A slender white python, graceful as a maiden, its wings modest yet exquisitely translucent, shimmering with a crystalline clarity—so subtle that one might scarcely perceive them without careful scrutiny. It defied belief that the mere flutter of these wings could lift it from the cliff's edge on the stone terrace. Inevitably, one suspected it wielded some mystical art akin to the levitation techniques practiced by qi cultivators. Yet now, such speculations mattered little. The white python arched its back and plunged downward with fierce velocity, jaws wide open, aiming to devour the delicate-faced maid, Zhu Lu. Unexpectedly, a youth brandishing a wooden blade appeared from nowhere. Using the black snake's spine and head as stepping stones, he leapt forth and struck precisely at the juncture where the white python's wing met its body. The python depended on those wings both for flight and steering; once severed, it was propelled forward by inertia but immediately veered sharply sideways over several feet. Its gaping maw just grazed past the girl's side before the entire body crashed heavily onto the stone terrace.
Zhu Lu and the three schoolchildren behind her narrowly escaped. Seizing the python's stunned moment after impact, Li Baoping hastily hoisted her book box, urging a swift retreat. Lin Shouyi silently followed with his pack. Li Huai, teeth chattering from fright, ran a short distance before suddenly noticing Zhu Lu's absence. Turning back, he was dumbfounded to see her standing frozen in place, seemingly resigned to her fate. Li Huai shouted urgently, "Zhu Lu, why aren't you running?!" The girl shuddered, half-recovered but still dazed, and cast a vacant glance toward Li Huai. He shouted again, "Run! Are you waiting to die?!" Once fully alert, Zhu Lu revealed the agile poise of a peak second-stage martial artist, closing the distance in mere strides to join them as they withdrew to a safer spot on the stone terrace.
No sooner had Zhu Lu left than the wounded white python, its broken wing spurting blood, writhed in agony. Its tail lashed violently, scattering stones and debris—had Zhu Lu lingered longer, she would surely have been pulverized by its massive, barrel-thick tail. Severely depleted after losing its wing, the python thrashed wildly, stirring a cloud of dust and rock fragments, unable to regain composure for a long while.
Yet the youth fared no better. His left hand, clutching the wooden blade, was torn open at the tiger's mouth, bleeding profusely. Chen Ping'an knelt on one knee, wiping sweat from his brow to clear his vision. The wooden blade had snapped nearly in half, its gleaming edge rebounding dangerously close. Had Chen not swiftly tilted his head aside, the jagged remnant might have pierced his face, or at least ripped away a chunk of flesh.
Chen's current position formed a pincer with the black snake and white python. The black snake's movements were cunning and erratic; after witnessing the white python's grievous injury, it did not rush to abandon Zhu He or engage Chen in fierce combat. Instead, its demeanor grew even more composed and leisurely, swaying its upper body with deliberate ease, maintaining a stalemate stance with Zhu He. The snake's sinister, silvery eyes occasionally flickered toward the python, its gaze as predatory as the python's earlier look upon Zhu Lu—like a delectable prize on a platter.
At the center of the stone terrace, an elderly man in white, clutching a verdant bamboo staff, trembled. The half-broken wooden blade lay nearby in the dust. The old man approached stealthily, crouched, and gingerly wiped the blade's edge with his fingertip. His finger immediately bled a peculiar, soil-tinted blood with a faint golden hue. Startled, he withdrew his hand, then bent his fingers and tapped the blade lightly, perplexed. Pinching his snow-white beard, he murmured, "Unparalleled sharpness—worthy of such praise—yet merely an ordinary woodcutter's blade, far from a warrior's tempered sword. The blade is brittle, lacking the resilience needed. Had its quality matched the edge, and wielded by a naïve yet skilled warrior, victory might not be impossible. But now\... all is lost."
Studying the blade's pristine, distinct cutting edge, he sighed deeply. "As for the secret of this wooden blade… it must lie with that boy's whetstone. But what sort of whetstone can transform a crude, cheap woodcutter's blade into such a razor?…" His gaze grew greedy and burning as he furtively glanced toward Zhu Lu and Li Baoping's baskets and packs—sure enough, the whetstone lay hidden there. Yet the old man exhaled heavily, for even if he possessed such a treasure, it seemed he no longer had the life left to enjoy it.
