Half a month later, in the Great Spiritual Field Realm.
On a road that stretched endlessly across the land, most of the fields on either side lay barren and abandoned.
A weary old horse was pulling a rickety carriage loaded with people, straining forward. The driver's eyes were as alert as a wildcat's, constantly scanning the surroundings.
Inside the carriage sat seven or eight cultivators. All of them were wearing tattered robes, their faces sallow, their fingers rough and stained with soil that no washing could remove. The only valuable thing they owned was a worn-out storage pouch, which held a little spirit grain, some spirit noodles, and a handful of spirit stones.
Their faces were tired and bitter, and throughout the journey, they talked in anxious whispers of famine and war: whose harvest had been too small, who had run out of food and driven their children away to fend for themselves; how some strong young cultivators had joined the mobs and learned to burn, kill, and loot before being killed themselves; how the fields to the north had rotted for no reason, yielding nothing after a year's labor; that spirit farmers might soon rise up in rebellion if they couldn't even find their daily meals.
They spoke of places where many had died and even the corpses had vanished. In the end, helpless, they could only mutter prayers, begging the Earth God for protection, begging Ksitigarbha for mercy, believing that their own piety had been insufficient, their offerings too meager, and that was why disaster had befallen them.
Amid all their talk, no one noticed the figure dressed in black robes sitting in the corner of the carriage. From the very beginning, he had sat there in silence. He had not hidden himself, nor had he spoken, yet the others looked at him without seeing him and listened without hearing him, as though no such person existed in their perception at all.
The carriage traveled on for another day and night. When the passengers were hungry, they would occasionally take out blackened buns mixed with weeds, or bite off a mouthful of dry food hard as stone. It was terrible fare, hard to swallow, but they still did not dare eat much. In a year of famine like this, it might have to last them half a month.
The black-robed figure watched it all in silence.
After another half day, as the passengers were chatting to pass the time, one burly man glanced outside and turned to the driver. "Have you taken the wrong road? This isn't the way to Nansui Prefecture."
The driver glanced back. "The usual road has been hit by riots. We can't take it anymore. We have to detour."
The big man hesitated. "Are you sure you know where you're going?"
The driver grew impatient. "If you're afraid I'll get you lost, get off. I won't carry you anymore."
The big man didn't dare say another word. He was a spirit farmer, a man who lived off the land, his whole life buried in the fields. He had rarely traveled and didn't know the roads outside. Forcing a smile, he said, "Don't be angry. I was just asking."
The driver snorted, gave the horse another whip, and quickened the pace.
After another half day, the road grew increasingly remote. The passengers harbored doubts but no longer dared speak. At dusk, the carriage stopped in front of a desolate relay station. The driver said, "The horse is tired. Get down, stretch your legs, and drink some water."
Seeing that it was a relay station, with its signboard still hanging, and worn out from the long journey, the passengers climbed down one by one to rest. The driver tied the carriage to the post and called out, "Hey, open up."
The gate slowly opened, and the driver led the passengers inside.
But the moment they passed through the door, a stench of blood hit them in the face. A coarse, hoarse voice said, "Why did you take so long with this batch of provisions?"
The driver swallowed hard and dared not speak. The others turned pale and tried to flee back through the door, but they were already blocked by a crowd of brutal-looking butchers wearing bloodstained aprons of human skin.
Like chickens and livestock, they were seized by the neck or had their arms wrenched behind their backs and held fast. They were spirit farmers who only knew how to plant and not how to kill; how could they resist these blood-soaked butchers?
Some did struggle, but they were immediately dragged into the inner courtyard.
The inner courtyard was a great slaughterhouse. Chopping blocks filled the yard, and blood had pooled beneath them, congealing into a filthy sludge that no water could wash away.
Human skins hung on racks, bones lay piled on the ground, and strips of meat were set out to dry as provisions for later. The scene was a living hell, and the honest spirit farmers were scared out of their minds.
At one end of the slaughterhouse, a butcher chief covered in lumps of flesh handed the driver twenty spirit stones and a small pouch of blackened dried meat. "You did well. Next time, be quicker. Don't keep me waiting."
The driver was still human enough to feel sick at the bloody scene. He almost vomited, but he didn't dare. He knew that if he vomited and angered the man in front of him, he too would be butchered and cut into jerky for provisions.
The butcher chief gave a grim smile, then turned and said in a hoarse voice, "The food is here. Start the slaughter."
