Chapter 1534: Chaotic Age

Chapter 1534: Chaotic Age

Half a month later, in the Great Spirit Field Realm.

Along a field path that stretched endlessly beneath the sky, vast and unbroken, yet mostly left barren and overgrown.

A weary old horse pulled a battered carriage loaded with a full compartment of people, struggling forward with great effort.

The driver at the reins had eyes as alert as a mountain falcon, constantly scanning his surroundings.

Inside the carriage sat seven or eight cultivators.

These cultivators were all ragged in clothing, hunger written across their faces, their fingers rough and calloused, with a layer of dirt ground into their skin that no amount of washing could remove.

The only thing of value they carried was a worn-out storage bag.

Inside the storage bag were some Spirit Grain and Spirit Flour, along with a pitiful handful of Spirit stones.

Their faces all bore expressions of exhaustion and hardship. Throughout the journey, they spoke in hushed, anxious tones, their conversations revolving around famine years and the chaos of war.

One family's harvest had been too meager, not enough to feed their children, so they had driven them out to fend for themselves.

Some of the younger and stronger cultivators had joined bandit strongholds, learning to rob, kill, and plunder—only to be killed themselves not long after.

The fields to the north had rotted away for no apparent reason. After a full year of planting, not a single grain was harvested. It was estimated that before long, the spirit farmers, unable to fill their stomachs, would rise up in revolt as well.

Somewhere else, many people had died, and for unknown reasons, even their corpses could not be found...

In the end, these people, helpless and resigned, could only mutter prayers, begging the Earth God for protection, begging the great Ksitigarbha for his blessing.

They believed that their own lack of devotion, their insufficient Incense Offerings, were what had brought down this calamity upon them...

As the group talked and lamented, none of them noticed that in the corner of the carriage sat a figure clad in a pitch-black robe.

This figure had been sitting silently in the corner from the very beginning, neither concealing himself nor hiding his tracks.

Yet everyone in the carriage neither saw nor heard him, as if in their perception, no such person existed at all.

And so the carriage continued on its way, traveling another day and night.

When the people on board grew hungry, they would occasionally take out some blackened steamed buns mixed with weeds to eat, or gnaw on a small bite of a dry flatbread hard as stone.

These things were unpalatable and hard to swallow.

But the people on board still couldn't bear to eat too much, in this time of famine, this might be their entire ration for half a month.

The figure in the black robe sat in the corner, silently watching all of this.

After another half day of travel, as the people inside were chatting, a burly man glanced outside and turned to ask the driver:

"Did you take the wrong road? This isn't the way to Nansui Prefecture."

The driver turned his head back and said, "The usual road has been hit by rebellion, can't pass through anymore. Had to take a detour."

The burly man frowned. "You're sure you didn't take a wrong turn?"

The driver replied impatiently, "If you're afraid of getting lost, get off. I won't carry you anymore."

Chastened by the driver's words, the burly man dared not speak again.

He was a spirit farmer, living off the land, his whole life buried in the fields. Unless forced by circumstance, he rarely ventured out into the world, so he naturally wasn't familiar with these roads.

The burly man forced a smile and said, "Don't be angry. I was just asking."

The driver snorted coldly, cracked his whip at the horse again, and quickened the pace.

Another half day passed, and the road grew increasingly remote and desolate. The people in the carriage harbored doubts, but no longer dared to voice them.

Finally, as dusk fell, the carriage stopped at the entrance of a desolate waystation.

The driver said, "We've traveled too long and we're tired. Get off and rest your legs, have a drink of water."

Seeing that it was indeed a waystation, with its plaque still hanging above the door, and exhausted from the long, bumpy, cramped journey, the passengers disembarked one by one, intending to enter the waystation for a brief rest.

The driver hitched the horse to the post at the entrance and called out, "Attendant, open the door."

The waystation's large door slowly creaked open.

The driver led the passengers inside.

But the moment they crossed the threshold and stepped into the waystation, a suffocating stench of blood hit them full in the face.

A coarse, hoarse voice sounded in their ears: "Why did you deliver this batch of provisions so slowly?"

The driver stammered, not daring to speak.

The others' faces turned pale with shock.

They tried to flee back out the door, but a group of butchers with faces full of cruel flesh, wearing aprons made of human skin stained with blood, had already blocked their only path of escape.

