Chapter 644: Kunlun Sect vs Blood Thunder Sound Temple (20)

When I came back to the great forecourt before the Main Hall (Jeokgwangjeon) with the child in my arms, the field was already being put in order.

“Kyaaa— I’m hungry! Food! Food! Give me food!”

Off to one side, a captured Blood Fiend, bound tight and not even grasping that it’d been taken, was throwing a fit for a meal.

It was, if anything, exactly what a Blood Cult monster should look like—an ever-hungry preta with its brain ruled by starvation—so everyone only glared with sickened eyes while they cleared the corpses of the dead Blood Fiends.

Watching that, a hand kept poking and tugging my sleeve.

“Lady Ximen.”

Seol Iri was staring blankly at my arms.

In my arms, a little girl slept, wheezing softly.

“Ah, this one—”

I was about to answer when a question barged in and cut me off.

“Admirable one. Did you perchance see the mongrel curs of Blood Thunder Sound Temple? Why is there not even one? Unbelievable.”

Even with the battle done, Amukhablap’s eyes were still like drawn blades.

He’d come all the way to Blood Thunder Sound Temple and hadn’t found the lamas at all.

Well, the lamas had been lying in wait outside and then got caught in the formation; at present they were busy sprinting in chains like madmen, tail chasing tail.

I was weighing how to explain that when—

Waaah! A cheer broke at just the right time and cut my words again.

It was the roar of the Kunlun warriors.

The three Translucent-realm elders had appeared, dragging in the Great Pagoda Celestial Sovereign—limbs snapped, foam of blood at his mouth, out cold.

The duel—Kunlun Sect versus Blood Thunder Sound Temple—had reached its end.

****

A pack of lamas panted like dogs as they trudged across a land of red sand.

Under the blazing desert sun they’d long since stripped off their outer robes; in yellowed, sweat-stained undergarments they slogged, forcing their soles down into the sinking sand with every step.

They had been away from the main monastery so long they hadn’t shaved their heads for ages; the bristles had grown in to close-cropped stubble—hardly the look anyone would take for monks at a glance.

Then.

All at once the world dimmed; a colossal celestial body veiled the sky and cast an ominous starlight.

In that instant, a vast hole punched open in the heart of the desert and ravenously swallowed the pouring sand.

Like a funnel the sand sluiced down; the hole was so big the drop was on the order of about 100 ft—a giant antlion pit.

On its slopes, the lamas scrabbled in a frenzy, clawing up on all fours.

But the sand ran hard and their bodies kept sliding down; they could barely even hold their place, much less climb.

“[Huff—h-help, I’m—slipping......!]”

One lama of lower attainment was losing strength, sliding farther and farther; in desperation he latched onto an upper-rank senior and clung.

“[Let—let go, I said let go!]”

But the senior was just as desperate; he heartlessly shook off the disciple who clutched him, and the junior lama floundered, drowning in sand, and was swept down—sucked into the maw.

Then a voice that rolled from the sky.

[Three offerings.]

The lamas didn’t understand what the number meant.

Not until—screaming—another of the youngest rank dropped into the hole.

[Two.]

They froze a heartbeat.

Then, as their bodies slid, they scrambled up the flowing slope in panic.

A lama’s eyes gleamed slyly; he flailed his arms as if struggling, then hooked the leg of another lama and shoved.

“[N-no!]”

With his legs kicked out, the lama slid long and straight and fell, screaming.

[One.]

And then another shriek.

A wail dwindled fast, far below—

Thud. All the lamas slammed their torsos to the ground in unison.

The sand was gone—suddenly a solid floor.

Hurting, they lay there without even thinking of standing, gulping for breath.

How many tens of worlds was this now.

When the world shifts, they at least get a brief rest—this was the moment they longed for, over and over.

Lying there, they flicked their eyes around.

A ground where iron grab-handles like hooks jutted up here and there.

And far off, beyond the break in level—

A shiver ran up every lama’s back.

In a flash they grasped what ground they stood on.

