Chapter 32

A dance to break the formation.

As Wu Zixu’s figure twisted, it was as if an invisible authority brushed through the void, causing the shadow soldiers to dissipate in waves. Yet the general’s Nuo dance remained a fierce and deadly performance; the dancer was like a flame burning itself for warmth, suffering immense internal strain. Having hurriedly learned from Wu Nie in the Abyss for only a few days, he was now barely holding on, exhausted and faltering, before suddenly coughing up a mouthful of blood.

Song Wentong’s voice had already gone hoarse, his ten fingers dripping with blood, the sound of blade strikes echoing like being besieged on all sides.

Just as the two were about to collapse from exhaustion, a piece of joss paper floated up into the air.

The crisp sound of wooden clappers echoed from deep underground.

Mu Gesheng was lying on the city wall changing magazines when suddenly the world spun wildly; blood burst from his nostrils, filling his mouth with the metallic taste of blood. He knew the medicine was taking effect, pulled out the vial that Wu Nie had given him, but no more liquid would pour out.

After forcing himself for several days, he was burning the candle at both ends—taking medicine only when he could no longer hold on—already far exceeding the dosage Wu Nie had instructed. Mu Gesheng coughed up a mouthful of blood, braced himself against the city wall, and hoarsely shouted, “How many are left?”

“Report! Less than three hundred left!” someone ran forward, “The south side of the city can’t hold!”

“If we can’t hold, then retreat!” Mu Gesheng estimated the time was about right. He stood up, his vision darkening in waves, nearly collapsing again, “Fight street by street!”

“Sir!” a soldier nearby quickly supported him, his voice muffled amid the artillery fire, “The south side of the city has already fallen!”

"What?!"

“The remaining thirty-five soldiers in the south are holding their ground, refusing to retreat. Led by the chief of staff, they tied up the remaining explosives and jumped off the city wall!”

"All to die for the country!"

Mu Gesheng spat out a mouthful of blood, then wiped it away. He slapped himself hard, biting his tongue fiercely, struggling to calm himself down. "How many people are left in the medical camp? Those who can't move, find a place to hide. Send everyone who can still fight to the south of the city. Hold out as long as you can!"

"They've already been sent," a voice interrupted Mu Gesheng. He was taken aback. "Why are you here?"

The newcomer was none other than Chai Suxin. "I can still move. I came to help you defend the city."

Chai Suxin was covered in blood, no longer maintaining his usual neat and cold demeanor. He held a gun, his hands caked with dirt and blood. Mu Gesheng’s gaze lingered on his hands for a moment. "Did you bring medicine? The stuff Master Wu Nie gave me is all gone. I need to hold on for at least another half hour."

Chai Suxin pulled out a bottle of medicine and handed it to him. "I'm here, you won’t die."

Mu Gesheng smiled, opened the bottle, and poured the medicine into his mouth, chewing with blood filling his mouth. "How are Xiaofeng and the others?"

"They’re fine," Chai Suxin said softly. "Everyone is doing well."

Several stray bullets had just struck the city, hitting the roof of the medical camp.

Chai Shuxin, worried about Mu Gesheng’s medicine supply, was about to head to the city wall to deliver it. Just as he was leading the horse over, a sudden storm of sand and stones knocked him to the ground.

When he looked back again, the entire camp had turned to scorched earth.

Wu Zixu stood on the drum, the sound of the clappers drawing nearer. The ghost soldiers were gradually turning to ashes, the dust swirling into thick clouds of mist.

Someone emerged from the depths of the mist. Unlike the other shadow soldiers clad in armor, this figure wore a flowing white robe, wielding a wooden clapper, sleeves billowing with every movement.

The figure locked eyes with Wu Zixu from afar, then slowly spoke, the voice seeming to echo from ancient times.

"Spirit, return—"

Suddenly, a song arose—its melody starkly different from that of Wu Yi’s. Vast and boundless, it carried an indescribable chill of solitude. The moment the song began, the dissipating shadow soldiers froze in place! As if infused with some mysterious, ethereal power, the once-scattered shadow soldiers surged back into rebellion!

The song seemed to possess the power to absorb resentment. Even the newly deceased souls from the distant battlefield were drawn in—abandoning reincarnation altogether, they transformed on the spot into new shadow soldiers, roaring to life!

Wu Nie originally stood in the middle of the long street intercepting the shadow soldiers. Seeing this, he shouted fiercely, "Mo family!"