Like chickens and ducks being herded to slaughter, they were seized—some by the throat, others with arms twisted behind their backs—and firmly restrained.

They were all spirit farmers, knowing only how to till the land, unskilled in combat. How could they possibly be a match for these blood-soaked butchers?

Captured, the spirit farmers' faces were filled with terror, their bodies already limp with fright.

A few who tried to resist were immediately twisted by their limbs and dragged into the inner courtyard.

The inner courtyard was a large slaughterhouse. The yard was filled with butchering tables, blood pooling across the chopping blocks and congealing into filthy sludge that could never be washed clean.

Human skin hung drying on racks, bones were piled on the ground, and slabs of meat were being dried and cured as reserve provisions.

This scene, like a living hell, utterly shattered the courage of these honest, law-abiding spirit farmers.

At the other end of the slaughterhouse, a butcher chieftain covered in fleshy tumors tossed twenty Spirit stones to the driver, along with a small pouch of blackened dried meat.

"You've done well. Next time, deliver faster. Don't keep me waiting."

The coachman, after all, was still human. He accepted the spirit stones and dried meat, but the bloody scene around him churned his stomach. He nearly vomited, yet dared not.

He knew that if he vomited and angered the man before him, he too would be chopped up, sliced into dried meat, and made into rations.

The butcher leader gave a sinister smile, then turned and said in a hoarse voice:

"The livestock have arrived. Time to butcher."

A group of vicious butchers, covered in blood and grime, drooling with anticipation, some pulling out boning knives, others hefting cleavers, prepared to feast as they always did.

The spirit farmer pinned to the chopping block had been a passenger in the cart moments ago, and now he was fish on the cutting board, his pupils wide with terror.

One heavy cleaver after another was raised high, then brought down in an instant.

But at that very moment, as if golden light pierced the void, a blinding flash of gold cut through the bloody hellscape.

Then blade after blade of golden energy shot through the air, incredibly fast, striking before the cleavers could fall.

They severed the arms of these vicious butchers before the cleavers ever landed.

These butchers' arms were as hard as steel, but the Golden Blade Technique was razor sharp, cutting through metal like mud.

In no time, blood sprayed as severed limbs littered the ground.

Everyone was horrified.

The butcher leader, covered in fleshy tumors, flew into a rage. "Who dares use the Golden Blade Technique?"

Before his words even faded, his dark brown, inverted-triangle eyes narrowed sharply, locking onto the center of the slaughterhouse.

There, in the blood-soaked killing ground, a figure in a black robe had materialized.

Among the burly butchers, this figure looked thin and frail, utterly unremarkable, yet carried an air of the strangeness.

No one knew when this figure had arrived, or how it had appeared.

Sensing an inexplicable threat, the butcher leader instantly drew two half-man-tall serrated greatswords, slick with gore, and hacked at the black-robed figure.

The remaining butchers who could still fight raised their thick-backed cleavers and sharp boning knives, faces twisted with malice, and charged at the lone black-robed cultivator.

But the black-robed cultivator moved like a Ghostly Phantom, his steps treading cause and effect.

Blades slashed like shadows, blood-edged weapons flew everywhere, yet none could touch him, not even a scratch on his robes.

In contrast, the black-robed cultivator extended pale fingers and tapped the air repeatedly, sending out sharp golden blades that cut through the void.

Arm after arm, leg after leg, were severed mid-air.

Blood rained down, splattering the ground. The butchers, now missing limbs, howled in agony.

Soon, the arena was cleared by the Golden Blade Technique.

Only the butcher leader remained, still swinging his twin serrated greatswords at the black-robed figure.

He was at the Early Golden Core Stage, a Body Refinement Cultivator, his body covered in tumors like a suit of "flesh armor."

The Golden Blade Technique could slice through his skin, but it couldn't reach his vitals.

The severed limbs and blood rain of his comrades only stoked his savagery.

He swung his two monstrous serrated greatswords like a raging storm, whipping up a terrifying tide of blood and gore.

Through gritted teeth, he snarled, "What rat hides in the shadows, only knowing this paltry Golden Blade Technique? Today I'll cut off your dog head!"

The black-robed figure paused briefly at these words, then abandoned the not-quite-mastered Golden Blade Technique. When his fingertip tapped again, a deep crimson flame condensed into a sphere.

This fireball burned with searing heat, its color so deep it verged on black, laced with traces of Baleful Qi.