His heart filled with bitterness and regret, cursing the meddlesome five-stage martial spirit who had unleashed the "Mountain Forming Technique"—a long-lost art of earth manipulation. At the time, hiding underground, he had regarded it with a skeptic's smirk, only to be ultimately undone by this very stumble. This earth-shaping technique was hardly a pinnacle art; yet its long dormancy made it rare. During his tenure as the mountain's local deity, it had been invoked only once before by two celestial immortals who came to play chess atop the peak. Those immortals, true transcendents of the mortal realm, dwarfed the young five-stage warrior who led the troupe—a mere novice unworthy even of their shoes.
Chen Ping'an wished to finish off the white python but his internal organs churned violently, sapping all strength. After wiping his sweat, it quickly returned to his face. Resigned, he ceased wasting energy, focusing instead on steadying his breath to calm the turbulent qi within—like patching leaky windows amid a torrential storm.
The drumming heartbeat resumed in his chest, growing louder—not entering his ears, but resonating as an ethereal, profound pulse that conveyed his body's trembling lament. This instinctive, primal sensation first arose during a childhood spasm in the Mud Bottle Lane and resurfaced once on the mountain. This time, he avoided collapsing by sensing the fierce, fire-like qi inside him reversing upward from his abdomen, flowing through recognized energy nodes and meridian passages, alleviating the pain much like a general quelling a rebellion. Though the root cause remained, it at least spared him the worst suffering.
Though grievously wounded, Zhu He's spirit only intensified—his robust battle aura surged with defiant vigor, his sleeves billowing in the wind, exuding the undeniable presence of a seasoned master. The black snake, slinking near the terrace edge, narrowed its eyes. Despite Zhu He's display of strength, it remained unhurried, shaking its head widely as if searching for a flaw, inadvertently granting Zhu He a precious chance to suppress his injuries.
The old man hesitated, then weakly advised, "Cease struggling. This cursed beast delays devouring you only to fully draw out your qi and blood—it awaits the ripening of a tender fruit. Don't presume it is helpless; even if it swallowed your body, it could not digest your spirit essence—that is the true tonic."
The old man sighed mournfully, tidying his disheveled hair and tattered robes, mocking himself: "At least as a local spirit, I must uphold the dignity of a mountain god before death."
Sitting down, he sneered bitterly, "That fiend is not only physically formidable and swift—it devoured a fifth-stage Daoist qi cultivator over a century ago. By now, it likely masters one or two rudimentary Daoist arts. Though crude, wielded by such a beast, even a fifth-stage warrior would struggle to withstand. It's your misfortune that a five-stage warrior leads this venture—if a sixth-stage had taken command, the beasts might have emerged but hesitated, fearing mutual destruction. At seventh-stage, they would have long since fled, cursing you to leave their mountain."
The young Zhu Lu shuddered, despair flooding her heart. Lin Shouyi muttered, "Where is Elder A-liang?" Suddenly, Li Huai noticed Li Baoping furtively opening the book box, extracting a small porcelain vial and clutching it tightly. Following her gaze, Chen Ping'an silently nodded from afar. Li Huai envied their tacit understanding—a connection the books called "a meeting of hearts."
Upon hearing the old deity's revelation, Zhu He showed no fear, cracking his wrist and laughing confidently, "To die shackled and humiliated is death; to die fighting free is death as well. If death is certain, why fret over becoming the stepping stone for that beast's transformation?"
A fifth-stage warrior was already deemed a minor martial master, with a fortified soul and spirit, merely lacking the formation of a martial courage. Zhu He, trapped in mortal peril, showed no intention to yield—embodying the martial creed of "embracing death to forge courage," only requiring further refinement.
The black snake abruptly shed its languid pose, now fully aware that Zhu He was spent, his spirit and qi boiling within his energy centers. With a fierce rush of qi and blood surging through him, the snake readied to strike and savor its prize. Raising its head, it revealed two ivory-like fangs, terrifyingly thick as sturdy arms. Unlike the filthy, saliva-dripping maw of the white python, this black snake appeared cleaner, its mouth gleaming white and exhaling chilling breath—a stark contrast of black and white that endowed the beast with an imposing majesty, more befitting a genuine mountain spirit than the ragged old man.
With sudden fury, the black snake launched its assault...