Xiao Longnu being poisoned and rendered mute.
The thought of these events made Li Mochou tremble uncontrollably, her eyes blood-red as she growled, "Spare their lives? And what about me?! That day, I knelt and begged, but Granny Sun still died, my face was still ruined, and Long'er was still silenced…"
"Old monk, you tell me, who ever spared us?!"
Li Mochou's shrill voice echoed across Mount Shaoshi like the wail of a ghost from the abyss, her searing hatred striking fear into all who heard it.
Abbot Xuan Ci hesitated, unable to meet her venomous gaze. He closed his eyes, wearing an expression of sorrow and helplessness.
"Young lady, don't act rashly. We can discuss anything you want!"
"Heroine Li Mochou, please don't stoop to our level. Spare us, I beg you!"
"Yes, yes! Miss Li, just name your price, and we'll do our best to fulfill it!"
Pleading voices rose one after another. Some sect leaders even dropped to their knees, kowtowing frantically. They had overheard Zhang Sanfeng and Feng Qingyang's words earlier, leaving them with no shred of hope.
Li Mochou sneered coldly. "What I've wanted from the start has never changed—your heads!"
The pleading sect leaders turned ashen-faced.
"It seems you cannot persuade the victim. What a pity," Chu Yang said with a shrug, then turned to Li Mochou. "Point them out, just to be sure. We wouldn't want any accidental kills."
Li Mochou raised a finger and pointed toward a few people in the Grand Hall. As she did, the crowd around them quickly dispersed, leaving a clear space.
"Not many left," Chu Yang remarked with a satisfied smile. Once this was over, he could return home for a well-deserved rest.
Zhang Sanfeng and Feng Qingyang smiled bitterly.
"So be it. Those who sow the wind shall reap the whirlwind," Zhang Sanfeng sighed, shaking his head. He gestured to the Wudang disciples to descend the mountain. Before leaving, he cupped his hands toward Chu Yang and said, "This matter has nothing to do with Shaolin. I hope, friend, you can show mercy."
Chu Yang replied with a smile, "That depends on whether Abbot Xuan Ci is a reasonable man."
Feng Qingyang, too, prepared to leave with the disciples of the Huashan Sect. Yue Buqun, who had been the loudest earlier, kept his head low, not daring to meet Chu Yang's gaze.
"Xianyu Tong, that traitor, has already been killed by you, young friend. With that, our grudges are settled. I trust you will honor your promise and not trouble the Huashan Sect in the future," Feng Qingyang said in a gentle tone, using a secret voice transmission to avoid further embarrassment.
Chu Yang nodded.
But just as the two elders were leading their disciples away, wild laughter erupted from the roof of the Grand Hall.
"So, the heroes of the world gather here, only to be cowed by a mere demon! Zhang Sanfeng? Feng Qingyang? All just vainglorious frauds!" the voice taunted.
"If you don't want to die, join me in vanquishing this demon!"
A figure in a gray robe descended in front of Chu Yang. The man was masked, his hair streaked with gray, indicating his advanced age. With a swift motion, he thrust a finger toward Chu Yang's throat, his attack as fast as lightning.
The sudden interruption caught everyone off guard.
Even Zhang Sanfeng and Feng Qingyang had backed down—who could this bold figure be?
Chu Yang, too, was momentarily stunned.
The attacker's move was none other than the Shaolin Sect's "Flower Plucking Finger," one of its seventy-two supreme techniques. Yet, judging by his grayed hair, this man was clearly no monk.
The finger strike was incredibly sharp, its energy profound. Within Shaolin, such a level of mastery would rank at least as a head monk.
Frowning, Chu Yang countered with a palm strike.
His palm intercepted the gray-robed man's finger, and in an instant, his fingers clawed forward, locking onto the man's hand.
The gray-robed man tried to pull back but found his hand trapped. He struggled in vain.
With a crisp snap, two of his fingers broke.
The man didn't utter a sound, his tolerance for pain extraordinary. Using the opportunity, he freed himself from Chu Yang's grip.
Despite his resilience, the old man's eyes grew increasingly venomous as he stared at Chu Yang.
"Who are you?" Abbot Xuan Ci asked, his tone sharp as he scrutinized the man's back. Something about him seemed oddly familiar.
"Who I am doesn't matter. What matters is that we must unite today to eradicate this demon and restore order!" the gray-robed man replied, sidestepping the question about his identity.
