82. The Rescue Turns Out to Be a Trap

At the very heart of the Yanmo Hall’s stone citadel lay a grand avenue known as Demon God Avenue. Of course, this ostentatious name had long been the subject of mockery—after all, Yanmo Hall was but a second-rate sect, yet boasted such an extravagant thoroughfare, a name more audacious than any found even within the Myriad Demons Hall.

Yet for Yanmo Hall, this avenue was of great significance. The founder of Yanmo Hall had once vanquished a wicked cult, establishing his sect upon the ruins of that very cult’s fortress—the stone citadel now under their feet.

At this moment, both sides of Demon God Avenue were lined with disciples, gathered like onlookers at a spectacle. More than fifty disciples in the Golden Core stage were stationed at the far end of the avenue, guarding the altar of Yanmo Hall.

The altar was the site of blood sacrifices; upon its highest platform rested a massive cauldron shaped like a demon’s visage. Four pillars stood at the corners—at a glance, they appeared to be simple white columns, but upon closer inspection, one would see they were constructed entirely from the bones of children, filling the air with the stench of blood.

Xie Wuji was concealed midway along Demon God Avenue, still five hundred meters from the altar. He had not expected to become embroiled in such chaos, but now Yubao Si and the other righteous men were also hidden along both sides of the road, all masked and cloaked like the other disciples.

To avoid suspicion, Xie Wuji too wore a mask and cloak. He glanced around, a wry smile on his lips, thinking that his senior brother and the others must have lost their way—otherwise, why hadn’t they arrived yet?

Even so, for the sake of his own conscience, Xie Wuji could not allow the children to be slaughtered with such cruelty. Not seeing was one thing; witnessing and doing nothing was quite another—inaction would be unforgivable.

A rhythmic tramp of footsteps sounded in the distance. Xie Wuji looked up to see prison wagons being brought forward. Each iron cage was packed with fifty or sixty children—three wagons in all—constructed so solidly that brute force alone would not suffice to open them.

Xie Wuji didn’t know what would happen if he used his Mountain-Crushing Strike, but the risk was too great—he might harm the children inside.

Atop the altar stood the sect master of Yanmo Hall, wearing a ram-horned mask and gripping a torch taller than a man. The torch was divided in two: the upper part a blazing brand, encased in metallic claws that seemed to clutch the flames; the shaft was a jujube-wood staff ending in a spear-like tip, gleaming cold and sharp in the night.

As the wagons drew nearer, the tension grew palpable. Xie Wuji, there to aid the rescue, kept to the shadows, awaiting Yubao Si’s signal.

Yubao Si nodded toward his comrades atop the surrounding walls. He had prepared twenty-eight men, and with Xie Wuji, they were twenty-nine. Eight lay in wait on the rooftops, ready to lob explosives and sow chaos.

The rest mingled among the crowd, poised to rescue the children at the first sign of disorder.

“Go!” Yubao Si grunted. He charged forward, sword in hand, cutting down several disciples in his path. Using the night’s darkness as cover, the group emerged from the crowd like ghosts.

Reacting swiftly, they rushed the iron cages. Xie Wuji, arm bracer ready, approached a wagon—the wild horse hitched to it neighed and reared, but with a single punch Xie Wuji brought it crashing down.

Just then, the brothers on the rooftops hurled their explosives into the throng. These were not meant to kill; their force was small, but they contained copious amounts of chili powder and spices. When they detonated, the crowd was left coughing, eyes streaming and stinging, unable to see.

Xie Wuji and his companions were prepared—their masks were lined at the mouth with damp cloth, impervious to the powder.

A series of explosions, like firecrackers, rang out, plunging the scene into chaos.

“Damn it, what’s happening? Cough, cough! Where did these explosions come from?”

“It’s happening again! Last time, a band of traitors appeared, and the sect never caught the ringleaders. Now it’s happened once more!”

“What’s wrong with Blood Pills? Why cause trouble? Blood Pills are a good thing!”

The crowd surged in panic; the situation was spiraling out of control.

“This is bad—these are black iron cages, not ordinary ones!” cried one of the brothers, brandishing a broken dagger.

A thunderous shout rang out. A burly giant blocked the avenue’s entrance, cutting off any hope of retreat.

“Damn, it’s a trap! That’s… that’s Senior Brother Duan Fei!” Yubao Si’s voice trembled in alarm.

Xie Wuji had heard of Duan Fei from Yubao Si—a fourth-tier Golden Core cultivator whose power approached the Nascent Soul stage.

Duan Fei was a towering, bald brute—over two meters tall, muscles bulging like a beast’s, veins pulsing with explosive strength. A tattoo of a black bear sprawled across his chest, matching his terrifying beast spirit.

Bare-chested save for a string of prayer beads—though “beads” was a misnomer, for they were ten children’s skulls—he wore blue trousers and iron-tipped boots, gold-plated gauntlets on his fists.

A master of raw power.

Duan Fei wasted no time. He seized a would-be rescuer, gripped his head in a massive hand like a vice, and with a sickening crack, crushed the man’s skull.

The crowd fell deathly silent.

Yubao Si gritted his teeth. “Retreat—it’s a trap! Cover Brother Xie—fall back!”

“Retreat? And where do you think you’re going?” Duan Fei’s laughter was like a bull’s roar. His eyes bulged as he swept his gaze around. “Master saw this coming—why do you think we prepared three black iron cages? Surprised?”

“Bastard!” Yubao Si and his companions huddled back to back as more Yanmo Hall disciples appeared, surrounding them from all sides.

“Yubao Si, as your master I meant to give you another chance, but you squandered it… All this time you refused to take Blood Pills, but now you want to cut off your fellow disciples’ source of strength?” The masked sect master finally spoke.

Unmasked, Yubao Si flung his mask aside. “Master, are you still my master? Ever since Myriad Demons Hall gave us the Blood Pill recipe… how many innocents have we harmed? How many children have we killed? Wasn’t Yanmo Hall once a band of righteous outlaws, robbing the rich to aid the poor, upholding justice? You, known as the Living Yama, once punished villains—so why have you become one yourself?”

“Absurd!” the sect master thundered. “Have you not seen? Since we began taking Blood Pills, Yanmo Hall’s power has soared! A year ago, we had only ten Golden Core disciples; now we have fifty! So long as we persist, with everyone cultivating through Blood Pills, even Myriad Demons Hall or Danxia Sect will be beneath our notice. Soon, the world will belong to Yanmo Hall!”

“Master! Please, wake up. I can’t believe the compassionate master I once knew has become a slaughterer!” Tears streamed down Yubao Si’s face.

The sect master strode toward Xie Wuji’s group. His skeletal hand suddenly clamped Yubao Si’s chin. “You never wanted to taste a Blood Pill? Then let me show you its wonders! One taste, and you’ll never forget it!”

He produced a gleaming, ruby-red pill.

Xie Wuji, having long prepared two Intestinal Purging Pills in his sleeve, seized the moment. As the Blood Pill was forced into Yubao Si’s mouth, Xie Wuji flicked his thumb, sending both pills directly into Yubao Si’s mouth as well.

Yubao Si’s expression changed; suddenly, his trousers puffed up at the back—standing right behind him was Duan Fei.

With a thunderous, splattering sound, a tremendous fart erupted, showering Duan Fei in a deluge of filth. Duan Fei stood stunned; the crowd was equally dumbstruck.

Xie Wuji seized the moment, shouting to the sect master, “Mountain-Crushing Strike!”

It was a rare opportunity—one Xie Wuji had no intention of wasting.