Chapter Forty-Seven: A Thousand Paper Cranes

The man in the black robe coughed violently, while Jiang Pingchuan staggered back a few steps, bending over to inspect the wound on his abdomen.

Five crimson gashes glistened, their blood seemingly contained by some invisible force, refusing to spill forth. The torn silver robe upon his body slowly returned to its former state, showing no trace of damage.

Jiang Pingchuan felt a coolness at the site of his wound. Though a sharp pain still pierced his core, in the eyes of the black-robed man, he appeared utterly unharmed, not a hair out of place.

Enduring the agony, Jiang Pingchuan forced his expression back to calm and raised his head to meet the black-robed man’s gaze. The latter’s face contorted with astonishment.

He had never imagined that Jiang Pingchuan possessed not only a versatile form of true energy, but that the robe he always wore—never changing for ten thousand years—was actually a set of armor imbued with the essence of water.

Penetrate it one might, but to sever its flow was impossible; as long as the water’s course was unbroken, how could there be harm? The black-robed man panted heavily, his eyes bloodshot as he stared at his own demonic claw.

There was not a trace of blood upon the claw—meaning, for all his pride, he had not even managed to harm a single hair on Jiang Pingchuan.

“Well, boy, you’re a walking treasure. Pity your woman is already dead.”

Steadying himself, the black-robed man, though no match for Jiang Pingchuan in combat, still had a way to bring death to the woman Jiang Pingchuan cherished most.

“Say that again.”

If Jiang Pingchuan had not heard the man claim his beloved woman was dead, he would never have loosened his grip on the man’s throat.

Now, hearing the words repeated, Jiang Pingchuan could not help but wonder if Zhou Ning’er truly was in danger. The black-robed man chuckled coldly.

Jiang Pingchuan’s mind was filled with Zhou Ning’er’s image. He tried to clear his thoughts, reasoning that this must be a ploy to unnerve him. He could not leave—he had to maintain his composure, or else he’d be suppressed by the invisible formation, rendered as powerless as an ordinary man. No matter what the black-robed man said, he was determined not to believe it—his enemy had to die.

“Say it again, it’s the same. Your woman—her name is Zhou Ning’er—she’s dead. I’ll say it once more: she’s dead.”

As the black-robed man watched Jiang Pingchuan’s face darken, he burst out in wild laughter, as if mad—or perhaps not madness at all, but the satisfaction of having truly killed Zhou Ning’er.

Even if Jiang Pingchuan killed him now, what of it? Jiang Pingchuan would forever bear a wound in his heart that nothing could heal.

To use Zhou Ning’er as a lever to inflict a lifetime of pain and guilt—such a bargain made the black-robed man laugh with abandon.

“You’re mad. You can’t kill her. She possesses something that a lowly creature like you has never seen. No one can touch her.”

Jiang Pingchuan looked seriously at the black-robed man. Zhou Ning’er bore the violet skull he had given her—no one could break through its defense, not even harm her. Not the Advisor, not the black-robed man, not even if the black-robed man were the mightiest on the Changfeng Continent. The violet skull was a relic of the demon god.

“Oh? Is that so? Tsk, tsk. Seems my psychological tactics have failed.”

A sneer curled the black-robed man’s lips as he clenched his demonic claw, advancing slowly toward Jiang Pingchuan.

Jiang Pingchuan stood motionless, his fist clenched in the air. The last reserves of true energy in his field of Dao churned, boiling, surging toward his fist.

The six Dao crystals within him, once turning slowly, now spun faster and faster, leaving layer upon layer of afterimages in his body.

The black-robed man grew even more wary, seeing Jiang Pingchuan stand so still.

“What, feeling the suppression? Can’t move?” he taunted with a mocking laugh.

Jiang Pingchuan remained unmoved, gazing at him with unshaken calm—the calmer Jiang Pingchuan appeared, the less certain the black-robed man felt.

Yet he dared not hesitate; in this moment, his demonic claw began to change, the pitch-black hue deepening with streaks of dark red.

A wave of deathly aura swept forth. The time was not yet right—Jiang Pingchuan anxiously summoned his true energy, frenzied, roaring, surging with force.

The spiritual veins in his right arm strained to the breaking point, channeling all the energy to his fist. Jiang Pingchuan felt the transformation, silently urging it to grow—longer, faster.

At last, as the final wisp of true energy poured into his right arm and gathered at his fist, the black-robed man sensed a gust of fierce wind sweep past him. His face changed drastically as he hurriedly retreated.

“Strike!”

Who was striking?

Jiang Pingchuan swung his right arm; in his empty fist, the shadow of a spear could just be discerned—true energy taking shape.

