Chapter 130: By the Tens of Thousands

The extension of “Sustain Life” drained Little Luo Xu in a flash. He was already enduring pain because of Little Ming Zhuo, but now he felt even more exhausted. Ming Zhuo caught the wane-faced Little Luo Xu with one arm while fiercely yanking the puppet strings with the other.

The heavenly thunder lost its effect, and the flames that had raged in fury due to Ming Xi gradually extinguished. A wind swept up from Wenle’s body, carrying that sickeningly sweet scent, brewing it into the heavens and earth, and pushing the ashes toward Ming Zhuo.

“Regardless if then or now, between heaven and earth, only one can truly be called an ‘Emperor.’” Wenle pressed both palms together, then opened them, revealing a fresh white-paper mask resting in his palm. Without the mask, his face was no longer human, though his voice still carried Ming Han’s intonation. “Those far away years, when the Lord led the leopard soldiers of Guangzhou, imprisoning gods and ghosts, quelling disasters and evil. Such power, such glory. But alas, alas, ah—even if she could command divine messengers and spirits, even as the greatest being in this world, she could not escape the laws of Order. In the end, she, too, became nothing more than a cup of yellow sand. Ai.”(1)

He gazed at the paper mask in his palm, and from this fallen god’s husk, Ming Han’s true sigh emerged. It—no, he—muttered to himself, “Is death truly inevitable for all who are born mortal? The weak die because they accept their own lowliness because they are willing to be the dirt beneath others’ feet. But why must the strong die too? Certainly, it is because they are not strong enough… Yes, that must be it! They are still not strong enough!”

Wenle let out a wild, unrestrained laugh as if suddenly relieved of a burden. He crumpled the paper mask into a ball and cast a sidelong glance at Ming Zhuo. “You have no regard for your own life, even daring to summon her—seems like you’ve made up your mind to settle this with me once and for all today. Good. Good, ah! Counting the beheading at the Divine Palace, you’ve already bested me twice. I wonder, in this third battle, will you triumph once more, or will I turn the tide at the brink of defeat?”

Ming Zhuo’s fingers tightened, puppet strings drawn taut like steel wires.

With all his strength, he lifted his hand—

“Rise!”

Little Ming Zhuo clenched his teeth, feeling as if his insides were being twisted apart, the pain unbearable. He looked down at his own hand—

Centred around Ming Zhuo, spiritual energy erupted like a vortex, spiralling out of control. The puppet strings dug tightly into his fingers, slicing into his flesh, causing his skin to crack and blood to pour freely.

“Unreasonable,” Little Ming Zhuo’s hands trembled, yet at this moment, he still managed to force out a smile. “So overbearing… If I had known earlier that you were me…”

A sudden burst of silver light illuminated the surroundings. Luo Xu’s silver hair billowed as the manji beneath him spun rapidly. Supporting Little Ming Zhuo, he immediately activated the second incantation, his voice joining Ming Zhuo’s in unison—

"Rise!"

Souls bound together, life and death intertwined. Today, if Ming Zhuo was risking his life, then Luo Xu would be as steady as a mountain, firmly holding his lifeline. Ming Zhuo dared to act this way because he did not place his bet on the heavens, nor did he trust the earth—he entrusted his entire life to Luo Xu. If the older one were here, he would surely find a way to keep him alive!

Two lifelines twisted and burned, their spiritual energies fusing. Fire and lightning crackled and exploded in the void. The Yin-Yang Coin flanked them on either side like guardian deities, violently tearing open the distance—

Hōnglóng!

Beneath the earth, something colossal seemed to drag a coffin. From the rift the Yin-Yang Coin had torn open, two vastly different hands emerged.

One slender, one massive—one branded with a silver fang mark, the other with a golden crow seal.

Scorching winds erupted from the opening, yet Ming Zhuo did not turn back, allowing his sleeves and hair to whip chaotically in the gusts. With another fierce tug—a thunderous “gāzhī” resounded, as if a great door had swung open.

The masters of those two hands emerged first, standing to his left and right. Their faces were ones that the world knew all too well. Wherever the Baiwei Ming Clan reigned, murals of these two deities could be found. Each wielded a spear, their forms akin to the twin eyes left behind by the Jiao Mother—one radiating blazing golden light, the other exuding brilliant silver. They were both the sun and moon, and also both servants. If one were to call them by name, the first was Tai Shao, and the other Hui Mang.

