Chapter Forty-Four: Summer Cultivation

Sixth Ugly was breathing heavily, half-kneeling on the ground, his right hand propped against the earth with an iron staff, his left clenched tightly. After countless clashes and charges, his strength was nearly spent, his belly burned as if aflame, and each breath demanded great effort, the exhalation drawing out what little warmth remained, leaving him ever more exhausted.

The iron rod soldiers had long been put away, replaced by the iron staff brought back by Master Deer-Cloak; had it not been for this, Sixth Ugly would have long lost the strength to wield a weapon. His body had reached its limit, limbs twitching uncontrollably at times, his stomach as empty as a desolate plain. Sixth Ugly knew this searing pain was the result of stomach acid gnawing at his insides, a visceral reminder that he must eat, yet he could find nothing edible.

All the corpses within the vessel-realm had already been refined, and the few corpse creatures he had slain were not suitable for consumption. There was no sign of fruit on the trees. Though he had temporarily escaped the corpse horde and reached the hillside, his situation was hardly improved; if he could not quickly replenish his energy, continuing his advance would be impossible, let alone remaining conscious.

Drawing a deep breath, Sixth Ugly summoned all his strength in his right arm, bracing on the iron staff and forcing himself upright. The world swayed in his vision, and his body felt as though shackled by countless iron weights, pressing him down, tempting him to simply lie low and indulge in a long, sweet sleep.

But he knew he could not. Years of pushing past his limits had taught him: the moment he lay down, he would never again have the strength to rise. So he began to stagger forward, feet crunching through layers of fallen leaves and withered branches, step by step making his way toward the far side of the hill.

A massive rotting log blocked his path, covered in moss. Sixth Ugly barely managed to climb atop it, about to descend when he suddenly paused, slowly lowering his head and pressing his fleshy ear against the wood.

Deep within the log, he caught the faintest, nearly imperceptible sounds—instantly, his heart leapt with joy.

He hoisted the iron staff high and smashed it down on the trunk. What appeared an all-out blow only managed to crack the wood, not split it, much less shatter it.

Undeterred, he struck again and again. After three or four blows, he finally broke open a large gap in the trunk, revealing masses of writhing insects frantically burrowing deeper.

He began to seize them—plump, finger-thick white grubs, each one flung straight into his mouth, swallowed before he had time to chew, transforming into streams of warmth spreading through his weary body.

When Sixth Ugly next raised his staff, his vision had cleared completely. With two swings he smashed the trunk apart, exposing even more grubs and some beetles the size of eggs.

From this single rotten log, Sixth Ugly obtained at least three or four pounds of grubs. It was not enough to sate him, but it restored two or three tenths of his strength and vigor—enough to continue foraging.

This, it seemed, was the second requirement of the trial: survival!

For the demon clans, such conduct was only natural. Many monsters, when still beasts or wild animals, were accustomed to devouring insects. But after assuming their humanoid forms and learning human arts and skills, they often forgot their true nature, dressing, eating, living, and traveling much like humans, striving endlessly to resemble them, forgetting their origins.

In this wasteland, insects were the most abundant food source. To survive, one could only turn to them; if one clung to the pride of a human form, death was the only end.

For Sixth Ugly, such considerations were trivial. Nothing mattered more than survival. Without hesitation, he began to eat every insect he could find, gathering them into a bundle made from his clothing, tying it to his back.

Then, he found a dense cluster of branches, climbed up, and began to cultivate the Myriad Demons Technique, striving to recover the demon power he had exhausted, bit by bit.

After about half an hour, Sixth Ugly finally opened his eyes.

Half an hour was neither long nor short, but sufficient for his body and demon power to recover more than half. The next stretch of wasteland was inhabited only by low-level corpse creatures, so this was enough. To avoid being caught by the pursuing Tu Hu, Sixth Ugly chose to press on that very day, resting only after penetrating deep into the heart of the wasteland.

Just as Sixth Ugly had anticipated, the second expanse of wilderness, without the pursuit of advanced corpse creatures, posed little challenge—the low-level undead were easily shaken off. Relying on his speed and flying sand technique, he passed through unimpeded and reached a second hillside.

Climbing up a broken cliff, he left the corpses howling and piling up below. Advancing through gaps between the trees, he had gone only a few dozen paces when he suddenly raised his iron staff and swept it behind him!

Almost simultaneously, a human head shot from behind a tree, silent and swift as lightning, flying straight at Sixth Ugly’s back, its jaws agape, fangs barely an arm’s length from him. But Sixth Ugly’s spinning strike landed square on the bridge of its nose, sending the head flying like a baseball, bursting in midair into a shower of gore.

Not far away, behind another tree, a headless corpse convulsed and then collapsed.

Though an awakened, high-level corpse creature was formidable, it was still no match for Sixth Ugly. Yet he frowned, glancing instinctively ahead.

It was not the corpse that troubled him, but some unusual sounds. They came from beyond the next hill, from the third expanse of wasteland. Judging by the signs, advanced corpse creatures were hunting there.

