Chapter Fifty-Two: Heroes Sing Loudly, Salvation Arrives!

“Old Ghost Lu, do you think you’ll be safe just because you ran into Sky Cloud Mountain?”
A deep voice echoed from a massive boulder off to the side.
Another man leapt down from a tree on the opposite side.
“We knew you’d take this route. But even if you make it through, it’s all for nothing—Yan Fengluo died seven days ago, ha ha ha...”
As the words fell, a dozen or so shadowy figures in black appeared ahead.
“Impossible! You’re lying!” the child, no more than eight years old, shouted back.
“Master, please, do not be agitated. If they’re here waiting for us, there must be a traitor among General Yan’s people.”
The old man offered the child a brief comfort, then raised his head to look at the man who had spoken first.
“Green Luo-Hand and Iron Sword Guest, the two of you plus a handful of cats couldn’t possibly have bested Old General Yan.”
The man in black atop the boulder remained poised, ready to strike at any moment.
“Old Ghost Lu, the two of us alone would be no match, but what if we had the one who left a palm print on your chest?”
The old man in gray robes paled with shock. “He’s not overseeing Shengjing? Doesn’t he fear—”
He had only spoken half a word when he suddenly crushed a rock beneath his foot, sending a flurry of shards flying in every direction.
At the same moment, he scooped up the child and bolted away in another direction.
The black-clad ambushers, waiting for the old man’s reply, were caught off guard by his unorthodox move and were forced to defend against the flying stones before giving chase. But before they could catch up, the old man, now some distance away, hurled a small chunk of iron behind him.
“Iron Pear Blossom! Dodge!” someone shouted.
The moment the iron device hit the ground, it burst apart like a shower of celestial petals, spraying countless poison needles in all directions.
A rapid staccato of “zzt zzt zzt” was punctuated by muffled cries of pain.
Moments later, the hidden weapon had fired all its needles.
Green Luo-Hand and Iron Sword Guest immediately led nine remaining black-clad guards after the now distant gray-robed old man, paying no mind to their five companions left on the ground, faces ashen and green blood trickling from their mouths.
...
The Ji clan of the former dynasty had, amidst the chaos of warring states, unified the land and ruled as sovereign for over two hundred years, wielding the imperial artifacts of state.
They maintained a balance with the great families and sects of the Central Plains, leading Great Zhou to the height of its glory.
Under generations of enlightened rulers, imperial authority even began to overshadow the power of the great families and sects.
But nothing lasts forever. The Ji clan could not always produce heroes.
The last emperor, though not foolish, was unremarkable and lacked great talent.
After generations of pressure from the throne, the great families and sects had long grown resentful and began working in secret.
This unrest sparked rebellions among several frontier armies.
Hidden agents in the court also seized the opportunity to act.

But the prestige of Zhou, built over two centuries, ran deep in the hearts of the people, and the royal family’s covert means were not to be underestimated.
Thus began a great upheaval that swept across the whole realm.
Though the Ji royal family’s foundation was profound, the alliance of the great families and sects ultimately surpassed the court in strength.
The struggle lasted nine long years, but in the end, Great Zhou fell.
The victors, the Ying family who led the initial rebellion, established a new dynasty called Qin.
The other families and sects, weakened to varying degrees in the war, quickly withdrew to watch from the sidelines.
They left the Ying family to deal with the remaining Ji heirs.
On one hand, the Ji clan still held popular support, and righteous heroes from all corners rushed to their aid, so the others needed to guard against a desperate counterattack.
On the other, after years of strife, the families and sects’ reputations among the people had plummeted—they urgently needed to restore stability.
It also served to sap the strength of the Ying family.
They would never allow another Great Zhou to rise.
In the six years that followed, the Ji clan’s remnants were slowly eradicated.
Now, the child in Lu Shengyang’s arms was the last living heir of the Ji family.
...
Lu Shengyang dashed up the mountain, clutching Ji Haoxuan tightly, the palm-shaped bruise on his chest throbbing with searing pain.
It seemed there was no hoping for Yan Fengluo now, but even if it cost his life, he was determined to preserve the Ji bloodline.
Suddenly—
A flock of birds burst from the trees.
From the distant mountain came a voice like rolling thunder, singing with heroic vigor.
The song was stirring, bold, and impassioned—
Especially when it reached: “Sword in hand! Who in all the world is hero enough?”
One could only wish to meet such a champion face to face.
Without hesitation,
Lu Shengyang abandoned his original escape route and veered toward the source of the song.
For someone who could sing such lines, how could he not be a true hero, a righteous soul?
And with a voice that shook the mountains for miles, his martial prowess must be formidable—perhaps even transcendent.
There was hope—perhaps salvation!
...
Wu You finished singing “Farewell, My King.”
He felt his pores open, his whole body invigorated.
Exhilarating—truly exhilarating! How satisfying it was to howl a song into the open night.

Beside him, Little Black suddenly bared its fangs and growled toward the base of the mountain.
Wu You was still under the influence of his demonic powers.
At the edge of his awareness, he sensed the air rippling on the mountainside—a human-shaped disturbance racing up the slope.
A person?
Yes, a person!
What the hell? There are people in the Eastern Realm?
And they were coming right toward him, clearly drawn by his singing.
But Wu You, empowered as he was, felt little fear.
From the flow of air, it seemed there were two—an adult carrying a child.
A child? That made Wu You think they might not be hostile.
But their speed was... alarmingly fast.
Sword in hand, Wu You waited atop the peak, while Little Black crept low behind a patch of grass and stones.
Just to be safe, Wu You summoned the ghostly mosquito to circle above.
...
Lu Shengyang finally reached the summit, still carrying Ji Haoxuan.
But as he drew closer, he felt a faint, pressing aura—not overwhelming, but enough to slow his steps.
On the mountaintop, what greeted him was not the towering warrior he’d imagined,
but instead a man in his twenties, clad in strange attire, his hair cropped short, sword in hand.
Here, the old saying that one’s body and hair are gifts from one’s parents was not strictly observed, but such short hair was still rare.
Though not what he’d pictured, there was no doubt that this was the singer.
Lu Shengyang set Ji Haoxuan down, stepped forward, and saluted with fists clasped. “Honored hero, my grandson and I are pursued by villains. Might I beg your aid?”
Wu You’s face remained impassive, but inside, he felt a stampede of a hundred thousand alpacas.
Is this for real? Am I in a costume drama? These are actual ancient people!
He was about to speak when he suddenly turned his head—he sensed another group hurrying up the mountain.
Lu Shengyang, noticing the gesture, realized at once that Green Luo-Hand and his men were close behind.
Sure enough, moments later, he too heard the sounds of pursuit echoing through the mountains.
He couldn’t help but think: To detect pursuers a full ten heartbeats before me—this man’s skill must be unfathomable.