Volume One: The Journey of the Useless, Blazing Demon-Slaying Chapter One: The Sect Leader, The Most Ominous Divination

Atop a precipitous peak, on the summit of the mountains, stood the Hall of Ages, a grand hall measuring thirteen zhang square. Four colossal pillars, each so thick that three people could barely encircle them, soared skyward, dominating the heavens. The hall had neither dome nor walls—only those four pillars entwined with totems resembling dragons or serpents.

This was the sacred hall of the Soulmaster Sect, one of the three great sects, a place reserved for the rare moments when the sect chose a new master and only the most eminent among them were permitted entry.

A few hundred of the sect's most formidable cultivators lingered a hundred paces beyond the hall, their conversations buzzing as they awaited the announcement of their new leader.

Within the hall, clouds drifted and swirled, lending the air an ethereal quality as if it were a realm of immortals. Yet the two men inside paid the scenery no heed, their gazes locked in silent confrontation, their auras clashing with such intensity that it seemed a life-and-death duel might erupt at any moment.

The elder of the two, whose hair was touched by the frost of age, bore the surname Jiang and the given name Longquan. He was the head of Baize Hall, a subsect of the Soulmaster Sect—a man with thick brows and deep eyes, features as sharp as chiseled stone, exuding a natural air of dominance. To all observers, he was the undisputed candidate for the next sect master.

Facing him was a youth who, though his presence seemed somewhat overshadowed, stood with quiet resolve. His surname was Chen, his given name simply San, a disciple from the sect's main hall. Usually modest and unobtrusive, on this occasion he seemed possessed by some celestial spirit, having forced his way through hundreds of competitors, overcoming all obstacles and adversaries, and now stood as the last challenger. The rarely seen intensity in his eyes now burned with fervor, as if he had awaited this moment for an eternity.

His straight nose and prominent brow lent him an air of elegance, and the four-foot blade strapped to his back inspired awe and unease—a weapon so out of place among the sect’s ranks that it marked him as a solitary figure.

Ten zhang from the duel, the remaining fifteen sub-hall leaders and stewards observed with varied expressions—some defiant, some serene, some glaring in anger—but all eyes were fixed on the two within the Hall of Ages, each a potential master of their fate.

As the steward's aura surged, the clouds within the hall scattered instantly. The two men released their full power; Chen San’s spiritual energy surged skyward, crashing upon Jiang Longquan like a tempest, only to be met in turn by Jiang’s overwhelming might, as wild and relentless as a storm at sea. Before a single blow had been struck, their energies had already clashed violently.

In that moment, several hall masters were stunned. This young man, a stranger to many, was far from ordinary—when they had faced him earlier, he had clearly held back.

Only the main hall master, Xuanyuan Baicang, watched with a knowing smile. By his side, sub-hall master Fu Sanqiu whispered, “Who is this Chen San? At his age, how can he possess such overwhelming might? Why have I never heard of him?”

Xuanyuan Baicang did not turn his head, but his words brimmed with pride. “Who is he? He is our next sect master!”

At this, not only Fu Sanqiu but many other hall masters, each with their own designs, were taken aback.

Jiang Longquan was counted among the sect’s finest, possessed by three formidable demons, each nearly a millennium old. Though not quite equal to the late sect master Huang Quan’s Phantom Demon and Arhat Golden Body, with Huang gone, no one in the sect could rival his soul mastery.

Jiang Longquan struck first, raising his fingers in a ritual gesture. With a silent thought, demonic energy coiled around him, his body transformed—his arms and neck glowing like smoldering iron, the effect spreading over his form. Whirlwinds raged around him, able to slice through iron as though it were mud. He slashed at Chen San with sword-like fingers. A blast of force leapt from his hand, swelling as it flew—within three steps, it grew to three feet wide, rushing straight for Chen San’s face.

Such force could not be dodged head-on. But with a thought, Chen San drew his four-foot soulblade, cleaving the oncoming blast cleanly in two.

Far away, two thunderous explosions echoed as the twin blasts split from the Hall of Ages, shattering against the cliffs. The clouds along the way were swept aside, leaving only the aftermath of that single strike.

Jiang Longquan had seen Chen San’s soulblade before, during matches with other hall masters—solid as reality itself, it was hard to imagine how it had fallen into such young hands, or how he could wield it.

