Chapter Sixty-Three: The Red-Faced Demon

At the foot of Screen Mountain, seven groups were winding their way from all directions, finally converging upon the mountain path. Most of these groups were led by a single person at the front, who carried a rattle drum, shaking it occasionally. Behind the leader, the rest of the group moved with blank faces and lifeless eyes, like walking corpses trailing after their guide.

But there were exceptions. Among these seven groups, one was led by two men. One was a man in white, with sharp features and a cunning air, his right arm severed cleanly at the elbow and wrapped in white cloth. He spoke carelessly with the other leader, a middle-aged man in blue, his shifty eyes darting about with wary vigilance.

“Junior Brother, you’re far too jumpy—did that last fight scare the courage out of you?” the man in blue said.

“Senior Brother, you weren’t there. That man’s blade energy was beyond belief. If it weren’t for my mastery of the Dao, I wouldn’t be alive now,” the man in white replied, rolling his eyes.

“Hah, you simply lack skill. This time your base was raided, you lost half an arm, which is nothing, but you also let over twenty sacrificial victims slip away. I doubt Lord Red-Faced Demon will let you off lightly.”

At the mention of “Red-Faced Demon,” the man in white shuddered, hurriedly whispering into his companion’s ear. The man in blue, after hearing him, smiled in satisfaction and nodded. “You’re smart. I caught another dozen myself. Since you’re willing to share your spoils, I’ll hand over ten victims later—you can answer for yourself. But don’t go back on your word about what you promised.”

The man in white patted his chest. “Rest assured, Senior Brother. I, Cheng San, always keep my word!”

The man in blue, pleased with his opportunism, clapped Cheng San’s shoulder and laughed. “Cheng, you’re fine in all respects, but your courage is lacking. With the eight brothers of our Ghost Corpse Sect here, if that person who hurt you shows up, she’ll never leave!”

Cheng San, eager to please, grinned. “Senior Brother, your powers are unmatched. If she comes, you alone could deal with her, let her see the strength of our Ghost Corpse Sect!”

“You flatterer!” the blue-robed man laughed, clearly enjoying the praise.

While they conversed, the seven groups had joined together, numbering over a hundred, and began their ascent along the mountain path.

Not far away, on a steep stone slab of Screen Mountain, a man and woman lay prone. The man wore coarse gray linen, the woman a simple farmer’s outfit adorned with a few embroidered patches. These two were Liang Yan and Li Xiran, who had hurried here. Li Xiran had changed her attire, no longer clad in black, but dressed as a village girl—though her alluring face could not be concealed by any costume.

“These leaders are merely at the second or third level of Qi Refining, not even past the first threshold. They are nothing to fear. But the ‘Red-Faced Demon’ they mentioned—what level could he be...” Liang Yan mused.

Liang Yan lay atop the massive stone, scrutinizing the enemy below and calculating their next moves, when he heard heavy breathing beside him. He turned and saw Li Xiran staring down at the crowd, eyes blazing with fury.

Liang Yan thought, “This is bad!” Sure enough, Li Xiran reached for her blade in her storage pouch.

“No! Heroine, let’s hold back—these people are not in immediate danger.” Liang Yan hurriedly stopped her.

Li Xiran glared at him. “Why stop me? Let me go down and dispatch these villains one by one!”

Liang Yan sighed. “We must save everyone. They’ve only been taken from Screen City for less than half an hour—there’s no immediate danger. If we follow quietly and find their lair, we can rescue everyone inside.”

Li Xiran had already drawn half her blade, but after hearing Liang Yan, she restrained her anger, though her chest heaved, barely containing herself.

As they spoke, the procession passed beneath their hiding place, leaving just a few stragglers at the rear. Liang Yan signaled to Li Xiran, and together they leapt silently from the stone, landing at the end of the group without a sound.

As soon as they joined, their expressions dulled, blending in perfectly with the others.

The leader of the last group was a short, stout youth in black, with a black hat. Sensing something, he glanced back suspiciously, but saw nothing amiss and continued leading the way.

Liang Yan and Li Xiran mingled at the rear, following the group up the mountain.

After about half an hour, the procession halted halfway up the slope. The leader changed direction, heading into the nearby woods rather than following the path. The other practitioners shook their rattle drums, redirecting the captives into the forest.

After burning a stick of incense’s time in the woods, the ground opened up into a broad clearing.

There, eight enormous iron pillars, glowing red-hot, stood at the cardinal and intercardinal points. Atop each pillar was a huge brazier, flames roaring within, emitting a foul stench.

The pillars formed a circle, at whose center lay a straw mat, upon which slept a giant man in red.

He was a strange sight—his face red as a jujube, muscles bulging on his arms, standing over nine feet tall, nearly double the height of an ordinary man. He hugged a wine jar as large as a water tank, sleeping soundly like a mountain of flesh.

“Qi Refining, eighth level!” Liang Yan was shocked. The Red-Faced Demon was nothing like his incompetent subordinates.

In Qi Refining, there are three thresholds, each difficult to cross. The second is advancing from level seven to eight. Once crossed, the practitioner’s spiritual power becomes pure, their spells grow exponentially stronger—not a mere minor improvement, but a fundamental leap.

Ordinary practitioners, without reaching the eighth level, cannot fly objects, due to insufficient purity of spiritual power. Of course, Zhuo Bufan of the Yixing Pavilion, being a sword cultivator, is an exception.

As Liang Yan calculated, the eight leaders shook their rattle drums, halting everyone. Then all eight knelt, bowing respectfully to the red-faced giant at the center.

“Lord Red-Faced Demon, we have brought all the sacrificial victims you requested.”

The giant seemed not to hear, continuing to sleep on his mat. But no one dared move, maintaining their submissive posture.

After a while, the giant snorted, slowly opened his eyes, and raised the wine jar, pouring its contents into his mouth.

“Out of wine again!” he grumbled, tossing the jar at the crowd.

With a loud smack, it struck one unlucky man, splitting his head open. Yet he remained prone, not daring to utter a sound.

Another cultivator crawled forward, stammering, “Please calm your anger, my lord. When this is done, we will provide enough fine wine for you. Please be patient!”

“Ha! You know how to please me!” Red-Faced Demon laughed.

He rubbed his half-lidded eyes, stood up from the mat, and swept his gaze over the crowd, suddenly frowning. “Why are there fewer people?”

As soon as he spoke, Cheng San crawled forward, his voice trembling. “My lord, forgive me. I met a formidable opponent at the foot of the mountain, who rescued a batch of victims. But I have made up the numbers with ten replacements, so it should be just enough.”

“Just enough?”

Red-Faced Demon raised an eyebrow, then nodded. “Yes, you’re right.”

Cheng San was overjoyed, lifting his head to speak further—only to realize, in horror, that Red-Faced Demon was standing before him, staring with a sinister look.

Before he could utter a word, Red-Faced Demon pierced his dantian with a single hand, then twisted his neck, tearing his head off.

Lifting the corpse, he tossed it into a brazier, where the flames flared higher, glowing with a pale blue light at their core.

“Indeed, it’s enough,” Red-Faced Demon laughed. “Counting you, that is.”