Morning dawned crisp and cool, mist draping like a cloud bridge.
Luo Shuihan, sleepless all night, coordinated tirelessly, gathering the list’s materials, packing them into dozens of copper-clad chests.
Zhang Ruochen checked each, nodding in satisfaction.
Some materials, exceedingly rare, were unknown to him—he’d thought Kunlun lacked them, inwardly marvelling, “Wu City Bank’s reach is truly vast.”
Worthy of a faction enduring the upheaval of a hundred thousand years ago, its depth exceeded his estimates.
In the Middle Ages, Wu City Bank was a titan in Kunlun, boasting multiple gods.
After paying a hefty sum in saint stones, Zhang Ruochen asked Luo Shuihan, “Does Wu City Bank have Cosmic Void Tears?”
Helping Chenyuan Ancient Sword’s spirit form a body was his next task.
He’d secured most materials, save for Cosmic Void Tears, asking not expecting much—just testing his luck.
Luo Shuihan frowned, “That’s a legendary rarity, I’ve only read of it in ancient texts—not sure if the bank has it, I can inquire for you.”
“Good, please do, Senior Sister—notify me if there’s news, saint stone price is negotiable.”
Stowing the chests in his spatial ring, he bid Lei Jing farewell, departing Qianshui Royal City.
Moyin drove the Golden Dragon Carriage, hastening towards Luoshui.
A promise made, a duty kept.
With You God Palace unlikely to breach King Mountain soon, time was on his side, plus, Luoshui intrigued him—not just for Luo Xu and Luo Shuihan’s fortunes, but the Reverse God Stele.
Its power, the strangest he’d encountered, surely had a grand origin.
Half that stele was fished from Luoshui.
Half an hour later, he reached Luoshui’s banks.
Years ago, he’d lingered here to master Luoshui Fist and unravel its secrets, returning now, he barely recognised it—had he come to the wrong place?
Was this Luoshui?
Before him stretched boundless turquoise waves, like an ancient ocean.
The old Luoshui was never this vast.
Mist floated on the surface, laced with mysterious power, blocking his sight and spiritual probing beyond a hundred li, leaving the distance a blur.
Unfurling dragon wings, he soared like a humanoid goose, landing on the water, heading deeper.
Treading waves, he covered a hundred li.
A faint scent wafted—tulips, perhaps.
Soon, miles ahead, he spotted a tulip, tower-tall, petals like carved rubies, glistening, radiant in the sunrise.
“A hundred-thousand-year ancient saint herb.”
Zhang Ruochen gaped, his calm shattering, excitement surging.
Luoshui brimmed with sacred qi and active rules—how had a hundred-thousand-year saint herb emerged?
Too abnormal.
Had Luoshui transformed, like King Mountain, into an awakening land?
“Master, beware—that’s no ordinary tulip, likely the ferocious Tulip Demon Fragrance, its scent powerfully stimulating and seductive, affecting fleshly cultivators’ emotions and minds,” Moyin warned.
Zhang Ruochen halted, held his breath, summoning Purifying Divine Fire to burn off inhaled fragrance.
Indeed, something was off.
With his refined mind, how could he lose control?
After purging the scent, his thoughts cleared, sensing danger, he retreated.
Tulip Demon Fragrance rivalled Saint Devourer Flower among ferocious plants, adept at spiritual attacks—even a ten-thousand-year specimen could sway beings within ten thousand li with scent and spirit, though that meant mortals, snakes, bugs, and rats.
This one was a hundred thousand years old.
Even as a Saint King, nearing it spelled doom.
“Trouble.”
He saw its petals glow blood-red.
“Swish.”
The crimson light spread, dyeing sky and water red, worse, it carried overwhelming spiritual force.
Peering ahead, thousands of blood-red god-demon knights charged, roars and slaughter deafening, threatening to rip his saint soul free.
“Spiritual attack.”
He drew the Illusion Pearl, cradling it.
Saint qi surged wildly into the pearl.
Buddha shadows emerged, encasing him, like dozens of golden arhats and bodhisattvas guarding him, chanting resonant Sanskrit.
With the pearl’s spiritual defence, he fled ashore, stopping hundreds of li away.
“Terrifying—my peak fifty-eighth-tier spiritual strength nearly buckled,” his face paled, spirit mildly wounded.
Swallowing a spirit-soothing saint pill, he recovered after over an hour.
Returning to Luoshui’s edge, the Tulip Demon Fragrance had vanished.
This time, he masked his aura, diving cautiously deeper, but at a hundred li, peril struck again.
His body sank uncontrollably, as if a hand tugged his legs.
Looking down, arcane inscriptions in the water ensnared his legs, pulling him under, waist-deep.
“Swish.”
Spatial power freed him, he escaped ashore.
Subsequent probes met similar barriers beyond a hundred li—some inscriptions unleashed lightning, others skyfire, some tore space.
Too fearsome—not Saint King craft—with his current realm, breaching was impossible.
Still, he harvested over a dozen precious saint herbs from the surface.
Once, venturing four hundred li, he glimpsed massive black islands floating in the depths.
Yes, floating, drifting slowly.
Hemispherical and vast, they resembled fallen stars, too distant to discern details, only a faint divine pressure lingered.
Not daring further, he retreated.
“No wonder Senior Sister said I can’t take Luoshui, it’s extraordinary—what secret hides here?”
“Once, hidden spaces here must’ve emerged with Kunlun’s revival, for now, I’ll settle the shore’s civilians into Qiankun Realm, fulfilling my promise.”
Luoshui’s waters had turned to spiritual springs—mortals drinking it gained immunity and longevity.
Following the river downstream, he reached a fishing village.
Before entering, unease gripped him.
The village was eerily silent—no voices, no barking.
Inside, he gasped, fishermen all shrivelled husks—stone corpses, to be precise.
A boy at the entrance, skin and bones petrified, only clothes and hair marked him human, not a statue.
Not cold-blooded, Zhang Ruochen seethed at the sight, pressing fingers to the boy’s brow, sensing.
“This… Hell Realm Stone Clan aura…”
“Boom.”
He stomped, sinking dozens of li of earth, burying the village.
Downstream, every village and town mirrored this fate.
No survivors—all petrified.
Fury burned, yet he stayed rational, spotting a puzzle.
Even if Stone Clan cultivators massacred them, where was the blood?
Human blood was useless to Stone Clan.
Hastening to an ancient city by Luoshui—Luocheng, home to hundreds of thousands—he found it spared, for now.
Sensing saintly auras within, he donned a mask, hid his presence, and slipped through the gate.
If Stone Clan killed Luoshui’s villagers, Luocheng wouldn’t escape.
“I’ll see what fiend you are,” murder flared, he’d wait in ambush.
Luocheng’s grandest tavern, Xusheng Tower, named for Luo Xu’s past visit.
Limping in, he felt a dozen sharp gazes, retracting once no saintly aura was sensed.
“So many powerhouses here—any Hell Realm cultivators hiding?” he wondered.
A steward, irked by his limp, said, “We’re full—no seats, try elsewhere, sir.”
Scanning, Zhang Ruochen spotted a corner table with two—a butcher-like man with a cleaver, and a plump, dull-faced fellow.
“There’s space there,” he pointed.
