Foot of Buzhou Mountain

Chapter 15: At the Foot of Buzhou Mountain

A golden rainbow streaked down from the clouds, tearing through the air with a sharp whistle.

Taiyi didn't plunge directly onto the heads of the Witch Race group; that would be too obvious. He drastically slowed down when he was still a hundred zhang above the dense forest, paused his movement, and then lightly landed on the top of an ancient tree. Beneath his feet was a thick, bowl-thick horizontal branch, its leaves a dark, oily green, as dense as if coated in oil.

Fei Lian landed on another branch behind him, wings tucked, silent.

From this vantage point, the clearing in the forest below was clearly visible.

About twenty Witch Race members, men and women, were bare-chested—not out of lewdness, but because the Witch Race valued physical strength and found clothing cumbersome. Their bodies were painted with tribal totems in various colors using some kind of mineral pigment. They were busy around a fallen giant beast, which looked like a wild boar magnified ten times, its body covered in stiff, needle-like fur, its two tusks thicker than an adult's arm.

It was completely dead now. A large gash opened its belly, its entrails piled to the side, the blood dyeing the ground a dark red. The pungent smell mingled with the musty scent of decaying leaves from the forest, wafting upwards.

A burly man, who seemed to be the leader, was squatting by the beast's head, holding a stone knife and painstakingly prying at the tusks. The stone knife looked crude, but its blade gleamed with a faint light, clearly no ordinary item. The muscles in the burly man's arms bulged with each exertion, like living things writhing beneath his skin.

Taiyi watched for a while, then suddenly smiled.

"Tell me," he turned and asked Fei Lian, "if we went down now and snatched those tusks, would they be so angry they'd jump?"

Fei Lian's lips twitched. "Your Majesty... we're here to scout."

"Scouting is scouting," Taiyi patted the tree trunk, "but we can have some fun along the way. Otherwise, it's just boring."

As he spoke, he leaped down.

Not flying, but jumping. He leaped straight down from the hundred-zhang-high treetop, yet landed without much sound, only causing the surrounding ground to tremble slightly—he had evenly distributed the force of his fall throughout his body, a testament to a Grand Unity Golden Immortal's precise control over power.

But even this slight disturbance was enough for the Witch Race.

The clearing fell silent.

All the Witch Race members stopped their actions and turned their heads in unison. The burly leader stood up, holding his stone knife, narrowing his eyes as he sized up Taiyi, then glanced up at the tree—Fei Lian hadn't come down, still hidden among the branches.

"Demon Race?" the burly man asked, his voice hoarse like sandpaper on stone.

Taiyi didn't answer immediately. He first surveyed the surroundings, taking in the forest. The trees were truly tall, each requiring ten men to embrace, their canopies blocking out the sky, allowing only sparse patches of light to filter down. A thick layer of decaying leaves covered the ground, soft and yielding underfoot. The air held an indescribable scent—the fishy smell of the earth, the sourness of decaying leaves, and... a faint trace of the inherent pressure of Buzhou Mountain itself.

That was Pangu's aura.

Even after countless eons since his death, the body that propped up the heavens and earth still emanated a fluctuation that commanded reverence from all living beings. Taiyi could feel that the True Sun Fire within him circulated with some difficulty here, as if suppressed by something intangible.

No wonder the Witch Race considered this place sacred. For them, Pangu's descendants, Buzhou Mountain was like a mother's embrace; the closer they were, the stronger their power.

"I'm asking you!" the burly man's tone turned hostile when Taiyi didn't reply, "What kind of mangy bird are you, daring to trespass on my Buzhou Mountain territory?"

Mangy bird.

Taiyi raised an eyebrow. That appellation... was certainly novel. He looked down at himself—black light armor, sun patterns, his entire attire hardly screamed "mangy."

"Heavenly Court, Eastern Emperor Taiyi," he announced his name, his tone as casual as saying, "The weather is nice today."

The clearing fell silent.

Then, it erupted in laughter.

"Eastern Emperor Taiyi?" a young Witch Race member laughed so hard he slapped his thigh, "You, with your scrawny arms and legs? You're lying!"

"Exactly! The Eastern Emperor Taiyi doesn't look like that! I've seen his portrait; three heads, six arms, green face and fangs!"

"This kid must have lost his mind..."

The Witch Race members chattered amongst themselves, laughing until they doubled over. The burly leader, however, did not laugh. He stared at Taiyi, his gaze growing increasingly solemn. He had seen Taiyi's landing clearly—a hundred-zhang fall, and the ground only trembled slightly. Such control over power was far beyond any ordinary Demon Race member.

"Are you truly the Eastern Emperor Taiyi?" the burly man asked in a deep voice.

