Chapter Twelve: The Holy Mother of the White Lotus

The figure floating in midair was one that Liaochan had seen before. It was a Blood Sea Asura. Yet this one was far mightier than those roaming the grasslands; not only did it wear intricately patterned armor, but it also wielded a sword—ancient in design, yet exuding a murderous aura. Legend spoke of the Lord of the Blood Sea possessing the twin blades Yuantu and Abhī. The sword in this Asura’s hand was surely a replica of one of those famed weapons. Evidently, this Asura held a high rank.

“You White Lotus Sect dare to worship demons—are you not afraid of heaven’s wrath?” Liaochan gritted his teeth.

“Heh, if no one knows, then how could there be retribution?” The White Lotus Sect Leader chuckled, pointing a finger at Liaochan. “His flesh and blood would serve well for cultivation.”

The Blood Sea Asura remained motionless, casting a sidelong glance at Tang Fu, the sect leader, before locking its gaze onto Liaochan, a flicker of wariness in its eyes. Liaochan, however, showed no courtesy. He leveled his sword before him, pressed his index and middle fingers together, and swiftly traced the blade. Instantly, the peachwood sword became shrouded in a dense web of violet lightning, myriad tiny bolts crackling silently along its length. Since his journey to the underworld, the peachwood sword had ceased to conceal its divine power, finally displaying its true might.

“To follow Heaven’s will and serve the people, to slay demons and vanquish evil—such is our duty. Prepare to die!” Liaochan, wielding his magical sword, strode forward through the void. Targeting the White Lotus Sect Leader, he hurled a thunder spell first, seeking to blast the man aside and avoid any tricks later. A bolt of lightning crashed down from the sky, striking the unprepared sect leader and enveloping him in black smoke, his life or death uncertain. At his side, the White Lotus Saintess’s face flickered with indecision, unsure whether to stay or flee. With the sect leader dealt with, Liaochan turned his gaze upon the Blood Sea Asura, whose blood aura was growing ever more potent. Raising his sword high, he charged forward. The Asura let out a piercing howl and raised its sword to meet him. Thunder roared on one side, while blood-red silence answered on the other; the two clashed in a fierce and even battle. Liaochan, fighting with sword and thunder, steadily whittled away at the Asura’s blood aura with each strike, while the Asura retaliated, its bloody miasma spreading out in all directions, a foul stench corrupting the mind and leaving barren wasteland in its wake. Their duel ravaged the mountain, leaving great pits in the earth from the corrosive blood and destructive lightning.

Time slipped by. In the end, thunder magic proved the bane of corruption; the Blood Sea Asura was slowly forced into defeat. The fate of the sect leader remained unknown, but the White Lotus Saintess, Tang Yingying, could no longer stand idly by. Pressing her palms together, she began a lengthy incantation. Liaochan, locked in battle with the Asura, dared not divide his attention, though he knew full well her spell was a threat; he could only hope to end his fight quickly and turn his focus to her. He had already taken down the sect leader—why should he show mercy simply because his next opponent was a woman?

But there is no medicine for regret. The saintess’s prayer stretched on, and the longer she chanted, the greater the unease in Liaochan’s heart. He could no longer afford to hesitate. Reciting the sacred text under his breath and burning his vital energy, he summoned a storm of tribulation lightning, retreating rapidly as the bolts detonated in a swath hundreds of meters wide. Trapped in the violet storm, the Blood Sea Asura howled in agony, its aura shrinking rapidly. Liaochan pressed his advantage, chanting the true words and invoking his sword with a shout: “Swift!” The peachwood blade crackled with thunder and shot forth in a bolt of lightning toward the blood-red figure. The Asura, already weakened, could not withstand the onslaught; struck by the divine sword, it was pierced by lightning and, with a final roar, dissolved into a wisp of blue smoke, vanishing without trace. Whether the creature was truly slain, Liaochan could not say—such beings could manifest in countless forms—but so long as it stayed out of sight, he cared not. For now, the saintess’s prayer was reaching its climax. Her incantation resonated with the surrounding space, the sacred words growing ever louder and more oppressive, while a divine radiance began to flicker around her.

“A divine descent ritual?” Liaochan was alarmed. He could not allow her to complete the spell. With a flick of his finger, his peachwood sword, still humming from slaying the Asura, transformed into a streak of light and slashed straight at the praying saintess. He had not expected to finish her with a single blow. Yet the result was wholly unexpected. The sword struck true, a sudden burst of blood-red engulfed the saintess, and her life hung by a thread. Yet, as death approached, she flashed a strange, mournful smile and closed her eyes. Liaochan’s heart lurched—he’d fallen into a trap. In the blink of an eye, the saintess’s eyes reopened, stripped of all mortal warmth, cold and penetrating as if capable of freezing one’s soul. Dressed in snowy white, she rose slowly into the air, meeting Liaochan’s gaze at his own altitude.

