Chapter 90 — The Mantis

The Wild Wolf Daoist followed Ming Li, one foot deep and one foot shallow, trudging toward the depths of the Dead Marsh.

A heavy rain had just passed, and the ground, already soft, was now hopelessly muddy. Yet for some reason, ever since Ming Li's meeting with Qin Wujiu and Jin Pingyue, he had insisted on walking rather than riding his magic treasure.

It seemed that, like Jin Pingyue, he was secretly wary of something.

On any other day, the Wild Wolf Daoist would at the very least have grumbled without pause, if not cursed outright. But now he seemed oddly distracted, and said not a single word, following silently behind Ming Li—which made Ming Li rather curious.

Glancing at the Wild Wolf Daoist's somewhat vacant expression, Ming Li lowered his voice and said mildly, "What's with him?"

The question sounded half like talking to himself, for apart from the cold-looking marsh pools and water weeds all around, there was no one at all—except the little monkey Xiao Hui, perched on his shoulder.

It was Xiao Hui who had seemed drowsy just moments before, yet at Ming Li's question he suddenly started as if pricked by something, immediately perking up. His quick, clever little eyes darted about, and all at once he leaped down from Ming Li's shoulder and began capering about, waving his arms and legs.

Even the Wild Wolf Daoist behind them was startled by this strange behavior and turned to look.

Xiao Hui looked quite excited, grinning and chattering, waving his hands and feet at Ming Li. After a moment his eyes flickered, and he suddenly bounded to one side, scooped up some water from a nearby small pool in his palms, and poured it over his own monkey head. Then he pointed at the sky and hopped about.

The Wild Wolf Daoist's eyes went wide. He walked up beside Ming Li and said, "What's going on? Has this—has this monkey gone mad?"

Ming Li, however, frowned slightly, then asked Xiao Hui in a low voice, "Rain?"

Xiao Hui was overjoyed and nodded vigorously. Then he casually plucked a leaf from some plant nearby, hoisted it over his head as if to shield himself from something, and struck a coy, wriggling pose, twisting his body this way and that. Then, as if putting on a play, he switched the leaf from his right hand to his left, and from his left hand back to his right.

The Wild Dog watched and watched, and suddenly, for no reason at all, felt a strange pang of guilt. Staring at that bizarre monkey, he said to Ming Li, "Mad. Mad. This monkey has definitely gone mad."

At that moment Xiao Hui tossed away the leaf in his hand, skipped back onto Ming Li's shoulder in a few bounds, and then pointed toward the direction they had come from, chattering away without pause.

Ming Li pondered for a moment, then slowly turned around and looked at the Wild Wolf Daoist.

The Wild Wolf Daoist forced a smile. "Wha—what are you looking at me for?"

Ming Li's gaze flicked to the bundle behind him, and he said mildly, "When it rained just now, did you lend your umbrella to—to..." Here he frowned slightly again, glanced at Xiao Hui, thought for a moment, and then said, "Did you lend your umbrella to that fortune-telling girl to keep the rain off?"

"Squeak..."

Before the Wild Wolf Daoist could make a sound, Xiao Hui on Ming Li's shoulder had already leaped up with a shriek, enormously excited, his monkey face grinning so wide his eyes nearly squeezed shut.

The Wild Wolf Daoist's face went red and white by turns, his expression supremely awkward. Suddenly he jabbed a finger at Ming Li and shouted angrily, "You little brat, let me tell you—your Daoist master has killed men like flies in his day, and those who died by my hand number no less than a thousand, maybe eight hundred..."

Ming Li glanced at him, and to all appearances paid him no mind at all. He turned and strode off, saying mildly, "Whether you killed a thousand or eight hundred—what has that to do with me?"

The Wild Wolf Daoist choked, and the words meant to bolster his own prestige died in his throat. He could only listen as Ming Li, up ahead, went on slowly, "Besides, whether you killed a thousand or eight hundred, what does that have to do with lending your umbrella to that girl?"

At this, Ming Li stopped in his tracks and looked back at the Wild Wolf Daoist.

The Wild Dog gave a start, as if facing a great enemy. "Wha—what are you going to... no, what are you saying?"

Ming Li looked him up and down, then suddenly smiled and said, "But what happened today—since the Death Spirit Abyss, you've startled me a second time!"

He turned and walked slowly on, his voice gradually deepening, yet the Wild Dog heard every word clearly.

"...To think that even you would play the hero and save the beauty!"

The Wild Wolf Daoist stood rooted to the spot, suddenly somewhat dazed. By the time he came back to himself, Ming Li and Xiao Hui had gone far, their figures nearly swallowed by the mist ahead.

Staring in that direction, the Wild Wolf Daoist suddenly flew into a rage, stamping his feet. "Bah! I've been a villain all my life, and I've never done anything of the sort! Besides, how could that little wench be called a beauty... er!"

The Wild Wolf Daoist scratched his head, his brow suddenly furrowing. He stopped, and only after a long while did he mutter, as if to himself, "Actually, that little wench isn't half bad looking..."

Having said that, the Wild Wolf Daoist himself seemed to pause in surprise. Then he gave his head a violent shake, cursed under his breath, and strode off in pursuit of the direction Ming Li had gone, soon vanishing into the gathering night mist.

All around was stillness. The sky grew darker and darker, and the darkness surged in, slowly swallowing everything.

At the other end of the Dead Marsh.

Yuyang Zi, master of the Changsheng Hall of the Demonic Cult, stood in white robes, hands clasped behind his back, his head raised to the sky. The night wind of the marsh blew past, rippling his garments; he looked a figure of uncommon bearing, like an immortal.

Except for his left hand—his sleeve hung empty, adding a touch of inexplicable absurdity.

That was the mark of the battle at Canglan Mountain years ago, when he had been wounded by the world's foremost wondrous sword—the Immortal Slayer.

The night wind was slightly cool, and the air seemed still damp with the recent downpour. Darkness filled all around, and only his figure remained standing there, proud and conspicuous.

From the darkness behind him came the faint sound of breathing—his disciples, hidden in the dark, patiently awaiting his command.

The Changsheng Hall of the Demonic Cult had risen eight hundred years ago. By Yuyang Zi's generation it was already the seventh, its lineage long and deep. Yet no one knew better than Yuyang Zi himself the crisis the Hall faced behind this boundless glory.

No successor!

At the battle of Qingyun ten years ago, the other three great factions of the Demonic Cult had jointly pushed Yuyang Zi forward to lead—the most glorious, most towering moment of the Changsheng Hall's prestige within the Demonic Cult in hundreds of years.

In those days Yuyang Zi was smug and satisfied. He had more than a dozen accomplished masters at his command, all of them painstakingly cultivated over the past hundred years.

Then, Yuyang Zi truly believed there was nothing left in this world to stand in his way. Once the decrepit Canglan Sect was crushed in a single stroke, the Changsheng Hall's name would naturally overawe the Demonic Cult; with his own strength, aided by his masters, the Changsheng Hall would become, eight hundred years on, the second Blood-Refining Hall—and he, the second Elder Blackheart!

But all those beautiful dreams had been reduced to bubbles on Canglan Mountain, beneath the Immortal Slayer Sword!