The savage butchers, covered in blood and drooling with anticipation, drew their knives; some long and pointed, others broad bone-cutting cleavers, ready to set to work as usual.
The spirit farmers were pressed against the chopping blocks. A moment ago they had been passengers; now they were fish on the butcher's block, horror in their eyes. Heavy bone-cleavers were raised high and began to fall.
But at that same moment, beams of golden light shot through the air.
In that bloody hell, a dazzling golden flash blazed out of nowhere, followed by one golden streak after another, moving with incredible speed, striking before the slowing cleavers could land. They severed the butchers' arms.
Those arms were as hard as iron, but the golden blades were extraordinarily sharp, cutting through them like mud. In no time, blood sprayed and severed limbs littered the ground. Everyone was stunned.
The wart-covered butcher chief flew into a rage. "Who is using the Golden Blade Art?"
Before the words died in his mouth, his face darkened and his triangular, fleshy eyes narrowed. He was staring at the center of the slaughterhouse. There, amid the blood and gore, stood a figure in black robes.
Among the crowd of burly butchers, he looked thin and unimposing, almost without presence, yet there was something uncanny about him. No one knew when he had appeared or how long he had been standing there.
Sensing a nameless threat, the butcher chief immediately drew two half-man-tall serrated greatswords dripping with blood and hacked at the black figure. The butchers who could still fight also rushed forward, wielding heavy-backed choppers or sharp bone knives, murder in their eyes, converging on the lone black-robed cultivator.
But he moved like a ghost, his steps treading through cause and effect.
Blades fell like shadows and blood sprayed everywhere, yet none of them touched him; they did not even tear his clothes. Instead, the black-robed cultivator extended pale fingers and pointed through the air again and again.
With every gesture, harsh golden blades shot out and severed one arm after another, one leg after another. Blood rained down, soaking the ground as the maimed butchers screamed.
Soon, the yard was cleared by the Golden Blade Art. Only the butcher chief was still fighting, swinging his two serrated greatswords at the black-robed figure. He was at the early Golden Core stage, a body cultivator, his lumpy flesh like a suit of "blood armor."
The golden blades could cut his skin but could not reach his vitals. The severed limbs and blood of his comrades roused his vicious nature. He whirled his two serrated greatswords like a hurricane, raising a dreadful tide of blood and gore.
His face savage, he roared, "What rat are you, hiding your head and tail? Is the Golden Blade Art all you've got? Today, I'll cut off your dog head!"
Mo Hua was briefly taken aback. Then he abandoned the Golden Blade Art, which he had not yet mastered, and pointed again.
A deep-red fireball condensed in the air, scorching hot, so dark in color it was almost black, and shot forward with threads of baleful qi trailing behind. The fire was clear, yet it made everyone feel a chill.
Before the butcher chief could react, the deep-red fireball was in his face.
Too late to dodge, he threw up both arms to block. The next moment, it felt as if a meteorite had slammed into his arms, the explosive force rattling his bones.
When the blast faded, he looked up and saw his arms charred black. His fleshy "armor" had been burned straight through, the flesh scorched and reeking. Worse, threads of black, nameless qi were crawling along his meridians into his heart and lungs.
Fear nearly stopped his heart. "Which sect's damned Fireball Art was this? Orthodox arts weren't this sinister, and demonic arts never felt this upright."
Before he could recover, more fireballs came, one after another, leaving him no chance to react or counter.
The explosive power, the condensed heat, the cold baleful qi, the unbroken stream of spiritual energy, the flawless technique, altogether formed an absolute suppression that left him gasping.
Before long, the butcher chief was bathed in fire, his whole body scorched black and blazing with pain. "Not good, I've hit a tough opponent."
Realizing how dangerous his enemy was, he sheathed his serrated blades, threw a cloak over his charred body, turned, and fled. He did not notice until he reached the gate that the black-robed cultivator had not pursued him.
The cold baleful qi was still boring into his heart meridian. He felt vaguely suspicious but couldn't say why. Still, survival was survival. His injuries were spreading and the fire's pain still gnawed at him, so he had no time to think further. Clutching the life-saving cloak tightly, he turned into a black wind and fled into the distance.
With the chief gone, the remaining butchers scattered like frightened birds and beasts.
They had lost arms and legs, but their lives had been spared. Knowing they had met someone they could not afford to offend, they crawled, limped, and staggered as fast as they could away from the black-robed figure. Before long, the slaughterhouse grew quiet.