Though it was clearly fire, it sent a chill down one's spine.

The butcher leader's expression shifted, but before he could react, the deep crimson fireball was already flying at his face.

He couldn't dodge in time and could only raise both arms to block. The next instant, it felt like he'd used his arms to stop a small meteor.

The force of the explosion rattled his bones.

When the shockwave faded, he looked up and saw his arms charred black.

The tumor-covered armor had been burned straight through, flesh and blood scorched to a crisp.

Worse, wisps of black, nameless Baleful Qi were burrowing through his meridians, drilling toward his heart and lungs.

The butcher leader's soul nearly fled in terror:

"What the hell... which sect's Fireball Technique is this?"

The righteous path wasn't this sinister, and the Evil Path wasn't this righteous.

The next instant, more fireballs came flying, one after another, giving the butcher leader no chance to react or counter.

The explosive power of the fireballs, the condensed heat, the chilling Baleful Qi, the unending Spiritual Power, and the utterly refined technique—all combined into absolute suppression, crushing him until he could barely breathe.

Before long, the butcher leader was bathed in flames, his body charred black, wracked with searing pain.

"Damn it, I've hit a tough one..."

Realizing how dangerous this foe was, the butcher leader dared not linger. He sheathed his twin serrated greatswords, pulled out a cloak, wrapped it around his charred, flesh-burned body, and turned to flee.

He ran all the way to the door before realizing that the eerie black-robed cultivator hadn't pursued him.

The chilling Baleful Qi was still burrowing toward his heart meridian.

He felt something was off, but couldn't quite say what.

But surviving a calamity was always a good thing. The wounds on his body continued to spread, and the searing pain from the Fireball Technique was still creeping outward.

The butcher leader had no time to think about anything else. He wrapped his life-saving cloak tightly around himself, transformed into a wisp of black wind, and fled into the distance.

The leader had escaped, and the other butchers in the slaughterhouse scattered like startled birds when a tree falls.

Every one of them was missing an arm or a leg, but none had been killed.

Knowing they had encountered a ruthless figure, they either knelt or lay prostrate, faces twisted in terror, desperately scrambling to flee from the figure in the black robe.

After a moment, the slaughterhouse gradually emptied.

The spirit farmers, still trembling from their brush with death, slowly crawled down from the blood-soaked butcher blocks. They knelt before the black-robed figure and cried out:

"Thank you, Senior, for saving our lives!"

"Thank you, Master, for your intervention..."

"Thank you, Immortal Master, for the rescue..."

They did not know who this black-robed cultivator was, nor whether he was righteous or evil, why he had saved them, or whether he would kill them afterward.

All they could do was cling to a faint hope, kneel, and kowtow, begging for mercy.

Only the coachman who had led them there, standing not far off, watched the ferocious butchers being cut down like chickens and dogs, their arms and legs severed, and felt overwhelming shock in his heart.

Then he immediately tried to flee.

But before he had taken a few steps, the black-robed cultivator merely cast a glance at him.

The coachman felt his bones go weak. He hurriedly dropped to his knees and kowtowed repeatedly, saying:

"Spare me, Master! Spare me, Immortal Master! This humble one had no choice. If I hadn't brought people here, these butchers... would have chopped up my whole family and eaten them..."

The coachman wept profusely, "Forgive me, Immortal Master! Spare me!"

But the black-robed cultivator did not take his life. He only said: "Keep driving."

The coachman was stunned.

The black-robed cultivator said: "We haven't reached the destination yet."

Only then did the coachman understand. He kowtowed repeatedly, "Yes, yes, I will follow the Immortal Master's orders..."

...

On the small road leading to the Nansui Prefecture Realm.

The coachman drove the old horse, pulling a carriage, moving forward in silence.

On the surface, everything was the same as before, but the people who had survived a deadly ordeal and been granted a second chance at life felt as if they were in a dream.

Earlier, they hadn't realized there was a black-robed master inside the carriage, so they had whispered among themselves.

Now that they knew, no one dared to speak. Occasionally, someone would cast a reverent glance at that figure.

But most of the time, they didn't even dare to raise their heads, afraid of offending the master and inviting disaster.

The lives of spirit farmers were always cheap, as insignificant as weeds.

And so, the weary old horse pulled the carriage onward.

This time, they followed the correct route toward the Nansui Prefecture Realm.

After half a day, the surrounding environment changed, and the crops became different. The grain of Nansui was unlike that of other places.

