Chapter Thirteen: "Lord Shenhua of the Divine Pavilion Expounds the Primordial Sutra of Taishi"

With a single sweep of his arm, three horses could not hope to withstand him.

With such terrifying strength behind his draw, even if a massive slab of green stone was set before him, it would be pierced through and shattered to dust by his arrow.

Every innate practitioner skilled in archery was akin to a mobile siege crossbow, leaping and loosing death at will. Whomever they struck was not only killed instantly but seldom left a whole corpse behind—often reduced to pulp, their bellies bursting open and entrails spilling forth.

The yellow-clad men that Chen Heng had dispatched one by one were the most vivid testament to this.

Yet below the waterside pavilion, the youth clutching his stomach and wailing seemed, aside from a sickly pallor, to be in no real mortal peril.

“It’s a defensive talismanic artifact. Congratulations, junior brother.”

On another white horse, Xu Zhi narrowed his eyes, fixing his gaze on the resplendent pentacolor pendant at the youth’s waist, and smiled. “If you can claim that item, your journey to the Abyss will be all the more secure. Judging by that man’s fluctuating energy, he must have only recently attained this realm. If you continue firing arrows, exhausting his innate breath, and never allow him to approach, in less than half a cup of tea’s time, his head will be yours.”

The youth, who had been rolling and howling in feigned pain, suddenly stiffened.

He had hoped to lure Chen Heng close by pretending weakness, then seize the chance to unleash another artifact and skin him alive, leaving only a bloody corpse.

But if Chen Heng persisted in attacking from afar...

He realized that even if he wasn't shot dead, he would be worn out to death.

“Chen Heng, are you mad? Your paramour Yan Zhen is already dead! Where do you get the reckless courage to provoke me?”

The youth scrambled to his feet in disarray. “Do you know who my father is? My father has six sworn brothers, all of whom are like uncles to me. I can come and go as I please in the imperial harem of Rong State! If you so much as lay a finger on me, you—”

Before he could finish, another arrow sent him sprawling onto his back.

When he clambered up again, face ashen, Chen Heng, towering above, saw that the sheen of the pentacolor pendant was already far less vibrant than before.

“How many more times can your innate breath fuel that talisman?”

Chen Heng’s eyes were deep and unreadable as he once more drew the six-stone bow to full, the string curving into a perfect circle. With a sudden burst of force, the arrow flew like lightning!

The sound of it tearing through the air was as sharp as silk ripping, as thunderous as the roar of a storm.

Chen Heng loosed arrow after arrow in rapid succession, the volley falling like a torrential rain, battering the youth’s talisman until its glow flickered uncertainly, and finally, with a scream, it went out completely—silent and dead.

Buzz!

The next arrow met no barrier, piercing straight through the youth’s left shoulder. If not for the last-moment warning of his innate senses, making him tilt his head, he would already be a corpse on the ground.

“Aaaahhh!”

The agony was so intense that the youth wept uncontrollably, his eyes bloodshot.

But as he howled, another thunderous arrow struck, smashing through his left knee.

“The next arrow will be your right shoulder.”

Chen Heng swung down from his horse, took the quiver from the woman in the white fox-fur cloak, and, ignoring her blushing face, fastened it at his waist.

“Wait, I have—”

Whoosh!

The youth screamed to the sky, sent flying by another arrow that nailed him to the vermilion pillar of the pavilion.

“Listen to me—”

Whoosh!

Another arrow.

With a mournful cry, his right knee was shattered, a bloody shard of bone arcing into the pond and spreading ripples of crimson.

“Heng, Heng, it’s me, Wang Duanbao—please, please.” The youth wailed. “For the sake of our childhood friendship, spare my life. I swear I’ll never dare again…”

Fifty paces away, a glint of cruelty flashed in Chen Heng’s eyes.

He slowly plucked a feathered arrow, his movements elegant yet chilling, stringing the bow until it was full. The sight was beautiful as flowing water, but carried a cruel artistry.

Wang Duanbao, blinded by tears and sobbing so hard he could barely breathe, saw nothing of the terror that unfolded.

“My father never cared for me. Last year, he even stole my betrothed! Heng, spare me, and I’ll help you against that old bastard!”

He hiccupped through his tears. “I know all sorts of things about that bastard, you—”

Just then, he opened his eyes.