Song Wentong leapt down from the building, and the two switched places. Licking the red blade, he unsheathed his sword, the blade flashing in a horizontal slash that instantly toppled all the iron cavalry within a yard. Wu Nie sprinted toward the end of the long street, kicking Wu Zixu off the drum. "Focus! Do your job!"

Wu Nie took Wu Zixu’s place, bending his waist and feet, dancing anew on the drum, continuously diminishing the suddenly rising shadow soldiers. But the clappers and singing never ceased; the battlefield lay not far off, with resentment pouring in endlessly. Soon, more new shadow soldiers arrived. Without Wu Yi to accompany the music, the general’s Nuo dance inflicted even greater toll on the body. Wu Nie barely held on, and the two sides gradually fell into a stalemate.

Song Wentong led in front, Wu Nie followed behind, and Wu Zixu stood midway down the long street, watching the man striking the clapper not far away. Torrential rain poured down, draping a thousand water curtains, and the clash of golden spears seemed to retreat far into the distance.

He recalled the conversation he had with Wunie in the Abyss.

By then, he had already learned the final segment of the General’s Nuo Dance. "I know what you want to ask," Wunie said calmly. "About your father’s whereabouts."

This was indeed one of his greatest unresolved mysteries. The fate of the successive Wuchangzi had always been an enigma among the seven families of the various sons. The master of the Ginkgo Studio had been equally secretive about it back then. He had taken on the role of Wuchangzi at seven years old after his father’s death, but his father’s soul had never entered Fengdu, and there was no record of him in the Book of Life and Death. All that remained was a makeshift tobacco pipe and a handful of ashes in the pouch.

“You are Wuchangzi, so you should know something about the Yin Soldiers—before death, they carry a heart-protecting mirror. As long as the mirror remains, the Yin Soldiers have no consciousness and only obey the commands of the drum-beater,” Wunie explained. “The so-called drum-beater is actually the guide of the Yin Soldiers, using the sound of the drum to direct them and maintain peace in the Abyss.”

“I understand,” Wu Zixu said clearly, “The gong beaters throughout the ages are handpicked by the Underworld, their cultivation no less than that of King Yan.”

“That’s wrong,” Wu Nie glanced at him, “The gong beaters are a secret post in Fengdu. Apart from the high-ranking ghost officials, few even know this position exists. And the explanation you gave is more like something told to the Yin-Yang practitioners.”

“So, what does uncle mean...?”

“Or rather, it’s something told specifically to the Sons of Impermanence.”

Wu Zixu bit his finger, letting the blood drip into the Guwang smoking pipe. The slender pipe instantly turned vermilion, as if a fire was burning inside the bowl, or like a lamp glowing softly. He took a slow step forward, then broke into a swift pace in the rain, finally sprinting wildly toward the source of the clanging sound, his figure almost becoming a fleeting shadow.

He brushed past Song Wentong, their hands accidentally touching. Wu Zixu took the knife from the other’s hand and slashed down his own arm. Blood sprayed instantly, splattering the long blade. Then, he slammed the Guwang pipe fiercely against the blade’s edge. Sparks flew everywhere, the flames following the blood in a winding trail, as if the entire sword had caught fire, cutting through the endless night.

“The origin of the man who strikes the clapper is a lie specially crafted by Fengdu for Wuchangzi.”

“But now, there are very few who still know that it’s a lie.”

"After each Wuchangzi passes away, their soul is guided by a designated person to become the new bell-ringer."

"Since our family took charge of Fengdu, for nine hundred and twenty-seven years, every soul guiding of the Wuchangzi has been personally carried out by us."

That day in the Abyss, Wunie slowly told him, "In the nearly thousand years since then, the origins of the bell-ringer have become increasingly mysterious, even becoming an enigma within the Yin-Yang sect itself, because not every Wuchangzi willingly offers their soul to guard this land without heaven or day."

“A soul, once it becomes a bell-ringer, loses all memories and consciousness from its past life, existing solely to guard the shadow soldiers. Until the next bell-ringer takes over, it serves only this one purpose.”

After what must have been thousands or hundreds of years, Wu Zixu finally spoke, “When the next bell-ringer succeeds, what becomes of the previous bell-ringer?”

“Any soul that lingers too long in the Abyssal Realm will gradually be eroded. All bell-ringers eventually transform into merciless beings like the shadow soldiers themselves—otherwise, why do you think the shadow soldiers are rebelling now? The world is in chaos, the earth’s veins unstable, and the resentment in the Abyssal Realm surges. All the shadow soldiers are enraged, and the bell-ringers too. Resentment controls them, and since they command the shadow soldiers, the consequences are unimaginable.”