Only then did the people in the carriage feel at ease, knowing they were almost home.

In this world, simply making it home safely from a journey was already a blessing from heaven.

The carriage continued forward, passing through villages and hamlets, and people got off along the way.

Before getting off, they didn't dare say anything, only respectfully bowing to the black-robed cultivator in the carriage.

After getting off, they knelt on the ground and kowtowed three times toward the departing carriage.

If they had died, the wives and children at home would likely have starved to death as well.

They were too poor to repay the debt, so all they could do was kowtow in gratitude.

And so, as one cultivator after another bowed, thanked, and departed, the number of people in the carriage grew fewer and fewer.

Finally, only the black-robed cultivator remained.

The carriage continued forward, but the coachman no longer dared to keep driving.

He pulled on the reins, bringing the carriage to a slow stop, then stiffly turned his head to look at the black figure inside the carriage, and said with fear:

"Im... Immortal Master... we've arrived. You..."

He didn't know whether what lay beneath that black robe was a person, a ghost, or some other terrifying existence.

So as he spoke, his heart trembled with fear, and he didn't dare say a single extra word.

After a moment, with the atmosphere in the carriage heavy and oppressive, the black-robed cultivator finally spoke: "Keep driving. Head to the Qingchou Prefecture Realm."

His voice was somewhat androgynous, making it hard to discern his identity.

Hearing this, the coachman was greatly alarmed: "The Qingchou Prefecture Realm... you can't go there."

"What's wrong?" the black-robed cultivator asked.

The coachman's face was full of bitterness. "To be honest with you, Immortal Master... the Qingchou Prefecture Realm has completely fallen into chaos. Rioters are roaming everywhere, killing anyone they see. The land is corrupted for a thousand li, barren and uninhabited. Few who go there ever come out alive..."

The black-robed cultivator said: "It doesn't matter..."

It's fine for you, but...

The coachman said in terror: "But if this humble one goes there, I will surely die..."

The black-robed cultivator thought for a moment, then said: "Take me to the border."

The coachman didn't dare go near the border of Qingchou either, but since this master had already said as much, he didn't dare refuse.

The terrifying butchers of that entire slaughterhouse were no match for the black-robed figure before him.

Clearly, this black-robed cultivator was an even more fearsome existence.

Even if the coachman had the guts of a bear and the courage of a leopard, he wouldn't dare truly defy such a person.

His face full of fear, the coachman said: "Alright, I'll take you there..."

...

The carriage continued forward, passing through the boundary of Nansui Prefecture, heading toward the even more distant and chaotic Qingchou Prefecture Realm.

But at this moment, the carriage was empty inside—only the black-robed cultivator remained.

He wore a black Dao robe and a cloak that concealed his face, leaving only half of a fair chin exposed.

His aura carried an air of secrecy, making it impossible to see through his true nature.

This black-robed cultivator was none other than Mo Hua, who had left Houtu City and arrived at the Great Spirit Field Realm.

At this moment, Mo Hua sat in the carriage, gazing at the scenery outside the window, his eyes deep in thought, his mind filled with reflections.

"The Xirang Grand Formation..."

The secrets surrounding this grand formation had been completely sealed off by the Earth Sect and the great clans.

Given the gravity of the matter, no information could be obtained in Houtu City.

Since that was the case, Mo Hua had to change his approach.

Since it was a grand formation named after the divine soil 【Xirang】, it must be related to 'land', and on a massive scale at that.

Although Houtu City bore the name "Houtu," it had already become a prosperous Immortal City, so large-scale construction was no longer possible.

Only the Great Spirit Field Realm could provide land on such a massive scale.

In other words, the secrets of the Xirang Grand Formation might be sealed within the upper echelons of the Earth Sect and the great clans, but the location of the formation itself would inevitably be in the Great Spirit Field Realm.

All Mo Hua needed to do was establish himself in the Great Spirit Field Realm, 'wait by the tree stump for the rabbit,' and patiently watch as the Earth Sect gradually implemented their grand formation plan step by step.

Since it was a grand formation, it would surely be a major event concerning entire prefectures and realms. With such a massive project and scale, the commotion would be enormous.

The traces of the formation's construction couldn't possibly be hidden from everyone—at least not from Mo Hua, a Chief Formation Master with extensive experience in grand formations.

