Nameless Lands, Chapter Seventy-One: The Nature of a Warlord

Zhou Xuanhong regarded his opponent with cool indifference. Although the other’s cultivation had reached the peak of Foundation Establishment, Zhou Xuanhong did not give him a second thought. If he wished, he could unleash the true Great Derivation Technique and kill him outright. Yet there was no need; he had come merely to test his current strength, to apply ten years of progress in actual combat, so that his understanding would be clear for the future.

As the Foundation Establishment peak cultivator of the Yin Corpse Sect prepared to make his move, two companions from the same sect, a few hundred meters away, began to retreat, gradually widening the gap between themselves and the party from the Form-Imprint Sect.

Much of the forest had been destroyed in earlier fighting, leaving a wide clearing. The corpse cultivator smiled maliciously at Zhou Xuanhong and said, “I don’t recall anyone like you in the Form-Imprint Sect. Tell me your name—if I take your head, I need something to report to my sect.”

Zhou Xuanhong stood suspended in the air, sword beneath his feet, shaking his head lightly. “Your name is Tu Shaoyan. I remember you. Ten years ago, you came to the Form-Imprint Sect and took part in the minor tournament. You lost in the Foundation Establishment middle stage arena. You’ve recognized me as well. Ten years ago, I could already defeat your sect's prodigy Bai Youxuan. So now you know you’re no match for me, and have transmitted a message to your two junior brothers to escape first, hoping to find your own chance to slip away later. Isn’t that right?”

Tu Shaoyan’s smile vanished, his face clouded. Zhou Xuanhong had seen through his intentions, but he couldn’t comprehend how Zhou Xuanhong had detected his subtle move—could he overhear his spiritual sense transmission?

Yet he held on to a shred of hope, thinking Zhou Xuanhong was simply perceptive. After all, Zhou Xuanhong’s victory over Bai Youxuan was somewhat unsporting, and his own strength was not remarkable.

But such thoughts were unrealistic. Tu Shaoyan knew Zhou Xuanhong would not challenge him without certainty, especially when he saw Zhou Xuanhong’s calm, placid eyes. His negativity peaked, and what little fighting spirit he had dissipated rapidly.

Zhou Xuanhong watched Tu Shaoyan, sweat beading on his brow as he lost his composure, and laughed lightly. “Come now, I haven’t even made a move. How about this: take one strike from me. If you survive, I’ll give you a chance.”

Tu Shaoyan broke out in cold sweat, but instead of anger at Zhou Xuanhong’s flippant words, he replied earnestly, “Is that promise true?”

This astonished Mao Yishan, Ran Ziyu, the other Form-Imprint Sect disciples, and the sword cultivator from Song Mountain Sword Pavilion. Even the remaining Yin Corpse Sect members were taken aback. With Tu Shaoyan’s cultivation at the peak of Foundation Establishment, a store of pills, and three fierce ghosts of mid-Foundation Establishment circling him, even Mao Yishan would not dare be careless. Yet Tu Shaoyan feared Zhou Xuanhong as if facing a Golden Core cultivator.

Zhou Xuanhong nodded. “It’s true. I have little affection for the Yin Corpse Sect, but I’m not malicious toward it either.”

Tu Shaoyan set up his defenses: ten defensive spells, dozens of talismans, even three formation plates. He hid inside his coffin, with three fierce ghosts guarding him.

Zhou Xuanhong shook his head, amused. Hands clasped behind his back, he raised his right hand. An astonishing suction emanated from his fingertip, drawing in spiritual energy from three kilometers around, gathering it to a single point.

It was the very “World-Destroying Finger” from the stone monument’s vision!

Everyone present sensed the terrifying aura condensed at Zhou Xuanhong’s fingertip—a thirty-centimeter-diameter milky white ball of light slowly formed, its power compressed ten thousand-fold, sending suffocating waves across the clearing.

Grass and trees swayed madly toward Zhou Xuanhong, as if a vortex were pulling all things inward. Not only objects, but even the seven others felt their own spiritual energy being drawn away. Luckily they operated their techniques to shield themselves from the suction, and were shocked by the experience.

“Perish!” Zhou Xuanhong uttered a single word. The ball of light at his fingertip shot forth a beam toward Tu Shaoyan. The compressed energy erupted, unleashing its full force upon Tu Shaoyan’s defenses.

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“Boom!”

The beam struck the coffin. Inside, Tu Shaoyan felt as if he’d been hit by a Golden Core stage beast, the impact so violent he spat a mouthful of blood. Despite the protection, he was gravely wounded.

Fortunately, Zhou Xuanhong’s attack ceased. Tu Shaoyan, confirming there was no further danger, crawled from the coffin, surveying the shattered talismans and formation plates scattered across the ground, the deep dent in the coffin, and swallowed hard, grateful to have survived.

Zhou Xuanhong shook his head, seemingly dissatisfied with the strike, and recalled the hundreds of times he had studied that finger.

“The spiritual energy compression is lacking, still missing a certain penetrating force. If not for my spiritual sense mobilizing such a wide range of energy, I might not have broken through his shield. The World-Destroying Finger has much room for improvement; I must practice more.”

Tu Shaoyan, blown several kilometers away by the attack, hesitated whether to flee—the distance now felt safe—but the sense of danger did not dissipate. Zhou Xuanhong, far off, watched him with calm eyes, prompting Tu Shaoyan to abandon thoughts of escape.

He returned, stepping atop his coffin, and swallowed several pills to hasten his recovery, wary of sudden change.

