Chapter Seventy-Six: Entering the Formation

The small Eight Trigrams Formation was shrouded in mist and cloud, making it impossible to discern truth from illusion. Four underworld figures stood guard outside, their defense formidable. The group hid behind a wall, quietly debating what to do.

“We should just storm them and be done with it—why all this sneaking around?” grumbled the Iron Sabre Swordsman.

“We’ve lost too many men. Who knows how many of those outlaws are inside? Better to be cautious,” someone advised.

“So what should we do?”

Everyone turned to Zhou Qian, who managed a wry smile. He was no omniscient sage, but to say as much would sap their morale. After a moment’s thought, he said, “If you can get me within ten paces of those four, I’m confident I can silence them.”

A flurry of whispered discussion followed. Pooling their wits, they finally devised a sly ruse: to trick the enemy.

At that moment, the four underworld sentries, bored and inattentive, suddenly saw a dark figure stagger into view. Dressed in the garb of a Red Lotus cultist and spattered with blood, the man cried out in a hoarse, indistinguishable voice, “I must see the Master! I must see the Master!”

“Master? There’s only the Lord of the Valley here, what Master?” one of the guards frowned.

Their vigilance heightened, all four unsheathed their weapons. The Red Lotus cultist froze, as if too gravely wounded to stand, and collapsed to the ground, silent.

“Thank goodness my hearing is so keen after reaching the Embryonic Elixir stage, or I’d have been exposed at once,” the fake cultist breathed in relief.

The four exchanged glances, uncertain for a long moment. Finally, one suggested hesitantly, “Why not have Old Xiao go check him out?”

“Why me?” Old Xiao snapped.

“What are you afraid of? He’s unarmed, isn’t he?”

After a brief debate, Old Xiao was “unanimously” selected for the task. Muttering curses under his breath, he strode forward.

“Hey, kid, you alright?” he asked impatiently.

The supposed Red Lotus cultist lay face down. Old Xiao couldn’t see his face and had to crouch down to turn him over—when suddenly, his entire body stiffened.

“Old Xiao, you alright?” someone called.

Old Xiao waved a hand, dragged the man up, and without a word, began to lead him back. The companion who’d nominated Old Xiao eyed him suspiciously. “He’s walking funny, isn’t he?”

As they drew closer, the other three suddenly realized—it wasn’t Old Xiao supporting the cultist, but the cultist hauling Old Xiao, his left hand seemingly limp but actually pressing on the ring-jump acupoint on Old Xiao’s thigh. As Old Xiao had only just died, his tendons still retained some vitality. A hard press at the acupoint made his leg swing forward, creating the illusion of walking.

Once close enough, the fake cultist stopped pretending, shoved Old Xiao aside, snatched his broadsword, and even gave it a test swing.

“Enemy atta—” The words never finished—he felt the world spin, his body still standing but now headless, as were two other guards.

Seizing the blade, Zhou Qian’s legs surged with blood, his muscles swelling until his legs were as thick as an elephant’s. With a mighty stomp—crack!—the stone slabs beneath his feet shattered, and he shot forward like lightning.

Zhou Qian was no stranger to the sabre. Though swordsmanship was his forte, at the highest levels, mastery of one weapon brought mastery of all. To counter the bladesmen of the martial world, he’d spent a month or two on the art of the sabre and was now, at least, a “sabresman of some skill.”

His body spun, blade moving with him, a wheel of gleaming silver in the air. Three heads flew up in succession—a move modeled after the legendary Knife Mill of Grand Marshal Ma San. Though lacking the wild ferocity of the original, it still carried much of its deadly might.

“Whose harebrained idea was this? If I hadn’t reacted quickly, things would have gone very badly!” Zhou Qian grumbled, rubbing his bruised, reddened nose. To fool Old Xiao, he’d smashed his own nose into the ground, so hard his eyes had teared up. Never mind being a master of the Embryonic Elixir, even an immortal would have found it unbearable!

The other martial artists burst out laughing, while Li Guangzhi scowled darkly. Had they been in command of thousands, no soldier would dare speak to him so. Zhou Qian shrank back a little—he genuinely respected the old general, and if he angered him too much, who knew if Li Guangzhi might not bring his armies down on his head one day.

The small Eight Trigrams Formation was thick with shifting clouds, heaven and earth reversed, the four directions unpredictable. The group divided as planned, binding themselves together in pairs or trios with slender cords about their arms. Their goals: to rescue Tu Yong and Master Wei’s party, and to inflict as many casualties as possible on the underworld. Regardless of the outcome, they would regroup at the Qian Gate in two hours’ time—at noon, when yang energy was strongest and the formation at its weakest, they would break out together.

To Zhou Qian’s dismay, his assigned partner was none other than General Li Guangzhi himself. Was this some scheme to pair the strongest with the weakest?

They exchanged a wordless nod and slipped into the formation.

“General Li Guangzhi?” Zhou Qian prompted.

“Hmph! I’m no burden to you,” the old general snorted, entering first. Zhou Qian scratched his head. Such bravado belonged on the battlefield, but he followed.

Inside, white clouds drifted and mist curled thickly, close enough to touch, yet only the two of them were present—no sign of friend or foe.

“This is what makes the Eight Trigrams Formation so formidable—distorting reality, turning solid into void. It’s possible our allies are right beside us, yet invisible and out of reach,” Li Guangzhi said gravely.

“So what do we do?”

