“Your Highness, did you hear clearly the arrangements I shared with you?”

　“Clear enough,” the old prince replied, then hesitated. “Xianshi, must we truly mount such a grand operation?”

　“Just to be safe, guard against the unexpected.”

　“If I may speak frankly, only one man pursues you,” the Southwest Prince said, his face betraying disbelief. “He is but a lone man. Why mobilize a thousand troops to guard against him?”

　“That is because you know nothing of his methods.”

　“Xianshi, troop mobilisations are no trivial matter. If my royal nephew catches wind of this and suspects I harbour treasonous thoughts…”

　“After tomorrow, you won’t even be here. What fear could you possibly have?” Xia Chunqiu waved his hand impatiently, thinking this old prince was truly indecisive and overly cautious. “Or is it that you’re only now concerned about your nephew you left behind in the capital?”

　“That’s not it…”

　“At this point, overthinking is pointless,” the old monk interrupted. “Even if you refuse to mobilise the troops, merely using that young gongzi’s soul to activate the seal… Once the emperor learns of it, do you truly believe he’ll spare either of us?”

　“That is true…”

　Back and forth they went, the incompetent old prince uttering nothing but ‘no’ and ‘yes.’ Xia Chunqiu grew weary of his rambling. After a few final instructions, he and Wu Miaomiao headed up the mountain to prepare the seal-opening array.

　The seal strokes: forward motion for sealing, backward motion for unsealing—the principle they’d painstakingly studied for twenty years was just this simple.

　　Yet the true power of the seal lay not in the strokes themselves, but in the mystical energy within them. As Wu-laoban examined it, he surmised the seal had likely been in place for thousands of years. The energy within the strokes had long since faded to near nothingness. He wondered what force had kept the seal from opening all these years.

　　“My shizhi cultivated a technique whose mysteries even I cannot fathom. Perhaps it was that very technique that held this seal in place.”

　“Now is not the time to ponder techniques,” Wu-laoban muttered, pacing back and forth on the mountain’s stone platform. “Just know we’re not fighting against the original power within the seal.” If that original power still lingered, a hundred of you combined with a hundred of me wouldn’t budge this seal a bit—true immortal qi isn’t something easily bestowed.”

　“In this world…” Hearing him speak so confidently of ‘true immortals,’ Xia Chunqiu couldn’t help but ask, “Have gods and immortals truly existed?”

　“Then where do you think this Chang’an Seal came from?” Wu Miaomiao countered, waving his hand dismissively. “Even if there are immortals, they are not immortals of this world. Your mortal realm has no true immortals. Those who cultivate Buddhism, demonic arts, or Daoist techniques merely channel the spiritual qi of mountains and rivers through different paths.”

　“…You are right,” Xia Chunqiu agreed without offense, nodding in approval. “This mortal realm was always meant to be a land forsaken by the gods.”

　The Chang’an Seal measured no more than three cun in length and width, easily held in one palm. Yet to deploy an array that defied the natural order required skills neither Xia Chunqiu nor Wu-laoban possessed.

　The stone platform carved into the mountainside for the array measured a full ten zhang in length and width. Its surface was polished smooth as a mirror, inlaid with nearly a thousand precious jade stones. Drawing in the spiritual qi of heaven and earth to nourish the platform for over ten years, it was only through the jade resources of Yizhou that the Southwest Prince could afford such a lavish endeavour.

　Carving the reverse-flow array demanded immense mental energy, with no margin for error. The two laboured through most of the night, finally sitting down to meditate and take a breath as dawn approached.

　The old prince, ever mindful of his life, dared not keep them company through the night. He ordered his trusted aide to summon two thousand elite soldiers overnight with the tiger tally[1] to guard the mountain’s base. He himself took a calming decoction early and rested, only ascending the mountain in a sedan chair at mao[2].

　“That old man… does he intend to move the entire princely residence over there?” Wu-laoban stared blankly at the long convoy trailing behind the sedan chair, each cart laden with iron boxes whose contents remained a mystery.

　“The riches and treasures of mortal life are indeed hard to part with.” The old monk shook his head with a smile, then stepped forward to offer a warning: “Your Highness, you cannot take them.”

