Chapter Forty-Seven: Drawing the Blade

Hearing what the serpent demon said, Zhou Bai did not respond. He lowered his head, his rapid breathing gradually calming down.

“I know exactly where the treasures of the Lord of Southern Mountain are hidden. Of course, I don’t want them for myself—consider this my token of allegiance to the Underworld Records Office…”

The serpent demon’s plan was flawless. With Zhou Bai rendered powerless by the plague poison of the rat demon, it could not only help him suppress the toxin and extricate itself from the situation, but if the Underworld Records Office had no interest in the Lord of Southern Mountain’s treasures, it might even get a share.

It rambled on to itself, but soon fell silent. Something about the aura of the person before it had changed, a sudden anomaly that shattered its calculations.

Flicking its crimson tongue, the serpent demon eyed Zhou Bai with suspicion and alarm. Zhou Bai drew his butcher’s blade across his palm, leaving a wound neither shallow nor deep.

In that moment, Zhou Bai realized the exquisite utility of his Yin-Yang Eyes. Under such meticulous control, he forced the plague toxin, tainted with demonic energy, out through the wound bit by bit.

Green blood dripped onto the ground, sizzling as it withered the grass at his feet at a speed visible to the naked eye, a pungent odor filling the air.

Sensing imminent danger, the serpent demon retreated several steps to a spot it considered relatively safe.

“Honored one of the Underworld Records Office, you must know I have no ill intentions toward you…”

Before it could finish, Zhou Bai stepped forward. A faint golden light shimmered beneath his feet, dust billowed, and his figure vanished on the spot.

In that instant, another character for the Death Curse was ready.

Though far from perfect, it sufficed for Zhou Bai, who sought only an instant’s explosive power.

The butcher’s blade traced a graceful arc in midair as he brushed past the serpent demon. The two now stood back to back.

“What a pity,” Zhou Bai spun his blade in his hand, turning to face the serpent demon.

In the distance, the battle between the Three-Flames Monk and the Lord of Southern Mountain intensified, the earth trembling faintly, but none of it broke Zhou Bai’s focus.

The serpent demon’s pupils dilated. It raised a scaly hand to its neck, finding a deep wound that nearly exposed the bone.

Though its demonic power staunched the bleeding, it remained shaken, exclaiming incredulously, “Why? Isn’t this world driven by self-interest, with people coming and going all for profit?”

Zhou Bai’s lips curled into a playful smile. “If you must ask why before you die, I’d rather wait until your eyes are completely closed to answer.”

Fury overtook the serpent demon, usually the most rational of creatures. Now, it lost all control, and in its anger, it transformed into a giant python nearly ten meters long.

Its massive body rolled, toppling several trees, leaving deep marks in the earth as flocks of startled birds scattered into the distance.

Zhou Bai marveled at the enormity of his opponent’s true form, but he knew that pythons naturally grew larger with age—far beyond what other demons could achieve.

The serpent’s tail lashed out at Zhou Bai, but he was prepared. Having purged the poison from his body, his strength returned, and with a nimble backflip, he avoided the attack.

Their contest played out more as Zhou Bai evading the serpent’s onslaught—seemingly harried, yet every step was measured to perfection.

From time to time, Zhou Bai struck with his blade, but against the snake’s armored scales, he could only break the shallow outer layer, unable to wound flesh or bone.

His opponent, as agile as a fly, dodged every attack. Frustrated, the serpent demon spat forth a jet of demonic energy from its mouth, arrowing toward Zhou Bai.

He twisted aside and leapt atop an ancient towering tree. Pushing off from the crown, he soared into the sky, hundreds of meters above.

The serpent demon pursued, jaws agape as it climbed the ancient trunk, tail wrapped around the wood, upper body lunging after Zhou Bai in midair.

Clutching his butcher’s blade in both hands, Zhou Bai hurled it forcefully at the serpent. Using the recoil, he escaped the snapping jaws.

His body shot higher still, nearly brushing the clouds. Head first, hands on the hilt at his waist, he closed his eyes.

The Three-Flames Monk wiped blood from his face, evidently still holding back his strength, treating the demon before him as nothing more than a sandbag for a satisfying fight.

The tiger demon lay near death—its spine broken, half its pelt forcibly torn away.

The Three-Flames Monk, in both character and appearance, seemed every bit the enlightened monk, but in battle, he was a madman—often trading blow for blow, never satisfied until his opponent was beaten to death.

Grabbing the Lord of Southern Mountain by the scruff, he forced it to look skyward, where Zhou Bai was plummeting from on high, descending ever faster toward the massive serpent demon.

“Lord of Southern Mountain, have you ever seen a sword technique that descends from the heavens?”

The Lord of Southern Mountain, eyes clouded with confusion, stared at Zhou Bai’s falling form, trembling involuntarily as the grip at its neck tightened.

Zhou Bai clenched his eyes shut. One hand gripped the scabbard, the other the hilt of his Tang blade.

In that moment, his heart was utterly calm. Through the scabbard, he could sense the blade’s intent, a killing edge eager to burst forth.

Facing such a tranquil adversary, the serpent demon was nonetheless seized by fear. But Zhou Bai’s descent was too swift for evasion; it could only steel itself to meet him head-on.

Mouth agape, all its demonic power concentrated in its head, a visible veil of green mist enveloped it.

Zhou Bai opened his eyes, utterly unafraid—he felt the hilt in his hand begin to loosen.

Click.

A crisp sound rang out as the rusty blade drew inch by inch from its scabbard, the gust scattering all the surrounding leaves, leaving only bare branches.

He maintained the stance of a swordsman drawing his blade. The serpent demon froze, a wave of helplessness flooding its body.

Its serpentine eyes were fixed on Zhou Bai, watching helplessly as he passed it by.

Boom!

Zhou Bai crashed to the ground, leaving a crater a meter wide. He knelt with his Tang blade gripped at an angle, not sparing a glance at the serpent demon behind him, instead taking a deep breath.

Then he rose, and with a flick of his left thumb, the rust flaked away from the blade, revealing steel as white as snow.

He gradually sheathed the Tang blade. In the air behind him, a silver line stretched from top to bottom.

The serpent demon was cleaved cleanly in two along the silver line, the cut seamless, blood raining down like a storm.

In its final moments, it heard the man’s indifferent voice:

“Forgive me. In this life, my duty is only to slay demons and exorcise evil, not to judge good or wickedness.”

“This technique is called…”

“Draw Blade.”