A trap?
A setup?
One man laying a trap for three thousand?
Someone immediately stepped forward, pointing mockingly at Li Zhexian suspended in midair.
"Blood Slaughter Sword, no matter how sharp your sword—"
"With three thousand of us charging at once, you can't possibly kill us all!"
At the edge of the crowd, Hu Liena's fox tail twitched uneasily.
Her golden eyes locked onto the blood-robed figure above.
Something was wrong.
A chill like icy needles shot from her feet up her spine.
She quietly began stepping backward toward the entrance of the valley.
And not far behind her, Tang San, who had been lingering near the rear, showed the same wary look.
...
In the air, Li Zhexian stood upon invisible swords of wind, his robe fluttering.
That boast of "couldn't kill them all"—
was answered only by his faint, unreadable laugh.
"Heh…"
He reached into his Wishful Hundred Treasure Purse—
and drew out a strange flower.
Its petals were dark red like congealed blood,
their edges black as the dying feathers of a swan.
The moment it appeared,
Tang San's face changed drastically.
His pace surged,
his figure blurring into afterimages as he shot toward the valley's exit.
Seeing this, Hu Liena didn't hesitate—
she followed at once.
Among the three thousand,
the sharpest of them also sensed death approaching,
panic twisting their faces as they turned to flee.
But—
it was already too late.
The strange flower cracked open along its veins—
and then began to shudder violently, before bursting apart.
Shoo—!
Shoo—!
Countless dark-red streaks of light, like venomous serpents,
shot out with screaming whistles, raining down on the three thousand below.
Even the purple moonlight hanging over the valley seemed to warp and twist.
The sound of shattering petals
was like the wailing of ten thousand ghosts.
It was the Mourning Mandrake,
one of the spiritual herbs Li Zhexian possessed.
Its poison was not as brutally dominant as The Blood Swan's Kiss,
but it possessed a terrifying trait —
it could only be awakened by pure energy.
The purer the energy,
the farther its poison would spread.
Once tainted by it, a Spirit Master's power would rot and fade like dead wood.
And to awaken it, Li Zhexian had used a mixture of several immortal wines —
a catalyst born of intoxication and death.
...
The poisonous dark-red light rolled like a tide through the valley.
Only the quick-reacting Tang San and Hu Liena had escaped beyond the cliffs.
The rest —
all three thousand fugitives —
were swallowed whole by the spreading dark-red poisonous mist.
Li Zhexian glanced at the two panic-stricken figures outside the valley. A trace of regret flashed in his eyes and vanished.
Never mind.
What he sought today was only the brewing of wine and the forging of his sword. The lives of his opponents could be collected later.
Where the poisonous light of the Mourning Mandrake swept, the Spirit Power within the bodies of the three thousand fugitives vanished without a trace, like snow on boiling water.
Li Zhexian, on the other hand, had long ago consumed the wine from his Wine Martial Soul, which was effective in neutralizing all poisons in the world.
"My… my Spirit Power?!"
"Impossible! It's gone!"
"The Blood Slaughter Sword truly intends to trap and kill three thousand of us?!"
With their Spirit Power completely lost, the shadow of death only ignited the madness deep within the desperate fugitives' bones.
The crowd became like a swarm of angry ants, pouring even more hysterically toward the valley entrance.
Buzz—!
A dazzling beam of Holy Light erupted beside Li Zhexian,
spanning the valley entrance in an instant.
Six radiant wings unfolded — Qian Renxue's angelic form descended,
wind howling from the beat of her wings,
dust and blood swirling into a storm.
Her stunning jade face was now covered in frost. The Holy Light Sword in her hand was wreathed in Holy Flame, and her killing intent was palpable.
"The Angel?!"
"They're working together?!"
"Bullshit Supreme Treasure! Bullshit sworn enemies! It was all a trap set by them!!"
"Blood Slaughter Sword, you cunning bastard! You planned this for months—just to lure us here?!"
Outside the valley, witnessing Qian Renxue actually joining Li Zhexian to block the entrance, Tang San and Hu Liena were horrified.