Respecting his seniority, Jiang had attacked first. Now the courtesy was over—Chen San would not hold back.

Four black vines, inscribed with crimson runes, burst from the ground, writhing like serpents toward Jiang Longquan. Instantly, poisonous miasma billowed forth, shrouding the ground in black vapor.

In a mere instant, the demonic aura around Jiang began to dissipate. With a gesture, he mirrored Chen San, demonic energy swirling around him, his limbs glowing red-hot as the transformation spread.

The crowd gasped—how could Jiang’s protective demon now be manifest in Chen San?

Jiang himself frowned—his own demon resided within him, so why did this young man bear its aura?

But the onslaught left him no time to ponder. A wave of pale violet demonic energy surged forth, sweeping the miasma away, leaving only the four black vines to contend with. Winds howled around him, slicing the vines at the root so they could not approach.

He gave Chen San no respite, unleashing the might of the third stage demon within him, his aura overwhelming.

But Chen San had no intention of yielding. Raising his sword above his head, he brought it down with a force that split the air, his soulblade transforming into a ten-zhang arc of sword energy that crashed down upon Jiang. Yet the demon’s aura was so dense it deflected the blow entirely, the sword energy dissipating into drifting clouds.

The audience was dumbstruck.

In the blink of an eye, Jiang Longquan had unleashed his full power. All three demons within him now fully awakened, demonic power and protective energies rendered him all but invulnerable.

Should he employ demon-enhanced spells, Chen San’s chances of victory seemed slim. Jiang showed no sign of taking his opponent seriously, utterly confident in his inevitable triumph.

Seeing all three demons awakened, Chen San knew he could not delay. His spiritual energy erupted, forming a pure spiritual armor around him as he prepared to withstand the oncoming assault.

Stepping forward, he sent ripples of golden light across the floor, his soul force sweeping from the Hall of Ages toward the assembled hall masters. With fingers joined, eyes devoid of fear, in a flash something none of them expected appeared around Chen San.

Four objects, each the length and thickness of a finger, hovered in the air, quivering.

At their appearance, Jiang Longquan—shielded by triple demon auras—felt a jolt of dread.

“Four Souls Sever Immortals Realm! He...”

Even so, his hands formed seals without hesitation, preparing to unleash his famous Demon Thunder—a spell as potent as the Daoist thunder curse, but even harder to evade, capable of annihilating the soul if one failed to withstand it.

As the spell neared completion, demonic energy filled the hall, sparks glittering like stars, about to coalesce into thunder.

“Boom!”

A thunderous crash resounded, eclipsing all other sound.

In Jiang Longquan’s sight, Chen San seemed to flicker like an illusion, and his own spirit quaked.

Recovering his senses, he saw the four nail-like artifacts piercing through his triple demon aura, suspended in a line a finger’s width from his brow. Had Chen San not shown mercy, Jiang would already have perished.

Dispersing his demonic energy, Jiang’s face still betrayed disbelief, yet he cupped his hands and bowed.

“Thank you for your mercy, brother—no, sect master. Thank you for sparing me.”

“Elder Jiang, you flatter me. If there was offense, I beg your pardon.”

Jiang Longquan accepted his defeat wholeheartedly. Perhaps only he and Xuanyuan Baicang understood that, for a fleeting instant, Chen San had shaken Jiang’s very soul foundation—one of the hundred mightiest of the age, so shaken by a youth. Chen San seemed a being of endless mystery...

Below, Xuanyuan Baicang watched Chen San with a proud smile, delighted for him—at last, he had ascended to the seat of sect master. The Soulmaster Sect was saved.

He thought back two years, when Lyu Kaitai brought Chen San here—a man then gravely wounded, forcing a smile through his pain. Who could have imagined...

The other hall masters were left speechless, unable to comprehend what had just occurred. As they stared in awe, the hall steward bowed deeply to Chen San atop the Hall of Ages.

Turning to the fifteen sub-hall masters and the hundreds gathered beyond, his voice thundered:

“Sect Master Chen San, titled Sky-Pillar!”

His shout echoed for a hundred li, startling all the assembled disciples. Then came a roar of acclaim that shook the mountains.

Even those who had taught Chen San soul mastery, like Xuanyuan Baicang himself, could scarcely imagine how this young man—of unremarkable talent and still so young—had reached the Four Souls Severing Immortal realm, wielded a peerless Daoist soulblade, bore a divine executioner’s sword, commanded the power of ghosts, and merged his soul with mighty demons.

