Chapter Fifty-Five: Yaksha

No summons were needed; the bearded monk was already shouting fiercely, brandishing his weapon as he charged forward. Sky Weep’s broad sword spun in his grasp, tracing a crescent that gleamed like moonlight, casting shimmering ripples across half the pond. In the blink of an eye, several bodies were sent flying, torsos aloft, and though the storm raged on, the falling rain suddenly turned crimson.

The bearded monk collapsed, half his body hitting the ground, his eyes wide in disbelief, refusing to accept his fate.

With a series of thuds, Xiao Jiu and his companions landed, swiftly rushing into the cloud boat. There were few survivors left aboard, and the Seven of the Ghost Banquet, fierce as wolves and tigers, descended upon them. The resistance lasted only an instant before the deck was strewn with corpses.

Sky Weep moved no further. He waited until the boat was cleared, nodded slightly, then leaped into the forest.

The yellow sparrow had arrived!

A mountain away, immersed in blood-soaked battle, Guiqu slew another pursuer, his victory costing him his right ear and the flesh of half his cheek. As he evaded the monk’s staff and plunged his demon-subduing pestle into the monk’s chest, the bearded monk bit through his own tongue, spitting out the severed tip. Guiqu’s stance barely allowed him to dodge the direct attack, but the blood and saliva grazed his right cheek.

The tongue exploded at the final moment, splattering venomous fluids. The blood mixed with saliva was extraordinarily corrosive, burning and melting Guiqu’s face, leaving his right ear a puddle of blood and flesh.

Guiqu wasted no time. His wrist flicked, revealing a gleaming knife. He sliced a thin layer from his cheek and gouged out what remained of his ear, halting the spread of corrosion. Tearing a strip from his robe, he wrapped the wound, then ripped open the robes of the fallen monk before him.

On the corpse’s chest was a branded mark, swirling with halos and the six cycles of reincarnation, and atop it, a dark inked seal—a twisted Sanskrit character.

Guiqu’s pupils contracted. He had expected the Buddhist nation would send pursuers, but he hadn’t anticipated they would dispatch the Eight Heavenly Dragon Clans of Bishamon.

The term “clan” was akin to the Zhou dynasty’s “guard,” and the Eight Heavenly Dragon Clans were the fiercest discipline monks of the Buddhist nation. Upon joining, one abandoned their own name, serving the order for life. They were known as Punishment Monks or Judgement Monks, renowned for their martial prowess.

Each of the Eight Clans was unique, and those pursuing him now were the Yaksha Clan, famed for tracking and stealth.

At the head of the Yaksha Clan was Yaksha himself, beneath whom served Four Yaksha Generals: Underworld, Shadow, Fierce, and Evil. At least one had come for Guiqu.

Guiqu crouched low, suppressing the pain in his face. The agony grew sharper, and he knew pain was preferable to numbness; it meant the venom from the monk’s blood had not yet fully cleared. As blood flowed, the remaining poison seeped out, and he would not die immediately.

He forced himself upright, straightening his body, and listened intently to the sounds around him. He and his disciples had scattered to aid escape and lure the enemy to divide their forces—a transparent tactic, but unavoidable. The lone pursuer proved its effectiveness.

He moved deeper into the forest, his pace steadying. Guiqu was cautious, sensing every movement, listening to distant cries. Each scream meant a disciple had been found. At this point, only two remained alive; the others were all dead.

When the final scream echoed, Guiqu realized something was amiss. The journey had been too smooth—his enemies were far away, and even wild beasts and monsters had vanished, as if he had entered a land of death, devoid of all life.

Guiqu’s survival skills were not equal to those of wild beasts, but he knew enough to recognize he was being hunted.

He halted abruptly, gazing ahead. At the end of his vision stood a protruding stone, rising sharply above the trees. At its summit, a man stood. His face was shadowed, lips thin and pressed tight, except for a slight upward curl, giving him a grotesque smile.

Guiqu sighed softly, then walked step by step toward the stone. From the moment he saw the man, he understood: this time, escape was impossible.

“Shariputra, I didn’t expect it would be you.” He spoke slowly at the base of the stone. Though his fists and spells were far inferior to Shariputra’s, his bearing was undiminished—a fearlessness born of impending death.

“Guiqu, I am now called Underworld Yaksha,” the narrow-eyed monk replied calmly. “Is it so strange that it’s me?”

“Not strange,” Guiqu sighed. “Anyone from the Eight Clans could have come; what’s strange about that?”

Staring at the monk, now a statue of the Buddha, Guiqu felt the overwhelming pressure. At his peak, he was no match for Underworld Yaksha; now, exhausted, his weapon ruined, he stood even less chance.

“So be it,” Underworld Yaksha nodded. “To face death with a calm heart is a blessing.”

As his words faded, battle erupted without warning.

A fierce wind surged atop the stone, twisting into a tornado. Within the gusts, Underworld Yaksha raised his hand in a phantom grasp. The ghostly trident whistled, leaping into his grasp, its hum sharp. In that moment, Yaksha launched himself from the stone, aiming straight for Guiqu’s head.

The attack was so swift it surpassed even the wind and rain, crossing the distance in an instant, as if tearing through space, vanishing the gap of several yards.

