Chapter 826: Ruthless Red
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The crowd before the Dao Hall was slightly startled, while White Rock Daoist’s spirits lifted.
Chen Changsheng had entered Wenshui City yesterday, and by dusk, the Wenshui Dao Hall had announced it to the world with music, yet the Tang clan had shown no reaction at all.
But at this very moment, the Tang clan sent someone—and it was none other than the Second Master, rumored to already hold the reins of Tang clan power.
Clearly, the Tang clan had spies in the Dao Hall and knew that White Rock Daoist had been exposed.
A figure as important as the Tang clan’s Second Master came calling immediately, intent on preserving White Rock Daoist’s life.
Everyone turned to Chen Changsheng, waiting to see his decision—would he follow the letter’s instructions and kill White Rock Daoist outright in the name of the Pope to assert his authority, or would he postpone the matter according to church law while avoiding escalating tensions with the imperial court and the Tang clan?
Guan Feibai looked at Chen Changsheng’s profile, unsure what choice he would make, nor what he himself hoped he would choose.
Are you already the true Pope, or still that young Daoist who first entered the capital?
Chen Changsheng suddenly looked up at the sky.
Dawn wasn’t far off; the morning sun hung low over the other side of the Wenshui River, not far above the water’s surface.
Red morning clouds painted the distant sky, the clouds seeming to burn, no different from twilight.
He recalled a few years ago at the National Academy, under a very similar twilight, when he and Tang Thirty-Six had talked atop the great banyan tree.
Then he remembered another time at the National Academy, in the night after twilight had faded, when he and Tang Thirty-Six had spoken again on that same banyan tree.
In those years, starting from that inn called Plum Garden, he and Tang Thirty-Six had talked many times.
In those conversations, they’d discussed many things—not memories of the past, but visions of the future.
In the twilight, the lake at the National Academy shimmered with gold, and that overfed koi fish slowly sank into the rotting black mud.
They didn’t want to live like that.
Back then, Xuan Yuan Po was on the other side of the lake, slamming his bear-like waist into a tree.
Tang Thirty-Six had told him, whether it’s autumn wind or spring breeze, we’re still young—so let’s live by our own whims.
Now Xuan Yuan Po had returned to White Emperor City, long without news. Tang Thirty-Six could no longer follow his whims, cursing whoever he pleased or swearing at eighteen generations of ancestors without stopping at seventeen, because now the ancestral hall where he was confined held only his own ancestors.
In that other nighttime conversation, Tang Thirty-Six had told him that one day he would become the Pope.
He’d said, being Pope isn’t easy, right?
Tang Thirty-Six said, of course it isn’t.
Tang Thirty-Six also told him that the National Academy would be the foundation of his papacy, which was why he was so passionate about reopening enrollment there.
That guy had already thought ahead about everything; he’d always been the one helping Chen Changsheng arrange and handle many things.
Now it was his turn to make decisions and handle things himself, and he realized it really wasn’t easy.
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Chen Changsheng withdrew his gaze and turned to walk into the Dao Hall.
He had made his stance clear, very clearly.
White Rock Daoist was utterly shocked. He erupted with all his strength, rushing like a fierce wind toward Chen Changsheng’s retreating figure at the divine gate, aiming for a desperate final strike.
But he couldn’t touch Chen Changsheng at all.
Southern Guest still stood before him, staring at him with a dazed expression.
In his eyes, this young girl was like a true demon.
Three dull thuds—Ling Hai’s iron ruler, An Lin’s sash, and Zhe Xiu’s demon sword landed on White Rock Daoist almost simultaneously.
White Rock Daoist collapsed outside the threshold of the divine gate, all his bones broken, blood flooding his lungs, his Nether Palace shattered, unable to rise again.
His eyes were filled with despair. The great panic and unwillingness before death coalesced into a sharp shriek, about to burst from his lips.
He wanted to alert the Tang clan’s Second Master outside the grove: Come save me!