Mo Hua was very curious about what kind of grand formation the so-called 【Xirang Grand Formation】 was, and what marvelous formation principles it contained.

Beyond that, Mo Hua also had a premonition that the Great Spirit Field Realm held many unknown, deep secrets.

These secrets were also tied to enormous cause and effect, requiring careful unraveling to uncover one by one.

Mo Hua also had many things he needed to do himself.

At the very least, he needed to find enough straw grass to weave Straw Dogs to ward off evil spirits early on, so as to "liberate" his Divine Sense Transforming into Sword and unleash it without restraint, cutting down enemies on all sides.

The Great Spirit Field Realm was already showing signs of chaos—it was destined to be a place of slaughter.

But before that...

"Uncle Gù..."

In Mo Hua's mind, the images from the Demon Bone Divination Art surfaced once again, and his gaze darkened involuntarily.

Even in the relatively less chaotic regions of Nansui and its surroundings, devastation was everywhere, and the people's lives were miserable.

Cultivators passing through often died at the hands of demons, rioters, and bandits.

Such incidents were common along the journey.

The Great Spirit Field Realm had indeed already descended into chaos, and it was a level of chaos he had never anticipated.

Under these circumstances, Uncle Gù, as an Archive Officer of the Dao Court Division, had suddenly gone missing. The consequences were likely not going to be good...

"I need to find Uncle Gù soon..."

Mo Hua's heart grew heavy as he calculated cause and effect with his fingers, his gaze growing increasingly solemn.

...

The worn-out carriage continued along the narrow field path.

The closer they got to the Qingchou Prefecture boundary, the more farmland lay abandoned on both sides, the soil and water reeking of decay.

Corpses lay scattered along the roadside from time to time.

This was a road fraught with danger. The coachman suppressed his terror and pressed on.

But perhaps heaven was watching over him, he encountered no danger along the way. No Earth Demons devouring people, no powerful bandits blocking the road, no rioters robbing and killing, and no cruel invisible Evil Spirits claiming lives.

Finally, after another day of travel, the carriage reached the border where Qingchou and Nansui met.

But the coachman dared not go any further. He said to Mo Hua, "Master, this is as far as I can go. Beyond this point, I truly don't dare..."

The Nansui region still had some signs of human life, but the Qingchou region was dyed in blood.

Mo Hua didn't press him. He nodded and said, "You may go back."

The coachman was startled. He hadn't expected this strange and fearsome Dao master to actually let him go so easily.

Seeing Mo Hua truly step down from the carriage, the coachman quickly bowed to him and said:

"Thank you, Master, for sparing my life. When I return, I will reform my ways and stop aiding evil."

But Mo Hua looked up, glanced at the coachman's brow, his gaze darkening slightly as he offered a word of advice: "Take the southern road."

The coachman was stunned. "The southern road?"

Mo Hua said nothing more. Alone, he stepped into the Qingchou Prefecture Realm, and within moments, his figure vanished.

Seeing this, the coachman was even more astonished. He dared not linger and quickly urged the carriage back along the southern road.

But after traveling about ten li, the coachman looked back and could no longer see Mo Hua's figure.

He suddenly pulled the reins, stopping the carriage, and sneered inwardly:

"That black-robed man, neither human nor ghost. If I listen to him, wouldn't I be courting death? Why should I go wherever he tells me to?"

With that thought, the coachman's courage grew, and he reasoned further:

"The southern road is remote and long, it must be full of dangers..."

"The northern route is familiar to me, I've hauled plenty of passengers that way. With a bit of luck on the road, I might even pick up a few more, hand them over to other chiefs as provisions, and that'd cover the travel expenses..."

In this world, how could one pass up a deal?

After all, it's not me who gets killed and eaten.

The driver, thinking this over, pulled the reins once more, going against his instructions and turning the carriage toward the road heading north.

The northern road was wider and grander, and the carriage sped along faster.

The more the driver drove, the more at ease he felt. Turning at a crossroads, he entered a stretch of desolate woods... and never came out again.

Afterward, when others passed by, all they saw was a dilapidated carriage by the roadside, an old horse torn to pieces, and a pile of human bones left half-eaten by something, whether man or demon, none could say...

...

Translator Note:

'Wait by the tree stump for the rabbit' translates to the classic Chinese idiom Shǒu zhū dài tù (守株待兔), which means: relying on foolish luck instead of making an honest effort.

(End of Chapter)