Without daring to linger another moment,
they fled hundreds of meters away,
only then stopping atop a high cliff,
hearts pounding as they looked back toward the infernal valley.
…
Li Zhexian hovered midair.
The swords of air beneath his feet hummed like dragons.
Those cold, star-like eyes swept across the sea of terrified faces below.
With a flick of his sleeve,
a vessel floated out—
the same that held half-brewed Forgetful River Blood Resentment Fragrance—
settling above the center of the valley, suspended in the air.
"Today…"
"With the dirge of the dead, I shall brew my Forgetful River Blood Resentment Fragrance."
"With three thousand blooded bones, I shall forge my Sword of Killing Intent."."
As his voice fell, Li Zhexian plunged into the crowd.
Zheng—!
It was no longer a clear sword cry, but a sound of tearing silk, filled with savage ferocity.
The three-foot, six-inch Qinglian Sword in his hand, which had been breathing out azure-gold sword intent, now erupted with a blinding, terrifying crimson.
The sword light was not a clear, clean ribbon. Instead, it condensed into a crimson arc of light, thick with the stench of death, and slashed down violently.
Pshh—!
Pshh—!
The first dozen men
did not even have time to scream.
One burly killer swung his blade in despair—
but as the crimson light swept by,
his steel demon-head saber shattered like rotten wood.
His head shot skyward,
blood spraying several meters, spattering across Li Zhexian's cheek.
The Qinglian Sword gave a low, resonant hum.
The originally auspicious blue-gold sword intent on the blade seemed to be saturated by the spattered blood, visibly wrapping itself in a streak of crimson. The crimson spread and deepened like a living thing.
A cold, pure killing intent
rose up from the hilt
and pierced straight into Li Zhexian's mind.
"Killing intent?" Li Zhexian's eyes were indifferent.
His wrist flicked again—
and the swordlight poured out like a river of blood.
Heads rolled through the air;
blood rained and wind howled.
"So this is killing intent?"
"No… it's merely slaughter and the stench of blood reflected back!"
"Not the Sword of Killing Intent I seek!"
He sneered inwardly—
yet his sword grew sharper still.
Swordlight slashed and wove through the air,
every arc taking several lives.
The Qinglian Sword's crimson hue grew so thick it nearly devoured the azure beneath.
Wherever its edge passed,
even the air seemed frozen by death,
leaving behind faint trails of red mist.
The surviving desperados, driven past fear,
screamed and charged again—
madness blazing in their eyes.
Even without Spirit Power, their bodies still stood.
Desperation birthed feral strength—
each life-forfeiting strike gnawed for a piece of flesh in return.
Three thousand of them!
Even if they were but sheep for the slaughter,
they would fight until their limbs failed and their hearts burst!
And Li Zhexian—
was killing himself into madness.
Heads rolled like gourds,
blood spouted like fountains,
weaving a crimson mist over the narrow valley.
The screams, the curses,
merged into a sea of venomous despair.
"AAAHHH!"
"Blood Slaughter Sword! You'll die a terrible death!"
"Slaughtering over three thousand people is unforgivable by the laws of Heaven! You will surely face retribution!"
Li Zhexian's black robe, long since drenched in blood,
now dripped thick, heavy crimson.
His hair hung in clotted strands—
but his eyes remained cold,
dark as a bottomless abyss.
"A bunch of scumbags wallowing in the Slaughter City dare to speak of Heavenly retribution? Absolutely ridiculous!"
Li Zhexian's heart was like solid rock.
With every life taken,
the azure of his sword dimmed—
and the crimson deepened.
The Qinglian Sword seemed to be reforged again and again
in the furnace of blood and flame,
gleaming with a murderous light that froze the soul.
The blade vibrated—
like ten thousand resentful spirits weeping within it.
At the same time,
threads of murky, thick blood vapor
rose from the pulped remains below—
their resentment,
their warmth,
their final fragments of will—
drifting silently upward,
into the suspended vessel.
Within it,
the uncanny brew Forgetful River Blood Resentment Fragrance
absorbed the undying obsessions,
the echoes of despair,
the final traces of dream—
and slowly…
ripened toward completion.