Tu Shaoyan felt deeply aggrieved. He was, after all, peak Foundation Establishment, half a step into Golden Core, yet he had been so thoroughly routed by a Form-Imprint Sect disciple younger and less cultivated than himself. Worse, the warning in his heart made it impossible to act otherwise.

Zhou Xuanhong smiled as Tu Shaoyan approached again. “You made a wise choice. I’ll spare your life, and grant you a great opportunity—but only if you kill your two junior brothers and become my dog. Which will it be?”

Zhou Xuanhong spoke aloud, making no attempt at spiritual sense transmission. Everyone present—Form-Imprint Sect, Song Mountain Sword Pavilion, and Yin Corpse Sect—was stunned.

Mao Yishan watched Zhou Xuanhong’s back, feeling it unfamiliar, as if this was his true self—the respectful demeanor before the sect master was only a pretense, or perhaps all he had seen was but a mask. This was the real Zhou Xuanhong: calculating, every step in his grasp.

The two Yin Corpse Sect disciples exchanged glances, knowing their lives were forfeit regardless of Tu Shaoyan’s answer. They turned and fled.

Tu Shaoyan met Zhou Xuanhong’s gaze for a second, then immediately looked away, unable to withstand the pressure of one in command. After a moment’s struggle, he gritted his teeth and turned to attack his fleeing sect brothers.

Zhou Xuanhong’s spiritual sense surged forth, connecting instantly with the two Yin Corpse Sect disciples. Two beams of golden light shot into their sea of consciousness, causing them to clutch their heads and howl in agony, their escape slowing.

Driven by Zhou Xuanhong, Tu Shaoyan severed their heads, killing them outright. Their faces at death were twisted in pain, as if suffering immense torment, sending a chill up Tu Shaoyan’s spine.

Ten years had passed, and Zhou Xuanhong was now so powerful. From two kilometers away he could do this—if Tu Shaoyan had tried to escape earlier, he too would have died just like them.

Gathering their treasures, Tu Shaoyan approached Zhou Xuanhong, bowed his head and knelt, offering their heads and storage pouches. He sensibly surrendered his own soul blood, pledging fealty.

Zhou Xuanhong refined the soul blood, gaining full knowledge of Tu Shaoyan’s condition, and the ability to control his life and death. This power was even more domineering than a master-servant celestial contract.

It reminded Zhou Xuanhong that his own soul blood was still with Xuan Qizi—likely now in the hands of Xu Yuqi. He was unconcerned, though, because the bloodthirsty insect in his sea of consciousness could help him to a degree. Even if his soul blood was destroyed, he could survive.

Having subdued Tu Shaoyan, Mao Yishan stepped forward, clasping his hands in salute. “Friend Zhou, you’re quite skilled and have hidden it well. I admire you!”

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Ran Ziyu also came forward to offer congratulations. She appeared relaxed, but her eyes betrayed fear and her body trembled slightly, exposing her true feelings.

Zhou Xuanhong waved his hand. “There are no outsiders here, let’s dispense with the formalities. Senior Brother Mao, we worked well together in the small world, remember?”

Mao Yishan forced a smile and shook his head. “So it was you. Such methods… Alas, Junior Brother Zhou, just say what you want us to do.”

The situation was now clear. With Zhou Xuanhong revealing his hand, there was no point in pretending further.

Zhou Xuanhong glanced at the two Form-Imprint Sect disciples and the Song Mountain Sword Pavilion sword cultivator behind them, his meaning unmistakable.

This made Mao Yishan and Ran Ziyu hesitate. To kill their own sect mates was not so simple for them; Tu Shaoyan, being a corpse cultivator and an evil cultivator, acted always for himself. Killing his fellow disciples or even betraying his own master meant nothing to him if his life was at stake.

Zhou Xuanhong chuckled. “Is it so difficult, Senior Brother Mao? Did you forget what your master told you in the small world? If you die, do you think your junior brothers will live? Senior Sister Ran, as someone from the Grand Elder’s lineage, your sense of belonging to the Form-Imprint Sect is weak. Besides, you seem to like Senior Brother Mao, don’t you?”

Mao Yishan was startled—he hadn’t expected Zhou Xuanhong to know even this. He felt he had no privacy in Zhou Xuanhong’s presence. He was also surprised by Zhou Xuanhong’s words to Ran Ziyu: she liked him? Since when?

Ran Ziyu blushed as Mao Yishan looked her way, making him smile wryly—so his emotional intelligence was really that low? After so long under the same roof, he’d never noticed her feelings, yet Zhou Xuanhong had pointed them out, making Zhou’s image in his mind all the more mysterious.

“Senior Brother, I am willing to offer my soul blood. I beg you to spare my life!”

“I too am willing to offer my mixed blood. My cultivation has reached the eighth layer of Foundation Establishment—I can surely aid you!”

The sword cultivator merely snorted, turned, and left riding his sword. As a sword cultivator, how could he abase himself beneath another?

Mao Yishan and Ran Ziyu exchanged glances, reading each other’s intent. They summoned their spirit swords, and, both at the peak of Foundation Establishment, quickly slew the sword cultivator, who died with his proud head unbowed.

Soon they returned with the sword cultivator’s corpse, looking to Zhou Xuanhong, as if asking whether to kill the remaining Form-Imprint Sect disciples.

Zhou Xuanhong shook his head. “Their cultivation is lacking, their strength insufficient, their temperament weak. There is no use in keeping them. Best to discard.”

Soon, amid venomous curses and pitiful cries of unwillingness, the two died at the hands of their senior brother and sister.

Zhou Xuanhong refrained from helping, precisely to make sure the two understood: now that they had betrayed the Form-Imprint Sect, there was no turning back.

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