Outside the Sacred Mountain, a wide river roared endlessly, its dense celestial qi rising into white mist, creating a dreamlike, ethereal scene.
In the Saint Academy, this river, known as the Sacred River, was as revered as the Sacred Mountain. Since Kunlun’s revival, it birthed ancient saint herbs almost daily, including a hundred-thousand-year-old one.
A refined scholar in green robes stood by the riverbank, his presence perfectly harmonized with the river’s rhythm, seamless as one.
Zhang Ruochen appeared behind him, bowing. “Greetings, Dean Luo.”
His gratitude and respect for Luo Xu remained steadfast, undimmed by his own surpassing strength.
Seeing Luo Xu safe, Zhang Ruochen’s worries eased.
He sensed a mysterious aura around Luo Xu, impenetrable even to him.
Though unaware of where Luo Xu went after being gravely wounded by Great Prince Moro, Zhang Ruochen guessed he’d gained an extraordinary opportunity, becoming even more enigmatic.
Luo Xu turned, meeting his gaze. “Thank you.”
“Senior Chu was kind to me. How could I ignore his plight?” Zhang Ruochen replied.
Luo Xu sighed. “Chu Siyuan was too stubborn, sacrificing his life for Confucian honor to protect the Saint Path Ancient Tea Tree. My strength failed to save him. I watched as Moro stripped his flesh, his saint blood staining the tree.”
The gruesome memory lingered, vivid as yesterday.
“Don’t blame yourself, Dean. Senior Chu’s martyrdom is heroic. We must fulfill his wish by reclaiming the tree from the Rakshasa,” Zhang Ruochen said.
Luo Xu nodded. “The tree is vital to Confucianism. If reclaimed, all of Confucianism will owe you greatly.”
Privately, Luo Xu admired Zhang Ruochen. He’d never dared dream of recovering the tree, held by Rakshasa gods, yet Zhang Ruochen’s capture of their revered princess forced their hand.
Zhang Ruochen cared little for Confucian debts, acting from his heart, seeking only integrity.
Having met Luo Xu, he wasted no time, instructing Luo Ji to message the Rakshasa for a swift exchange.
Soon, they agreed: three days hence, at Purple Lotus Mountain near Eastern City, they’d trade Luo Ji for the tree.
To ensure success, Zhang Ruochen summoned Xiao Hei from King Mountain.
His strength was unmatched below Great Saint, but facing the Rakshasa clan—a collective force—was another matter.
The Infernal Realm’s ten clans, though ranked from Divine to Lower, balanced power. Higher clans had fewer members; lower ones, more.
Thus, their overall strength was comparable, with no clear superiority or weakness below divine level.
If the Nether Clan boasted many powerhouses, the Rakshasa were no less.
Given the stakes—Luo Ji and the tree—the Rakshasa would likely deploy significant forces.
As Zhang Ruochen and Luo Xu prepared, news of his decree swept Eastern City, causing uproar.
Foreign cultivators resisted, sparking conflicts.
But after the Cyan Sky Saint Dragon subdued over ten top Nine-Step Saint Kings, dissent quieted, none daring to challenge Zhang Ruochen’s authority.
Daily entries plummeted, as many refused to pay 10,000 saint stones, valuing pride.
Foreigners in the city stayed put, avoiding exit bans.
Their greatest grievance was the Cyan Sky Saint Dragon, not only guarding the crossings but seizing two hundred-thousand-year saint herbs in the city.
Infernal Realm agents in the city went silent, fearing Zhang Ruochen’s spatiotemporal prowess would expose them.
Outside the academy, a tall, graceful figure emerged from darkness, her black bodysuit accentuating her curves—Han Qiu, bearer of the Dark Body.
Space rippled, and Zhang Ruochen appeared before her.
“Your Highness, you finally summoned me. I thought you forgot me,” Han Qiu said, her eyes tinged with playful resentment.
“I called you for an important task,” Zhang Ruochen said seriously.
“Who’s the target?” she asked.
As a peripheral Death Temple assassin, she thrived on missions, absorbing victims’ essence and rules, boosting her strength rapidly.
The Dark Path excelled at devouring and plundering, converting others’ rules into one’s own, with astonishing speed.
“Not killing. I need you to oversee Eastern City, uniting those who wish to join me. This should be easy for you,” he said.
Since arriving, Kunlun natives had approached the Cyan Sky Saint Dragon, seeking to serve him.
