Chapter Thirty-Four: Desperation

As the saying goes, strike first to gain the upper hand, hesitate and you’ll suffer. Having entered this decrepit temple, there was no time for idle chatter with the eerie figure before him.

The Ghost Thorn struck out at five vital points with vicious precision; the Butcher’s Knife swept in swift as the wind, slicing flesh and carving bone. In Fang Mu’s hands, wielded in tandem, their power was more than doubled.

“Buddha’s Dharma is boundless,” intoned the monk, palms pressed together in prayer as he chanted. A flash of gold and black light formed a thin shield around him, half radiant gold, half pitch black, echoing his half-Buddha, half-ghost visage and intensifying the sinister aura.

The Ghost Thorn was halted by the shield, unable to advance. The Butcher’s Knife was likewise impeded, though not completely stopped. Its blade, wrapped in vital energy, flickered as it sheared away a layer of the shield.

The art of dismembering cattle—a symbol of exquisite knife technique—became even more rapid in Fang Mu’s hands. Razor-sharp blade shadows multiplied, the Butcher’s Knife twisting into countless afterimages. In Fang Mu’s eyes, the two-toned shield was nothing but livestock awaiting slaughter.

The shield around the monk diminished visibly, yet the monk remained calm, smiling as if all was within his grasp.

“Your murderous aura is too heavy, lay down your blade, and you will become Buddha,” he admonished.

From the skeletal half of the monk’s face, a jet of black light surged forth, flooding the temple in an instant. Chanting scriptures flowed from his lips, the black light transforming into sinister sutras that coiled around Fang Mu.

Fang Mu’s movements faltered, his body drained of strength, his mind clouded. The sutras seemed to ensorcel him, slowing the Butcher’s Knife until it stopped completely.

At that moment, Fang Mu relinquished all offense and defense. His mind went blank, his soul felt on the verge of transcendence, as if he had attained enlightenment. Before his eyes, the monk shed his terrifying guise and became a holy Buddha, smiling serenely with a flower in hand.

The monk’s smile broadened as he extended a skeletal hand toward Fang Mu, thick with shadowy energy.

“Mew—” came a cry, as Abai spat a jet of black mist toward the monk.

The monk brushed it aside, sending Abai flying into the wall. With no further obstacles, the monk’s hand pressed down upon Fang Mu’s shoulder.

The shield dissipated, and shadow energy surged into Fang Mu, but in that instant, the monk recoiled, as if he had touched a venomous snake.

Above Fang Mu’s head, the white jade hairpin flickered with a soft white glow, sinking into his brow.

A refreshing coolness swept over him, and Fang Mu regained his senses just as the monk withdrew his hand. At the critical moment, the jade hairpin’s calming power had prevailed.

Now, with the shield gone, the monk was left defenseless. Fang Mu’s left hand stabbed out, striking five vital points, while the Butcher’s Knife swept through the air, unleashing countless blade flashes.

Where the blade passed, the monk’s remaining flesh was shredded, leaving only a skeleton in the blink of an eye. The Ghost Thorn plunged into the monk’s brow, nailing him to the wall.

“Buddha’s Dharma is boundless! Buddha’s Dharma is boundless!” Even pinned to the wall, reduced to a skeleton, the monk lived on, shouting his mantra in madness.

Just as Fang Mu prepared to strike again, a sudden change occurred.

This time, instead of a shield, the monk’s chant summoned more than a dozen shadowy forms within the ruined temple. They solidified, merged, and transformed into a towering black Buddha statue.

With a crack, the monk’s skeleton crumbled to dust. The black Buddha stirred.

It raised its palm and pressed down toward Fang Mu.

A piercing wind howled as the palm descended with force, compressing the surrounding shadow energies and making it even more formidable. Due to its immense size, the palm enveloped Fang Mu entirely.

Fang Mu raised the Butcher’s Knife and struck the black palm. The blow sent him staggering back two steps, nearly unable to hold onto the weapon. The black palm pressed onward, thick with sinister energy, bearing down on his head.

In the moment of crisis, the Ghost Thorn and Butcher’s Knife crossed, blocking the palm.

With a thunderous roar, vital energy surged wildly, Fang Mu’s skin flushed red as he desperately resisted.

“Buddha! I am Buddha!” The black Buddha intoned solemnly, its voice a stark contrast to its ominous aura.

The palm grew ever stronger, forcing Fang Mu from standing to crouching. The situation became dire; he could feel his vital energy depleting rapidly. When it was exhausted, the black palm would crush him to dust.

“Abai!” In desperation, Fang Mu shouted to the corner.

Abai, still weak from the earlier blow, struggled to rise.

“In my arms, the bloodstained vest—quick, cover it!” Fang Mu shouted, giving a meaningful glance.

Bound by their master-servant pact, Abai responded instantly, crawling to Fang Mu’s chest and dragging out the bloodstained vest.

With effort, Abai shook its neck and draped the vest over the black Buddha statue.

Yet in the next moment, the statue’s shadowy energy repelled the vest.

Fang Mu: …

Abai: …

So much for the trump card.

“Wretched beast!” The black Buddha extended another hand, swatting Abai away.

At that moment, the pressure from the palm pressing on Fang Mu lessened. He pushed hard and rolled to the corner, silently lamenting his fate.

It seemed reliance on the bloodstained vest was futile against shadowy spirits and rule-based entities, and those shielded by shadow energy were immune.

After striking Abai, the black Buddha advanced on Fang Mu again, palm descending once more.

With no other aid, the cycle would repeat—stalemate until all his vital energy was spent.

Shadows enveloped Fang Mu’s vision, but in the crisis, aided by the jade hairpin, he grew calmer.

Out of the corner of his eye, he spotted the bloodstained vest lying on the floor.

A thought arose. Earlier, the vest had not simply passed through as it did with other strange beings, but was blocked by the shadow energy—the black Buddha was not immune, merely shielded.

“If that’s the case… could it be a shadow corpse type?”

With this speculation, as the black palm neared, Fang Mu decided to take a gamble.

In the instant the black palm closed in, Fang Mu sheathed the Ghost Thorn and swiftly reached out with his left hand.

With a deafening crash, the palm covered him completely.

All that remained before him was ruin.

Yet, in the cracks of the black palm, a faint light flickered.