Like the upper rim of a gigantic wheel.

And then the ground tilted.

The lamas kicked off and hurled themselves for the handles.

And in a moment they realized there weren’t enough handles to go around.

The baleful star painted the world with joyful colors.

.........

......

...

It took quite some time after that before the lamas were “rescued” from the Great Blood-Annihilating Heaven Array.

Whether “rescue” was the word is a question—

When they were found, they were on the west side below the mountain gate, a little over 200 ft down the ridge, in a broad basin, crawling on their backs with bellies up, tracing a big circle.

The Translucent-realm experts shattered their cores one by one and hauled them out; it was closer to capture than rescue.

But the moment they came out of the formation and jolted awake with a “Haaah!” they showed naked relief—some even with tears—

“[It—it was a formation! Thank you—thank you.]”

Even the Kunlun Daoist tying a lama’s bonds hesitated, thinking: just how vicious a phantasm did they suffer, to end up like this.

They’d aged ten years in a blink; even Amukhablap—who’d been ranting that they should all be slaughtered—fell silent, so far that he withdrew his call for their deaths.

I’m a little disappointed.

They were coming apart more and more; later, to stay alive, they would’ve thrown even their messmates under the pot, and watching them flail like that was very entertaining.

Because of it, the lamas’ eyes were full of hatred when they looked at one another.

Especially because those who “dropped out” midway hadn’t died; if they weren’t bound, it wouldn’t have been strange to see blood spill on the spot.

But even fighting takes strength.

They’d been starving since before the ambush and had been holding out on grit alone.

Then they wandered in the formation; penned in a Buddha hall where fires were lit, they started nodding off one by one.

****

And Lhundup Rinchen opened his eyes.

In the middle of the Main Hall (Jeokgwangjeon), in the posture of bowing on a mat.

“Huuk! Aaagh!”

He jolted in a fluster and toppled over.

At once—footsteps outside and a hurried voice.

-[Master!? What’s the matter!]

At his worried disciple’s voice, Lhundup Rinchen quickly collected himself.

He hurriedly checked his body—his robes neat, his head smooth, freshly shaved and clean.

Only then did his tension drop.

A dream. Just a dream.

-[Master?]

“[No, it is nothing. Withdraw.]”

He said it and let out a breath of relief.

I must’ve nodded off while bowing to the Principal Buddha; with a nightmare that foul, who could complain.

He slowly retraced the dream.

And then snorted.

On thought, it was absurd to the point of empty nonsense.

Dreams are imps that convince you they’re real while you dream; only when you wake do you see it was a ridiculous mirage.

And then—grrrk—his belly suddenly felt hollow.

Had the meal-offering time passed?

He rose and headed for the door of the Main Hall; hand on the door—halt.

A sudden thread of unease: what if, when he opens it, that same space—another Main Hall—appears again?

His hand trembled on the latch.

And—drk!

“Whew.”

He exhaled deep.

Outside the Main Hall stretched the wide monastery yard filled with low pagodas, just as always.

That last dream rattled me too much.

Haaah. My cultivation is still lacking.

Thinking so, before leaving the Main Hall he turned and put his palms together to salute the Principal Buddha.

The Principal Buddha sent him off with the same kindly smile as ever—as ever......

Click—click—his teeth knocked together.

Because the Principal Buddha was smiling.

The corners of its mouth had shot up past the cheekbones, baring a maw sprouting countless animal fangs—and it whispered:

[Did I not say you are already mine.]

And—drk! Thud!

The sound of a door closing.

Then—drrrrrk!

Every door opening at once.

Lhundup Rinchen’s head creaked, creaked—turning unnaturally like a gate of rusted iron.

And the infinite Main Hall—

“Hhuuk!!”

He jerked upright.

Inside a Buddha hall bright with several braziers.

Inside a hall where disciples lay tied hand and foot in filthy heaps, snoring with racket.

Chirr-chirr—some nameless night insect crying.

Beyond the paper lattice doors, the braziers threw the shadow of an armed warrior with a sword at his hip.