"Only a coward hides his face," Zhang Sanfeng said, standing on the long staircase of Mount Shaoshi and glaring coldly at the mysterious figure.
"The Wudang Sect and Shaolin Sect are revered pillars of martial arts, respected across the three nations. Zhang Sanfeng, you are the foremost master of martial arts in the world. Yet, when faced with a demon, you stand idle, allowing these sect leaders to face death!" the gray-robed man scoffed.
Many among the crowd silently nodded in agreement, their hopes pinned on Zhang Sanfeng and Feng Qingyang. They had expected the two to suppress Chu Yang, but were left disappointed.
The murmurs of discontent grew louder, some even expressing outright anger.
Zhang Sanfeng observed their reactions, a wave of frustration washing over him. Unless these people witnessed Chu Yang's power firsthand, they would never understand why he sought to avoid conflict.
Feng Qingyang, weary of worldly entanglements and folly, felt his anger ignite. For once, he hoped Chu Yang would unleash his blade on these fools.
A faint smile crept onto Feng Qingyang's lips.
As the gray-robed man ranted, Zhang and Feng became the targets of scorn. Suddenly, a young nobleman in ornate clothing stepped forward from the crowd. He was strikingly handsome, exuding an air of confidence.
"I am Murong Fu of Gusu. Hearing the elder's words, I felt compelled to step forward!" Murong Fu cupped his hands and addressed the crowd. "The elder is right. Since we are no match for this demon, we must unite to defeat him and protect the martial world."
"I wish to see how powerful this demon is, who even Zhang Zhenren dares not oppose!" he declared boldly.
The gray-robed man laughed loudly and swept his gaze over the crowd. "Watch as Murong Fu and I face this demon. Once we fall, decide whether to fight him or bow down!"
Their bravado impressed many, and more began to contemplate joining them.
Chu Yang, meanwhile, scrutinized the gray-robed man. When Murong Fu aligned himself with the man, realization dawned.
"Murong Bo, you sly old fox," Chu Yang said with a smirk. "You misled Abbot Xuan Ci with false information to orchestrate the slaughter of Xiao Feng's family. Now, here you are, stirring up trouble again. You'd make an excellent con artist."
At these words, Xuan Ci and the gray-robed man's faces turned ashen, while Murong Fu froze in shock.
Those familiar with the events at Yanmen Pass showed varied expressions of astonishment.
"Murong Bo? That name rings a bell…" Zhang Sanfeng mused.
Song Yuanqiao, standing beside him, whispered a few words, causing Zhang to nod in understanding.
Meanwhile, Abbot Xuan Ci glared at Murong Bo, completely forgetting Chu Yang's presence. The Yanmen Pass massacre had been his greatest regret, and now, with Murong Bo alive before him, the truth was undeniable—it had all been a conspiracy!
"Sir, are you truly Murong Bo?"
Abbot Xuanci took a deep breath.
Murong Bo ignored him, furrowing his brows as he stared at Chu Yang, wondering how the young man had seen through his identity.
"Who exactly are you?"
The saying goes, "Vajra with a wrathful gaze, Bodhisattva with a compassionate look." Despite years of chanting sutras and practicing Buddhism, Abbot Xuanci couldn't suppress his rising anger.
Having hidden his identity for a lifetime, Murong Bo, now exposed, decided it was pointless to pretend further. He ripped off the veil covering his face, revealing his true self.
Murong Fu, upon seeing his father's face, trembled with excitement and shouted, "Father! It's really you!"
Murong Bo laughed heartily as he embraced his son.
"Well, well, such a touching father-son reunion. By the way, where's the other father-son pair?"
Chu Yang glanced around with interest. Two pairs of fathers and sons fighting—it was more entertaining than a martial arts conference. It felt like watching a holographic drama.
"I've long harbored doubts about the events at Yanmen Pass," Abbot Xuanci said, gripping his staff tightly. "But with Mr. Murong supposedly dead and no proof, I had no way to confirm anything. Now that you're alive and well, it seems there's no need for confrontation, is there?"
"Indeed!" Murong Bo's eyes turned red, and his tone became manic. "It was I who deliberately led you and your allies to ambush that Liao family!"
"But why?"
"Haha! If Song and Liao continued their alliance, when would my Great Yan Kingdom find the chance to rise and restore its glory?"
The obsession with reviving Yan was Murong Bo's fixation and his inner demon.
As Abbot Xuanci prepared to question further, the crowd erupted in exclamations as a tall, imposing man, seven feet in stature, strode forward.