Guiqu, previously still, floated sideways with the wind, his right hand spinning the demon pestle, pressing it against the spine of the ghost trident. Their weights differed, yet they met as equals, the trident’s hum rising, blood aura spilling, as if in the presence of a formidable foe.

Underworld Yaksha’s expression remained unchanged, ignoring the trident’s reaction. He swept towards the pestle, pure force, no ornamentation.

Guiqu was the first to withdraw, his body shifting aside, the pestle retracting, rising towards Yaksha’s position. Two steps through the air, and he arrived before Yaksha’s face, swinging the pestle down.

The pestle withdrew, and the trident lost its target. The difference in length was clear; the trident could not recover in time, and the pestle was about to strike.

But as the pestle turned halfway, its tail suddenly shot out, flipping back to tap lightly on the pestle.

A muffled sound, dry and obscure, like striking a rotten wooden fish, echoed deeply through the forest, heavy and solemn.

The pestle soared high, its surface ringing, cracks spreading from its holes, fragments flying. As the fissures reached Guiqu’s grip, they crawled up his wrist, along his forearm and upper arm, splitting his robe like spiderwebs, his skin bursting, blood spraying in fine jets.

Guiqu spat blood, his body struck as if by lightning, plummeting straight down, crashing into the earth.

The trident’s hum faded. Underworld Yaksha landed, raising a single palm and bowing slightly, “Brother Guiqu, rest in peace.”

Guiqu laughed, blood pouring from his mouth, choking, “So… so please, brother… send… send me on my… way…”

He closed his eyes serenely. To Underworld Yaksha, it seemed like repentance and prayer, unaware that Guiqu’s mind was filled with the vision of severed heads, arrayed perfectly, one by one, without error.

A smile finally bloomed on Guiqu’s face. He knew his story was finished; life and death held no regret.

Yet the expected trident did not fall. After a moment, Guiqu struggled to open his eyes and saw Underworld Yaksha tense as if facing a formidable foe, and, atop the highest branch of a nearby tree, swaying in the wind yet standing straight as a spear, was a child.

On the child’s shoulder rested a colossal broad sword, twice his own height.

The arrival of Sky Weep immediately pressed Underworld Yaksha.

They stared at each other briefly. Underworld Yaksha’s robe fluttered without wind, his narrow eyes glazed over with death’s grey, suppressing all human vitality. He leaned forward, shoulder shifting, the trident thrust upwards at Sky Weep, with speed, force, and momentum far greater than when he faced Guiqu.

The branch beneath Sky Weep stilled, as if suppressed by the trident. In the next moment, Sky Weep appeared before Underworld Yaksha, the huge sword rebounding from his shoulder to meet the trident.

With a single press, Underworld Yaksha’s full-force trident was swept aside, the sword’s momentum undiminished, its blade slicing toward Yaksha’s torso. If taken directly, even a bronze statue would be cleaved.

Yaksha’s form rose with the sword, maintaining a three-foot distance from the blade—close enough to threaten, yet never touched. This gap seemed frozen in time. He spread his arms, the trident flicking against the sword, ringing sharply.

At the moment of contact, a grey mist erupted from Yaksha’s face, as if the death in his eyes was spilling over his body. Yet his gaze turned pitch black—like ink, like night, utterly devoid of light.

Sky Weep was exhilarated, launching an assault as fierce as the storm itself. Sometimes he wielded the sword with both hands, sometimes dragged it with one, sometimes darted forward like a ghost, sometimes leaped and pressed down. His attacks varied, but the sword’s movements were just a handful—cleaving, sweeping, lifting, clashing—each coming like a tidal wave, fierce and unstoppable. No one could say how great Sky Weep’s strength was, or what happened when he struck, save from the sword-etched trenches appearing in the earth.

Underworld Yaksha was like a small boat battered by the waves, always at risk of being shattered.

The battle lasted only moments when a sharp whistle sounded nearby, soon echoed by two more from different directions. With the whistles, three figures emerged from the forest, standing at a distance, encircling Underworld Yaksha and Sky Weep.

Xiao Jiu and his companions had returned, their bodies stained with flecks of blood. They knew Sky Weep’s habit—not to interfere—but that did not mean they were idle.

Each took an ear from their blade or cloth wrap, threaded it on a branch, and stuck it upright in the mud before them, grinning with mocking, derisive smiles. They did not speak, yet their gesture spoke louder than any words.

All those who came with Yaksha were dead.

Sky Weep and Underworld Yaksha both noticed the four newcomers, but their movements never paused. Sky Weep attacked, Yaksha defended; their expressions were starkly different—Sky Weep relaxed, Yaksha’s face growing colder, the deathly grey thickening, almost tangible.

With a sharp clang, they suddenly parted. Sky Weep stood where he was, not retreating, his broad sword angled to the ground, a faint smile on his lips. Underworld Yaksha staggered back, the blackness ebbing from his eyes like a receding tide. Then came the sound of flesh splitting—a half-trident fell from the air, stabbing into the earth, quivering.

Yaksha barely kept his footing, looking up at Sky Weep. Suddenly, a jet of blood shot from his brow, splitting his head in two, the halves twitching, organs spilling as he collapsed.

“Whew…” At last, Sky Weep let out a long sigh, glanced at Guiqu lying on the ground, and murmured, “This time, Brother Guchen really set me up. That guy—he’s hard to kill!”

With that, he dropped to the ground and fell asleep.