Dragon Vein Storyteller

Chapter 25 Water Grab

Zhang Linghe gently helped Chen Dong lean against the stone wall and stood up, supporting himself on his knees. His Taoist robe was covered in blood, and he stood up unsteadily, but the token of the Celestial Master's Mansion at his waist shone brightly in the cold light of the luminous pearl. He made a hand seal with his right hand, and golden lightning patterns faintly flowed from his fingertips. A faint smell of burning wafted in the air.

"Zhang Linghe of the Celestial Master's Mansion is here." He spoke slowly and deliberately, his voice not loud, but it drowned out the breathing sounds that filled the hall. "Anyone who dares to touch my junior brother is making an enemy of the Celestial Master's Mansion."

The moment the words "Celestial Master's Mansion" were uttered, the desperate thugs behind Zhao Ming paused. The one-eyed giant's ghost-headed broadsword also hovered in mid-air, no longer advancing. The Buddhist beads in Master Liaoyuan's hand paused for a moment, Monk Huinan's clenched fist loosened slightly, and Monk Huijue's vajra hidden in his sleeve also retracted an inch.

But it was only for a moment.

A moment later, Zhao Ming suddenly laughed. He laughed softly, as if he had heard something amusing. He tapped his fingers on the hilt of his sword, the wolf fang dangling from the tassel. "The people from the Celestial Master's Mansion, in this place, are nothing more than two nearly cold corpses." He gestured with his chin toward Chen Dong, "That one's already cold. This one…" He then turned his chin toward Zhang Linghe, "won't last much longer either."

As he finished speaking, Yan Kuan had already completed the final rotation of the silver needle in his hand. The two desperados simultaneously took their first steps. Then came the third, the fourth. Master Liaoyuan finally opened his eyes; his cloudy pupils held no compassion, only calculation… He was calculating when to strike to maximize his chances of getting the water.

I know perfectly well what's going on. The name of the Celestial Master's Mansion can intimidate half of the martial arts world. But here, on the other side of the Bridge of Helplessness, where even the living turn to death, a name is nothing but a thin sheet of paper. It can cover one's face, but not a starving wolf.

"Bang!"

I slammed my fist into the ground, the impact making my hand numb. Without thinking, I snatched the water bottle from Zhang Linghe's hand. Zhang Linghe hesitated for a moment, about to speak, but I had already turned around, swung my arm, and hurled the water bottle hard into the densest part of the crowd.

The kettle traced an arc in the air. The arc wasn't high, just barely brushing past the heads of the crowd. The kettle was open, and the clear, cool water spilled from its spout, forming a shimmering silver arc. The cold white light of the luminous pearl shone on that arc of water, causing the droplets to explode, sparkling like shattered stars, sprinkling onto the upturned faces, hands, and bodies of the crowd. The icy steam dissipated in the foul-smelling air, and for a moment, the entire hall seemed to freeze… Everyone stared at that arc of water, at that deadly spring of water.

Water spilled into the blood trough on the ground.

I saw with my own eyes that the grooves that had been wetted became shiny.

It wasn't a reflection, it was a glow. The grooves carved into the bluestone slabs, the recesses stained with millennia of blood and grime, suddenly shimmered with a pale golden light when poured over by this clear water. The light was faint, like moonlight filtering through a thin veil, yet in this hall filled with death and decay, it was blindingly bright. The water spread along the grooves, illuminating wherever it touched. The light wasn't dead, it was alive, crawling along the lines as if it had a life of its own, like a golden serpent slithering across the bluestone slabs.

My mind went blank.

This is not water. This is a sacrifice.

This group wasn't fighting over a pot of water to quench their thirst; they were fighting for a ticket to the altar. Whoever's blood could fill these blood vessels, whose water could illuminate these patterns, would become the next sacrifice… or rather, the next person chosen by this dragon vein. Zhao Ming and Liao Yuan weren't fighting over water; they were fighting for the right to have their names engraved on this ancient dragon vein.

"This is the only pot! Anyone who wants it can take it!"

