Zhang Siyu had done an excellent job of rallying everyone before the battle.
To be precise, a little too excellent.
Just moments ago, those cultivators had been anxiously trying to stop Wen Ning, saying,
"This isn't something you can get involved in."
Now, after hearing Zhang Siyu's introduction, every one of them looked at Wen Ning differently.
Wen Ning knew that look well. It was the same look the people at the next table had given him the last time he ordered twenty skewers of grilled kidneys at a barbecue stand: the big shot was here to carry them.
They would believe absolutely anything he said.
Who knew who had started it? A young cultivator stripped off his jacket, exposing muscular arms plastered with evil-warding talismans, and shouted, "With a big shot backing us up, what are we waiting for?"
Then he leaped straight into the river.
A second followed, then a third, then a fourth.
The cultivators on the bank plunged into the Canglang River like dumplings dropped into a pot, splashing down one after another. Some rode swords, some formed water-repelling seals, and some simply dove headfirst, throwing up splashes bigger than waves whipped up by a typhoon.
The Daoist carrying a Seven-Star Sword charged at the front, shouting for them to form up.
The monk with a Tathagata tattoo on his head followed right behind.
He held prayer beads in one hand and a demon-subduing pestle in the other.
Even the bespectacled monk who had spent ages crouching on the ground drawing a chalk formation tossed away his chalk, pushed up his glasses, and jumped in, chalk dust still clinging to his lenses.
Wen Ning did not even get to finish shouting for them to wait.
More than half the cultivators on the bank had already jumped