The Sun and Moon bear the coffin, and the Twin Gods guard the gate—above and below, there is but one true ruler. She was never the daughter of the Sun God, nor the beloved of the Moon Deity. She was the Master of the Sun and Moon, the Lord of Baiwei. No matter how many factions divided the world, no matter how many Tongshen existed, when it came to true greatness—none surpassed Empress Ming Yao!

“Which one has the gall—”

“—to summon the Lord?”

Tai Shao’s twin eyes snapped open, while the blindfolded Hui Mang spoke in unison: “The Lord reigns over all beings, patrolling the four directions. Degenerate wretches, reveal your true forms—don’t dare to scatter!”

Their spears crossed, and the Twin Gods’ fury roared like thunder, striking directly toward Wenle.

In that instant, two timelines twisted and distorted.

The puppet strings snapped one after another with sharp cracks—pa, pa, pa!—as both Little Ming Zhuo and Little Luo Xu spat blood at the same time.

And yet, this was merely the opening of the gate. Ming Yao still lay within her coffin. She had not even revealed her true form.

A sweet, fishy taste surged up Ming Zhuo’s throat, and he nearly bit through his tongue. He was born a demigod, and could no longer be considered mortal. With Luo Xu's spiritual infusion to anchor him, there were few in the world who could rival him in battle. And yet—would would have thought that summoning Ming Yao was still this arduous?

What kind of presence did the Empress possess in life? Not surprisingly, Ming Han had murmured to himself—If a mere mortal had ascended to the point of commanding the strongest twin gods in existence yet still could not escape the laws of fate—then what, truly, was the path of Tongshen for?

Facing the twin spears, Wenle asked, “All things are born only to die. But death is merely death. The heavens refuse to grant a next life—there is no reincarnation. Then what is the meaning of all existence?”

The Sun and Moon Twin Gods were merely spirits under Ming Yao's command, not her true form, and thus the Hui Mang before Wen Lin differed greatly from the Hui Mang behind Ming Zhuo. They did not respond to Wenle’s question—only clashed with the Fallen God in battle.

The twin spears pierced through Wenle’s body, but he did not seem to feel pain. He continued speaking: “If mortals are stronger than me, I will do everything to crush them beneath my feet. If gods are stronger than me, I will defy Order and overturn Fate to surpass them. To grow stronger, I discarded my humanity, and exploited my own blood kin—acts no different from the deities themselves. So why am I not a god?”

The Twin Gods pressed their attack, yet Wenle showed no fear. He scattered his fragrance and uttered incantations, twisting the heavens and earth, forcing his way toward the void, demanding an answer from the coffin— “You expelled the Hugui Sect—so did I. You treated gods as mere servants—so did I. Yet why is it still not enough? Why am I still not enough?”

He unfurled his wings and shot forward, reaching out to seize the coffin. Tai Shao’s three heads turned, and suddenly—its third eye, tightly shut until now, snapped open.

Legends spoke of Tai Shao’s three eyes, each representing a different fire: The first eye was the Golden Crow’s Eye, illuminating the world, containing the karmic fire, capable of burning away all sin—a gift to the descendants of the Sun God. The second eye was the Manji Blessing Eye, bringing peace to calamity and healing wounds—a reward bestowed upon the Tianhai Luo Clan. But the third eye—few records existed of it. No one outside the Ming Clan knew its true purpose.

Though Ming Zhuo did not cultivate fire arts, he understood this eye well. And so—he tightened the puppet strings—forcing Tai Shao to unleash it at this crucial moment.

As the puppet lines snapped tautly, Tai Shao’s gaze swept forth, and in its wake—golden flames erupted like celestial fire, consuming everything in sight. This third eye—was the Fire of Separation. Also known as Wildfire—once ignited, it would never cease burning.

In an instant—Wen Lin’s feathers ignited, and then—his entire body. He was already engulfed by the ghostly blaze of the fire.

Ming Zhuo pulled the puppet strings, dragging the Sun and Moon Twin Gods back to the sides of the coffin, and commanded, "The Fallen God has been eliminated. Please return!"

