Volume Two: The Mortal Realm Chapter Forty-Eight: The Thunder Demon
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When that white-robed immortal crashed down from the sky, the alarm in Ye Mingke’s heart rang at its loudest. Instinctively, he wanted to retreat, but then he saw Fang Wu’s terrified, pitiable face.
He hesitated for a moment, then suddenly surged forward.
By now, the other white-robed cultivators in the sky had also landed. The leader, a cultivator carrying many swords on his back, was deathly pale. Blood dripped from one hand, while in the other he gripped an elegant little sword stained with golden blood.
“Everyone, be careful—the ghost is coming!” he warned loudly, staring at the little sword that trembled ceaselessly in his hand.
Just as he spoke, Ye Mingke sensed darkness descending upon his vision, yet strangely, he could still see everything clearly before him.
Two conflicting sensations arose within Ye Mingke, and before he could make sense of it, the black veil twisted and surged forward, pouncing toward Fang Wu’s back.
“Get down!” Ye Mingke, who had already reached Fang Wu, seized his shoulder and forcefully threw him to the ground.
“Ah!”
“No!”
A scream and a wail of despair rang out almost simultaneously. Forced to the ground, Fang Wu’s arm—still clutched by the white-robed cultivator—was twisted at a grotesque angle between the two opposing forces, drawing a cry of agony from his lips.
At the same instant, Ye Mingke sensed the black veil sweep past where Fang Wu had been, lunging at the white-robed cultivator’s face, before swiftly melting into his body.
The cultivator’s features contorted, and he barely managed to release a soul-rending scream before his expression froze.
“Junior Brother!” the other white-robed cultivators cried out in shock.
Ye Mingke quickly felt the grip on Fang Wu’s hand go slack. With a slight pull, he freed Fang Wu from the cultivator’s grasp.
He covered the still-screaming Fang Wu with one hand, and rapidly retreated, putting distance between themselves and the white-robed cultivator now trapped in an unnatural state.
The others, including the cultivators, unconsciously drew back as well, leaving the afflicted white-robed cultivator standing all alone in the center of the empty grounds.
For a moment, deathly silence reigned.
Suddenly, a wet pop like something bursting broke the stillness. The white-robed cultivator’s body trembled, and then torrents of blood erupted from every part of him, engulfing him utterly, leaving only a blood-red silhouette.
That twisted, blood-smeared face slowly lifted in a rigid posture, and a shrill, chilling, fiendish laughter rang out.
“A ghost!” one of the men shouted in terror.
“There’s another one!” one of the white-robed cultivators murmured in trembling disbelief.
Boom—
Amid the piercing laughter, the blood-red figure suddenly burst into eerie blue flames.
“Everyone, be alert and ready!” Li Guifan shouted to his fellow disciples.
Jian Jiu’s expression was icy. He had begun gathering his strength the moment he realized the white-robed cultivator could not be saved. Now, his sword struck out!
A fierce sword-light howled, slashing toward the blood-red figure.
Boom—
The ground split open beneath the sword’s ferocity, but this time, the ghost did not wait to be struck. With a flicker of blue fire, it dodged aside, then pounced straight at Jian Jiu in a blaze of ghostly blue.
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Jian Jiu snorted coldly. The swords circling him instantly shifted formation, sending countless sharp sword-energies crisscrossing through the air, blocking the ghost’s advance.
The blood-drenched ghost shrieked as several sword-energies struck it, dimming the blue flames around it. Sensing Jian Jiu’s threat, it abruptly wheeled in midair and lunged toward Song Mingyu at his side.
Faced with that twisted, familiar-yet-strange ghostly face, Song Mingyu instinctively took a step back, but then resolve flashed across her lovely features. She cried out clearly.
Her long sword and the red dress she wore ignited in vibrant crimson flames. She stepped forward, meeting the ghost’s blue fire head-on.
In the instant of impact, Song Mingyu’s red flames guttered as if snuffed by a fierce wind, while the ghost’s blue fire surged forward, enveloping her almost completely.
A withered, blackened claw reached over her outstretched sword, about to seize her flawless, pale face.
“Sword Stand!” Song Mingyu, unprepared for the ghost’s strength, cried out in terror.
“Back!” A voice thundered with deep fury. A dazzling sword-light pierced the blue flames, knocking the ghost away just as it was about to succeed.
The ghost let out a shrill, crazed laugh, still trailing the sword that had struck it. Upon landing, it darted toward the woods, as if trying to escape.
“Don’t let it get away!” Li Guifan shouted, and several of them leapt forward, blocking the ghost’s path with spells and sword-lights, sending it flying back.
