thirty-six small golden swords remained.

With a flick of his sleeve, the swords vanished into his robes. His eyes then settled on the two clusters of cold flames below—small, unremarkable, yet quietly glowing.