"As genuine as it gets," Taiyi shrugged, "Or perhaps... you'd like to verify?"

As his words fell, he raised his right hand, palm facing upwards.

A wisp of golden flame ignited out of thin air.

It wasn't ordinary fire; it was True Sun Fire. The flame danced in his palm, blazing brilliantly, emitting pure light and heat. The surrounding temperature instantly soared, the moisture in the forest evaporated, and the nearest leaves visibly curled and turned yellow.

The laughter abruptly ceased.

All the Witch Race members changed their expressions. They might not have seen the Eastern Emperor Taiyi in person, but the name True Sun Fire was known throughout the Great Wilderness. It was the primordial fire of the Sun Star, supremely yang and supremely potent, specializing in subduing all evil—and though the Witch Race did not cultivate their primordial spirits, their physical strength carried a degree of turbidity, making them naturally wary of True Sun Fire.

"Believe me now?" Taiyi closed his hand, and the flame extinguished.

The burly leader took a deep breath and tightened his grip on the stone knife. "Eastern Emperor Your Majesty graces us with your presence, what brings you here?"

"Nothing major," Taiyi stepped forward, his boots stepping on the edge of the blood pool, splashing a few dark red droplets, "Just passing by, saw you busy here, so I came down to say hello."

He said it lightly, but his steps didn't falter until he reached the carcass of the giant beast. He looked down. "Oh, this boar is good. What breed is it?"

"Mountain Boar," the burly man stared at him, "A fierce beast native to Buzhou Mountain, with tough hide and immense strength. Our tribe spent three days surrounding it, and lost two brothers to take it down."

"Is that so?" Taiyi bent down and reached out to touch the beast's fur. It was indeed hard, like an iron brush, "Then these two tusks... they must be quite valuable, right?"

The burly man's eyes sharpened. "What does Your Majesty mean?"

"Nothing really," Taiyi straightened up and brushed off nonexistent dust from his hands, "I just feel it would be a shame to leave such fine things with you. How about... you give them to me as a meeting gift?"

As he said this, the atmosphere in the clearing instantly dropped to freezing point.

The Witch Race members' eyes widened, looking at Taiyi as if he were insane. The Mountain Boar tusks were the tribe's honor, their spoils of war, and excellent materials for forging Witch artifacts. To snatch the tusks was tantamount to slapping the entire tribe in the face.

"Eastern Emperor Your Majesty," the burly man said, word by word, his voice squeezed through clenched teeth, "This joke is not funny at all."

"Who do you think is joking?" Taiyi's smile vanished, his eyes turning cold. "I said I want those fangs. Didn't you understand?"

Dead silence.

The wind blew through the forest, rustling the leaves. The calls of unknown birds and beasts echoed from afar, sharp and piercing.

The strong man slowly raised his stone knife, its tip pointing at Taiyi. "Then you'll have to ask if my knife agrees."

"Your knife?" Taiyi sneered. "A piece of broken rock, and you call that a knife?"

Before he finished speaking, he moved.

He didn't charge forward, but sidestepped—at the same time, he raised his right hand, brought his index and middle fingers together, and flicked the stone knife lightly.

Clang!

A crisp sound of metal striking metal exploded.

The strong man felt an irresistible force surge from the knife, cracking his tiger's mouth and causing blood to spurt. The stone knife flew out of his hand, spinning in an arc through the air, and finally embedded itself in a nearby tree trunk with a "thwack." Most of the blade sank into the wood, leaving only the hilt exposed, trembling.

Everything happened in the blink of an eye.

By the time the Witch Race members reacted, their leader had already stumbled back three steps, clutching his bleeding wrist, his face pale as death.

"Is that all?" Taiyi retracted his fingers, blowing away imaginary dust. "I thought you were more formidable."

Humiliation.

Barefaced humiliation.

The strong man's eyes turned red. He roared and, ignoring his bleeding wrist, charged forward with his bare fists. His palm, as large as a cattail fan, whistled through the air towards Taiyi's face—the Witch Race didn't practice magic, they specialized in their physical bodies. If this palm strike landed, it could shatter a small hill.

Taiyi didn't dodge.

He didn't even move, just stood there, watching the palm strike approach. Only when the wind from the blow brushed against his face did he casually raise his left hand, open his fingers, and meet it.

Slap.

A dull thud.

It wasn't the sound of a palm hitting a face, but the sound of hands colliding. Taiyi's fingers closed, firmly gripping the strong man's wrist. The wrist was as thick as a normal person's calf, veins bulging, muscles tensed, but trapped by Taiyi's five fingers, it couldn't move.

"Decent strength," Taiyi commented. "Too bad you didn't train it properly."

He twisted his wrist.

Crack.