All he saw was a feathered arrow flying like lightning.

…

Wang Duanbao was dumbstruck.

He watched, helpless, as the arrow screamed through fifty paces, piercing through layers of air, heading straight for his brow.

Death!

He would die!

This arrow could not be stopped—he was doomed.

Terror unlike anything he’d known overwhelmed him, and he bitterly regretted coming down the mountain just after gaining his innate breath—especially after provoking this killer.

He hadn’t expected that, even after becoming a favored consort, Chen Heng’s archery was as deadly as ever—perhaps deadlier still!

He remembered that, years ago, mistaking Chen Heng for a cross-dressing woman, he had someone send him a love letter. That time, Chen Heng had chased him down on horseback through the wilds, loosing three arrows, each aimed at his head, sending him tumbling off a cliff.

When Wang Duanbao barely survived the climb back up, Chen Heng had already been taken up Mount Gan by Yan Zhen. Ever since, his already muddled head had only gotten worse.

“I shouldn’t have used the pentacolor pendant to block his arrows. I should have used the Six Yin Ghost Banner.”

At the very instant the arrow approached, realization struck Wang Duanbao.

“Yes—Xiao Yu taught me before the wedding: the best defense is offense. I forgot…”

But it was far too late for regret.

As the arrow neared, time seemed to stretch, life and death balanced on a knife’s edge. One final thought flickered through his mind:

“If I die here… will Xiao Yu and Father think of me when they lie together at night?”

…

Crack!

The arrow struck his hair crown dead on, rocking the entire waterside pavilion, sending dust drifting down. Wang Duanbao’s body shuddered belatedly, and his trousers grew wet.

At the gate, Xu Zhi also dismounted, frowning. “Why spare his life, junior brother? Do you really mean to use him as an inside agent and kill his father as well?”

“Mount Yang is a fine place, abundant in spiritual energy. It’s a waste for that old priest. Besides, our enmity is already sealed. There’s no sense in guarding against a thief forever.”

Chen Heng calmly lowered his bow. “Wang Duanbao, after all these years, what is your father’s cultivation now?”

“You’ve already killed his son. To expect the other to serve you is unlikely,” Xu Zhi said, shaking his head. “But his father’s cultivation can’t be that high, can it?”

“Esteemed Immortal, Immortal, the bearded man Heng killed was my cousin, not my brother—not his son.” Wang Duanbao, still trembling in terror, stammered, “I am the son. He always wanted to eat Xiao Yu. Sons and cousins don’t get along!”

“They’re asking about your father’s cultivation, not about Xiao Yu! Speak quickly and truthfully!” Xu Zhi glared.

“Sixth level of Qi Cultivation, sixth level,” Wang Duanbao blurted.

Chen Heng and Xu Zhi exchanged a glance. After a moment’s hesitation, Xu Zhi finally nodded grimly.

“Thank you, senior brother,” Chen Heng bowed deeply.

“There’s no need for thanks between us, but let’s be clear—” Xu Zhi grimaced, “If we really can’t win, I’ll take you and run. Don’t try to be a hero. You can rest assured—I’ve practiced landstride for years. Even a seventh or eighth level cultivator won’t catch us!”

While they spoke, the Chen family retainers and guards, previously poisoned by Wang Duanbao, staggered to their feet, clutching their heads, and hurried over, swords and blades in hand.

Inside the main hall, blood had already seeped across the floor. The remaining elders, supporting one another, approached Chen Heng, their eyes a mix of emotions.

“Heng’er…”

“Uncle.”

Chen Heng smiled faintly. “And to you, clan head and elders. It’s been a long time.”

“Heng’er, you…”

“Just now, did my late father leave behind any relics?”

The clan head, Chen Kuang, his arms broken, had just begun to offer some words of comfort when Chen Heng’s quiet request cut him off. Meeting those deep, unfathomable eyes, Chen Kuang felt his heart seize, his hair standing on end, nearly stumbling back.

“Give them to me.”

Chen Heng extended his hand, calm and unhurried.

…

…

Days later, in a quiet chamber.

Chen Heng furrowed his brow and closed the yellowed pages, his eyes thoughtful.

It was an ancient tome, its worm-eaten cover bearing several lines of bold script:

“The Daoist Lord of the Divine House on the Primordial True Classic of Original Beginning.”

…