The black-robed man stared in disbelief—Jiang Pingchuan had forced his true energy out of his body, manifesting it into an invisible spear in his hand.

Had he not been alert, the weapon would surely have pinned him inescapably. The black-robed man, still shaken, glanced at Jiang Pingchuan’s right arm.

“You're dead.”

Seeing his enemy retreat at full speed, Jiang Pingchuan, gripping the spear of true energy tightly, thrust it toward the black-robed man’s heart. One advanced, one fled—a dance of attack and defense.

Just as Jiang Pingchuan was about to strike, a figure suddenly appeared behind him—it was Old Yu. Jiang Pingchuan had not expected Old Yu to be in league with the black-robed man.

Though he sensed the danger behind him, Jiang Pingchuan’s mind was clear—if this blow did not kill the black-robed man, there would never again be peace in Sanjiang County.

“Ha ha ha! Jiang Pingchuan, go ahead, kill me—you’ll die too!”

The black-robed man, seeing Old Yu with sword drawn behind Jiang Pingchuan, laughed wildly. Jiang Pingchuan was still too green—clever, perhaps, but what of it?

So what if he had outmaneuvered his foe? He could be killed, but Jiang Pingchuan could not kill him. As he retreated at speed, the black-robed man did not forget to mock Jiang Pingchuan.

“Hmph! If we both perish, so be it. Old Yu, if you dare, strike with your sword!”

Jiang Pingchuan snorted coldly. Old Yu’s appearance only strengthened his resolve to kill the black-robed man. If he did not, the storm would never pass.

A spray of blood.

A thunderous crash.

Wild laughter, followed by another spurt of blood—words choked and unfinished.

Old Yu thrust his sword, Jiang Pingchuan drove his spear forward—piercing the black-robed man’s heart and nailing him firmly to the tree behind. Blood streamed down the length of the spear.

The invisible spear, now stained crimson, revealed its true form. The black-robed man stared at Jiang Pingchuan in disbelief, his pupils dilating, reflecting only Jiang Pingchuan’s smile.

Blood trickled from the corner of Jiang Pingchuan’s mouth. Old Yu’s peculiar presence had caught him off guard—even his silver robe could not defend against that sword. Jiang Pingchuan looked down at the blade in his abdomen, then at the black-robed man pinned and dying against the tree.

The black-robed man’s demeanor shifted—his once blood-red eyes grew clear, his black robe crumbling to dust and vanishing into the air, his sullen face turning pale.

Jiang Pingchuan had never known what lay beneath the black-and-white mask, but now he found himself strangely captivated by the sight.

Rainbow-hued, spirited eyebrows; a cascade of pure white hair; the black demonic claw now turned white, while the other, normal hand was gone, replaced by a scar. The black feathers at his temples had become white, and all trace of evil aura had vanished. His eyes, meeting Jiang Pingchuan’s, were full of gratitude and the relief of release.

Old Yu, gripped by intense emotion, wrenched the sword from Jiang Pingchuan’s abdomen and shoved him aside. Both Jiang Pingchuan and the man spat blood.

The man slid slowly to the ground, leaning against the tree. Jiang Pingchuan, stumbling back a few steps, tried to steady himself with his spear, only to find its form shatter and dissipate.

Clutching his wound, Jiang Pingchuan gazed at Old Yu, who now held the dying man in his arms, grief etched deep into his features.

“Thousand-Feathered Crane, it’s really you! How could you have ended up like this?”

Old Yu’s desperate question stunned Jiang Pingchuan—so the only one recorded in those golden characters who had not died, Thousand-Feathered Crane, was the very man lying before him.

It made sense—the man on the ground did resemble a crane. With Thousand-Feathered Crane at death’s door, the formation he had set must have dissipated as well.

The six Dao crystals within Jiang Pingchuan resumed absorbing the spiritual energy of heaven and earth, their circulation beginning to repair his battered body. Feeling a coolness return to his depleted field of Dao, Jiang Pingchuan breathed a silent sigh of relief.

“Brother Pingchuan, I’ve wronged you. Hurry back and check on Miss Zhou—she’s in danger.”

Thousand-Feathered Crane did not answer Old Yu’s question. Instead, shame coloring his face, he urgently addressed Jiang Pingchuan, who froze at his words.

Had this been spoken by Thousand-Feathered Crane while he wore the black robe, Jiang Pingchuan would not have believed it. But a dying man’s words are true. A sense of disaster seized him.

As Jiang Pingchuan’s hurried figure disappeared, Thousand-Feathered Crane’s face was filled with guilt. He looked up at Old Yu, who held him, and sighed softly.

It was all too late now.

He could only hope Zhou Ning’er was unharmed—otherwise, he would not rest easy, even in death.