　“It truly cannot be taken,” Wu Miaomiao interjected with a snort as the old prince puffed out his cheeks, glaring and about to protest. “Were it not for the principle of repaying kindness I learned in your mortal world, and considering all the effort and expense you’ve invested in this matter, I wouldn’t even want to take you along.”

　“Enough talk. Everyone is present. Let us activate the array now.”

　Xia Chunqiu acted with none of the Southwest Prince’s hesitation. As he spoke, he ordered his elite guards to drag the Marquis of Wanjiang onto the stone platform and bind him to the iron frame at the array’s centre.

　As the first light of dawn was visible, the old monk carved the final stroke of the array. Golden radiance intertwined with cobalt flashes, weaving through the air. Within two breaths, a thunderous roar shook the very mountains beneath their feet.

　Though Xia Chunqiu had long ceased to be a follower of the Buddhist path, his method of channelling the spiritual qi of heaven and earth remained rooted in Buddhist cultivation. The radiant golden light contained not a trace of malevolence. But because Wu Miaomiao had channelled his own true qi into the formation, a layer of emerald flame seemed to burn around the golden light, its flickering glow carrying an eerie, otherworldly quality.

　But whatever scene unfolded before him, Bian Yonglan could no longer see clearly—the pain blurred his vision. Still, he forced his mouth open, cursing in broken gasps: “You bastard… Your ancestor asks you… Who smashes ancestral tablets… Like this…”

　“Ancestor, I beg you, bear with it,” the Marquis of Wanjiang cursed so softly it was barely audible, yet Wu Miaomiao heard it, nearly kneeling before him again. With a mournful expression, he pleaded, “I only borrowed that strand of true qi for a moment. I swear I won’t harm your hunpo…”

　But even Wu Miaomiao couldn’t discern clearly—this mortal’s hunpo wasn’t merely intertwined with that strand of otherworldly true spirit. Instead, they shared the same root and origin, emerging from the very root of that true qi. Wu Miaomiao thought to himself that he had uprooted the tree; vines not sharing the same root merely lost their support and wouldn’t truly wither. But if the tree and vine grew from the same root, uprooting the tree meant the vine couldn’t survive either.

　The Marquis of Wanjiang was bound to the frame by iron chains, so tightly that struggling wouldn’t even make a sound. Yet less than a half a moment later, the chains began to rattle and clink together in a sharp, metallic sounds.

　Legend recounts an ancient, brutal form of capital punishment known as ‘peeling human skin alive’: a cross-shaped incision was made atop the victim’s skull, mercury poured in to separate flesh from bone. When agony reached its peak, the victim would jump through the skull wound, leaving behind the human skin. This barbaric punishment had been abolished countless years ago, surviving only in historical records as a warning against such cruelty.

　Since no living soul had endured such torment, the Marquis of Wanjiang had no basis for comparison—could his present agony truly match the legendary torment of that execution? He knew only that the agony, born from the very core of his soul, intensified with each passing moment. His body shook violently, as if his entire skeleton threatened to burst free, as if a seven-foot[3] long nail had been driven through him from head to toe, then slowly, bit by bit, pulled out. Yet even that image failed to capture the depth of his agony.

　Martial artists protect their vital energy with inner strength. Bian Yonglan clung to his last breath, forcing himself to stay conscious. He feared that if he fainted from the agony now, he might never wake again—he had people he wanted to see, promises he hadn’t fulfilled. He truly did not want to die. So he refused to lose consciousness, and he refused to cry out. He could no longer hold back the blood filling his mouth, and it flowed in rivulets from the corners of his mouth.

　Xia Chunqiu paid no heed to the agony endured by the person having their soul extracted and seal removed. His gaze fixed on the sky line, his brow suddenly furrowed as he growled, “How did they get here so fast?”

　“Almost there, almost there…” Wu-laoban, eager to spare his ancestor further suffering, fidgeted like a man desperate to relieve his bladder. Hearing the word ‘soon,’ he hastily chimed in, “It’s almost done…”

　“Listen to the commotion below. If my shizhi were chasing the seal, he wouldn’t have found this place so swiftly,” the old monk turned toward the mountain’s base. Hearing the long, piercing roar of beasts, his tone held no reproach. “Your spell to conceal qi is rather poor. He must be tracking a person.”

　“I—” Wu Miaomiao managed only a single syllable before the rest of his words were drowned out.