What had he experienced in his short life? Who was he trying to save?

...

“Help! Someone help! You can’t die, old man! Wake up—if you leave us, what will become of my daughter and me? Help! Please, someone!”

The tranquility of the small town was shattered before dawn by shrill, despairing cries. By the creek nearby, Chen San splashed his face with cold water, trying to clear his foggy head after a restless night. He had barely begun when the wailing reached his ears, startling him into action. Without hesitation, he dashed toward the sound.

As he approached, the words became clear. Entering the house, he saw Aunt Chen clutching Old Nian—her husband and Chen San’s uncle—who lay motionless on the ground. She was weeping uncontrollably, shaking him in vain attempts to rouse him, but his body was lifeless, heavy with the stillness of death.

Beside her, Chen Xin was paralyzed with fear, clinging to her mother, sobbing. No one else was present. Chen San hurried in, trying to comfort Chen Xin and stammered, “Chen Xin, what happened to your father? Why is he lying on the ground like this? He...”

At his words, Chen Xin’s crying grew louder. “I don’t know—I just came out from the back room and found him, and I was so scared I called for my mother. Please help us find someone!”

“You’re right, I’ll get help!” Before Chen San finished, Uncle Niu from next door rushed in, took a quick look, and exclaimed, “Old Nian, what happened? Sister-in-law, what happened to Old Nian?”

Soon, more and more people arrived, all asking the same questions. Within moments, the doorway was crowded with neighbors, conversing in anxious tones. It wasn’t that they didn’t want to help—it was clear Old Nian had been dead for some time. All waited for Chen San to fetch the town chief.

After about half a stick of incense, the town chief arrived. In a place like this, the chief was much like a clan elder, involved in every important event—births, deaths, and everything in between. He was already over sixty, Chen San’s grandfather’s generation, still hale and sharp-witted, and well-versed in such matters. Seeing that Old Nian was indeed dead, he immediately dispatched someone to fetch a Daoist priest from the neighboring village to perform the rites, while instructing others to help lay Old Nian’s body on a door plank, which was then placed on two long benches. The rest would wait until the priest arrived.

In Chen Family Town, when someone died, every household would send someone to help with the funeral arrangements. Compared to other villages, there was much more comfort and less cold indifference.

By midday, the Daoist arrived. He was from the neighboring village, known as Daoist Wang, famous for his rituals throughout the area—skilled in burial, grave-moving, banishing evil, and feng shui. Whenever such matters arose, people sought him out. No one knew if “Wang” was his surname or if he simply preferred to be called Daoist Wang; ever since his first visit, that was the only name anyone used.

Donning his ritual robes, Daoist Wang approached Old Nian’s body, lifted the white cloth from the face, and examined the corpse. Finding nothing unusual, he questioned Aunt Nian and quickly learned the circumstances: Old Nian had gone to bed early as usual, only to get up soon after, telling his wife he was going to relieve himself. She agreed without a thought and drifted back to sleep, only to be awakened by Chen Xin’s cries, and found her husband lying dead on the ground.

Daoist Wang stroked his beard, deep in thought, silent for a long time as everyone watched him expectantly.

The town chief, growing impatient, asked, “Daoist Wang, is there anything amiss? If not, let’s proceed with the funeral so Aunt Nian and Chen Xin can find some peace.”

Daoist Wang finally spoke, “There’s nothing particularly wrong, but when I arrived today, though it was midday and the sun high, your town felt strangely cool—no, not just cool, but truly chilly. It’s already July, the start of summer, and while our villages are close, ours is sweltering while yours is cold. Why is that?”

“Indeed, it’s been rather cool this year.”

“Yes, it’s already July and still not hot!”

Everyone began to discuss the odd weather.

The town chief tapped his cane on the ground, and the chatter died down.

“The weather’s been erratic, but we didn’t think much of it. If you feel there’s no problem, Daoist Wang, let’s proceed with Old Nian’s arrangements so his family can rest easy.”

Daoist Wang nodded. “Perhaps I’m overthinking it. But if anything unusual happens in your town, send word and I’ll come at once.” With that, he signaled everyone to leave so he could begin the rites.

