Volume One: The Outcast Sets Forth – Blazing Demon-Slaying Chapter Fifty-Five: On the Brink – A Chasm of Strength

Chen San and Lu Qichang, with the spirit tiger in tow, also rushed outside. The three of them leapt, landing almost simultaneously just beyond the house. Yang Chengzi looked south—the direction from which the vengeful spirits had come—and sure enough, four figures draped in black robes, their faces concealed by hoods, stood in a row.

The spirit tiger sensed the evil aura ahead and let out a roar that seemed to split the heavens, its voice reverberating like a great bell. Its claws, sharp as blades, dug into the earth, while its silver-white fur billowed majestically in the wind. Though a spirit beast, its eyes burned with the excitement and murderous intent of a seasoned warrior.

Chen San looked at the robed figures without a trace of fear, perhaps already aware of their purpose. His gaze reflected nothing but the same ferocious intent as the tiger, mingled with deep-seated anger. Although he knew no other arts but the summoning ritual, he had resolved that, whatever the outcome of Yang Chengzi and the others’ battle with these murderous foes, he would call upon the most formidable divine consciousness within his reach to obliterate them, if only to prevent the tragedy that had befallen Jingyao Village from repeating itself.

Lu Qichang, gripping a peach-wood sword, his robe fluttering, looked more the part of an accomplished Daoist than even Yang Chengzi. He had been afraid at first, since these were practitioners of sinister arts, skilled in evil magic, and his own yin-yang techniques might not match theirs. Yet, with the spirit tiger beside him, ready to pounce like a beast that could move mountains, Yang Chengzi, the senior disciple of Mount Mao, whose foundation in Daoist arts was unfathomably deep, and a young man capable of summoning such a beast—one who faced vengeful spirits without so much as a blink—it was clear none of them were ordinary. Inside, there was even a learned monk, versed in mysterious Buddhist arts. Lu Qichang’s confidence swelled. The fate of the village depended on him. He must settle this matter here and now; the hellish scene at Jingyao Village must not be repeated. With that thought, he tightened his grip on the peach-wood sword.

The four robed figures turned their attention to Yang Chengzi’s group. Though their faces were hidden, a chilling, cruel intent to kill was palpable in their cold eyes.

As their eyes met, Chen San’s anger surged, impossible to restrain. He formed a seal with his hands and closed his eyes, entering a state of spiritual focus. Yet, as his perception expanded and then instantly snapped back, his face shifted from surprise to frustration. In his excitement, he had forgotten the grand formation that prevented him from performing the summoning ritual. Frowning, now anxious, he glanced at Yang Chengzi.

Sweat beaded on Yang Chengzi’s brow. “You go last. If I can’t break free, do as I did before—dispel the formation. The spirit tiger and I will test their strength. Qichang, keep your eyes on those two remaining vengeful spirits—don’t let them harm anyone.”

Lu Qichang nodded. The spirit tiger’s white aura flowed out, ready to attack.

Yang Chengzi formed a seal with one hand and in a flash, commanded, “Heavenly Thunder, descend!” A silver bolt shot from the cloudless night sky, crashing down toward the four robed figures. Yang Chengzi watched their movements intently. As the lightning struck, the tallest among them, utterly unflustered, raised a black rod skyward. With a thunderous crash, the bolt struck the rod, which spun in the air before plunging into the ground between the two groups.

Yang Chengzi was surprised—he had never seen such a method for warding off heavenly thunder. The robed figures, however, remained calm, none but the tall one even moving.

In a contest of masters, victory or defeat is decided in an instant. Yang Chengzi could tell—he alone was no match for these four, especially if the evil magicians summoned more ghosts or evil spirits; he would be thoroughly disadvantaged.

“These people are too strong for me alone. Chen San, break the formation—we’ll fight together.”

Chen San’s eyes lit up—he had just been told to hold back, and now he was to break the seal. Excitement mingled with surprise as he mimicked Yang Chengzi, placing two fingers at his chest.

Yang Chengzi, realizing spells alone wouldn’t suffice, shouted, “Spirit tiger, let’s go!” He charged at the four magicians with lightning speed, sword raised. The spirit tiger, long impatient, roared and swung its massive paw—larger than a man’s head—leaping at one of the robed figures. Man and beast, fierce and unstoppable.

Seeing Yang Chengzi and the tiger attack, the four adversaries finally sprang into action, scattering in four directions.

Yang Chengzi’s sword struck empty air, but he wasted no time, pursuing the nearest enemy with a flurry of sword strikes. His mastery of Daoist arts was matched by his swordsmanship, making him a formidable opponent. His soul, naturally forceful and domineering, gave him uncanny control over his body, lending him great speed. The nearest robed enemy could do little but dodge, clearly struggling.