Little Luo Xu's face was pale as paper, barely able to hold onto the silver beast’s tail. His silver hair was dishevelled, and his breaths came lightly. Yet, upon hearing Ming Zhuo’s command, he still managed to smile.

"You people surnamed Ming, one is more domineering than the other. Lord, Gege, did I do good or not?"

He hung onto Ming Zhuo’s arm, tilting his head, eyes eagerly waiting for praise.

"Would the older one really have done better than me if he were here?" Little Luo Xu murmured lazily. "If we’re talking about obedience, I’m coming in first."

Ming Zhuo’s throat moved slightly, swallowing down the metallic taste rising within. He replied as if nothing had happened, "If the older one were here, he would have said the same thing. It’s best if you two never meet—lest you start fighting out of jealousy."

Half of the Twin Gods’ bodies had already faded into the void. Just as Hui Mang was about to pull the coffin shut, it paused, seemingly sensing something. Through the veil of white silk, it turned back—meeting Ming Zhuo’s gaze for a fleeting moment.

The corners of its lips curled ever so slightly, and it opened its mouth to speak—but just then—The wind suddenly swirled, sending fragments of white paper fluttering toward Ming Zhuo, cutting off his exchange with Hui Mang. He lifted a hand and caught a piece between his fingers—It was still burning. The faint ink marks remaining on the paper were swiftly devoured by the Fire of Separation, reducing it to ashes.

This was the white paper mask that Wenle had always worn, always carried. Ming Han had claimed that this puppet-controlling technique only required a borrowed spirit to function—but that was not entirely true. It worked easily on mortals, but to fully command gods, a steep price had to be paid. Ming Han had poured his very life force into the spell, ensuring that the corrupted gods of Fragrance and Wind—their every movement, every expression—remained completely under his control. So when the Fire of Separation burned the Fallen Gods to death—Ming Han could not escape either.

Ming Zhuo stared at the ashes on his fingertips. They had mixed with his blood, trailing down his wrist. At some point—a curse mark had crept onto his skin. The Blood Shackle Curse—bright red, jarringly vivid.

Pūchī.

The wind swept up the paper ashes, and someone laughed softly, speaking to Ming Zhuo in a hushed voice: “Three rounds, three wins. Are you not feeling very proud of yourself? You should know, one should never be too proud—pride leads to misfortune. Ming Zhuo, you’re still far from mastering the art.”

“Wēng—”

The puppet strings tightened—but this time, it wasn’t Ming Zhuo who pulled them. From the ashes swirling in midair, a figure suddenly emerged—one hand gripping the strings, the other clutching the Yin-Yang Coins. The figure threw back its head and laughed aloud: “White paper mask, puppet-controlling arts—you thought I was gambling my life to control the Fallen Gods? Wrong. Wrong!”

Ming Zhuo shoved Little Luo Xu aside, but before he could steady himself, his body was yanked into the air, suspended by an invisible force. The Yin-Yang Coins never made it back into his or Luo Xu’s hands. Their reversal of Yin and Yang had yet to be halted—so the void, which was nearly sealed, was wrenched open once again. This time, it was Ming Zhuo’s life that was being consumed.

"I had Wenle carry that white paper mask—not to remind you that I was here, but to tell you—” Ming Han pulled out a fresh sheet of white paper, pressing it against his face, forming a mocking grin. “When it wore the mask, it was me. When it had no mask, it was itself. I left you a gaping flaw—why didn’t you notice at all? Could it be that growing up makes people dull?”

Ink stained the paper, its blotches spreading like spilt water, causing the mask to crumple. The paper peeled away from his face, revealing Ming Han’s true features beneath. Thinking back—the first time Wenle’s mask fell, it had revealed the true form of the Wind God, a being driven to madness. It was only after putting on a second mask that it reverted back to "Ming Han."

"Aside from Ming Xi’s punch—which nearly split my head apart—the rest of your divine power? All of it was absorbed by Wenle’s true body.” Ming Han tossed the discarded mask aside, tugging on the puppet strings as if plucking a bowstring. He tilted his head slightly, listening—smiling. “Do you hear it now? Not the sound of you and the Imperial Lord burning your lives away—but the pīpā pīpā sound of mountains crumbling.”

Hōnglóng!

