Chapter 45: Fierce Battle and the Method of Prolonging Life

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Ji Ming rode the wind, alighting upon the flying eaves of the upper floor.

This art of Minor Wish, when combined with the poison of the Flying Centipede, was nothing short of a perfect tool for assassination.

If he could master the Major Wish art, allowing him to shift between great and small at will, perhaps even cultivators in the Qi Refining realm would not deter him from taking a chance.

Ji Ming lay prone on a roof tile, his shrunken body now so tiny that a mere patch of dried bird droppings on the eaves was enough to conceal him entirely.

Below, in the watchtower, the three were preparing to open their altar.

Up to now, Ji Ming had only learned the Yin Corpse Fire-Fixing Altar, and the Gate-Sealing Sitting Altar, which he had picked up from Yu Xiao of the Scorpion Heart Sect.

"Commence the altar!"

The Daoist in ceremonial robes seized an old peach-wood sword, pointing it at the three ancestral tablets on the altar table.

"Open!"

"Open!"

The two female Daoists called out in succession.

On the altar table, the tablets quivered faintly, as wisps of Yin wind swept into the tower. Three dark shadows streamed forth from within the tablets.

They hovered over the burning incense, breathing in deeply—the incense consumed at a pace visible to the naked eye.

The three Daoists sat in a triangle, watching as the incense was absorbed. This was a necessary spiritual offering for dispatching minor spirits, especially these ghost soldiers they had refined themselves.

Ji Ming slithered beneath the tiles, watching the proceedings within the tower with keen interest.

When the incense burned out, the three shadows each paid obeisance to the three Daoists, then cocked their heads to listen.

"Let us waste no words. Summoning you again tonight is not for moving treasure, but to investigate the talismans in the Garden of Abandonment."

With that, he produced three folded talisman papers.

"Succeed, and these three talisman offerings will be yours."

Within the watchtower, a sudden gust of Yin wind arose, moaning like wailing souls—no doubt the reply of the three summoned ghosts.

"Go now!"

At the Daoist's command, the Yin wind bore the ghosts out of the tower.

Ji Ming peered outside, silently comparing the Yin Wind Art he himself wielded, and felt he was still the superior practitioner.

"Senior brother, how long must we go on collecting these treasures?" The female Daoist with a hint of flirtatiousness could not help but complain, "Our Grandmaster has presided over Four Sorrows Cloud Monastery for over two hundred and thirty years, and now we must scavenge jewels and riches to curry favor with a heterodox sect?"

"He is a venerable master, hardly to be slighted as a mere outsider."

The senior brother, gathering his ceremonial robe about him, wore a look of clear disapproval.

"Leaving aside his boundless powers, even our Grandmaster is now over two hundred and thirteen years old—nearing the very limit of a Foundation Establishment cultivator’s lifespan. He has already refined the Yang Dragon and Yin Tiger within; with only a bit more cultivation, he will unite the dragon and tiger, and obtain the golden core—how could he not seek every possible method to prolong his years?"

He pressed his palms together in reverence. "When it comes to longevity, only the esoteric methods of the Buddhist sects are truly effective."

"This is defying heaven itself!"

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Suddenly, the third—thick-browed—female Daoist furrowed her brows and spoke up.

Her words brought instant silence to the watchtower, leaving only the sound of tense breathing.

Heaven was a real, tangible force—indeed, there were three heavens. Who would dare speak of defying heaven on this land, as if the Three Heavens were deaf to such blasphemy?

Ji Ming, growing ever more engrossed, wished to hear more, but the three Daoists immediately grew reticent, their conversation shrouded in secrecy.

"If you remain silent, I’ll have to take action," Ji Ming thought to himself.

He waited a bit longer, crawling to a spot directly above the senior brother, ready to release his legs and drop down, when suddenly the conversation resumed.

"Those who defy heaven are doomed to calamity."

The thick-browed Daoist sighed deeply, gazing up at the stars from the tower. "Is what Grandmaster does truly—"

"Mind your words!" The senior brother's face darkened further. "Grandmaster was born with the bones of a sage, practically destined to become a Golden Core Immortal. He needs only a few more years to succeed. And in the history of Mount Taiping, those who secretly sought longevity are more than two dozen."

