Chapter 38
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Translator: True Detective
Chapter: 37
Chapter Title: Movement - 2
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Caw.
"What are you looking at?"
"Crows."
Zhang Ping asked, and Bai Hui replied. He was leaning obliquely against the pillar of the thatched hut. For a moment, he turned his eyes from the desk to gaze at the sky, where a flock of crows flew by in a cluster.
"Looks like there's a corpse somewhere."
"It's always like that. Come next month, there'll be even more."
"Ha."
Zhang Ping swallowed a hollow laugh at the stark words tossed out so casually. Looking back, it wasn't wrong. In poetry, spring was the vibrant season of blooming life. Zhang Ping had memorized thousands of verses extolling its charms.
But what of the world beyond those poems? The warmth of blooming flowers and gentle breezes heralded hunger.
The rice harvested in late autumn inevitably ran out. No matter how frugally it was rationed, no matter how desperately it was wished for, the fields refused to ripen.
Famine.
Even the Hanlim Academy records couldn't capture its raw agony. Those dispassionate strokes of ink indifferently tallied the deaths of tens of thousands in a single line. While some starved, others clapped in delight amid lavish feasts in the Golden Audience Hall. That was the weight of life Zhang Ping had witnessed—heavy in its ugliness, light in its cruelty.
"Time to restring the hunter's bow."
Three months after scattering the demonic arts, even with his eyes and ears blocked by the Huangfu Clan's schemes, the rumors still poured in. Beggars plagued the land in endless numbers, and most tales inevitably flowed toward Blaze Mountain.
Blaze Mountain was a trade artery, the great vein of the world. They hadn't managed to choke it off. Zhang Ping himself had no way of knowing how many had pledged themselves to the Divine Maiden in those three months.
Many had arrived already versed in the demonic arts, their influence far exceeding predictions. Even a man from Shaanxi had carried its true energy in his body.
Rumors of a farmer who slew a first-rate warrior with the axe he used for chopping firewood after losing his son. Tales of the starving storming a government office to seize grain. Ghost stories of a peaceful clan vanishing in flames overnight...
No one knew how far it had spread or where it had flowed.
"Uh... Master Scholar."
"Yes. Have the Eight Apostles arrived?"
"Can't you just call me Daegwang? I'm dying of embarrassment here."
"No, that won't do. What happens to all my hard work then? Come on, straighten your back."
The hulking man approaching with an awkward bow, brimming with unease, was Daegwang, who had shone in the battle against the Dragon Star Clan. At Bai Hui's slight nod, he stiffly straightened up. It was all the fruit of Zhang Ping's labor.
Three months of silence, endless toil.
After her speech before the ruins of the Dragon Star Clan, the Divine Maiden hadn't stirred. She simply repeated her healings as always.
While everyone fretted over her intentions, Zhang Ping saw it as a blessing. A sudden surge of momentum could shatter easily. Time was needed to forge resilience against one or two defeats.
Faith in the superhuman Divine Maiden might abound, but the vessel to hold it was still flawed. Zhang Ping aimed to build a system. He modeled it after the hierarchies of the western barbarians.
At the top: Bai Hui as Protector, himself as Scholar.
Below them, eleven Apostles to relay orders; beneath them, squads of demonic arts practitioners. He selected Stewards to guide new recruits and elevated the faithful as Elders to serve as examples.
He had no intention of playing the allocation games he despised among martial artists. What he sought were hands and feet ready to embrace death at the Divine Maiden's word. Just as he had.
Thus, it was a cult, not a sect.
"Divine Cult."
After sending Daegwang away, he murmured the name he'd coined. It fit perfectly.
Behold, there sits the divine among us. Breathing with us, working miracles, risking all for those groveling in despair. If that superhuman wasn't a god, what was?
Zhang Ping, gazing at the Divine Maiden, drew a sharp breath and reentered the room. Bai Hui watched him silently, then turned to the girl.
Plop. A water drop fell from somewhere. Spring rain.
"Timely nectar from the heavens."
Anhui.