A crisp bone-snapping sound. The strong man cried out in agony, his entire arm twisted into a pretzel and hanging limply.

"Leader!"

"Fight him!"

The other Witch Race members finally reacted, roaring as they charged. Some wielded stone axes, others bone clubs, and one unslung a beast-sinew whip from his waist, lashing it wildly.

Taiyi released the strong man and flickered, weaving through the crowd like a phantom.

He didn't go for the kill—there was no need. He was here to provoke, not to start a war. So, every move was measured, designed to injure, not to kill.

A punch to one Witch Race member's chest shattered three ribs; a kick to another's knee forced him to kneel; he snatched the beast-sinew whip and flicked his wrist, the tip exploding with a sonic boom in the air, leaving the remaining few with torn and bleeding flesh.

In less than ten breaths.

Twenty or so Witch Race members lay on the ground, groaning. Only the leader, the strong man, was still standing—or rather, barely standing. He held his broken right arm with his left hand, cold sweat trickling down his forehead, his eyes fixed on Taiyi as if he could devour him alive.

"You... what exactly do you want?" the strong man asked, panting heavily.

"Didn't I tell you?" Taiyi threw away the whip and bent down to pull the fangs from the Mountain Boar's corpse. The fangs felt heavy in his hand, their surface gleaming with a warm, ivory-like luster. "I want these fangs."

He weighed them, nodded with satisfaction. "Good quality. Thanks."

With that, he turned to leave, as if the preceding conflict had been a mere afterthought.

"Stop!" the strong man roared from behind him. "Eastern Emperor Taiyi! My Houtu Tribe will remember this debt! You wait! The Ancestral Witches will surely..."

"Will surely what?" Taiyi stopped, turning back to him with a cold smile. "Send your Houtu to find me? Fine, I'll be waiting."

He didn't linger any longer, leaping into the air and transforming into a golden rainbow, soaring towards the sky. Fei Lian flew out from the treetops, following closely behind.

The two vanished into the horizon in an instant.

In the clearing in the forest, only the groaning Witch Race members remained, along with the corpse of the Mountain Boar from which the fangs had been removed. Blood slowly seeped into the decaying leaves, and the smell of raw meat intensified in the air.

The strong man stared in the direction Taiyi had disappeared, his teeth grinding. He looked down at his broken arm, then at the stone knife embedded in the tree, and finally his gaze fell upon the spot where the fangs had been.

"Eastern Emperor... Taiyi..." he muttered the name, each syllable squeezed out from between his teeth. "This... is not over."

High in the sky, above the clouds.

Taiyi slowed his pace, flying alongside Fei Lian. He still held the pair of fangs, occasionally turning them to catch the sunlight, refracting a warm luster.

"Your Majesty," Fei Lian finally couldn't help but speak, "was that... a bit excessive just now?"

"Excessive?" Taiyi countered.

"We're here to investigate, after all. With this commotion, the Witch Race will surely become alert, and further investigations might be..."

"I want them to be on alert," Taiyi interrupted him. "If we don't make some noise, how will we know how fast they react? How will we know how many people the Houtu Tribe has at Buzhou Mountain?"

Fei Lian froze.

"Do you think I actually care about these tusks?" Taiyi weighed the fangs in his hand. "I want to tell the Witch Race—I've arrived, and I'm lurking right at your doorstep. Not only am I lurking, but I dare to snatch your things. If you have the guts, come chase me, come fight me. If you don't have the guts... then cower and watch me lurk."

As he spoke, a cold glint flashed in his eyes:

"Now, it's up to them to choose."

Fei Lian fell silent. He suddenly understood—His Majesty's trip was less about reconnaissance and more about provocation. He wanted to enrage the Witch Race, force them to act, force them to reveal their weaknesses.

"Then what do we do now..." Fei Lian asked.

"Return to the camp," Taiyi said. "Wait."

"Wait for what?"

"Wait for guests to arrive." Taiyi looked towards the depths of Buzhou Mountain, where clouds and mist swirled, vaguely revealing the outlines of more Witch Race encampments. "After dealing with the young ones, the old ones should come out. I just don't know... who it will be."

He chuckled, a smile tinged with anticipation and a hint of ruthlessness:

"Hopefully, it's Di Jiang."

"If he comes, then this trip will have been worthwhile."

The two stopped talking and accelerated towards the camp. Behind them, Buzhou Mountain stood silently, like a colossal, stoic god, overlooking the land that was about to be stirred into turmoil.

And in the dense forest at the foot of the mountain, the injured members of the Witch Race were helping each other up. The burly man in the lead pulled a stone knife from a tree with his left hand, gritted his teeth, and walked towards the direction of their tribe.

Each step was heavy, as if he were stomping his fury into the earth.

The news would spread quickly.