Chapter 718: Hell (Part 1)
For many reasons, Chen Changsheng had to kill Zhou Tong, and one of the most important was that the incident at the Mausoleum of Books had itself begun the last time he tried to kill Zhou Tong.
That time, when he walked into this courtyard, it was the start of a turning point in history, the origin of all life and death. Now the Heavenly Sea Saintess was dead, many others were dead, and the river of history had taken a great bend. Yet Zhou Tong was still alive and well, perhaps even living better than before. No matter how he thought about it, Chen Changsheng felt he should finish this task.
But until now, he still didn’t know where Zhou Tong actually was.
Just then, Xiao De and he simultaneously lowered their heads, gazing at the patches of residual snow on the courtyard ground.
Those patches of snow were shifting ever so slightly, as if a very faint tremor had come from deep within the earth.
Several officials from the Ministry of Justice exchanged glances, their faces full of shock and doubt, but their eyes quickly turned resolute. They gripped their swords tightly and stared at Chen Changsheng.
Chen Changsheng didn’t look at them; he only stared at the snow on the ground.
Suddenly, over a dozen beams of sword light illuminated the courtyard, slashing toward the ground.
Residual snow danced wildly, sword intent was fierce, the bluestone floor shattered abruptly, and black soil splashed up. In just a moment, a half-foot-deep pit had been dug into the courtyard floor.
Those Ministry of Justice officials shouted in fury and alarm, each unleashing their most powerful sword techniques, trying to force Chen Changsheng to stop what he was doing.
Xiao De vaguely guessed something, his eyes blazing with ferocity. His fists, like mountains, smashed toward the hundreds of sword beams in the snowy air.
……
……
There had once been a crabapple tree in this courtyard, which Chen Changsheng had destroyed. Later, a new crabapple tree was transplanted here, almost identical to the original. Even the cold-blooded, beauty-indifferent officials of the Ministry of Justice found it quite remarkable. Of course, that crabapple tree was now also destroyed—again by Chen Changsheng.
To find that identical crabapple tree, the Ministry of Justice had put in considerable effort and waited some time. The tree pit dug near the courtyard wall had also sat empty for a long while. On a certain rainy autumn night, it even turned into a small puddle, but before dawn arrived, the water had sunk into the soil and vanished without a trace.
The Ministry of Justice was located on North Baima Si Hutong, which people called Zhou Prison. But few knew that the real Zhou Prison lay seventeen zhang beneath that tree pit, deep in the dark earth. It consisted of five prison cells, their stone walls surrounded by compacted soil and countless angular gravel, protected by numerous formations.
This place was deep underground, shielded by layers of formations, very secretive, and no outsider had ever entered. It was extremely sturdy. Whether it was the rainbow-like ten thousand swords or the violent blade intent from Chen Changsheng’s first assault on Zhou Prison, or the crisscrossing sword intent above ground now, none of it had any effect here—not even a ripple.
In the deepest cell, the dim, bean-sized lamplight was steady, illuminating a small table on the table.
On the table were a plate of peanuts, two jugs of wine, and two pairs of chopsticks.
The middle-aged man sitting on the east side was very burly. Though his prison uniform was covered in blackened bloodstains, his hair was disheveled, and he had lost an arm, he still couldn’t hide his heroic and valiant aura. He was Xue He, the general who had been captured and brought back to the capital just days ago. The middle-aged man sitting across from him wore no official robes, only ordinary cloth garments. He was thin, with sunken cheeks, a pale face, and deep, dark eyes, looking like a ghost.
Many people had died in Zhou Prison, but whether there were ghosts was unknown. Even if there were, they would surely have been tormented beyond endurance by this man long ago and reincarnated early.
He was the master of Zhou Prison. Here, even ghosts feared him.
Earlier, that stunning sword strike had pierced through him as he sat in the grand chair, but it only tore through his red official robe. From that moment on, whether it was Chen Changsheng or others, everyone had been guessing where he had hidden. Many thought he had fled into the imperial palace; some even believed he had been scared out of his wits and escaped the capital.
No one expected that he was still here, within this courtyard, just deep underground.
In other words, between him and Chen Changsheng, there had always been only seventeen zhang of distance.
He didn’t care at all. He calmly ate peanuts and drank wine, as if the sword rain above ground, no matter how fierce, had nothing to do with him.
“You’re afraid,” Xue He said, looking into his eyes.
He was a famous general of the Great Zhou, known because he was Xue Xingchuan’s younger brother, but that didn’t mean he lacked ability. On the northern battlefield, he had led soldiers in a decades-long war against the demon tribe’s wolf cavalry, gaining a profound understanding of life, death, and fear.
When people are most afraid, they often stubbornly stay in the places they know best, even if that choice isn’t wise. Zhou Tong hadn’t gone to the imperial palace but stayed here. In hindsight, some might admire his composure and cunning, but in Xue He’s eyes, it only showed his fear.
The deep underground Zhou Prison was the place Zhou Tong knew best. Here, he had killed too many people, demons, and monsters, and tortured too many of them.
Zhou Tong hadn’t gone to the imperial palace because of a premonition deep in his heart and a distrust of that saint. But he wouldn’t explain this to Xue He—Xue He was his prisoner, unworthy of an explanation, and he didn’t want anyone to know that his loyalty to that saint wasn’t as firm as people imagined.
The deep underground cell was too damp and dark to be comfortable, even for Zhou Tong himself. Xue He’s cell was relatively the driest; water dripped from the stone ceiling only at long intervals, and it never fell on the table or the straw-covered bed.
This was, of course, a privilege, even though the golden spikes used to seal Xue He’s cultivation had been driven in by Zhou Tong’s own hands.
“Don’t try to provoke me,” Zhou Tong said calmly. “I won’t kill you. After all, he said we are brothers too.”
Zhou Tong and Xue Xingchuan were brothers, and Xue Xingchuan and Xue He were also brothers.
Only the three brothers and Xue Xingchuan’s wife knew this.
Over the years, Xue Xingchuan had always hoped that Xue He and Zhou Tong could become true brothers.
Xue He didn’t like Zhou Tong but had never shown it.
The moment he learned that his elder brother had been poisoned to death by Zhou Tong’s own hands, he was filled with grief and rage, but he remained calm because he had never considered Zhou Tong his brother, and he knew Zhou Tong was that kind of person. Hearing those words now, he finally lost control of his emotions and spat a mouthful of bloody phlegm at him.
Zhou Tong turned to dodge it but didn’t turn back.
He maintained that posture, looking toward a stone wall in the southwest corner outside the cell.
He could sense a very faint but clear vibration coming from deep within that stone wall.
Someone had triggered the formation.