Chapter 381: Chapter 381

381: Chapter 369: Deadly Trap 381: Chapter 369: Deadly Trap Ying Xiu’s face was like still water, his eyes revealing an insight not easily read by others.

Su Jing’s indifferent words had completely ground away Ghost’s will to live.

The black blood that Ghost spat out was not blood at all, but the essence of his Yin Core accumulated over three thousand years.

His light had burnt to its end.

He had traveled thousands of miles from the Central Netherworld You Dynasty to this place, all for this Thrice Resentful Ghost body of three thousand years.

Yet now, his efforts had come to naught.

More frustrating and disheartening was the fact that not only had Ghost failed to achieve his goal, but even Hongying had unexpectedly developed a sense of betrayal.

The Central Netherworld was orderly—any Heroic Spirit turned ghost could not defy the Spirit Lord’s curse.

Those who resisted orders committed a grave sin and must be thrown into the Central Netherworld’s Vermilion Bird Pool, to be purified by the sacred fire for three years to cleanse the sin of disobedience.

Purification by the sacred fire for three years would undoubtedly reduce Hongying’s strength greatly.

Ying Xiu had not anticipated such a loss for the trip to Xianling City.

What angered him even more was that Su Jing, fully aware that he had come for Ghost, had relentlessly destroyed Ghost, leaving no chance for reprieve.

Even more enraged than Ying Xiu was Si He.

Ghost was the only key that could open the gates to the three realms of Ghost Mountain.

No one could replace him.

If he died, no one would be able to enter the legendary lands and meet the great King of the Demon Clan.

Si He’s palm force sucked towards Ghost, lifting the broken body from the ground into his palm.

A continuous stream of spiritual energy surged towards his heart channels endlessly.

The borrowed body of Si He’s Divine Thought visibly dimmed at an alarming rate as he said in a deep voice, “Feng Qing!

It was I who led you into demonhood, who granted you three thousand years as a Fierce Ghost.

I won’t let you die, and even the Netherworld Lord wouldn’t dare to take your soul!

Do you believe it or not?!”

Ghost did not answer, but only let out a hoarse, mad laughter.

The demonic intent surrounding his mask deepened, and the hand gripping the broken body’s veins bulged.

Yet the voice beneath the mask suddenly became strangely gentle.

“My good disciple, you’ve endured for three thousand years—three thousand years, surviving through the lifetimes of countless mortals.

Why give up at the last step?

You spoke truthfully; a new fourth Si He had emerged three hundred years ago.

But your master never planned to abandon you.

Will you really give up everything for a woman?”

Ghost laughed heartily, his mouth black with blood.

The blood-red glare in his eyes was indescribably mocking: “I’m about to die; do you think I still care about these things?”

The hand holding his body almost burst with the terrible intent to kill.

He turned his pair of blood-red, dangerous eyes, looking through the mask at Su Jing with a chilling and alarming gaze.

“Very well, very well indeed!

Years of planning dashed in an instant!

Taixuan Sect, Su Jing—truly, I should not have spared you back then!”

Ying Xiu’s expression darkened, a hard to suppress malice churning in his eyes as he commanded harshly, “Take down this demon!”

The crowd exchanged uncertain glances, semi-confused.

They were not Cultivators under the Central Netherworld, naturally they did not have to follow Ying Xiu’s orders.

The Demon World Si He’s notoriety was known through the ages for being fearsome, not to mention the mysterious levels of the first three Si He.

Even facing just a projection, none of them dared to be the first to act.

Baili An twirled his Short Flute in his hand, about to make a move when a swift shadow dashed by his side.

He turned to see it was Meng Zifei.

His face was one of solemnity.

With his left arm wielding the horsetail whisk, and his right hand wielding a sword that drew a Yin-Yang diagram, the sound of Sword Intent ripping through the air followed one after another.

A strong wind rose on the mountain path, snowflakes whirled like blades, turning into a sword intent, fierce as a blizzard, enveloping the direction of Si He.

The momentum of the Sword Intent was a furious, wild rage.

Within the endless sharpness, Si He’s eyes beneath the mask narrowed slightly in surprise, as if he did not expect Meng Zifei to be the first to act against him.

He pressed his fingers deeply into the ground beneath his feet.

The snow in the sky and the continuous Sword Intent felt an unprecedented gravity at that moment, plummeting towards the earth.

The light and insubstantial snowflakes punched countless deep pits into the black soil, pockmarked like badly rotted ground.

The disparity of power was clear at a glance.

Yet, Baili An clearly caught a moment of hesitation in Si He, as if debating whether to kill Meng Zifei on the spot.

Then, he heaved a light sigh.

And released the repressed murderous intent with no further concealment.

The pressing palm lifted again, and countless ice needles, as slender as the symptoms of wood rot, rose from the many tiny pits in the ground.

Each needle, imbued with powerful Divine Thought, lined up in numerous killing intents.

A cold wind arose on the mountain path and, like a gust through the snow, shot out violently.

Meng Zifei sensed Si He’s chilling murderous intent, his face pale, but showing no fear.

With a horizontal sweep of his sword, he shielded his eyes, while his horsetail whisk danced wildly in his left hand like three thousand white silks.

The slender ice needles flew like scattered leaves, razor-sharp in nature.

The white whisk fibers dispersed in the air, and the ice needles inevitably embedded themselves deep into Meng Zifei’s hands, legs, and chest, reddening his clothing with spotted bloodstains.

One particularly fine and virulent ice needle aimed straight for his heart.

With a low roar, Meng Zifei made a desperate dodge in midair.

The ice needle tore through his clothes, raising splashes of fresh blood; even the ghost flower he secretly kept to ward off the poison of evil spirits fell apart, blood-stained and fluttering down.

Although Meng Zifei took the initiative, he did not inflict any substantial harm on Ghost but instead ended up covered in blood and heavily injured on the ground.

But it did successfully inspire the fighting spirit of everyone present.

They let out a collective roar and joined forces from all sides, attacking together.

It was precisely because of Meng Zifei’s action that everyone understood the depth of Si He’s spiritual projection.

And thus, they had no further hesitation.

For even if it was just a projection, it was still a projection of Si He.

Ying Xiu stepped forward briskly, helping Meng Zifei up, his palm upon his back, continuously transferring Spiritual Power, protecting his heart channels.

“You are ignorant of life and death!

All the forces present here, are they not formidable beyond measure?

It’s not your place to court death!”

Meng Zifei opened his pale-lipped eyes weakly, not speaking, his gaze fixed on Baili An, moving his lips silently.

Baili An had not joined the crowd that surrounded Si He.

Underneath his umbrella, those extraordinarily clean eyes turned slightly, observing Ying Xiu holding the dying Meng Zifei.

He remained silent for a long moment until he saw Meng Zifei’s bloodied left hand trembling as it caressed the severed horsetail whisk, his eyes moistening.

Then Baili An sighed, somewhat helplessly, “Young Master Meng is gravely injured and weak; it’s best to rest and heal.”

Meng Zifei quivered his lips, smiled gratefully at him, then turned his head and lost consciousness.