Chapter 76: The Mercy of the Buddha

As soon as Zhou Yi finished speaking, he charged forward, wielding the Li Fire. He used the most primitive of techniques—if they could even be called techniques—for every swing of the Li Fire was aimed straight at the master of Xuhua.

Xuhua, already suffering from internal injuries after being struck by Zhou Yi in the capital, had not yet fully recovered. He had also just taken a hidden shot from Zhou Mo, so old and new wounds alike slowed his movements.

Although Zhou Yi had traveled at breakneck speed for two hours, his spiritual energy was barely depleted. In contrast, Xuhua could do nothing but defend himself.

The Li Fire thrust out again, and Xuhua hurriedly dodged to the side. Zhou Yi had been waiting for just such a move—he drove his dagger downward with all his strength, plunging it between Xuhua’s shoulder and neck, the blade sinking in to the hilt.

It could be said that Xuhua was extraordinarily lucky. The dagger was nearly half a foot long—had it shifted slightly to the left, it would have pierced his heart; to the right, it would have severed his artery or esophagus. Any of those would have spelled certain death.

Xuhua looked up at Zhou Yi, curling his hand into a claw and reaching for Zhou Yi’s left wrist. If Zhou Yi tried to pull out the dagger, Xuhua would surely seize his arm. With no other choice, Zhou Yi released the dagger and leaped back to evade.

Once Zhou Yi had withdrawn, Xuhua dared not linger. He landed, gathered his strength, and fled southward.

Zhou Yi could not give chase, for even if he caught up, he might not be able to kill Xuhua.

During the fight, the soldiers had already fled without a trace. Surveying the battlefield, Zhou Yi saw over sixty corpses left behind. A hundred had come; fewer than forty escaped.

There was no time to pursue them, for everyone was wounded, and only Zhou Yi could still move freely.

He hurried to his companions, using spiritual energy to extract the bullets from Mu Chen and Zhou Mo’s wounds, then sprinkled healing powder over them as Wu Qian helped bandage them.

Zhou Mo and Mu Chen had no serious injuries. But Baozi’s wounds left Zhou Yi at a loss.

A mouthwatering aroma of cooked meat wafted from Baozi—when he had rescued Zhou’s mother from the fire, his flesh had been roasted.

At the moment his flesh was cooked, he felt no pain, for his nerves had been destroyed. Now, an hour later, lying on the ground, Baozi let out a hoarse, guttural scream—the injury to his vocal cords rendered his voice raspy, like the groaning of an aged invalid.

“Madam is safe at my home,” were the first words Baozi spoke upon awakening.

At this, the others could no longer hold back their tears.

“Baozi…” Zhou Yi tried to say more, but his voice caught in his throat.

“Ligen Cry can cure him. We must go to Zhuolu,” Mu Chen said.

This Ligen Cry is said to cure all ailments, but it only possesses its miraculous efficacy once severed from its roots. Its growing conditions are extremely demanding, and it cannot be transplanted, so it can only be sought after illness strikes, with the patient in tow.

Such harsh requirements meant that few knew of Ligen Cry, and those who did would never share so wondrous a medicine; better to keep it secret for oneself. Perhaps only Mu Chen would divulge such a secret to outsiders.

After hearing this, Zhou Yi glanced at Mu Chen, searching his eyes for confirmation. When Mu Chen nodded, Zhou Yi rose, intending to lift Baozi. But as soon as he tried, flesh peeled away from Baozi’s body. If they moved him, he would be nothing but bones by the time they reached Zhuolu.

Zhou Yi was stunned. Baozi could not be moved.

“What should we do? Baozi, you must hold on,” Zhou Yi said, seeing Baozi in pain. He channeled spiritual energy into Baozi’s body to anchor his soul, for Baozi was now so fragile that the slightest shock could make his spirit depart.

“Wrap him in cloth and take him by cart to Zhuolu—would that work?” Wu Qian suggested, a simple yet practical solution.

“Find cloth, hurry and find some cloth!” Zhou Yi exclaimed, seizing on this glimmer of hope.

He released Baozi’s hand, but the moment he did, Baozi cried out again. Zhou Yi had been sustaining him with spiritual energy; without it, the pain returned.

Realizing he could not leave, Zhou Yi sent Wu Qian to search. In this Republican era, the village at the foot of Changbai Mountain was inhabited by hunters, and cloth was scarce. Wu Qian searched over ten households, gathering scraps mostly torn from bedding. Zhou Yi selected only the cleanest pieces to wrap Baozi tightly.

They set out at night, harnessing a cart toward Zhuolu.

The night was cool, ideal for travel. But when daylight came, the sun’s rays tormented Baozi with unbearable pain, and Zhou Yi did his best to shade him.

Because Baozi could not withstand jostling, their pace was slow. After three days, the flesh on Baozi’s body began to fester and ooze pus.

“This mountain’s mine…” Two bandits blocked the road ahead, shouting the age-old line used by highwaymen.

Before they could finish, Zhou Yi charged forward with Li Fire, beheading the speaker and sparing the other by severing only his arm.

Only a single word escaped Zhou Yi’s lips.

Seeing Zhou Yi’s ferocity, the wounded bandit snatched up his severed arm and fled into the mountains in terror.

Zhou Yi did not slaughter them all, hoping the bandit would return with reinforcements, so he could kill to his heart’s content—he wanted only to vent his hatred through bloodshed.

Mu Chen and Wu Qian watched, shaking their heads with sighs, but said nothing to stop him.

As Zhou Yi left, Baozi cried out again in agony. Zhou Yi’s heart ached at the sight.

That night, heavy rain began to fall. If Baozi were drenched, he would surely develop an infection. Zhou Yi spared no spiritual energy, conjuring a protective aura above Baozi to keep the rain at bay.

He had to split his energy between shielding Baozi’s soul and maintaining the barrier, and his reserves quickly dwindled. Before the rain stopped, Zhou Yi had exhausted himself completely.

He looked to the sky and cursed, “Damn you, heavens! Why must you treat me so? What wrong have I done? What has he done to deserve this? If fate would destroy me, I swear I shall defy the heavens themselves!”

No sooner had he spoken than thunder rolled and the rain poured even harder.

Zhou Yi collapsed to his knees with a splash. “I beg you, have mercy! Let all punishment fall on me, for I am the cause of this sin. Let me bear it—leave him be. I beg you!”

He knelt and bowed his head to the ground, again and again, until blood stained his forehead.

“Amitabha.” A Buddhist chant rang out. Zhou Yi’s heart leapt—this was not Xuhua, but Jiechēn from Shaolin.

“Master, save him. Take him to Zhuolu,” Zhou Yi pleaded before fainting.

Mu Chen and Wu Qian were still with him. Now that Jiechēn had arrived, Zhou Yi could finally rest easy. After so many days of exhaustion, even one who had survived a heavenly tribulation could endure no more.

“Buddha be merciful,” Jiechēn said, taking Zhou Yi’s place, braving the rain to continue the journey.