Someone had alerted the high-level undead of that stretch, and a fierce battle was underway. Sixth Ugly’s hope of repeating his earlier charge was now a vain dream.

He quickly leaped into a tree, moving along the canopy until he found a vantage point.

Sure enough, a hundred yards below the hill, centered on three young demons, hundreds of corpse warriors lay scattered—some already decaying into pools of yellow-green slime and scattered bones. Around them, even more corpse creatures were taking turns attacking, thrusting and withdrawing various weapons in relentless waves.

This scene was almost identical to what Sixth Ugly had faced at the start—except that, outside the undead encirclement, stood a monster far larger than the rest. It was headless, its chest split in two to reveal pupils within, its navel gaping and lined with sharp teeth. Its body was clad in bronze-green skeletal armor. In its left hand, it held a torso—arms, legs, and head twisted and pressed tightly against the body, forming a shield nearly as tall as a man, the eyes on the shield still blinking. Its right hand gripped a long halberd made from a human spine, the tip still adorned with a human head, fangs jutting out like a pair of ox horns.

This was the Corpse King, Summer Plow.

(Master Deer-Cloak once spoke of this creature—a general beheaded in the war between Xia and Shang, whose wrathful spirit, after death, fused with the evil of heaven and earth to be reborn as this monstrosity. The shield in its left hand was formed from the first person it slew after resurrection, infused with demonic energy and nearly indestructible. The halberd in its right was made from the remains of the drought demoness, preternaturally sharp and able to drain blood.)

Now, Summer Plow stood outside the undead ring, seemingly in no hurry to attack.

Sixth Ugly hesitated. He had recognized the three young demons—one was Greenbrow, the other two were also from the Yan Feng company. A year ago, he would have left without a second thought, but now, he found himself torn.

Time changes people. Whether for good or ill, all seek companions to share warmth. Sixth Ugly could ignore the fate of the other two, but the thought of losing Greenbrow pained him deeply.

He looked again into the distance. Greenbrow and the others fought desperately, back to back, trading wounds for the lives of the undead around them, struggling to hold on. There were nearly three hundred corpse creatures surrounding them; even if they continued trading their injuries for kills, Sixth Ugly reckoned they could slay only a few dozen more before completely exhausting themselves. And beyond that circle still waited Summer Plow.

Suddenly, Summer Plow let out a thunderous howl, raising both halberd and shield high. The surrounding corpse warriors fell back, the encirclement expanding severalfold. The three young demons’ pupils contracted sharply; together, they turned and gripped their weapons tightly.

They knew—the monster outside was about to strike.

At that instant, Sixth Ugly’s eyes narrowed to slits, his right hand lifting quietly. Summer Plow’s imminent attack finally made him resolve to intervene. This was a rare opportunity—the retreat of the undead left nothing between him and Summer Plow. If he could kill the monster, escape might be possible.

Summer Plow advanced on the three young demons, shield and halberd raised. The human faces on the weapons started to cackle, shrill and triumphant, as if delighting in the coming bloodshed.

But before those two heads could finish their laughter, Summer Plow suddenly turned. Behind him, a violent wind whipped up clouds of dust, roaring forward like an earthen dragon, charged with a murderous intent that suffocated all in its path.

Whoosh!

As the sandstorm reached Summer Plow, a flash of light shot from the dust, swift as lightning. In that desperate moment, Summer Plow raised his shield and staggered back, intercepting the projectile.

A sharp bolt pierced straight through the human shield’s torso, the tremendous force knocking Summer Plow back three steps and plunging him into the choking dust.

Through the swirling sand, the dark iron rod soldier appeared, striking down hard from the other side. Summer Plow spun his skeletal halberd in defense, but with such length, how could he hope to turn in time?

A hissing cry erupted from the mouth in his navel. The halberd’s head snapped off, the human face flying directly at Sixth Ugly, fangs poised to bite through his chest. Yet Sixth Ugly remained unflinching, channeling all his strength into the iron rod, smashing it down on Summer Plow’s shoulder.

Midair, a longsword shot out like lightning, deflecting the flying head aside—but its wielder was sent tumbling backward by the impact.

Half of Summer Plow’s shoulder collapsed instantly. Before Sixth Ugly could strike again, the monster had already leapt away, howling to rally the other undead to attack.

Greenbrow crashed heavily to the ground, but a hand quickly hauled him up—and he saw Sixth Ugly’s face: as ugly and bloodstained as ever, yet in Greenbrow’s eyes, dazzlingly beautiful.

“Come with me!”

This was no time for reunions or celebration. After a brief glance, Sixth Ugly was already striding in the opposite direction from Summer Plow, and Greenbrow howled to summon his two companions.

Sixth Ugly had no intention of bringing the other two along, but if they could keep up, he would not object.

Crack after crack rang out as Sixth Ugly felled corpse creatures in the swirling dust, sending them flying, sowing chaos among the undead ranks and widening the gaps.

When the heart is in disarray, so too is the formation.

Whether human or demon, it is ever thus.