“We press on.”

They walked for roughly the time it takes incense to burn. The mist parted ahead, revealing a gate marked with the seal-script character for Xun.

“The Xun Gate?” Zhou Qian exclaimed.

“The Xun Gate lets out but not in. We’ll go around.”

Skirting the Xun Gate, they continued until a flicker of movement caught their eyes. Rushing forward, they found two figures: Huang Min, master of the Fallen Valley, and Ghostblade Shi Jin, famed forest outlaw.

The two were battered and grim, their black clothing tattered. The four men eyed each other. Ghostblade Shi Jin, lacking sense, snapped, “Whose lackey are you? Get lost!”

His sword flashed like a needle, stabbing instantly—his signature move, “Instant Blade,” renowned throughout the realm.

Shi Jin barely had time to raise his blade, but the Ghostblade master’s strike pierced both sword and flesh. Meanwhile, Li Guangzhi and Huang Min clashed nearby.

The first exchange revealed the gap between them. Shi Jin, a veteran of the martial world, immediately thought of fleeing; after a feint, he turned to run, too fast for Zhou Qian to react. But his speed was lacking—Zhou Qian caught up and finished him with a single thrust. It wasn’t a matter of poor skill; as a sabresman, exposing his back was fatal, for the way of the blade is to advance, never retreat.

Dispatching his foe, Zhou Qian turned to watch the other duel. After a moment, he sighed and said, “General Li, allow me.”

Li Guangzhi, panting and drenched in sweat, roared, “I can handle this fiend!”

Zhou Qian could see that Huang Min was the superior fighter, and likely only prolonging the fight to avoid facing Zhou Qian—he knew he wouldn’t last long against the “Young Sword Immortal.” If the fight dragged on, Li Guangzhi would soon collapse. Sensing Zhou Qian’s killing intent, Huang Min lost his composure. Li Guangzhi seized the moment, slashing three times, every blow a desperate gamble, and managed to cut Huang Min down.

Li Guangzhi shot Zhou Qian a look of disdain, as if to say, “I was perfectly capable.” Zhou Qian simply gave him a thumbs-up.

They pressed onward, soon encountering the Gen Gate. Exchanging a glance, they entered.

The scene changed: soaring waterfalls, high mountains and low cliffs stretched unbroken, a verdant lake ringed by peaks, streams chattering, fish frolicking. They found themselves in a wild wood, thick with undergrowth, flowers, and vines. Despite their broad experience, both men were awestruck.

“What is this?” Zhou Qian murmured.

“All illusion,” Li Guangzhi replied, scanning the surroundings.

“Something’s wrong,” Zhou Qian’s face paled—his hearing was far keener than Li Guangzhi’s.

The ground trembled. From the woods came a cacophony of snarls and pounding paws; wolves burst from the trees, fangs bared, drool flying, the air thick with stench.

“Are these illusions too?” Zhou Qian asked, tense.

Li Guangzhi frowned, nodded, then shook his head. “I’m not sure.”

A wolf leapt. With a flash of the blade, it was sliced in two, entrails spilling across the ground.

That act set off a frenzy; dozens of wolves, eyes red with fury, attacked. Their wildness made them cannibalize their own kind.

Suddenly, the two men faced a pack of dozens. Zhou Qian held his own, but Li Guangzhi soon faltered—his blade caught by two or three wolves, the rest leaping upon him, the old general in mortal peril.

Swordlight flashed like rain, blood spattering in every direction, wolf heads flying. After half an hour’s carnage, the two finally cleared the pack. Even Zhou Qian, though, was left bent over his sword, exhausted beyond measure.

“We can’t go back?” Zhou Qian glanced at the crystalline lake behind, licking his parched lips.

“Never enter a lake,” Li Guangzhi replied, slumping to the ground.

Again came the sound of padded feet and heavy breathing. Now, thirty great white-tiger-striped beasts crouched in the grass, yellow fur bristling, golden eyes flashing, jaws agape in threat.

Without warning, a storm of stinking wind—white tigers, each a ton and ten feet long, charged.

Two hours later, Zhou Qian’s left hand had been bitten off, his body torn and bloody, a chunk of thigh missing down to the bone. As for Li Guangzhi—he’d been devoured by the tigers, his corpse nowhere to be found.

“We can’t turn back,” Zhou Qian gritted his teeth.

Suddenly, two serpentine demons, each a hundred feet long, slithered through the trees. The trunks, wide enough for several men to encircle, snapped like twigs as the beasts coiled around them. The last thing Zhou Qian saw before darkness swallowed him was being devoured whole.

“Ah!” Zhou Qian jolted awake, drenched in cold sweat, still surrounded by swirling mist and cloud. He checked himself—no wounds. Li Guangzhi was beside him.

“You’re alive?!” Zhou Qian exclaimed in delight.

“Of course I am.” Li Guangzhi shot him a glare. “When that tiger ‘killed’ me, I woke up here.”

“So that’s it,” Zhou Qian breathed in relief, collapsing onto the ground. “Truly a formation worthy of immortals—extraordinary indeed. I wonder what would have happened if we’d tried the lake.”

Before Li Guangzhi could answer, the mists parted. A monstrous beast strode in, wreathed in fire, as large as a bull, red-eyed, white-tailed, with great jutting fangs.

“Is this another illusion?” Li Guangzhi wondered aloud.

Zhou Qian’s face changed utterly. “A demonic beast—real!”