The rituals lasted until midnight. Throughout, Daoist Wang seemed troubled. Chen San, not much of a believer in spirits, was moved by Chen Xin’s grief and did what he could—tearing cloth, folding paper ingots, arranging candles—mundane but necessary tasks.

By local custom, the deceased would lie in state at home for three days, then be placed in a coffin that would remain in the house for another four, seven days in all before burial at an auspicious hour.

The next morning, Daoist Wang, Chen Xin, and her mother went to the hills to choose a burial site. With nothing better to do, Chen San joined them. The site seemed a good one—clean air and a sense of peace. Daoist Wang’s words were flowery and mysterious, but with his reputation, what else could they do but trust him?

On the third day, after several sleepless nights, Chen San had just dozed off when shrill cries shattered the dawn. Instantly awake, he recognized the sound as another calamity.

He dressed quickly and hurried out, seeing the townsfolk converging toward Chen Xin’s home. But the cries sounded different—was it really her family again? Doubtful, he followed the crowd.

“Whose home is it this time?”

“No idea, but it sounds like Sister Fu. Could something have happened to Wanfu?”

“I think so. Oh, what a tragedy! If something happened to Wanfu, how will Sister Fu manage alone?”

Listening to the speculation, Chen San remained silent. The truth would be clear soon enough.

When they arrived, it was not Old Nian’s house—he still lay in state, his family by his side. Instead, it was his neighbor, Chen Wanfu, who had died, and it was his wife, Sister Fu, wailing inside.

Chen Wanfu’s name suggested good fortune, but his fate was anything but. He’d had two children, neither surviving past six—one a boy who drowned in the shallow creek where children often played safely, the other a girl who, despite her parents’ vigilance, slipped out and fell to her death trying to follow her father up the mountain.

Now, as Chen San squeezed through the crowd, he found Sister Fu nearly beside herself with grief. Wanfu’s body had been placed on a door plank, for in the wake of Old Nian’s death, funeral rites had just begun, and Daoist Wang, not yet returned home, was called to attend to this new tragedy.

Wanfu had died suddenly, silently, in his bed, failing to wake in the morning. Sister Fu, alarmed by his unmoving form, cried out in anguish, summoning the neighbors.

Wanfu and Old Nian were not brothers, nor closely related—their similar names mere coincidence, their family ties distant, their homes separated by a single path. Wanfu had kept vigil for Old Nian the night before, gone home to sleep, and now...

Chen San entered to find Daoist Wang examining Wanfu’s body minutely. The town chief, arriving, called out, “Oh, Wanfu, what’s happened to you?”

Daoist Wang, looking troubled, shook his head. “He died as suddenly as Old Nian. I can’t explain it—let’s hope it’s just coincidence.”

At this, the villagers began to worry. “Both died so mysteriously—could it be something evil?”

“I think something strange is going on. And all those chickens and ducks dying—could it be related?”

“My chickens died too, and I was so upset!”

“What? Why didn’t you say so? When Old Nian died, I asked if anything was amiss! If so many fowl died, why didn’t you tell me?” Daoist Wang scolded.

The villagers fell silent, and the chief hurried to explain, “It’s not that we hid it from you, Daoist Wang. Chickens and ducks die every year—sometimes by wild animals, sometimes by disease. This time, more died, but we didn’t think it had anything to do with Old Nian’s death.”

“Yes, we didn’t think it was connected.”

“Yes, yes.”

As the villagers murmured, Chen San puzzled over how the deaths of livestock could relate to the deaths of his two uncles.

Daoist Wang sighed. “Enough. The dead must be laid to rest. This is no ordinary matter. When I entered your town, I felt a cold chill. Two men dead in three days, both so mysteriously—this is unlikely to be mere coincidence.”

He fetched three old coins, a small bronze bowl, and a yellow talisman from his bundle. As he began his preparations, the villagers, rarely having seen such items used, grew anxious and whispered among themselves.

Daoist Wang plucked several hairs from Wanfu’s head, threaded them through the coins, placed them in the bowl with the talisman, and with a gesture, set the talisman alight without flame. Soon, one of the coins jumped. When the fire burned out, Daoist Wang frowned and separated the coins, revealing one had split in two—three coins become four, a dire omen of utter calamity.

If only one family had suffered, it would spell disaster for them alone. But with two families now marked, ill fortune loomed large. And if the omen spoke of the entire Chen Family Town, then true disaster was at hand.