"Fang Yuan, hand over the Spring Autumn Cicada obediently, and I'll give you a swift death!"
"Fang Old Demon, don't even think about resisting! Today, the major sects of the Righteous Path have joined forces to tear apart your demonic den. A net has been cast across heaven and earth — this time, you will surely lose your head!"
"Fang Yuan, you damned demon! To refine the Spring Autumn Cicada, you slaughtered millions of lives. You have committed sins beyond measure — your crimes are unforgivable, beyond redemption!"
"Demon! Three hundred years ago, you humiliated me, took my purity, slaughtered my entire family, and exterminated my nine generations of kin! From that moment on, I have yearned to eat your flesh and drink your blood! Today, I will make you wish you were never born!"
……
Fang Yuan stood clad in a tattered emerald-green robe, hair hanging loose over his shoulders, his entire body drenched in blood. He surveyed his surroundings.
The mountain wind made his blood-soaked robe flutter and snap like a war banner.
Crimson blood surged outward from hundreds of wounds across his body. After standing there for merely a moment, a large pool of blood had already collected beneath his feet.
Surrounded on all sides by enemies, there was no path left for escape.
The outcome was decided. Death today was inevitable.
Fang Yuan saw through the situation with perfect clarity. Yet even as death approached, his expression did not change — his face remained calm, his demeanor indifferent.
His gaze was deep and unfathomable, like the depths of an ancient well, as bottomless as it had always been.
The Righteous Path heroes besieging him were either esteemed elders of great sects or celebrated young prodigies renowned across the land. They had him tightly surrounded — some roaring, some sneering, some narrowing their eyes with sharp vigilance, others clutching their wounds and staring at him with dread.
None of them made a move. All feared Fang Yuan's death throes.
A tense standoff persisted for three full hours. The setting sun dipped westward, its lingering glow setting the clouds along the mountainside ablaze — for a moment, the sky burned as brilliantly as fire.
Fang Yuan, who had stood motionless as a statue, slowly turned around.
The gathered heroes stirred and took a synchronized step back.
By now, the pale gray stone beneath Fang Yuan's feet had long been stained dark red with blood. His face, pale from excessive blood loss, caught the light of the evening glow and suddenly took on a strange, almost rosy beauty.
Gazing at the green mountains and the setting sun, Fang Yuan spoke softly: "Green mountains, setting sun; autumn moon, spring wind. Truly, morning like silken black hair, evening turned to snow — glory and ruin alike vanish in the turning of a head."
As these words left his lips, visions of his previous life on Earth flickered before his eyes.
He had once been a student in the land of Huaxia on Earth. Through a twist of fate, he had transmigrated into this world. Through three hundred years of restless wandering, more than two hundred years of dominion across the land, over five hundred years had passed — yet they seemed to vanish in the blink of an eye.
Memories long buried deep in his heart came vividly alive in this moment, resurfacing before him with startling clarity.
"Failed in the end, I suppose," Fang Yuan sighed inwardly, filled with emotion — yet without a hint of regret.
He had foreseen this outcome long ago. The moment he made his choice, he had prepared himself.
Such was the Demonic Path — to cultivate no good karma, to kill and burn. To be rejected by heaven and earth, to stand as the enemy of all, and yet to live freely and unrestrained.
"If the Spring Autumn Cicada I just refined proves effective, then in my next life, I will walk the demonic path once more!" With this thought, Fang Yuan could not help himself — he threw his head back and laughed aloud.
"Old demon, what are you laughing about?"
"Everyone, be careful! The demon is about to lash out with his dying breath!"
"Hand over the Spring Autumn Cicada, now!"
The heroes pressed in. And just at that moment — with a thunderous boom — Fang Yuan detonated himself.
……
Gentle spring rain fell in endless threads, silently nourishing Qing Mao Mountain.
The night had grown deep, and a cool breeze carried the fine drizzle through the air.
Yet Qing Mao Mountain was not dark. From its slopes to its foot, countless soft lights glimmered, as though the mountain wore a radiant sash of brilliance.
These lights came from the stilted houses built high above the ground. Though they could not rival the fabled "ten thousand lights," they numbered in the thousands.
This was none other than the Guye Stockade, nestled upon Qing Mao Mountain, adding a rich sense of human presence to the vast and silent peaks.
At the very center of Guye Stockade stood a grand and magnificent pavilion. Tonight, the Sacrificial Ceremony was being held within, so the lights blazed even brighter, their radiance resplendent.
"May the ancestors watch over and bless us! I hope that in this Opening Orifice Ceremony, many youths of outstanding aptitude will emerge, bringing new blood and hope to the clan!" The Guye Patriarch, a middle-aged man with frost at his temples, wore the plain white ceremonial robes of the rite. He knelt upon the brown-yellow floor, back straight, palms pressed together, eyes tightly shut as he prayed with heartfelt sincerity.
Before him stood a tall, black-lacquered altar table arranged in three tiers, upon which the memorial tablets of the ancestors were enshrined. On either side of the tablets sat vermilion bronze censers, wisps of incense curling upward.
Behind him, more than a dozen others knelt in the same posture. They wore flowing white ceremonial garments — all of them Elders and decision-makers of the clan, each commanding authority over their respective domains.
After a period of prayer, the Guye Patriarch was the first to bow forward, pressing both palms flat against the floor, his forehead touching the brown wood with soft, repeated thuds.
The Elders behind him maintained solemn expressions, silently following suit.
For a time, the ancestral hall was filled with nothing but the quiet sound of foreheads meeting the floor.
When the ceremony concluded, the assembly rose slowly from the floor and filed quietly out of the solemn hall.