Broken walls and scattered rubble tell the tale of joy and sorrow at the end of glory. Is this a world where gods ascend to divinity, or is there a deeper mystery? One after another, the ancient divine mountains have shattered, shrouded in endless mist and primordial chaos.
Little Rascal sprinted forward, his long black hair streaming behind him like a banner in the wind, his speed astonishingly swift. Finally, he reached the end, stepping onto a golden path. A flash of radiant light, and he vanished from the spot, reappearing in the Primordial Land.
“Who’s this, squatting on the pathway? Does he really think he’s the holy terror, trying to pry out a couple of Glyph Bones?”
“How boring. Of all people to imitate, why him?”
In the Primordial Land, Little Rascal crouched atop a massive bluestone, examining it closely. Embedded within were several gleaming Treasure Bones, more resplendent than before. He wouldn’t dare dig them out again—he’d already been banished once, and he had no desire to be permanently exiled from the Netherworld. Still, nostalgia tugged at him as memories of the past surfaced.
His odd posture—knocking on the stone, lost in thought—naturally drew attention. People pointed and whispered, their murmurs spreading like ripples. Little Rascal kept his true appearance hidden, preferring to observe first.
“Hey, kid, don’t actually think you’re that savage brat.”
“Copying him like this is just asking for a beating.”
Little Rascal scratched his head and stood, surveying the unchanged Primordial Land. “Has the holy terror shown up?” he asked, feigning ignorance.
“Show up? He died in the Sky Mending Pavilion. That’s what happens when you jump around too much—ends up costing you your life,” someone sneered.
“Not necessarily. No one’s seen his corpse. How can you be sure he’s dead?” another countered.
“Please. He’s definitely dead. Think about it—if he were alive, with his personality, wouldn’t he have come to the Netherworld by now? It’s been two years and a month. His ban’s long expired.”
The mention of the holy terror drew a crowd, stirring up heated discussions.
“Escape the Sky Mending Pavilion? Him? Reduced to ashes, I’d say. Even their elders fell in battle. Sure, his talent was terrifying, but he was just a brat. No way he survived.”
“Oh? Isn’t this one of the Four Great Clans? I remember you—piled into a ‘human mountain’ by the holy terror over two years ago. Still stuck in the Primordial Land? With your cultivation, shouldn’t you have moved on to higher realms by now?” someone mocked.
“You don’t know? Whether it’s the Four Great Clans or other major factions hostile to the Sky Mending Pavilion, many have gathered here, waiting for news.”
“Rumors say a few slipped through the net, making the great clans uneasy. They’ve cast a wide net, searching everywhere.”
Little Rascal frowned. Even the Netherworld wasn’t peaceful—far more complicated than he’d imagined. Though the battle for the Sky Mending Pavilion had ended, its echoes lingered, the ripples unquiet.
The memory of that battle clenched his fists, his heart heavy. So many senior brothers and sisters had fallen, their blood staining the sacred ground. Even the elders had perished, sacrificing themselves to buy time for the disciples’ escape.
Pushing through the crowd, Little Rascal walked away, lost in thought. Only after a long while did his turbulent emotions settle.
He altered his appearance again, using the treasure technique of the furball to stretch his frame like a bamboo pole—utterly unrecognizable. Then, with a loud shout, he declared, “The holy terror isn’t dead! I just overheard someone whispering about seeing him.”
It was just a test, but the reaction was immediate. A swarm of people rushed toward him, their auras murderous, voices urgent.
“Where? Who saw him?”
“Speak! Where is that savage brat? When did he reappear?”
Their voices were sharp, their bodies wreathed in swirling Glyphs, ready to strike at the slightest provocation. Little Rascal sensed multiple bone scripts in an instant—members of the Four Great Clans, others shrouded in rain and mist, likely from the Rain Clan. Still more factions gathered, including the Tuoba Clan.
Back then, numerous sects had united to crush the Sky Mending Pavilion—not just the Tuoba, Rain Clan, Western Tomb Beast Mountain, and the Four Great Clans, but other formidable legacies as well.
A cold glint flashed in Little Rascal’s eyes. These people truly were relentless, hunting him even in the Netherworld, determined to eradicate every trace.
Clearly, many believed he still lived, casting their nets wide in hopes of a lead. His terrifying talent had even the ancient sects fearing his survival, dreading the threat he might one day pose.
“Speak! Where did you hear this? Who was talking?!” they demanded, their tones laced with menace.
More closed in, their killing intent palpable, all eager for news of the holy terror.
Little Rascal feigned innocence. “Just overheard it. Can’t say if it’s true.”
“Enough nonsense! Out with it!” a Four Great Clans member barked.
“Don’t play dumb, or you’ll regret it,” a Rain Clan member threatened.
“It was two old men. One had a bird on his shoulder, the other looked cunning—a bit of a scoundrel. They were whispering.”