"Exactly!" The other female Daoist giggled, chiming in, "Master always says that among all disciples, Brother Zhang most resembles our ancestor. And you, who have yet to open your meridians, dare to comment on Grandmaster’s actions—such audacity!"

The thick-browed Daoist turned away, ignoring the two, but, unable to contain her indignation, soon left the tower on her own.

With the younger sister gone, the remaining pair’s gazes tangled ever more intimately.

Were it not for the need to watch over the altar, they might well have lost themselves in passion then and there.

Ji Ming loosened his grip, choosing his spot, and dropped directly onto the back of the senior brother’s neck, plunging both venomous fangs deep.

“Hiss—!”

The senior brother instinctively slapped at his neck.

“Senior brother, there are many mountains and rivers in this region, and at night the mosquitoes and insects are fierce. I have a Fragrant Pearl here to ward them off,” the female Daoist, who had been exchanging glances with him, said with concern.

He pulled his hand back—though the bite was small, the pain was intense. He thought, “Surely this can’t be a venomous insect sent by an enemy?”

The next instant, a wave of dizziness swept over him.

“Enemy attack!” he shouted, forcing himself upright.

Tiny Ji Ming, wings buzzing, circled the altar table and darted toward the female Daoist, ready to repeat his assault.

As he drew near, she cried out, “Senior brother, use the Dispel-Wood Needle!”

At these words, Ji Ming knew things had turned sour. He immediately dispelled the Minor Wish art and spat out a Bone-Piercing Bead at her.

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At such close range, and with his terrifying, many-legged form, the female Daoist shrieked so loudly her voice seemed to pierce the very heavens—until the Bone-Piercing Bead struck her squarely.

Ji Ming twisted in midair, his poisoned fangs snapping at the senior brother’s head, only for the latter to dodge—their two weapons clashed, sending up sparks.

“Junior sister—!”

The senior brother dodged again and again, slapping his waist pouch. A leaf-shaped device slid from the pouch’s mouth, bearing three or four long, thin wooden needles. He withdrew one and stabbed it into the back of his neck.

“Flying Centipede.”

His gaze locked on Ji Ming’s twin wings, filled with dread and murderous intent.

If memory served, there was an Elder Tian Wu in the Panhu mountains who had raised a four-hundred-year-old flying centipede. This one before him was surely not that same beast, but was almost certainly its descendant.

If that were so, then whoever was behind this flying centipede was no opponent he could hope to defeat.

Thump, thump, thump—

During their standoff, urgent footsteps suddenly sounded from below the watchtower—the thick-browed Daoist had returned.

Ji Ming was determined to finish this quickly, but beneath him came the clanging of metal.

Looking down, he saw needles shooting up through the floorboards, striking at his underbelly—these must be the Dispel-Wood Needles the Daoist had mentioned before.

Unfortunately for the thick-browed Daoist below, she did not know that his carapace was as hard as refined steel.

“A feint in the east, a strike from the west!”

The thought flashed through Ji Ming’s mind: the footsteps were a mere distraction—the true attack lay in the needles.

The senior brother once again employed his agility, weaving through the altar room, but Ji Ming now extended two long arms and lunged at him.

“Not strong, but exceedingly troublesome.”

Again and again Ji Ming’s attacks missed, his foe always just out of reach, the peach-wood sword deflecting his poisonous strikes time after time.

He had to fend off the senior brother above, while being wary of the thick-browed Daoist’s attacks from below.

The needles from below always came at the most inopportune times, aiming for the gaps in his shell—his mouthparts, his eyes—utterly vexing.

The senior brother seemed to be deciphering the truth of this flying centipede: though it had the form, it lacked much of the true power—most likely its demon bloodline was not yet mature.

Ji Ming realized he would need cunning to prevail. He hurled himself at the body of the dead female Daoist.

“Do not defile my junior sister!”

The senior brother’s eyes turned red, but he hesitated to approach, only advancing when Ji Ming flung the corpse of his junior sister toward him.