My roar echoed through the hall, causing the weapons hanging overhead to sway slightly. The Dingqin Sword swayed the least, its blade flashing with a blue light, as if the First Emperor were coldly observing... My empire was also forged in this way, paved with the blood of countless people, a path leading to the throne.

The kettle landed in the very center of the lobby.

With a crisp "clink," the kettle landed right in the center of the pattern on the bluestone slab. It bounced, rolled twice, and water was still gushing from its spout. The clear water flowed into the grooves of the bluestone slab, spreading outwards along the grooves, wetting the dark red grime and leaving bright red streaks. Where the water had touched, the golden patterns shone even brighter, as if something buried beneath the stone slab was being awakened by the water.

The lobby fell silent for a moment.

This half-breath was longer than the night I spent in the mass grave. Long enough that I could hear my own heartbeat, hear the chick's muffled groans as Liao the Bald covered its mouth, hear Feng the Cripple's cane gently grinding half a circle on the bluestone slab, hear the low growl rolling from Sanjin's throat, hear the Ding Qin Sword above my head trembling slightly in the air... The sound was extremely faint and light, like a dragon's roar, or a sigh.

Then, it exploded.

Zhao Ming was the first to move. His previous carefree demeanor was like a theatrical mask ripped off, revealing a cold and ferocious true face beneath. He sprang to his feet, simultaneously drawing a short knife from his waist with his right hand. The blade gleamed with a dark, matte sheen under the cold light of the luminous pearl… the color of a knife that had killed. He took three quick steps on the bluestone slabs, his movements as swift as a hawk swooping down on a rabbit, heading straight for the water jug ​​in the center of the hall. The dozen or so desperados behind him followed closely, some drawing knives, some swords, and some lunging at him empty-handed, letting out beast-like roars.

But he's fast, and there are people faster than him.

Master Liaoyuan. One moment the old monk was sitting cross-legged, twirling prayer beads, and the next he was in the center of the hall. How did he move? I didn't even see it. I only saw a gray shadow flash by; his gaunt figure sprang up from the ground, his toes lightly touching the bluestone slab, and he swept more than ten feet away, his robe fluttering behind him, the force of the wind whipping up dust into a gray dragon. His right hand was still twirling prayer beads, while his left hand had already reached out, fingers forming a claw, its target the water jug.

"Amitabha," he chanted, but his hands showed no mercy. His left hand's five fingers were like five withered branches, the nail crevices filled with old grime, yet the force of the wind... I could feel it even from several meters away... it was real skill. At least twenty years of Eagle Claw training; one swipe could poke five holes in a stone slab. If that swipe landed on a person, it would either break a bone or rupture a tendon.

Zhao Ming and Liao Yuan reached for the kettle almost simultaneously. Zhao Ming's short knife slashed horizontally from right to left, the blade aimed directly at Liao Yuan's wrist; Liao Yuan neither dodged nor evaded, his left hand maintaining its eagle claw attack, while the string of sandalwood prayer beads in his right hand suddenly flew out, scattering in mid-air, the eighteen beads carrying a gust of wind as they rained down on Zhao Ming. Zhao Ming had no choice but to retract his knife and defend, his short knife dancing in front of him like a curtain of blades, with several crisp "clangs" as the prayer beads were knocked away by the blades, splattering onto the bluestone slab, creating small craters and sending pebbles flying.

Just then, Monk Huinan rushed up to them.

This monk's Tiger-Taming Arhat Fist was no joke. He unleashed both fists simultaneously, his left fist striking Zhao Ming's knife, while his right fist slammed into a desperate thug attempting to ambush Zhao Ming from behind. The left fist struck the knife with a muffled clang, causing Zhao Ming's short knife to sink, bend in an arc, and bounce back, the impact numbing Zhao Ming's hands and making his entire arm tremble. The right fist slammed directly into the thug's chest with a crisp crack, leaving a fist-shaped indentation in the man's chest. He was sent flying more than ten feet away, crashing onto the bluestone slab, spitting out a mouthful of blood, his limbs twitching twice before going still.