Chapter 32: The Sun Spirit

August 15th.

This was the date established for the world within the gourd by the Ancestor Luo—a calendar with twelve months in a year, each month thirty days, adding up to three hundred sixty days in total.

However, he did not assign them any zodiac signs or the like; those were left for them to ponder on their own.

August 15th was neither the Mid-Autumn Festival nor any special day, for the moon in this pocket world showed no waxing or waning, and people could not invest it with any particular emotional meaning.

As for why Xiangzong chose this day, Ancestor Luo had not investigated; today, he was merely busy exterminating “pests.”

Yet what he did not expect was that in this “vegetable patch” of his, there was more than one pest. Cang, that fellow, somehow “awoke” as well, seeking to become another ravenous pest that feasted upon all beings.

Only, compared to Xiangzong, Cang had “principles”: he would not prey upon common creatures, but only upon the powerful and the wealthy.

“This method can be righteous, or evil,” Ancestor Luo mused.

As he was thinking this, Ancestor Luo had already found the devil—Xiangzong.

“Are you Cang?” Xiangzong looked at Ancestor Luo with a trace of curiosity.

Indeed, he was curious; after all, Cang had only appeared in the legends of their generation.

Of course, he was even more curious as to how Ancestor Luo had found him.

“I am not Cang. My name is Luo,” Ancestor Luo explained.

“There is great murderous intent on you. Are you here to kill me?” Xiangzong gazed at him calmly.

“Yes.”

No sooner had he spoken than the spell descended.

Xiangzong’s eyes narrowed slightly. He was just about to sneer at the man before him, and then drain every last spark of life from his body.

But the moment his killing intent arose, his chest tightened, and his head grew hot.

Boom!

A burst of flame shot skyward, tinged with crimson as it surged into the heavens.

And thus, the devil who had terrorized the world died, perishing in a remote alleyway residence.

Yet his death was spectacular; everyone in the capital saw it clearly.

Only, they did not know that the devil had died.

But this did not stop the city guards from mobilizing.

However, all they found at the scene was a small charred black circle.

Who had died? How had they died? No one knew.

But at that moment, a far more shocking event was unfolding in the city.

The king was dead—silently, leaving behind only a pile of withered bones.

People all believed that the devil had slain the king.

Then, more news poured in: all the powerful and noble families in the capital had died, likewise slain.

Their deaths were identical to the king’s—emptied of all essence by the devil, leaving only heaps of bones.

No one knew whom these people had seen before they died, or how exactly they met their ends.

Only one person found the culprit.

Outside the capital, in a dilapidated temple, Cang lit a bonfire for himself and sat there in a daze.

Then, suddenly, a rainstorm descended—fierce and sudden, but lasting a long while.

Cang’s sallow face showed no change in the face of the downpour; he continued to stare blankly out of the temple. After a long time, as the bonfire was about to die, he added a piece of dry wood.

Crackle, crackle...

The dry wood burned slowly through the rainy night, bringing a little warmth and a shred of light to the gloomy, ruined temple.

“What a heavy rain.”

Suddenly a voice sounded from outside, and a man dressed in dark robes walked slowly into the temple.

Not a drop of rain wetted his body.

This was a skill many practitioners possessed, so Cang was not surprised.

He recognized the man; he had seen him during the day.

“Little brother, would you mind moving a bit farther away?” the man suddenly called out to the god statue behind Cang.

Cang was not surprised, for he had long known he was not alone in this ruined temple.

The temple had a master—not the statue, but a wandering beggar child.

The little one hiding behind the statue was the true master here.

He lived here.

“Cang? Have you come for me? Are you going to take me as your disciple?” the child exclaimed.

For the first time, Cang’s expression changed.

But he did not turn to look at him; instead, he continued to gaze at the temple doors.

He was looking at the scenery outside, not at the figure standing in the doorway.

“The one you should bow to is not me, but this man—he is Cang,” the visitor said with a light laugh.

“What?” The little brother, having scrambled out from behind the statue, was startled by this, his joy instantly replaced by astonishment.

“Why do you want to kill me?” Cang suddenly asked, looking at Ancestor Luo who stood at the door.

“Because you are like the devil,” Ancestor Luo replied, baring his white teeth.

Yet this time, he did not kill Cang immediately. Instead, he walked a circle around the temple, then asked the child, “Who is worshipped in this temple?”

The boy shook his head blankly.

At this moment, he had heard so much information that he could not process it all, his mind unable to keep pace.

“The Primordial Martial God,” Cang answered for him.

“You killed the devil,” Cang asked again.

Ancestor Luo nodded, “He’s dead. You all saw it, didn’t you? Quite a spectacle, wasn’t it?”

“That... firework?” the boy finally managed to fix his stalled brain.

“Yes.”

“Seems you didn’t have much trouble killing him,” Cang finally showed a hint of emotion.

Ancestor Luo smiled and nodded.

“Very well,” said Cang, rising to his feet.

“I’ll be quick; just bear with it,” Ancestor Luo joked.

Cang ignored his jest, quietly asking, “Who are you?”

Ancestor Luo raised his hand and pointed.

Cang followed his gesture and looked behind him.

There was the little brother, and the god statue.

The statue was cast in bronze, its paint flaked away, exposing green patina.

“Primordial Martial God? Are you his successor?” Cang asked.

Ancestor Luo did not answer.

“I was already prepared to die. Having you send me off isn’t so bad,” Cang continued.

“What?” the boy exclaimed.

Ancestor Luo was not surprised.

He seemed to have known Cang’s decision all along.

“I can no longer restrain myself. The devil has taken root in my heart; it is corroding me, making it impossible to stop... consuming human essence,” Cang said slowly.

“What?!” The boy was even more shocked.

“If this continues, I may become the next devil.”

“Kill me,” Cang said.

Ancestor Luo nodded, “I understand your original intention. The current generation has violated the old agreements; the world is now filled with the wealthy and powerful who exploit the people, and you could not bear it, so you resorted to this forbidden method. You knew of it long ago, but dared not use it. The devil comprehended it, causing you to drop your guard, and that is how it has come to this.”

Cang stared blankly at Ancestor Luo; he had not expected this man to know him, his methods, so well.

“Who are you?”

“Him,” Ancestor Luo pointed again.

At last, Cang understood. “So that’s it. So that’s it.”

He raised both hands—one covering his forehead, one pressing to his heart.

Thud.

A muffled sound, and blood spurted from his seven orifices. His life ended in that ruined temple.

“This... this...”

“What is your name?” Ancestor Luo turned to the boy in the temple.

The boy opened his mouth, but was at a loss for words.

Ancestor Luo paid it no mind, only raising his hand to press against the crumbling temple wall.

There, a passage of words appeared, already blurred, as if worn away by time.

“Yang Spirit?”

“You and I are fated to meet, but I do not take disciples. I leave you this method—study it well.”

With that, Ancestor Luo turned and walked out of the ruined temple.

As soon as he stepped out the door, the torrential rain ceased abruptly.

“Who... are you?” The boy gazed at Ancestor Luo’s back, now bathed in sunlight and gradually fading into the distance, and his eyes filled with tears.