The terrified spirit farmers, their hearts still pounding, dragged themselves off the blood-soaked chopping blocks and knelt toward the black-robed figure, crying out, "Thank you, Senior, for saving our lives!"
"Thank you, exalted one!"
"Thank you, Master!"
They did not know who the black-robed cultivator was, whether he was good or evil, why he had saved them, or whether he might kill them afterward. All they could do was kowtow and pray for mercy.
Only the driver, who had led them there, stared in shock at the fierce butchers reduced to chickens and dogs, limbs severed and scattered.
Then, he immediately tried to run. But he had not gone more than a few steps when the black-robed cultivator gave him a single, indifferent glance.
The driver felt his bones go weak, fell to the ground, and kowtowed repeatedly. "Spare me, exalted one! Spare me, Master! I had no choice! If I didn't bring people here, these butchers... they would have killed and eaten my whole family!"
Tears and snot streaming down his face, he begged, "Forgive me, Master! Spare me!"
The black-robed cultivator did not kill him. He merely said, "Keep driving."
The driver froze.
"We're not there yet," said the black-robed cultivator.
Only then did the driver understand. He nodded and said, "Yes, yes, as you command, Master..."
And so, on the small road to Nansui Prefecture, the driver urged the old horse forward, the carriage rolling along silently.
On the surface, everything was the same as before, but the passengers, who had narrowly escaped death, felt as if they were dreaming. Earlier, not knowing an expert had been in the carriage, they had whispered among themselves. Now that they knew, no one dared speak.
Occasionally, someone would cast a grateful look at the figure, but most of the time they did not even dare raise their heads, afraid of offending the "expert" and inviting disaster. A spirit farmer's life was cheap; life and death were like grass.
And so the weary horse pulled the carriage along, this time on the correct road to the Nansui Prefecture border.
After half a day, the surroundings changed, ad the crops became different. Nansui's grain was unlike that of other regions. The passengers relaxed at last, knowing they were almost home. In this age, going out and returning safely was already a blessing from the Heavens.
The carriage continued on. Whenever it passed a village or hamlet, someone would get off.
Before leaving, they did not dare say anything, only bow respectfully to the black-robed cultivator in the carriage. After getting off, they knelt on the earth and kowtowed three times in the direction of the departing carriage. If they had died, the old and young at home would likely have starved. They were too poor to repay him; they could only kowtow in thanks.
One by one, the passengers left. Finally, only the black-robed cultivator remained.
The carriage still moved forward, but the driver no longer dared to continue. He let the carriage slow to a halt, then turned stiffly and looked at the black figure inside.
"M-Master... we've arrived. You..." He did not know whether what lay beneath those black robes was a man, a ghost, or some terrible existence, so he spoke with his heart pounding, not daring to say an extra word.
For a long moment, the atmosphere in the carriage was oppressive. At last, the black-robed cultivator spoke. "Keep driving. To the Qingqi Prefecture border."
His voice was somewhat androgynous, making it impossible to tell his identity.
The driver was shocked. "The Qingqi border... you mustn't go there."
"What's wrong?" asked the black-robed cultivator.
The driver's face was bitter. "To be honest, Master... the Qingqi Prefecture border has completely collapsed. Rebels are running loose, killing everyone they see. It's thousands of li of barren land with no one left. Few who go there ever come out alive."
The black-robed cultivator said, "That's all right."
"It may be all right for you, but..." the driver stammered in fear, "if I go there, I'll definitely die..."
The black-robed cultivator thought for a moment. "Take me to the border."
The driver didn't dare go even to the border, but since this "exalted one" had already said so, he didn't dare refuse.
Those fierce butchers in the slaughterhouse had been no match for him, which meant he was an even more terrifying being. Even if the driver had the courage of a bear or leopard, he would not dare defy him.
Filled with fear, he said, "Fine. I'll take you there."
The carriage drove on, crossing the Nansui Prefecture border and heading toward the more distant, more chaotic Qingqi Prefecture. Yet this time, the carriage was empty except for the black-robed cultivator. He wore a black Daoist robe and a hood that concealed his face, only half of a pale chin showing. His aura was veiled in secrecy, impossible to see through.
This black-robed cultivator was Mo Hua, who had left Houtu City and come to the Great Spiritual Field Realm. He sat in the carriage, watching the scene outside the window, his gaze deep, his thoughts churning.
"The Xirang Grand Array..."
The secrets of this array had been sealed tight by the Earth Sect and the great clans. It was a matter of grave importance; there was no information to be had in Houtu City.