“Ah. Right. Haaah......”

He wiped a face drenched with sweat.

Right—the Great Pagoda Celestial Sovereign offered us as sacrifice, the formation was set, we were trapped—and the Kunlun warriors rescued us.

And then—

Only bodies with shattered cores left.

Still—even that is better than wandering in that awful formation.

They say it’s a Blood Cult method.

At first I didn’t believe it, but once I saw with my own eyes the monster they call a Blood Fiend, there was no not believing.

The Great Pagoda Celestial Sovereign was a degenerate of the Blood Cult.

Then what of Potala? Of the Great Master?

What becomes of the Tibetan people?

He exhaled a sigh thick with numbness.

Chirr-chirr—the night insect cried.

And the Buddha hall was not merely warm but stiflingly hot.

Because the Kunlun warriors had put braziers inside instead of blankets.

A measure to keep the prisoners from covering themselves.

But there are limits.

He was wiping sweat that dripped off his jaw in big drops when—halt.

Why are my hands free?

He looked over the disciples.

They lay sprawled, tied hand and foot.

And he alone had hands and feet free.

Chirr-chirr. The night insect cried.

A chill ran down Lhundup Rinchen’s spine.

It was still February; in this cold of winter, what kind of night insect was crying?

And—screeech.

The sound of timber leaning.

The wall of the hall tilted outward.

And beyond it—a steel-gray ground—

“Hhuuk!”

He jolted upright.

A dim room—but a space he knew to the bone: his own bed in his own chamber.

His eyes skittered in panic.

Was there something off again? Was this another dream-within-a-dream—still trapped in the formation and seeing illusions?

A long while like that.

Only after he’d peered around in nervous dread did he reach to the nightstand on the left of his bed.

The water bottle in its usual place.

No time to pour in a cup—his hand shook as he clapped the bottle to his lips.

And—pffwah!

He blasted out what he’d taken into his mouth.

He wiped his lips—then trembled like a sapling, staring down.

His palm glossed wet with blood where he’d wiped.

The metallic tang at his lips—what the bottle held wasn’t water but blood, fresh and yet uncoagulated.

Suddenly, the room flared blood-red.

A hubbub of voices, loud and rowdy, from very far off.

He carefully crawled to the outer edge of the bed and poked his head out.

Below—nothing but flaming ground, and countless sinners burning.

A pandemonium of a fire-hell.

And the whisper of baleful starlight.

[Look well. It is the place prepared for you.]

“Hhuuk!”

Lhundup Rinchen jerked upright......

“Aaagh!” “Aagh!” “Hhuuk! Huk!” “Kk-heuugh!”

Kunlun Daoists winced at the screams and groans that kept bubbling up.

As if they were all sharing a nightmare—shrieking on and on deep into the night.

If Master Danlun had watched everything as I did, he might have reached a conclusion fit for a proper expert in sorcery and the arts.

A formation that only barely borrowed power with a fake Ten-Thousand-Slaughters... and a true Ten-Thousand-Slaughters star descended into it.

Thus the formation ceased to be a mere formation and became a region that ran straight between the world and the most ill-omened star.

And sorcery is a craft by which belief overwrites reality.

To me it would have been nothing but stagecraft—but if the lamas truly believed they had fallen into the hands of the Ten-Thousand-Slaughters?

Wouldn’t they have opened the upper dantian themselves and let in the baleful starlight?

No—was it even “mere illusion” to begin with?

Would a baleful star that shines over the Three Thousand Worlds—its ill-omened light fallen across a land beyond the great wall of the world—truly have reflected falsehood?

Of course, Master Danlun couldn’t assert it either.

The old star of Ten-Thousand-Slaughters is the star’s own domain—beyond what human thought can guess.

That too is something he could only say if he knew the inside of it.

If he had known, he would at least have been pleased to have a year’s worth of thought to chew on.

And I don’t know either.

If I did, I would’ve said, why do you get that fun to yourself—share it.

Not knowing, I’m just here, wheeze-wheeze, sleeping well.