“White Lotus Holy Mother?” Liaochan was deeply unsettled. The oppressive force radiating from her was so overwhelming that even moving became a struggle.

“Ignorant ant—how dare you act so brazenly?” Her white robes fluttered, but her tone was as icy as winter. With a delicate tap of her jade finger, the air rang with divine music, the notes so solid they struck Liaochan’s chest, churning his blood and spinning his golden core. Only with great effort did he steady himself, now more aware than ever of the vast gulf between their powers.

“I underestimated you. Your golden core is steady, a rare feat in this dissipated world. Pity that a thousand years of cultivation will end in a dream—ultimately, all comes to naught!” As her words faded, her finger tapped again, this time soundlessly. Liaochan’s expression changed; sword across his chest, a muffled bang sounded as a shield of golden light flared around him, triggered by his protective coin.

He was not unscathed, his face pale and drawn, yet with the golden shield separating him from the outside world, the oppressive force dissipated and his magic flowed unhindered.

“Heaven and earth without limit, true law of the mystic gate, five-element divine arms, destroy evil and sever spirits, swift!” Liaochan was not one to take blows without retaliating. Chanting a spell, he drew his fingers along the blade; the peachwood sword shimmered with all five colors—metal, wood, water, fire, earth—each attribute infused in turn, then merged into a five-colored beam aimed straight at his foe.

“Trifling trickery.” A contemptuous laugh rang out as the Holy Mother fixed her gaze on the incoming sword. Under the crushing force of her will, the flying sword slowed and slowed, until it could advance no further. Alarmed, Liaochan hastily recalled the blade.

“Is this the true divide between mortal and divine? Am I truly powerless to resist?” Liaochan’s heart raced as he desperately searched for any means to break the impasse. As he struggled, countless torches flared to life outside the mountain temple, coalescing into a fiery dragon that surged into the newly built shrine.

Before Liaochan could act, all manner of filth—tainted with black dog’s blood—was hurled at the temple’s statue. Fortunately, his true spirit had long been withdrawn; the idol was little more than clay and wood. Yet it was still an affront—his own image thus defiled was a bitter humiliation. Worse still, the vandals began dousing everything with lamp oil. A moment later, a pillar of flame shot into the sky, visible from several peaks away. The crowd erupted in cheers at their success.

Unexpectedly, the Holy Mother paused, her gaze spanning dozens of miles to witness every detail. “Desecrating the divine?” she murmured, her eyes flashing. Instantly, thick thunderclouds gathered around the temple, forcing Liaochan to halt his own spell.

A thunderous roar split the night. Lightning struck the ringleaders, and before anyone could react, the storm rained down, turning the area around the temple into a hell of thunder and fire. All living things—beasts, plants, even the rocks and soil—were reduced to dust.

“Divine wrath is a prison.” Regardless of their enmity, to the Holy Mother, the desecration of sacred images was unforgivable. Liaochan found himself at a loss for how to respond.

The commotion in the mountains had already awakened the nearby villagers. First came the endless thunder, rolling across the hills and filling everyone with terror. None dared venture outside. Then, countless torches converged on the temple. At this, the villagers could no longer contain themselves; just as they were gathering to defend the shrine, a red glow blazed into the sky—the bandits had set the temple ablaze. The villagers, furious, rallied together. That temple had been built by their own hands, and the mountain god had long protected them. Now, outsiders had burned it—who knew how angry the mountain god would be? Torches were lit, bows and knives taken up, and villagers from every nearby settlement able to see the flames set out to confront the bandits. Even members of the White Lotus Sect, sensing trouble, abandoned their plans. Yet before anyone had gone far, the area around the temple had already become a thunder-ravaged inferno. Lightning lit the night as bright as day, the rumbling unceasing. Men, women, young and old—all knelt on the ground, shivering in fear. In that moment, they truly understood the awe of divine judgment.

When the affair at the temple was over, Liaochan and the White Lotus Holy Mother refocused on each other. Liaochan could not fathom why she would strike down her own followers, but he bowed in thanks. “My gratitude, Holy Mother.”

“Mere mortals dare to profane the gods. Such insolence cannot be tolerated.” Clearly, in the Holy Mother’s world, even if Liaochan was her enemy, he at least belonged to the same order—whereas those mortals, by defacing his image, had challenged the authority of the entire class.

Liaochan could only give a wry smile, unsure whether to laugh or cry. Yet, no matter what, the battle between them was now inevitable.