“I’ll handle this!” Jian Jiu didn’t spare a glance for the shaken, collapsed Song Mingyu. He strode forward, passing her, swords quivering behind him.
Sensing mortal danger, the ghost spun and tried to flee in another direction.
Jian Jiu raised his sword hand before him and intoned,
“Greedy Wolf.”
With a ringing clang, a blood-red flying sword beside him sang out, transforming into a streak of crimson light that exploded into the earth before the ghost, sending sword-energies lacing through the air, locking down the area.
Boom—
The ghost crashed into the sword-energies and was sent flying, its blue flames flickering uncertainly. But landing, it pounced at another white-robed cultivator.
Jian Jiu didn’t turn. He simply took another step forward, his sword hand steady as a mountain, and intoned again,
“Giant Gate!”
Clang.
Boom.
A massive flying sword, like half a wooden door, shot out, exploding into the ground before the ghost, shattering earth and stone, sword-energies weaving a new barrier.
Again and again, the ghost switched directions, and Jian Jiu advanced step by step, each command blooming like thunder.
“Military Might.”
“Fortune Keeper.”
A blue and a yellow sword flew out.
“Academic Star.”
“Virtue Defender.”
A purple and a blue sword soared through the air.
One by one, the swords at his side flew forth, exploding before the ghost, weaving a net of sword-energy. The ghost’s flames were nearly extinguished, its legs severed, yet it crawled swiftly on its hands toward the only gap not yet sealed.
Jian Jiu’s swords were now spent, and in that direction stood a stunned man called Bamboo Pole.
The ghost seemed to notice Jian Jiu was out of swords and, with its prey before it, let out a sharp laugh and lunged at Bamboo Pole.
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“Look out!”
Ever vigilant, Ye Mingke lunged forward, knocking Bamboo Pole to the ground and rolling them both frantically away.
At that moment, as the ghost was about to escape the sword net, Jian Jiu slowly lifted his gaze. Only a delicate little sword and the long sword on his back remained—no more flying swords at his side. Yet his sword hand did not waver. As the ghost was about to break free, his final incantation rang out, calm and cold.
“Breaker of Armies.”
Clang—a sword’s song, not from Jian Jiu’s side, but from the sword lodged in the ghost’s abdomen.
The ghost’s pouncing form froze.
From the sword in its belly, countless radiant sword-energies blossomed like a lotus in full bloom.
Boom.
The ghost crashed to the earth, raising a cloud of dust ten fathoms high. Its body was pinned, sword through its abdomen, as sword-energies exploded from the blade, rending the ground.
Though Ye Mingke and Bamboo Pole had retreated some distance, the torrent of sword-energy’s shockwave swept them up, flinging them aside.
Now, with the addition of “Breaker of Armies,” the sword-energies wove a complete net. The seven swords embedded in the ground resonated as one, forming a vast domain. Sword-energies surged like a roaring tornado.
Caught in the storm, the ghost howled madly, its cries both wails and fiendish laughter, its body ground to pieces, inch by inch.
When only the head remained, the crazed laughter abruptly ceased.
“Heh.”
“Heh.”
Two faint, clear chuckles—unexpectedly lucid—floated from the heart of the sword tornado.
It was the ghost, softly laughing.
The sound was ordinary, yet slithered into every heart like a cold viper, chilling and insidious.
“This ghost keeps growing stronger and more cunning!” one cultivator said, watching the vanishing specter, the terror on his face undiminished, even worsened.
The first time this ghost possessed one of their brothers last night, it had barely any intelligence, resisting their attacks head-on. But by this morning, it was cunning enough to feint and flee at will.
At this rate, how long before they were all dead?
The laughter was finally shredded by the sword-energies, and the storm in the domain gradually subsided, the dust settling until all that remained was the ever-present mist floating in the air.
Cough. Cough.
Two coughs broke the silence that had fallen with the ghost’s destruction.
Rescued by Ye Mingke, Bamboo Pole coughed out the dust he’d inhaled and struggled to his feet.
“Bamboo Pole!”
The other men, only now regaining their senses, rushed forward to help their companion.
Ye Mingke, covered in dust, also slowly rose from the ground.
The five surviving white-robed cultivators finally turned their gaze to the group of battered, humble mortals—especially the plain-clothed youth standing at the back, who drew their eyes irresistibly.
One of the immortals fixed the calm-faced youth with a cold glare.
“Mortal, you got one of our junior brothers killed!”
Chill intent spread through the field anew, just as peace was beginning to return.