The Twin Gods re-emerged—And this time, they dragged out Ming Yao’s coffin as well.

Hōnglóng!

Ming Han lifted his chin slightly. Behind him, two golden beams flared into existence. He held the strings of a hundred heroes, standing tall as Ming Zhuo coughed up blood. And then, in an arrogant tone, he declared: "Good nephew, had you not fought with all your might and slain the Wind and Fragrance Gods, I wouldn’t have been able to touch the hidden treasures of the two Pillars of the South and East. You said I was born a coward—that in the Spirit Hall, I suffered the ultimate humiliation. But how would you know—that was precisely my intent all along?”

He tightened his grip, and the Twin Gods, the Emperor’s coffin, and Ming Zhuo’s treasures—all began to move. The sky split open—two timelines began to merge.

“To defy the heavens, one must exhaust all wisdom. At first, I sought the red-gold Fire Fish of Beilu Mountain as a catalyst for toppling the heavens. But unfortunately, the Posou Sect was full of stubborn bones. That Jiang Linzhai—I tricked him into slaughtering all his disciples. He nearly fell into darkness, but still, he clung to his last breath and guarded the Heavenly Pass. Luckily, midway through, that Ruyi Lang appeared—and handed Dongzhao Mountain to me on a silver platter. But it wasn’t enough. Still not enough.”

The puppet strings had become threads of death, wrapping tightly around Ming Zhuo. And then, he heard his own scream—but it wasn’t this Ming Zhuo’s scream. It was the little Ming Zhuo’s scream. The timelines were merging. All the past wounds he had forgotten were ripping open once more. Like scraping flesh from bone—like being flayed alive.

"To obtain the hidden treasures—My first move was to lure the Qiankun Sect into play, exploiting their corpse-summoning and spirit-shifting techniques to weaken and corrupt Tai Shao—thereby deceiving the Cui brothers into trusting me." Ming Han’s gaze was ice-cold, but his tone was gentle: “And my second move—was to have your mother and Hui Mang play the pipa together—to give birth to a few useful things for me. You were my personal selection. I raised you with my own hands. Today, you summoned the sovereigns of the Ming clan, revelling in the thrill of puppet control—but did you forget—the reason those ancestral tablets existed in the Inner Palace to begin with—was because I fed them to Hui Mang, ah.”’

Schemes, schemes, schemes!

Ming Han tilted his head back, eyes half-lidded, as if questioning the heavens: "Neither you nor I could summon Ming Yao alone. But what about two people? Thank Ming Xi— If not for her invention of soul-bound sacrifice, how else could you and the Imperial Lord have become the candles for my summoning ritual?"

A raging storm erupted, and the night sky shattered like a mirror. Little Luo Xu braced himself against the wind, sparing Ming Zhuo a glance. He was unexpectedly calm.

Rise.

Little Luo Xu’s silver hair whipped through the air, brushing past his brows like a gust of snow. His limbs were ice-cold. He gripped his blade, murmuring under his breath—then, his murmur turned into a command.

Rise. Rise. Rise—!

Ming Han slammed his hands down, the Yin-Yang Coins violently collided between his palms, like panicked beasts struck by lightning. He sneered: “Luo Xu, you’re just a small soldier guarding the Heavenly Sea. I granted you the title ‘Imperial Lord’ out of respect— But don’t forget your place. The Heavenly Seas are about to burst—just wait and see.”

Little Luo Xu said, “Call me.”

Ming Zhuo’s tongue stuck to the roof of his mouth, unable to form words—but his amber eyes burned with ruthless determination. He curled his fingers—with a sickening crunch, his knuckles shattered. Blood spattered. Electric light surged along the puppet strings, blasting open a gap. The Lord gave his decree: “Luo Xu—appear.”

Little Luo Xu’s lips curled into a smirk. Then—pēng! The sound of Ming Yao’s coffin opening. He lowered his gaze. The world around him shifted at a terrifying speed. Calmly, he drew his blade. When he opened his eyes again—the blade reflected a pair of eyes—cold, sharp, silent.

—The eyes of the Tianhai Imperial Lord.

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Foot Notes

1. Specifically, the word used is “黄土” ( Huángtǔ), which is a type of yellow, sandy soil called “loess” found in Northern China.