Chapter Twenty-Six: The Gaunt Taoist and the Young Hero of the Golden Emblem Sect

The gaunt Daoist watched as the talisman arrow landed on a nearby islet—he knew at once someone was hiding there.

“Who dares to snatch your grandfather’s spoils!” he shouted angrily. Heading north had been a spur-of-the-moment decision; Lake Poyang was vast, so it was impossible anyone could have ambushed him in advance. The only possibility was some unsuspecting soul stumbling upon him by chance.

Yet this person’s command of incantations was impressive; both spells cast were single-character spells—not something an average person could achieve.

Meanwhile, the young hero of the Golden Aspect Sect remained as silent as ever. Earlier, distance had made it difficult for him to act, but now, with the gaunt Daoist momentarily obstructed, the gap had closed, giving him more options.

The probing was over. All the talismans and techniques had been used—now was the time to determine victory.

The young hero embraced his pipa, slender white fingers dancing across its twenty-four grades and six aspects. This time, the melody was no longer a series of staccato notes but a continuous, surging song; especially his right hand, which seemed to become a ball of pale moonlight.

The intense music rang out, and the lake beneath him began to ripple. At first, the ripples grew rapidly—smaller and closer together, yet rising higher and higher. The ripples leaped and finally burst into countless droplets, boiling the water within fifty paces of the young hero.

This was merely the phenomenon stirred by the spread of the pipa’s sound. The true intent of the melody surged toward the gaunt Daoist.

The pipa’s strings manifested as a majestic white eagle, faintly visible, bursting forth from the instrument and swooping down on the Daoist.

He could no longer care about the talisman arrow, gazing at the elusive white eagle with suspicion and alarm. He had thought this was just a passing disciple from the Golden Aspect Sect, so he’d feigned flight to lure his quarry to the lake’s edge for a kill and robbery.

But things had taken a turn—the pursuit had lasted so long, yet the man’s magic remained abundant, and the pipa was no ordinary item. Clearly, this was no common disciple. And the hidden spellcaster in the grass—could the Zhou family’s steward have been bait, setting a trap for him?

Was it really worth all this trouble?

No matter—he dispelled his playful mood and prepared for a real contest.

He produced a flag, its cloth gray, emblazoned with the black head of a beast, rendered in rough abstraction: enormous eyes, nose beneath, curled horns above, reminiscent of a bull but lacking a lower lip, as if mouth and flag were one.

Staring at the beast’s visage threatened to draw the soul in—a sense of evil and misfortune, yet a savage beauty eerily alluring.

The white eagle, born of sound, swept forth, splintering the lake’s surface in its wake.

The gaunt Daoist shook his flag, and from it, little spirits spilled forth.

These spirits took beastly forms—tiger, leopard, snake, ox—over a dozen, swelling to full size in the wind, clustering to meet the eagle.

Manifest against manifest, form against form.

The eagle was fierce, smashing through the front ranks of tigers and leopards, yet its own form scattered.

A cry rang out—the eagle’s screech, yet the sound issued from the pipa in the young hero’s hands, so lifelike in tone and timbre.

His right hand plucked and tangled the strings, his left drew sliding notes, and the divine eagle shook itself, soaring higher, claws like hooks, striking at the beast souls’ crown.

Like a dragonfly touching water, the beast souls were torn apart under the eagle’s claws, vanishing in a blink.

His right hand rolled the strings, left hand accompanied with a chant—the sound mimicked the eagle’s triumphant cry after the hunt.

The eagle waggled its head, then rushed the gaunt Daoist.

The Daoist laughed in anger, “You’re formidable! Let’s see how formidable you really are!”

He shook his flag violently; a black mist seemed to rise from the cloth.

***

The black mist spread, but upon closer inspection, it was not smoke at all—it was countless little spirits!

They swarmed like dark clouds, engulfing the white eagle. No matter how the young hero manipulated his strings, the eagle could not break free.

The dark cloud, suppressing the eagle, had energy to spare, and from its midst, more spirits split off, flying toward the young hero.

On closer look, these spirits were not beast souls—they were human souls!