　Suddenly, a beastly roar echoed across the mountains—a sound from nothing of this world. Tanshan spotted an elephant formation.

　Though the Southwest Prince was no military strategist, he bore the responsibility of guarding the southwest. His command included generals skilled in adapting to terrain, training troops, and deploying formations. They had trained three hundred war elephants for him, now deployed in full force on the level terrain at the mountain’s base. The elephant soldiers sat upright, spears at the ready, forming a formidable array. Though they could see only a single figure a hundred zhang away, they couldn’t help but feel this display of troops was somewhat exaggerated. Nevertheless, obeying the horn’s command, they assumed a charging posture.

　Linu leaped from the monk’s shoulder, returning to its true size upon landing. This strange sight caused a stir among the charging soldiers, yet the elephants beneath them showed no sign of fear. Each raised its trunk toward the sky, letting out a unified, thunderous elephant roar.

　It was said that the tiger reigned as king of beasts, but it is not. Forget the invincible herd of charging elephants, even pitting a single mature male elephant against a fierce tiger in single combat would leave the tiger with no chance of victory.

　If war elephants feared no tigers, a strange lynx hybrid was even less worthy of their regard. Their united bellows served as both warning and threat.

　The monk, having pursued relentlessly for five days without sleep or rest, bore visible exhaustion upon his face. Yet his eyes remained particularly clear, reflecting an almost detached calm.

　His right hand rose lightly, resting upon the head of the colossal beast beside him—yet it was no gesture of soothing. In the blink of an eye, a blinding white light surged forth. In the twilight sky, it blazed like a searing sun, forcing all three hundred elephant soldiers to shield their eyes. Beneath them, the war beasts grew increasingly restless and agitated.

　When the light faded, a monstrous beast stood proudly a hundred zhang away: a dragon’s head, a tiger’s eyes, a lion’s body, a lizard’s tail, and a massive horn protruding from its forehead. It raised its head and let out a long, thunderous roar that echoed across the heavens and earth, filling the land with nothing but its own voice.

　This strange beast stood barely ten feet tall, and even with its thick, long lizard tail, it measured less than thirty zhang in total length. Merely by size, it was a smaller than the largest elephant king.

　Yet in this world, who could claim to be a king based on size alone? An unwelcome divine object, newly appeared among mortals, it was king.

　Three hundred war elephants, unable even to form ranks for a charge, collapsed one after another, unable to stand. Their long trunks pressed against the ground and they still bellowed—not threats, but acts of submission. They bowed not only to the beast, but also to the figure standing upon its back.

　Tanshan stood tall atop the strange beast, his expression still indifferent. His left hand held the ritual gesture, while his right swept through the air, conjuring a Buddha’s staff from thin air into his palm.

　Behind the three hundred war elephants, two thousand soldiers formed a battle formation. A front line of heavy shields stood at the forefront, while four hundred archers were arrayed in three rows behind the shields. Their arrows were notched, their bows fully drawn—they had received a death order: no matter what they saw, they must hold their ground to the end, or face the execution of their entire family.

　The monk stood tall and erect, hands clasped in Buddhist prayer. From a hundred zhang away, the soldiers could not discern the expression on his face, but they surmised he must be a monk. Yet if he were an ordinary monk, how was it possible he could carry such a heavy aura of malevolence!

　The beast beneath his feet was a monstrous creature not seen before in all the mortal world. Yet the aura emanating from the man surpassed even that of his extraordinary mount. Crossing a hundred zhang it swept toward them like strong wind.

　It was not merely like a strong wind. A true gale did indeed arise.

　As soon as Tanshan pointed his staff a fierce wind arose from the ground, billowing the monk’s robes. The fierce fluttering conveyed not so much malevolence but rather isolation—his expression was so cold, so aloof as he surveyed the battle array before him, like an immortal observing the mortal world, or a mortal gazing upon ants.

　“Linu.” Even his voice held no trace of humanity. The monk parted his lips, uttering a sing word with detached calm: “Go.”

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Author’s Note: Imagine Linu’s true form as a qilin (though not the auspicious beast—this little Linu is quite fierce).

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[1] Military command token

[2] 5-7am

[3] Chinese foot is about 33cm, so ±231cm/91 inches