“My family has ruled Fengdu for nine hundred and twenty-seven years, guiding thirty-five generations of the Ferryman of Impermanence.” Wu Nie smiled softly, his expression unreadable, “I have personally ended the lives of thirty-four bell-ringers.”

"Your father willingly became a clapper, dedicating his life wholeheartedly to the Yin-Yang sect."

"Before our family, there were actually other guides who ferried the Unpredictable Spirit to become clappers. The last time a guide was replaced was because nearly a thousand years ago, there was also an uprising of the shadow soldiers."

"During that uprising, the Seven Schools of the Masters failed to completely eradicate the shadow soldiers, leaving behind lingering troubles. After our family perished, we became the Fengdu Grand Duke, enduring over nine hundred years of slow wear."

"Our family has two flower balls, each containing the cultivation of a Grand Duke for nearly five hundred years. The last time we formed the formation and sat in the lotus, one was used. This remaining one, I give to you for the Jumping General's Nuo Dance. Consider it a repayment of the favor your father once did."

“Aren’t you asking why our family is willing to help you and the young Tian Suan? This battle may seem like child’s play, but it’s not without a chance of victory. If the timing is right, there’s even a possibility of completely eradicating the shadow soldiers.”

“Great Tai Sui, the beauty’s sins have led to the slaughter of her own descendants for over nine hundred years—I’m truly exhausted.”

“The Yin-Yang sect no longer needs any more gong beaters.”

Wu Zixu let out a mighty roar, wild with rage, grief, and sorrow. Recklessly, he charged into the ranks of the shadow soldiers, his bloodied blade like a blazing firestorm; wherever it struck, everything was set ablaze.

The blade swung by Wu Zixu was not without flaws; his hand even trembled slightly under the weight of the blood-licking sword. He was no martial arts expert, nor skilled in hand-to-hand combat. Whenever he needed to act, he was better at turning conflict into harmony—but at this moment, he sacrificed blood to the blade, forcibly carving out a path of crimson.

True anger, in its purest form, always draws blood.

Sometimes that blood turns into fire; if it doesn’t burn you alive, the searing pain can transform you completely.

The moment the long blade struck the drummer’s skull, amidst the torrential rain, Wu Zixu suddenly recalled an afternoon years ago in the Ginkgo Study. Mu Gesheng was once again grumbling about his unreliable old man, but halfway through, his words suddenly shifted to him: “Third brother, what kind of man is your father?”

What kind of person was the previous generation of Wuchangzi?

Wu Zixu’s memories of his father were vague; he always seemed busy with official duties. Once, that man took him to watch the Ghost Festival performances, where a girl from the Twelve Cases troupe, adorned with floral decorations, bowed her head to him and smiled warmly, saying, “Oh, so this is my grandson, descended through countless generations?”

He was stunned by a single question from Mu Gesheng, but in the end, it was the master of the Ginkgo Studio who wheeled in a wheelchair and patted his shoulder.

“Zixu, you have a good father.”

"A parent's love is boundless."

"The previous generation of the Unchanging had profound cultivation. If he didn't want to become the bell ringer, it would have been a headache for our family."

"But he willingly accepted it, only entrusting one thing to our family."

"Take good care of his son."

That day, a fire broke out in the city. Despite the heavy rain pouring from the sky, the flames roared fiercely, refusing to be extinguished.

On the city wall, Mu Gesheng fired all his bullets, exhausted every ounce of strength, cursed with the foulest words he had ever known. Amidst the relentless artillery fire, clouds of smoke and rain of shells, the clamor of weapons, gunfire, bombings, and cries surged toward him like a worldwide roar, exploding with a bang, collapsing with a crash, until finally dissolving into a thick, suffocating silence.

The moment the artillery struck, Chai Suxin grabbed the person beside him. In the next instant, the sky seemed to collapse, the earth to cave in, everything shattered and crumbled.

Among the broken walls and ruins, Song Wentong looked up at the dawn-tinged sky, leaned back, blood splattering around him.

Wu Nie fell from the drum, the heavy rain washing away the paint on her face, revealing a youthful visage.

Wu Zixu knelt in the rain, pulling out a temporary smoking pipe, and scooped up a handful of ashes from the ground.

In dreams, unaware that one is a guest, how often does one know war? A solitary grave a thousand miles away, boundless mountains and rivers.

At dawn, the city fell.

A dance that captivates the city.

Then captivates the nation.