Against corporeal foes, the spirit tiger’s claws were like spiked iron hammers—wherever they landed, death followed, no negotiation possible. The tiger leapt and darted among three of the robed figures, dominating the field.

Lu Qichang watched warily, searching for the two vengeful spirits that had vanished. He knew if the black-robed men began to lose, they would surely summon the spirits back. He had to keep them in check, find a way to defeat or at least delay them.

Inside, the wrathful Vajra had seized one vengeful spirit as if it were a chick, and Master Suichang was preparing to seal it. At that moment, Yang Chengzi found an opening and, with his crimson Shangqing Sword, slashed at a robed man’s forehead.

The man raised his right hand to block, surprising Yang Chengzi, who had expected this blow to end the fight. The sword struck the man’s hand with a dull thud—no spray of blood, only the red-hot blade burning against his raised hand, white smoke curling from the black sleeve.

The man looked up, revealing a face marked by a long scar running from eye to mouth, disturbingly grotesque. His lips curled into a wicked smile, sending chills down Yang Chengzi’s spine. Yang Chengzi retreated instantly, eyeing his sword—the once-crimson blade was now partly its original color, precisely where it had struck the man.

The Shangqing Sword was a magical weapon: its fiery red glow was not from simple heating, but from the resonance between Yang Chengzi’s invocation of the Great Dipper Incantation and the sword’s own inscribed spell, causing their souls to harmonize. This resonance could not be quenched by water; only powerful evil energy and malign spirits could subdue it.

Now, the sword was being suppressed by the magician’s evil aura—in just a moment’s contact, not only had it failed to wound him, but its spirit had been tainted. Yang Chengzi’s brow furrowed. He had underestimated his foe. Yet, the spirit tiger, with its unstoppable claws and sweeping tail, pressed the other three, giving them no respite. Its white aura surged like a flood, overwhelming, yet still failing to injure its targets.

Yang Chengzi glanced at the tiger—it seemed to have the upper hand, but he could tell the enemy was holding back. If he didn’t use lethal force soon, he and the villagers might all perish here. He decided to focus on taking down the opponent before him. While the others were beyond his concern, he formed a seal and began to chant the Falling Fire Incantation. As the meteor fire descended, he slashed at the robed man, who this time produced a weapon resembling a feathered dart.

The weapon, just longer than a dagger, was black-purple, exuding evil energy, its head jade-like, its tail hung with black feathers.

Yang Chengzi’s sword clashed against it with a ringing sound that numbed his arm. He bit open his left index finger, flicked a drop of blood, which the robed figure deflected with his sleeve. Yang Chengzi, one-handed, formed a seal, swung his right foot in a semicircle. Alarmed, the enemy tried to evade, but too late—a ghostly hand, veined with molten lava, burst from the circle, seized his foot, and began dragging him underground.

Seeing his foe nearly pulled under, Yang Chengzi struck again with all his might. The man raised his hand to block—the same heavy thud as before. With a twist, the enemy flicked his weapon against the Shangqing Sword; though it looked casual, the blow nearly wrenched the sword from Yang Chengzi’s grasp.

Stunned, Yang Chengzi realized the man’s strength was tremendous—he would not be easy to defeat. He kicked at the man, who blocked with his weapon. Yang Chengzi, gaining no advantage, retreated to prepare the sword to absorb the falling fire.

Though gripped by the ghostly hand, the man showed little panic, and none of his fellows came to his aid.

Yang Chengzi landed, using his momentum to raise the Shangqing Sword, sweeping his left hand across its blade, pausing over the Great Dipper Incantation. The meteor fire, as if summoned, flowed into the sword.

Yang Chengzi ignored the fire above, fixing his gaze on the robed enemy. The three battling the spirit tiger sensed something amiss. The one who had blocked the heavenly thunder earlier looked up at the fire spell, then at the rod in the ground. With a roll, he pulled the rod free, ready to interrupt the falling fire.

But the spirit tiger, not to be outwitted, let out a roar so deafening it seemed to tear the very air, rippling before the man’s eyes and surging toward him. The man, weapon raised to stop the fire, instead bit his finger, smeared blood on his weapon. As the blood swept across, it turned black, shooting out like an arrow.

Even as the tiger’s roar echoed, the black blood struck the ripples in the air, halting their spread. With a thunderous boom, silver-white spiritual energy exploded with black evil aura, sweeping outward to engulf everyone.