Chapter Twenty-One: Qian Xiaozhen's Death

Suddenly, the sky unleashed a deluge, thunder booming overhead.

“So, it's come at last…” The old man before us, his back turned, spoke softly. Then, as if conjured from thin air, he produced a black robe—the very same one as before.

Despite his age, he moved deftly, slipping the robe over his shoulders in a few swift motions before drawing out a black staff, the likes of which I had never seen. Once prepared, he leaned on the staff and stood by the window.

The storm raged not only outside; even the house was swept by a gentle breeze. The wind stirred the old man’s robe, and as I gazed at his silhouette, it was different now. What I saw was faith, was hope...

It wasn’t until a figure appeared in the courtyard that the old man began to move. The rain outside fell even harder, yet his robes seemed impervious to water, not a drop clinging to them. He pulled the wide hood over his head, concealing his snow-white hair.

Standing at the gate was a towering figure clad in heavy gray armor, nearly two meters tall, gripping a weapon that resembled a halberd. At his waist hung two unsheathed swords, and his loosely tied hair was bound with a piece of string. Unlike what I’d imagined—a brutish, sinister thug—he wore a strikingly handsome face, marred only by a scar on his left cheek. If not for that, I might have thought he was some action movie star.

Of course, his eyes, too, were green.

“Old strategist, our Ghost King has invited you countless times. Will you never give him the courtesy of a meeting?”

Hearing this, I understood—the Ghost King had sent his subordinates here many times, but the Elder of Mount Hong had always refused to come.

“Though I disapprove of the Demon Lord’s actions, my loyalty lies with the Demon Realm. Who in all the underworld does not know your Ghost Clan? Nothing but vermin!”

The old man shot back with fierce disdain, his voice rising at the last words—likely loud enough for the entire village to hear.

“Fine… fine, then.” The armored figure’s smile didn’t reach his eyes. “Vermin, is it? Let me show you the strength of vermin.”

He hurled himself at the old man like a cannonball.

I thought I might be able to help, but Qian Xiaozhen quickly patted my shoulder. “Look around!”

I’d been fixated on the fierce battle above, not noticing that, all around the wooden house, countless pairs of green eyes were closing in from every direction.

“If I’m not mistaken, the one fighting Elder Hong now is a Centurion, and these green eyes must be the foot soldiers,” Qian Xiaozhen said just as the green eyes stepped into view—each a ghostly soldier brandishing a long blade, their faces twisted in malice.

I glanced back at Elder Hong, who had cast some sort of spell, shrouding himself and the Centurion in a haze of demonic energy. From outside, nothing could be seen—only the occasional clash of weapons could be heard.

All we could do now was try to hold back the ghostly soldiers.

By now, my arm had recovered almost completely—other than a faint ache, it was as good as new. I drew my dagger and shouted at the swarming ghost soldiers, “Kill!”

With that, Qian Xiaozhen and I charged together. I couldn’t match his speed or strength, so I focused on picking off stragglers. Though the ghost soldiers were weak individually, there were enough of them to trigger anyone’s trypophobia. The rain seemed to be enjoying the spectacle, pouring even harder until my vision barely extended five meters.

At first, Qian Xiaozhen and I held the line with tacit coordination, and not a single ghost soldier broke through. But gradually, I could feel his exhaustion—more than once, his grip on the sword faltered.

Suddenly, I heard a muffled groan from within the black mist behind me. Elder Hong was sent flying by a punch from the Centurion, forced out of the haze.

The ghost soldiers before us surged forward like a suicide squad, wave after wave. I didn’t have time to look back, only to hear their exchange:

“Are we still vermin now?” the Centurion roared menacingly.

Elder Hong did not reply, but soon their battle resumed.

Things were going badly for us as well. Our strength was fast waning, our bodies racked with wounds—fortunately, none fatal—when suddenly a cry rang out beside me.

Looking over, I saw Qian Xiaozhen. Just moments ago, his arm had been severed, and he lay on the ground, clutching the wound with a pallid face.

But the ghost soldiers would give him no respite. A blade flashed—Qian Xiaozhen’s head fell to the ground.

I let out a furious cry and lunged at the soldier who had beheaded him, dispatching it with one swift stroke. Tossing aside my dagger, I cradled Qian Xiaozhen’s fallen body. Remembering the calm, resolute Bureau agent he had been, I could not hold back my tears.

The rain washed my face, making it impossible to distinguish water from tears. I laid Qian Xiaozhen’s corpse flat and slowly rose to my feet.

For a moment, rage and strength flooded my being. I spun around and kicked away two ghost soldiers who tried to ambush me.

A sound came from my waist—the white rod. Perhaps my fury had awakened its own. I drew it with a sudden motion.

The ghost soldiers hesitated, curious to see what trick I might attempt.

As I gripped the rod, I didn’t realize it was drawing out the scant spiritual energy within me—energy I could barely use myself. Whether this was good or ill, I could only take the risk.

A second or two passed, and the white rod suddenly shone with dazzling light. I had to shield my eyes.

A few seconds more, and I could feel the temperature around me plummeting—my very breath turned to mist.

Then, from the two small stones on the rod, a translucent white blade began to form, growing longer until it reached nearly a meter and a half in length, finally revealing its edge.

I gave the blade a tentative swing and found that it responded to my thoughts; if I locked onto a target, the blade would follow my will.

Confidence surged within me. I strode into the throng, wielding the white blade.

The ghost soldiers had yet to react when I leapt forward, bringing the blade down on the foremost enemy.

I swung with all my might, the blade tracing a white arc in the air. The ghost soldier’s weapon shattered on contact, cleaved clean in two.

Elated by this, I stopped holding back—each stroke felled a swath of enemies, as if reaping wheat.

I was hacking wildly, venting my fury, when a commotion erupted behind me.

Looking back, I saw the battle was decided. The Centurion was gripping the old man’s throat, intent on strangling him. Elder Hong’s staff lay broken, cast aside. Yet the Centurion was in no better shape—his armor was in tatters, his face marred with wounds.

Sensing disaster, I rushed to help, jumping forward with wide, forceful strikes that forced the Centurion to release his grip and defend himself.

I tried to help the old man to his feet, but the Centurion kicked me away. I crashed into a wall before coming to a halt.

Blood spurted from my mouth; it felt as if my organs were all broken.

The Centurion moved to finish the old man, but to his surprise, Elder Hong slowly stood, chanting under his breath.

Realizing something was wrong, the Centurion cried out, “There’s no need for things to go this far!”

The old man finished his incantation, then laughed heartily. “Ha ha ha ha…”

“Better to sing boldly in the rain and die, than live in the shadow of others’ walls!”

Tears streamed down my face…