Human souls, heads without bodies, mouths uttering shrill, chilling cries.

At this, the young hero’s face turned pale; he finally understood how a mere Qi-Refining fiend like the gaunt Daoist had gained notoriety in Jiangnan.

He forced himself to remain calm, replayed his melody, and summoned another white eagle.

This eagle, however, was almost transparent, barely visible to the naked eye—a sign to the Daoist that his magic was nearly exhausted.

The Daoist cackled, his laughter as unsettling as the cries of the head spirits.

Seven or eight head spirits, hair wild, teeth bared, bit into the eagle from all sides. The eagle, overwhelmed, fragmented into blades of sound, falling into the lake and raising countless waves.

One move affected the whole—when the second eagle fell, the young hero’s magic faltered, and the first eagle was gradually consumed by the spirits.

Yet the Daoist’s face was not much better—the pipa was no ordinary item, and the handsome youth’s stringwork and metal magic were formidable; many of his hard-won spirits had been destroyed.

He didn’t want further complications, so he summoned all remaining spirits, sending them to attack the young hero. As for the spellcaster hiding in the grass, timid and hesitant, he could be dealt with later.

But the young hero had no intention of surrendering. Suddenly, he struck his chest six times, until he coughed up blood.

The Daoist didn’t know what madness this was, but it couldn’t be good—he shook his flag even faster.

“Flood!” came another incantation.

The lake between the Daoist and the young hero suddenly surged with giant waves.

It was as if the lake surface were a cloth, and a hand pinched a spot and lifted it up!

The water curtain first blocked the spirits, then crashed down upon them and the Daoist. It happened so quickly, no one reacted in time.

The water was real, but the spirits were formless—besides blocking vision for a moment, it did little, but it drenched the Daoist thoroughly.

Yet obscuring sight gave the young hero a precious moment.

As the water curtain splashed and rose again, a dazzling golden light blinded everyone, as if a small sun had risen on Lake Poyang’s southern shore.

The Daoist screamed in fury; his spirits melted like snow under spring sun.

But the young hero suffered too—the source of the golden light was cradled in his hands, its brilliance intense, details obscured, yet a smear of bright red blood was visible. His magic spent, vital energy drained, his once-fair and handsome face now paled like gold paper.

He could no longer maintain his flying artifact, tumbling onto the lake, but fortunately, the artifact was a feather as large as a small boat, not a sword or other item, so it still supported him, floating on the water.

The Daoist, his spirits gone, was furious. He muttered incantations, waving his flag, but now the beast’s head seemed to come alive.

“Fiend, you court death!” came cries from afar.

***

Hearing shouts from the distance, the young hero slumped on his feather, breathing a sigh of relief.

The Daoist’s face was troubled—should he kill or flee?

Enough! A grievance of ten lifetimes could still be avenged. If the fight continued, his flag might be ruined, a loss not worth the gain.

How ridiculous that all this started from killing a minor steward and taking a little money. He hadn’t even claimed the man’s soul, and now this madman from the Golden Aspect Sect wanted him dead?

That lunatic spat blood to summon his treasure—I’m not mad enough to match him.

The best strategy is retreat; if I get caught by reinforcements, it’ll be disaster.

And that spellcaster lurking nearby...

The Daoist resolved to leave, turning away, still holding a grudge. The Golden Aspect youth was crazy, but the spellcaster hiding close by was truly hateful, always ruining things!

How infuriating he hadn’t caught a glimpse of his face!

He turned, gray mist swirling, ready to depart.

“Burn!”—another incantation!

The Daoist was beside himself with rage; this time he ignored it, determined to head into the grass and fight the spellcaster!

Wait—

But—

There seemed to be no effect?

He felt no spell intent fall upon him.

Splash! Splash! Splash! Splash!

Something dropped into the water.

The Daoist realized belatedly, raising his right hand to see—the bottom of his dew pouch had a gaping hole, still smoldering!

That thief had burned his dew pouch!

“Ghost fire!” he cursed, but by then, reinforcements from the south were near...

“Ah!” With a long howl to the sky, the Daoist rode the mist and fled.