Unfortunately, he couldn’t let out that shriek.
The moment his mouth opened, a rag was stuffed in like lightning.
The Bishop of Wenshui had somehow appeared beside him.
His left hand shoved a rag into White Rock Daoist’s mouth.
At the same time, his right hand gripped a short sword and thrust it into White Rock Daoist’s chest.
The scene was very quiet; the sound of the blade entering flesh was startlingly vivid.
Half the blade was exposed, calm as a mirror, exuding a faint, holy aura.
The Bishop of Wenshui’s expression was equally calm, equally holy.
White Rock Daoist’s eyes bulged, a gurgling sound in his throat. He reached out to grab the bishop’s robe but couldn’t.
He twitched and struggled continuously, like a fish that had left the Wenshui River, unable to breathe, on the verge of death, yet unable to break free.
The Bishop of Wenshui looked at Chen Changsheng’s retreating figure within the divine gate and said softly, “Your Holiness, please rest a moment. I believe the Tang clan’s Second Master should have the patience to wait a while longer.”
As he spoke, one hand held the rag over White Rock Daoist’s mouth, the other gripped the sword lodged in his chest.
White Rock Daoist still twitched and struggled beneath his hand.
But his voice didn’t tremble at all—still so calm, even seeming somewhat humble.
An Lin couldn’t bear to watch anymore and turned away.
Ling Hai’s King, however, showed an appreciative look, even a hint of hidden admiration.
The divine gate slowly closed.
Just before it shut, Guan Feibai saw the Bishop of Wenshui drag White Rock Daoist toward the grove, casually stabbing his body a few more times along the way.
It was stabbing, not thrusting.
Because thrusting is a duel, while stabbing is slaughter.
Guan Feibai’s eye twitched slightly.
This time, it wasn’t about witnessing a major event in the National Church.
He knew that the bishop, sent by the National Church to serve as Wenshui’s bishop for so many years, couldn’t be an ordinary man.
But he never imagined, and found it hard to accept, that this bishop—so calm, humble, and noble—could, in certain moments, act like a madman.
If the National Church had many people like this—no, even just a few—it would be terrifying.
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White Rock Daoist was the Archbishop of Wenhua Hall, a true giant of the National Church, and undoubtedly a key figure in Shang Xingzhou’s grand scheme.
Today, he died like this, in the Dao Hall of Wenshui City.
The other side, having suffered such a blow, would surely react—especially here in Wenshui, the deep, unfathomable Wenshui, the Tang clan’s Wenshui.
White Rock Daoist’s death clearly signaled the stance of the National Church and Chen Changsheng: they were prepared to completely sever ties with the Tang clan.
Everyone knew that the Wenshui Tang clan was the richest family in the continent, first among the four great clans, but in truth, the Tang clan’s hidden strength far exceeded imagination.
The Tang clan’s history was too long.
Three years ago, during the Mausoleum of Books incident, the Tang clan had played the most crucial role, though few knew it.
If the Tang clan hadn’t found a way to break the Imperial Carriage Diagram, Empress Tianhai might still be sitting high on the throne.
Now, the secret power of the Heavenly Mechanism Pavilion had been taken over by Luoyang’s Changchun Temple, and most of its other assets had gone to the Tang clan, making the Tang clan even more fearsome.
A force like the Tang clan was naturally something everyone wanted as an ally—whether the National Church or the imperial court.
Logically, even if the Tang clan had grown closer to the imperial court in recent years, the National Church shouldn’t have shown such a fierce attitude.
This brings us to the point: the person who wrote that letter knew Chen Changsheng well.
He or she knew that Chen Changsheng would inevitably bring Tang Thirty-Six out of that ancestral hall.
So no matter how gentle the National Church’s attitude toward the Tang clan, as long as that goal remained unchanged, he would eventually have to turn against them.
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(When writing about the National Academy, I mentioned Huang An’s song “Youthful Youth, Everything Red”… Now they’re still young, but they have to be ruthless.)
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