Chapter 854: Assassination in the Ancestral Hall
Inside a sedan chair sat a Daoist nun, a horsetail whisk resting in the crook of her left arm. The whisk had clearly been repaired only in the last two years, looking quite new. The nun's eyes and brows did not appear particularly aged, yet she always gave off a heavy, weary air, along with a strange, repulsive quality. Wang Po detested her intensely. If not for her husband's sake, he would have severed one of her arms two years ago. Of course, aside from someone like Wang Po, no one dared show the slightest aversion to this nun. For she was exceedingly violent-tempered, and her name was Wuqiong Bi—one of the former Eight Directions Wind and Rain, a master of the sacred domain.
The other sedan chair was empty. The person who had been sitting in it now stood beside Wang Po. He was a very obese middle-aged man, dressed in bright yellow robes, with belly fat spilling over his belt, looking somewhat comical. Yet no one dared mock him. For he was Prince Xiang, the most powerful prince in the Great Zhou court, backed by countless armies and ministers. Moreover, not long ago, he had finally broken through that threshold, becoming the first member of the Chen imperial clan to enter the sacred domain since the late emperor. This latter fact, until today, was known to only a few. He had come from the capital to Wenshui City, ridden a sedan up Crowcall Mountain, walked to Wang Po's side, and stood shoulder to shoulder with him, gazing at the splendid landscape before them.
Wang Po said, "I didn't expect this."
Prince Xiang sighed with emotion. "Neither did I."
...
Snow and wind shrouded Wenshui City, and also the ancestral hall. Snow had piled up on the black eaves, white and beautiful, but the white walls seemed dimmer, reflecting the courtyard's snowy light, turning somewhat gray. Amid the intermittent, now dense now sparse wind and snow, the light from the sky shifted constantly, darkening and brightening. In that play of light and shadow, many figures appeared in the wind and snow. The assassins wore white clothes and masked their faces, blending in with the wind and snow, carrying a chill that made them hard to detect. The moment they appeared, Tang Thirty-Six spotted them—because they didn't care if he did. Tang Thirty-Six's eyes narrowed. The cold wind brushed his face, failing to cool his heat, but his greasy, unwashed hair lifted. He felt uneasy, because the scene wasn't pretty, and the smell wasn't pleasant. Looking at the white-clad assassins in the ancestral hall's courtyard, he scratched his head and said, "So many of you ganging up on me? That's hardly fair."
The white-clad assassins naturally didn't answer, staring at him expressionlessly. Tang Thirty-Six looked up at the old elder. He was sitting on a cushion, with the elder standing beside him. To see the elder's face more clearly, he had to tilt his head high. You could say he looked like a duck with its neck stretched out for slaughter, or a proud goose. Yes, no matter how cold and terrifying the assassins' auras were as they slipped into the ancestral hall with the wind and snow, none could match the old elder. But these assassins clearly didn't care, and their gazes were fixed solely on him. That left only one explanation. Where did the Second Master of the Tang family get the confidence to kill Tang Thirty-Six? Because the old elder stationed in the ancestral hall was his man.
The old elder said, "Forgive me, young master."
Tang Thirty-Six smiled and said, "Forgive your mother."
The old elder raised his right hand and struck down toward his head. The wind and snow suddenly intensified, the candles deep in the hall flickered violently, the front rows went out, and over a dozen spirit tablets tumbled from their shelves, shattering into pieces on the ground. Tang Thirty-Six moved. The cushion beneath him burst into countless fragments, and a clearly poisonous smoke billowed up. He scrambled and crawled toward the snow-covered courtyard. Clearly, there was no defensive force from the Tang family in the hall, but he had prepared in advance. Only, he hadn't expected that the one trying to kill him would be a Tang family elder. The poisonous smoke from the cushion was certainly potent, but how could it poison the elder? The old elder had once been a senior elder of the Eternal Life Sect, with profound true essence, already at the peak of the Star Gathering realm, a half-step into the sacred domain. Not to mention that Tang Thirty-Six was only at the early Star Gathering stage—even if he suddenly burst out with ten times his power, how could he block such a devastating strike? As he scrambled toward the courtyard, how could he escape the range of the palm's force?
The old elder's palm fell like a mountain. The wind and snow in the courtyard seemed drawn by an invisible force; the wind stilled, the snow's fall slowed abruptly. Just as the elder's hand was about to land on Tang Thirty-Six's head, suddenly, the wind in the courtyard came alive again, and snowflakes drifted down. A sword light appeared in the wind and snow. This sword light was extremely bright, illuminating the courtyard's plum blossoms, snow-covered benches, and the assassins' eyes. Yet it was also deeply sinister, concealing all its aura, as if stained with the fallen leaves and dust of over a hundred days, merging completely with the ancestral hall. A few snowflakes falling from the sky suddenly turned red. They were stained with blood. The old elder's face showed an expression of disbelief. The palm wind roared up. The sword light moved silently. All the candles in the hall went out. Dense rows of spirit tablets toppled. Countless palm prints and sword scars appeared on the beams, pillars, and walls. With a soft hiss, the hall fell silent again.
The old elder stood on the stone steps before the hall. His left palm was pierced through by a sword, blood flowing. A deep sword wound also appeared on his left chest, blood seeping out. His right palm was pressed against his opponent's left palm. His opponent was a man dressed in servant's clothes. The man was ordinary, with no distinguishing features. For the past five years, this man's shoulders had always been slumped, much like Wang Po outside the city on Crowcall Mountain. But not today, because his left arm, from wrist to shoulder, had been shattered by the old elder's palm force. Who was this person, to have fought the Tang family elder to a draw, even with a sneak attack? It was still hard to believe.
...
The old elder vaguely remembered this man—he should be the mute servant in the hall. Now, of course, he knew this man was no ordinary mute servant. And he wasn't a Tang family expert arranged by the old master, because the elder knew all the Tang family's secrets. So who was this expert, pretending to be a mute servant, sweeping the courtyard of the Tang ancestral hall for half a year? To successfully ambush a half-step sacred domain master, he had to be a very professional assassin, and his realm must be close. Peak of Star Gathering? There was only one assassin of that level on the continent today. The old elder recognized his identity, his pupils contracting, and he shouted, "Attack!"
This was naturally directed at the white-clad assassins. But at this most critical moment, he forgot something very important. The white-clad assassins lunged toward Tang Thirty-Six in the courtyard, their sword intent sharp and sinister, far colder than the deep winter snow, sending chills down the spine. Amid the swirling wind and snow, countless cold sword lights appeared, followed by the dense sound of blades piercing flesh and muffled groans. Blood splattered on the courtyard's snow, glaringly bright. Several assassins fell in pools of blood, no longer breathing. These assassins were highly skilled and extremely vigilant, but they never expected the attack to come from their own ranks. The sharp, sinister sword intent enveloped the courtyard of the Tang ancestral hall. The mute servant retreated back into the courtyard. The seven white-clad assassins walked to his side.