In Kunlun’s turmoil, many sought a strong protector.
Zhang Ruochen realized that defeating the Infernal Realm required collective strength, not solo efforts.
With followers eager, he planned to train them, using resources from True Dragon Island.
Lacking time, he summoned Han Qiu—strong, cunning, and ambitious.
Han Qiu’s eyes lit up. “Building a faction here? Intriguing. Leave it to me.”
The task thrilled her, a chance to advance her goal of joining the Saint Ming royalty.
Zhang Ruochen handed her a spatial ring. “These rare resources are yours to allocate.”
She accepted, surprised he’d anticipated the costs of forming a faction.
He then produced a fist-sized black saint bell, a divine relic from the Dark Son, brimming with dark divine power.
Han Qiu’s eyes gleamed, her dark power surging involuntarily.
“Your Highness, this…” she said, eager.
“From the Dark Temple. Refine it, and it’s yours,” he said.
Overjoyed, she wove her dark rules and power around the bell.
Despite her Dark Body, without temple access, she’d groped through the Dark Path alone. This relic offered a breakthrough, possibly holding divine knowledge.
“Hum.”
The bell quivered, dark runes glowing, flying toward her.
Zhang Ruochen nodded. As a Dark Controller, she earned the bell’s approval, crafted by a temple titan, surely a Dark Controller too.
Soon, the bell merged into her brow, partially refined.
“Thank you, Your Highness,” she said earnestly.
With the relic, her strength would soar, her Dark Path mastery deepening.
“I promised: serve me well, and you’ll have all you desire,” he said.
Teleporting away, he left her musing, “Even a princess or Saint Ming Empress? Hmph, gone so fast.”
Smiling slyly, Han Qiu believed she’d be the woman by his side.
Three days passed swiftly.
Zhang Ruochen and Luo Xu left Eastern City quietly, heading to Purple Lotus Mountain.
Shrouded in purple clouds, the mountain spanned thousands of li, home to many beasts.
“Zhang Ruochen, you’re here,” a cold voice rang out.
A towering figure emerged from the clouds, over three zhang tall, a classic Rakshasa with blood-red bone wings, as if stained by gore.
Blood-red currents swirled around him, warping space.
“Bloodwing Great Prince,” Luo Xu’s eyes narrowed.
Born with razor-sharp, blood-red wings, Bloodwing was a top Rakshasa below Great Saint, surpassing Moro, his slaughter rivaling Yan Wushen’s.
Zhang Ruochen studied him, repulsed by his murderous aura.
Bloodwing glared, his killing intent bare. “Release the princess.”
“Show me the tree, and she’s yours,” Zhang Ruochen said calmly.
Bloodwing’s gaze chilled. The Rakshasa had never been coerced thus.
Yet, ordered to retrieve Luo Ji unharmed, he complied, producing a yellow saint box.
The spatial box opened, revealing a ten-thousand-zhang tea tree, sentient and wise, flying out.
Its roots burrowed into Kunlun’s soil, reclaiming its home.
Stripped of leaves, it radiated vibrant life and righteous qi, a Confucian sage incarnate.
Planted by the Confucian Ancestor, the million-year-old Saint Path Ancient Tea Tree bore mystic runes on its bark, encoding cosmic truths.
To gods, its value was immeasurable, aiding divine enlightenment.
“The tree is here. Release the princess,” Bloodwing demanded.
Zhang Ruochen summoned a spatial orb, freeing Luo Ji.
Unbound but powerless, her strength and mind sealed, she was mortal-like.
Seeing Bloodwing, Luo Ji’s eyes flashed with irritation.
Proud and strategic, her capture by Zhang Ruochen, requiring a clan rescue, stung her pride.
Bloodwing, eyeing her regal beauty, urged, “Exchange now. I won’t waste time.”
Zhang Ruochen glanced at Luo Xu.
Luo Xu, understanding, produced a wooden case, unveiling *Ten Thousand Lights*.
At ten meters unrolled, its ancient aura evoked primal times.
Like *Seven Lives, Seven Deaths*, this Painting Sect treasure could verify the tree’s integrity.
Saint qi activated it, sending light specks skyward, forming countless lamps to banish darkness.
Bloodwing frowned but didn’t intervene.
“Rustle.”
Resonating with the painting, the tree’s branches swayed, shedding radiant glow.
Luo Xu smiled faintly, relieved.
He’d feared Rakshasa tampering. This final tree must be flawless.