Rain poured over the serene garden. Lush grass blades danced under the droplets. Sword King Nangong Jintian paused to admire it. In the pleasant quiet, the path ahead sharpened into view.
He was a man who always found the way.
How much time passed? Nangong Jintian's gaunt hand grasped a stone.
Clack. Black and white stones placed on the empty go board. His hands moved with swift precision, replaying a game as if reviewing it with someone.
The black's large group cornered, sporadic clashes erupting. Black seemed indifferent to its group, relentlessly targeting white's weaknesses with every move. As if the thickening noose around him meant nothing.
These days, "blood incident" had become a joke. Even beggar boys tossed the term around. Martial artists and clans toppled one by one across the land—to absurd foes. When they finally caught the fiends who couldn't even flee properly, their identities were invariably pathetic.
Farmers who'd never held a sword. Village kids always scorned. One-armed cripples...
The frequency was low in Shaanxi and Hebei, but in Nangong's Anhui and Huangfu's Guangdong, the ripples had martial artists inwardly trembling. A roadside farmer suddenly swinging a sickle—laughable in theory, now a real threat.
It all stemmed from a single book on Nangong Jintian's desk. Flip—the cover fluttered in the breeze, inscribed with the ominous words "Demonic Arts."
The clan scholars' verdict: trash.
Practicing it risked death. If you'd already cultivated internal arts, collision could destroy your cultivation at best, cripple you for life at worst. The immense power gained was wildly unstable.
The more it was used, the more reason and humanity eroded; in the long run, it claimed the user's life—a true devil's art.
Yet.
Clack—the stone drops. Black's reckless assault endangers white's groups. Black's form swells amid the skirmishes, like wildfire racing across dry fields.
Fail to stamp it out soon, and the board would turn dire.
"Cut the grass, uproot the source."
The vulgar world brimmed with variables already. Adding more unknowns was unwise. He reviewed the situation.
The demonic arts' distributor was clear: the enigmatic high mistress who'd triumphed over Flying Heaven Golden Blade with divine prowess. The arts matched hers eerily.
But how long to fabricate proof convincing all martialdom? By then, how vast would the enemy's forces grow?
Seemed like a dead end.
Yet flipped around, it was perfect timing.
The shrewd clan head assessed coldly.
Mobilizable force: overwhelming. At Blaze Mountain stood Iron Blood Fist King, one of the world's top five fist masters. Add the martial world's elites, the Four Dragons, Huangfu Clan elders, and Wind Division. Victory was laughable to question.
Gains: prestige. A chance to remind the court schemers of martialdom's weight. Ensure they never again dreamed of controlling it.
The only drawback: time. Miss the moment, lose the golden opportunity.
So, what price to pay?
Nangong Jintian's hand halted amid relentless placement. The stone was white; two choices lay before him. Salvage the dying group and bide for the next chance.
Or sacrifice one group to capture the large.
Wasn't the heavier choice obvious? What was needed was resolve.
Striking like lightning without hesitation for what he deemed right—that was Nangong's chivalry, the form of a king. Nangong Jintian's hand moved without pause to the board. Clack!
The Sword King ended the game with a killing move. One couldn't conquer the world alone; mobilize it, and nothing could stand. Having placed the final stone, the Sword King stared intently beyond the empty board. Amid the vacant table, someone's form seemed to materialize.
Skin pale as a corpse. Eyes black as lightless voids. Beauty to topple kingdoms, laced with an eerie aura. The Divine Maiden's silhouette in his mind cast an impassive gaze. Her intentions were hard to fathom.
Suddenly, the old man's hand extended sideways. Responding was the Nangong heirloom, Blue Sky Divine Sword.
Sching. The sword flew out like thunder. Boom. A suffocating aura instantly engulfed the garden.
Time froze. Plants quivered. Even falling raindrops screamed in agony under the mounting pressure.
And then.
"Ha!"
With a crisp shout, the blade halted. Blue Sky Divine Sword gleamed azure. Swish. The Sword King naturally sheathed it.
Only then did the Divine Maiden's silhouette scatter like mist.
It was the Emperor Sword Form.