Chapter Twenty-Seven: Serpent Witchcraft

At that moment, however, the ghost soldiers in the rear unleashed volleys of sharp arrows, densely raining down upon the cultivators. These arrows, like the shields before, were forged from the official Qi of the realm, capable of wounding both soul and flesh—a formidable force indeed.

The cultivators scattered to evade, some even activating protective talismans that cast shimmering lights around their bodies. Yet the arrows pierced through, shattering the protective glow of two unfortunate cultivators, who fell to the ground with anguished cries, their bodies charred as though struck by lightning.

Wang Zhenling, kept at the side of Magistrate Chen, had not joined the fray. Witnessing this scene, he felt a surge of astonishment and admiration. He thought to himself, “Such discipline among these ghost soldiers—surely they are not mere county troops.” It was likely that Magistrate Chen had invoked family connections to summon these soldiers’ spirits, for their swift marching and orderly ranks were the hallmarks of elite forces. The ten ghost soldiers under his own command, though individually competent, paled in comparison when moving alongside the five hundred; the gap became evident.

Wang Zhenling was not well-acquainted with the county court’s resources, but it was unlikely they possessed such highly trained ghost soldiers.

Just then, over a hundred armored warriors arrived at a run. These men, all seemingly handpicked for their prowess, moved with extraordinary strength; even clad in heavy armor, they could sprint two or three miles without exhaustion.

At this moment, Mr. Feng suddenly changed his attire, discarding his scholar’s robe for a black cloak, a feathered headdress, and a copper drum in hand.

“So Mr. Feng is no cultivator, but a shaman!” Wang Zhenling had scarcely formed the thought before witnessing Mr. Feng strike the drum. Its rhythm echoed the heartbeat, resonating with the boiling blood and racing hearts of the armored warriors after their charge. As the drumbeat steadied, so too did their heartbeats grow strong and calm, their restless blood settling.

“A remarkable skill indeed!” Yet Wang Zhenling did not know that Mr. Feng was no ordinary shaman, but a lineage holder of ancient military sorcery.

Since antiquity, armies have relied on shamanistic rites—beheading sacrifices, worship of martial deities, ritual games, all imbued with occult meaning. In war, cursing the enemy’s defeat was common practice.

Even in Wang Zhenling’s previous life, during the battles between Qin and Chu, both kings would personally conduct shamanistic rituals to curse their foes.

Now, Wang Zhenling was witnessing but a glimpse of these arts, and marveling at their rarity.

As he watched in secret astonishment, the armored warriors unleashed their bows and crossbows upon the cultivators. Though the dozen or so cultivators could contend with five hundred ghost soldiers—thanks to the countering power of their spells—facing the barrage of strong crossbows, they could not withstand, and those slow to dodge were slain on the spot.

Seeing that the tide had turned, the remaining cultivators had no choice but to flee.

“Kill—!” With a shout, the armored warriors and ghost soldiers stormed into the manor.

The battle had raged for half an hour by now, and dusk was falling. Wang Zhenling followed Magistrate Chen’s party, slowly approaching the manor.

“Today’s extermination of the Wuhua Society—Magistrate, you have achieved great merit. Surely, promotion awaits you!” Mr. Feng offered his congratulations.

Magistrate Chen gave a reserved smile; the flattery was unsubtle. He had come here to polish his credentials, to earn a bit of political achievement as a stepping stone for his future ascent—an expected outcome. Though pleased, he was not overly excited, as it was precisely what he had anticipated.

Wang Zhenling mused silently: Magistrate Chen is indeed a scion of high officials; now that he has his achievement in hand, he likely will not linger long in Danling County. Judging by today’s events, I too have boarded his ship.

As he pondered this, his peripheral vision caught a sudden movement—a figure leaped from the roadside grass. Before the person even reached them, a burst of purple smoke and a foul wind erupted.

“Poison! Poison! Move quickly!” The guards around Magistrate Chen fell into chaos.

Wang Zhenling sensed danger; the assassin was already lunging toward Magistrate Chen.

Clang!

Wang Zhenling stepped forward and blocked Magistrate Chen, slashing at the attacker with his sword. The assassin uttered a low cry, and from his sleeve emerged a thick, earth-hued venomous snake with a triangular head, darting toward Wang Zhenling.

Wang Zhenling sneered, neither dodging nor retreating, but raised his armored arm to meet the bite. The snake’s fangs could not penetrate the armor, and with a swing, he smashed its head to pieces.

Without a sound, he swept his leg in a shadowy strike, aiming to land a heavy blow between the assassin’s legs. Yet the assassin twisted as swiftly as a serpent, and Wang Zhenling’s kick missed, slipping past as if striking a writhing python.

In an instant, the assassin had maneuvered behind Wang Zhenling and resumed his assault on Magistrate Chen.

“Protect the Magistrate!” Mr. Feng cried out in panic.

Only Mr. Yu remained composed, letting out a cold snort as he strode forward, his sword tip flickering with countless shadows, enveloping the assassin’s body. This was clearly civilian swordplay—its flourishes unnecessary for true combat—but wielded by Mr. Yu, its power was undeniable. The sword tip seemed to extend three inches, a manifestation of sword Qi.

The assassin, however, spat forth another wave of purple, foul-smelling gas, its toxicity severe enough to induce nausea. Mr. Yu snorted again, sweeping his sleeve in a gust of wind that drove the poisonous vapor several yards away.

Meanwhile, Mr. Feng struck the copper drum once more with a deep, resounding thud. While others felt little effect, the assassin seemed to suffer a blow to the heart, vomiting blood.

Before the blood could hit the ground, it transformed into countless red insects, swarming through the air toward Mr. Yu.

“Serpent Gu…” Mr. Feng’s face changed. In these times, not far from antiquity, shamanic arts abounded—such Gu magic was notorious in the Yunling provinces for its potency and cruelty. As a fellow shaman, Mr. Feng understood the danger: though these appeared to be mere insects, their bite was fatal and could inflict unspeakable suffering.

Not daring to delay, Mr. Feng struck the drum again, its shockwave killing the serpent Gu midair, dispersing them as black vapor.

At that moment, Wang Zhenling caught up, plunging his sword into the assassin’s back, the blade piercing through his chest…