“What?! Bird Grandpa and Essence Stone Grandpa?!”
“Quick, find those two old coots! They’ve never left the Primordial Land!”
The crowd surged away like a storm, though a few still lunged for Little Rascal. Seizing the chaos, he melted into the throng and vanished.
Those two had once peddled both true and false rumors about him, earning notoriety in the Primordial Land.
Little Rascal was stunned. Two years later, and they were still here? How odd.
Essence Stone Grandpa—slippery and shameless—was ambling about when he was suddenly surrounded, nearly beaten on the spot. Bird Grandpa, not far off, bolted but was swiftly cornered by a pack of snarling thugs.
“Youngsters, mind your manners. My status is not to be trifled with. Your ancestors would scold you for such disrespect,” Essence Stone Grandpa intoned, playing the sage.
The crowd rolled their eyes. This old fraud still dared to boast? If not for the information they sought, they’d have thrashed him already.
“Easy now, let’s talk this through,” Bird Grandpa soothed, waving them back.
“Enough! You two swindled countless people back then. Now, we have questions. No lies,” one growled.
“Tell us—where is the holy terror? How did you find him?” a Rain Clan member demanded.
“The holy terror?” Essence Stone Grandpa’s sage act crumbled. His eyes darted, then he snapped, “A hundred Essence Stones for the info! And that’s per person. No public announcements—pay up front!”
From the crowd’s edge, Little Rascal gaped. The old rascal was still peddling lies even when cornered? What a scoundrel.
“You old cheat! Two years of swindling Essence Stones, and you still dare con us?” someone roared.
“The info’s solid. Doubt me, and someone else will pay dearly for it later. Don’t regret it,” Essence Stone Grandpa sniffed.
“Skin him alive!”
But others turned to the quieter, seemingly more honest Bird Grandpa. “You. Speak.”
“Two hundred Essence Stones per message,” Bird Grandpa replied calmly.
“What?! You’re insane! Double the price?!”
“My info’s real. His is fake. Mine’s worth more,” Bird Grandpa said smoothly.
Essence Stone Grandpa fumed. “Slander! If higher price means truth, then I say three hundred!”
“Pah! Fake news masquerading as truth? I’m the honest one here,” Bird Grandpa retorted.
“Liar! You’re the fraud!”
The two bickered, trading insults, their squabble spiraling.
The onlookers were dumbstruck. These two weren’t just haggling—they were fighting over who could fleece them harder.
“Enough! Where is the holy terror? Where’s his real body hiding?” a Tuoba clansman barked, his patience spent.
“Pay up. Not a peep without the goods,” the two chorused.
Little Rascal facepalmed. Even in dire straits, these two couldn’t resist swindling.
“Insolent!” Someone lunged, striking at Bird Grandpa.
*Thud!*
But the attacker was sent flying by a single wing-slap from the bird on Bird Grandpa’s shoulder, crashing into a distant rock, blood spraying.
The crowd recoiled. These two were powerhouses—far stronger than they’d seemed. No wonder they’d survived so long unscathed.
From the shadows, Little Rascal smirked. These old rogues were full of surprises.
An idea sparked. Perhaps they could partner for a scheme.
This time, Little Rascal hadn’t returned just to temper himself. He aimed to stir a storm, to avenge the Sky Mending Pavilion’s fall.
True to form, he wouldn’t charge in blindly. He’d already tested the waters. His plan? Sell the news of his return—make the great sects pay dearly in Essence Stones and Primordial Treasure Bones for the privilege.
He wanted them to “welcome” him with lavish “gifts.”
Originally, he’d planned to work alone, disguising himself to peddle the rumors. But seeing these two, he reconsidered. They were seasoned swindlers, experts in extortion and deception—perfect allies.
Quickly, he sent a mental message, outlining his scheme.
The two old rogues’ eyes lit up like hungry wolves. With a roar that shook the Primordial Land, they announced:
“New terms! Only Primordial Treasure Bones or Ancient Descendant’s Blood—precious ones! No small fry—send your clan leaders with the rarest treasures, or no deal!”
They swore their info was genuine, staking their heads on it.
Instantly, the Primordial Land erupted. The holy terror lived? Was he returning?
The news rocketed to higher realms, igniting a frenzy.
Once the clamor died, the two old men exchanged glances, whispering where none could hear.
“That brat’s ruthless. Even his grand entrance comes with a price tag. Shameless.”
“His face is thicker than ours. Planning revenge but making it seem like they’re begging for him? What a scam.”
“Sounds familiar. Fits you two perfectly,” Little Rascal cut in, scowling.
The two jumped, then grinned.
“Ah, the mastermind arrives!”
Little Rascal bared his teeth. “Let’s make them pay—dearly.”
The storm was coming. And the great sects would fund their own downfall.
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