Chapter 30

There weren't even any windows here, so Bai Lang couldn't tell whether this was a building on the surface or an underground palace. Judging from the all-stone ceiling and walls, he leaned toward the latter. After all, customs in this world were much like those of ancient China: houses aboveground were usually built of wood and brick, while stone structures were for the dead. Underground palaces were just like that. It wasn't as though people here had a penchant for building mazes underground.

Everyone spread out across the courtyard to search for a way out. They had only twelve hours, and couldn't afford to waste any—not when nobody wanted to gamble on whether that mysterious voice could really "erase" them. Bai Lang ran a hand along the wall, then had an idea and picked up his pair of iron maces. He swung them around and smashed them into the stone. Of everyone present, nobody had a heavier weapon. The little monk Ci En didn't seem to have one at all, while Ma Rulong and Mu Ronghua carried swords—slender scholar's swords. Miss Murong Jiuxiu had a short sword, and Qin Lian'er of Medicine Valley was also unarmed.

Bai Lang was the odd one out. His iron maces were as thick as a wrist, probably ten centimeters in diameter and 1.2 meters long. In the hands of the dashing Bai Lang, such clumsy weapons made everyone think he ought to be wearing Bright Light Armor, with a Phoenix Wing Helmet on his head and a Wuzhui Horse beneath him. Only then would the whole picture be complete. Bai Lang himself would have said, "Mountain Pattern Armor would do, too."

His twin maces smashed and jabbed, and soon broke through the stone wall. Sure enough, there was empty space behind it. Bai Lang was just about to laugh three times and declare, "I have broken the formation!" when a huge hole suddenly opened beneath his feet. He let out a yell and vanished. The others stared at one another.

One moment, Bai Lang had been congratulating himself. The next, he was falling. The passage below wasn't straight; it was a twisting slide, and he went skidding around its bends until he was thoroughly dizzy. His iron maces flew out of his hands, while the short sword at his waist made him tumble over and over. If he hadn't activated the inner force of his Golden Bell Shield, he might have smashed into the walls and slide hard enough to end up bruised, battered, and with broken bones. "Good thing I didn't strap the maces to my wrists. With them jerking me around at every turn, I'd have taken an even worse fall."

He had no idea how long he slid before he came tumbling headfirst out of a hole with his hair in disarray. He dropped about ten meters and plunged into the water. "Damn!" Bai Lang hauled himself out and wiped the water from his face. Looking up, he saw a sinkhole. So this was a pool at the bottom of one. He had just measured its depth with his own body: about five or six meters. The sinkhole itself had to be around thirty meters deep—or, better yet, a hundred zhang. It was narrow at the top and wide at the bottom, like a pot. Vines covered the rim, but sunlight still reached the bottom, so it wasn't dark at all.

"I'll climb out of here. Damn it, we've only got twelve hours, and we still have to kill whoever that person was. If we run out of time, we get erased." Muttering to himself, Bai Lang began to climb. In less than the time it took to burn three incense sticks, he had made it out of the sinkhole, aided by the strength and reflexes granted by his Golden Bell Shield and the Tiger Form True Intent of Thirty-two Forms Long Fist. At the rim, he surveyed the unbroken mountain range before him. He had no idea which way Shaolin Temple was, let alone the Scripture Pavilion.

His iron maces were gone, and he didn't know which bend in the slide they'd gotten stuck at. "Damn it, I'd barely gotten to enjoy them before I lost them!" Bai Lang cursed again. With no idea where he was, he simply chose a direction that looked easy to walk and strode off. "All I can do is hope those people pull their weight." Even now, he still didn't understand why this place had treated him like that. Had smashing the wall triggered a mechanism? And why had it been right under his feet?

No point thinking about it. Too much thinking gave him a headache. What mattered now was how to reach the target—and first, he needed to ask for directions.

Bai Lang burst through the vines and brush as if cleaving through waves, and emerged onto a main road. There, he ran straight into a group of unsavory-looking men with knives and swords, all of them shifty-eyed. Bai Lang had a fine, upright face and a dashing air. His clothes were a little torn from the brush, and his hair was a mess from all that rolling around, but he still looked like a man of honor. The moment the group saw him, they shouted, "There's a spy! He must be after the hall master!"

Before Bai Lang could figure out what was happening, they were already charging at him with their weapons raised. "Hey! What happened to martial honor? Weren't we supposed to fight one-on-one?" Bai Lang thought these men had terrible martial honor, just like the hired thugs under his command: if they could gang up on someone, they never fought fair. If they ran into a tough opponent—which, to be fair, hadn't happened yet—they'd surely abandon their leader without hesitation and flee. Some might even drop to their knees and beg for mercy.

These men seemed a good deal more skilled than the thugs he led. Bai Lang wasn't scared—there was no time for that now. Instead, he felt his blood start to pound. He had mastered the Golden Bell Shield, but had never really fought anyone in a situation like this. Attacking those soldiers had been a guaranteed sneak attack, so that didn't count. "This is a proper martial-world brawl, right? Hyaaah, here I come!" Bai Lang roared to build up his momentum, then drew his broad short sword, a foot and a half long, and charged.

The sword would have worked best with a shield, but it was fine as it was. The thing was thick, with six flat, polished sides and a sharp edge, and it was heavy. That was Bai Lang's special request to the smith; otherwise, no smith would make a sword blade several centimeters thick. It was less a sword than an axe shaped like one. Mainly, it was for stabbing. Its edge was angled in a way that made it better for chopping down trees, but it was heavy enough to kill someone with a blow, too.

Seven or eight men charged at him, wielding proper weapons for martial combat: long swords, single-edged sabers, and even a soft whip. Bai Lang held the sword in his right hand and curled his left into a tiger claw. With a fierce shout, he plunged into their midst. He didn't bother asking why they were trying to hack him apart. They could settle it by fighting. Every one of them had inner force, and their weapons carried it—some hot, some cold, and some even poisonous. Bai Lang caught a sweet, nauseating stench. "Good grief! They've poisoned their weapons!"

Bai Lang was like a tiger, his short sword its fangs. He channeled the inner force of his Golden Bell Shield and thrust straight ahead. His Golden Bell Shield probably still couldn't withstand the enemy's blades, so he had to use it to attack instead. His sword flashed like a meteor, punching through the man in front as he tried to block with his horizontal saber. The saber snapped, and the sword tip emerged from the man's back. The smith had made the short sword using folded steel. Though it was only ordinary iron, its thickness made it exceptionally durable.