Since that was so, Mo Hua had to change his approach. Since it was a grand array, and it was named after the divine soil "Xirang," it had to be connected to the land. Land on an enormous scale.
Houtu City might be named "Houtu," but it was already a thriving immortal city; it was impossible to undertake such a massive construction there. Only the Great Spiritual Field Realm had free land on such a vast scale.
In other words, the secrets of the Xirang Grand Array might be sealed away in the upper echelons of the Earth Sect and the families, but the array's landing point must lie in the Great Spiritual Field Realm.
All he had to do was take root there, "wait by the stump for the rabbit," and let the Earth Sect carry out the grand array's plan step by step.
A grand array was a major project involving entire prefectures and regions; it would leave a huge commotion. The traces of its construction could not truly be hidden from everyone, at least not from Mo Hua, a "chief formation master" with rich experience in grand arrays.
What kind of array was the "Xirang Grand Array"? What extraordinary formation principles did it contain?
Beyond that, Mo Hua had a premonition that there were many deep, unknown secrets in the Great Spiritual Field Realm. Secrets tied to enormous karma that would have to be unraveled thread by thread.
He also had much to do himself. At the very least, he needed to find enough material to prepare the means to "release" his divine-intent sword, so that it could cut down all obstacles without restraint.
The Great Spiritual Field Realm was already showing signs of chaos; it was destined to become a place of slaughter. But before that...
He sank into thought. In his mind, the images from the earlier demon-bone divination surfaced one after another, and his gaze darkened.
Even in the relatively stable Nansui region and its surroundings, ruin stretched everywhere and the people were barely surviving. Traveling cultivators could be killed at any moment by demons or rebel mobs.
All along the road, such scenes had been common. The Great Spiritual Field Realm was indeed already in chaos, more than he had imagined.
In such circumstances, Gu Changhuai, a Dao Court inspector, had suddenly gone silent.
That did not bode well. He needed to find Gu Changhuai as soon as possible.
Mo Hua's heart sank. He began counting karma on his fingers, and his gaze grew heavier and heavier.
The shabby carriage moved along the field paths. The closer it came to the Qingqi Prefecture border, the more waste fields there were on both sides; the soil and water gave off a stench of decay. Corpses lay by the roadside from time to time.
It was a dangerous road, and the driver drove with his heart in his throat. But perhaps Heaven was protecting him, for along the way, he encountered no demons eating people, no robbers blocking the road, no rebels killing travelers, no murderous, invisible evil spirits.
After another day, the carriage reached the border between Qingqi and Nansui.
The driver would not go any farther. "Master, this is as far as I go. Any farther, and I truly don't dare." The Nansui side still had some signs of life, but on the Qingqi side, everything was blood-red.
Mo Hua did not insist. He nodded and said, "Go back."
The driver was surprised. He hadn't expected this eerie, frightening "exalted one" to actually let him off.
When he saw Mo Hua truly get out of the carriage, he hurriedly bowed. "Thank you, Master, for not killing me. When I return, I'll reform my ways and never again lend myself to evil."
Mo Hua glanced up at the driver's brow, his expression turning slightly grave, and gave him one warning: "Take the south road."
The driver was puzzled. "The south road?" Mo Hua said no more. He turned away and stepped alone into the Qingqi Prefecture border. In a moment, his figure had vanished.
The driver was even more shocked. Then, not daring to linger, he drove the carriage back along the southern road. But after traveling ten li, he turned around, and Mo Hua was long gone.
He suddenly pulled the reins, stopped the carriage, and sneered inwardly, "That black-robed man, neither man nor ghost. If I listen to him, wouldn't I be asking for death? Why should I go where he tells me?"
His courage swelled, and he reasoned with himself, "The south road is narrow and long; it must be full of danger. I know the north road better, and I've carried many passengers on it. If I'm lucky, I can pick up a few more people and send them to other chiefs as provisions. That'll make up for the road toll."
In this world, why wouldn't he do the business? It wasn't like he was the one being killed and eaten.
With that, he pulled the reins again, went against the warning, and turned onto the north road. The north road was wider and smoother, and the carriage moved faster.
The driver grew more and more at ease as he drove. Then he rounded a bend, entered a stretch of wild forest, and never came out again.
Later, when people passed by, they only saw a broken carriage by the roadside, a dismembered old horse, and a pile of human bones left over from some creature's meal; whether it had been man or beast, no one could say.