Chapter 849: An Old Man Playing the Zither
The powder the young girl had scattered was, of course, poison.
Chu Su, as a descendant of the Yellow Springs and a remnant of a beheaded corpse, was filled with yin-cold and miasmic toxins. In theory, he should not have feared any poison.
But that powder was not ordinary poison—it was the poison of the Tang Clan.
If old-timers like Shang Xingzhou had witnessed this scene, they would have recalled a much more distant history.
The Tang Clan, nestled in the southwest, had managed to pass through countless years peacefully under the watchful eyes of innumerable sacred domain powerhouses. How had they done it?
Why were successive Tang Clan patriarchs so mysterious and terrifying?
Because the Tang Clan’s most adept and fearsome skill was poison.
It was just that, with the passage of time, almost no one remembered this anymore.
…
…
Feeling his meridians rapidly withering and his true blood continuously draining away, Chu Su was on the verge of madness.
These yamen runners, street vendors, and fortune-teller—in terms of realm and strength—seemed utterly ordinary to him.
Even the two old men who could use the Sun-Burning Art and the young girl wielding poison were manageable under normal circumstances. But their coordination was so seamless, so flawless, that they left him no opportunity to counterattack, directly trapping him in a perilous situation.
This feeling infuriated him, enraged him, and tormented him.
A piercing shriek burst from his blood-stained lips.
Countless fine ripples rose on the river’s surface. Fish and snakes killed by the poison snapped into tiny fragments.
Black blood sprayed in all directions, then transformed into black mist through the most orthodox divine arts of the Eternal Life Sect.
The wind blew the black mist into countless strands, each writhing as if alive, turning into snakes that gradually revealed their faces.
Those faces started blurry, then grew clear—cheekbones, brows, and eyes sharpening, fangs and bone claws emerging. Some were ferocious, others cold; all were vengeful spirits.
The countless blood-mist spirits, wielding sharp blades, advanced toward the people on the shore.
Harsh grinding sounds erupted from the six iron chains, and black sparks flew from the water-and-fire clubs.
The fortune-teller’s banner fluttered in the wind, and the vendors’ hands had already settled into the sand trays.
The two old men selling malt candy prepared to strike again, while the young girl clutched another handful of powder.
Just as Chu Su was about to unleash his most powerful technique—even if it meant shattering his body and soul—to slaughter everyone on the shore, a zither sound suddenly rang out by the riverbank.
This zither sound was not as potent as the Demon Lord’s melody in the snowy ridge, but it was equally soul-shaking.
If Zhu Ye were still alive, upon hearing this zither sound today, his first reaction would still be to flee by any means necessary.
This zither sound had once echoed from the shore opposite the Dao Hall.
The player was a blind zither master.
No one knew when the blind zither master had arrived at the scene, at the riverbank.
The blind zither master lifted his head and glanced at Chu Su.
His eyes had no black pupils, only whites, reflecting the sky full of black blood and vengeful spirits, tinged with a faint gray.
Though he knew the other could not see him, Chu Su felt as if both his body and spiritual world had been seen through.
An overwhelming terror surged into his heart, nearly stopping it.
He dared not counterattack any longer. With the utmost speed, he wrenched free of the five iron chains, turned, and leaped into the Wen River.
…
…
The zither melody continued, carried far into the wind and snow.
When the strings moved, heaven and earth resonated. The gentle snowflakes transformed into the sharpest flying blades.
In the sky above the river, countless shrill, discordant wails rang out as the vengeful spirits screamed in agony, sliced into the finest fragments.
The snowflakes were stained a murky black, falling into the river and vanishing from sight.
Just like Chu Su, who had fallen into the river.
Light shone on the Wen River, but Chu Su’s trace was nowhere to be seen—only a residual shadow on the water’s surface.
His speed was so great that it even outpaced the disappearance of his own shadow.
The blind zither master gazed into the distance, paying no heed. His withered fingers continued plucking the strings, but the melody shifted.
The tune he now played was called Yellow River, the same song Qiu Shan Jun had sung that evening.
The zither sound seemed to take physical form, landing on the river’s surface. Droplets splashed up like liquid gold.
The residual shadow was silently severed.
From somewhere unknown came a miserable, agonized scream.
A severed tail, dripping with black blood, fell from the sky.
It turned out that Chu Su had not hidden in the river at all, but had once again concealed himself within the Light Array.
With a crisp clash of metal, an iron chain shot into the air and snared the severed tail.
The young girl reached out and sprinkled powder over the tail, as if seasoning a dish or pickling it.
The severed tail, still writhing violently under the heavy chains as if alive, gradually stilled, finally truly dead.
One of the old men selling malt candy stepped forward and wrapped the tail in the brown paper used for candy.
After finishing these tasks, they all looked toward the blind zither master.
The yamen runners, street vendors, fortune-teller, malt candy sellers, and the young girl selling powder—these were the five types of people of the Tang Clan.
But they were not all.
They were the five among the five types, and there was one more person.
That person was their teacher, their leader.
“Three li to the west.”
The seven vendors continued to maintain the formation. The wind stirred the banner, and the fortune-teller once again located Chu Su.
The yamen runners shouldered their iron chains and gripped their water-and-fire clubs, ready to continue the pursuit.
The malt candy sellers and the young girl began packing up their things.
Their faces showed no expression, calm and composed.
Since the blind zither master had acted, no matter how skilled Chu Su was at concealment or how insidious his methods, death was ultimately his fate.
The blind zither master did not move.
The yamen runners, vendors, old men, and young girl all looked at him.
“Enough.”
The blind zither master closed his eyes and continued playing the zither.
…
…
The speed of time is not always consistent. For different people with different moods, and for different moments within a single event, it varies.
As a time limit draws near, the flow of time often accelerates greatly.
The card game in the Tang Clan’s old residence had already stopped.
The card game in the ancestral hall had also reached its final stage.
One hour was almost up.
The three people around the table were growing visibly more tense, sweat beading on their foreheads.
“Sixteenth Uncle, you and Seventeenth Uncle were twin brothers, always close. I think you must want to avenge him.”
Tang Thirty-Six looked at the man in the middle and said, “But you need to understand—he wasn’t killed by the Demon Lord, nor by the Pope, but by Second Uncle.”
Hearing this, Tang Sixteenth Uncle’s expression shifted dramatically. He stared at Tang Thirty-Six and said, “Evidence.”
Tang Thirty-Six replied, “Back then, because of the Cinnabar Pill incident, a bishop from Yinghua Hall was expelled from the Li Palace. You should know this person.”
Tang Sixteenth Uncle’s face grew increasingly dark. “He accompanied Seventeenth to Gaoyang Town.”
Tang Thirty-Six glanced at the cards in his hand. “He didn’t die.”
Tang Sixteenth Uncle said, “No matter who did the deed, even if it was… Second Brother, he had no reason to still be alive.”
Tang Thirty-Six looked up at him. “That shows one thing: suicide is always harder than murder.”
Tang Sixteenth Uncle shot to his feet. “Give him to me.”
Tang Thirty-Six lowered his head again to arrange his cards. “That depends on whether Sixteenth Uncle is willing to give me what I want.”