Volume 1, Chapter 66 – Cicada Demon

Rumble, rumble…

On the far side of the tunnel, Bai Xiang’s group heard a muffled vibration rumbling overhead.

“Must be those nasty bugs!” Huang Qian curled his lip. “This doesn’t feel like the Demon Kingdom; more like a place made just to breed this kind of insect demon!”

He wasn’t far off. Bai Xiang glanced back at him, kept her silence, and continued to lead the way.

Sometimes she paused to think through the route, sometimes took out dry rations and a waterskin to replenish herself. Stop and go, they suddenly saw golden light shimmering at the end of the path.

Everyone quickened their pace. Huang Qian even hopped past Bai Xiang to stand in front of her, inching toward it in short steps.

The nearer they went, the brighter it blazed. At the tunnel’s end, through an irregular arched stone gate, they saw a flood of gold; once their eyes adjusted, they couldn’t help but murmur in awe.

It was actually a Buddha hall.

At the far end, a great Buddha statue sat against the wall; beside it, the walls were dense with carved scenes and inscriptions, every incised line spilling brilliant golden light.

The illumination came from several hanging candle lamps around the hall. Looking closer, many portions of the murals were already worn and flaking; the inscription strokes were blurred into smears, a stark contrast to the gold beside them.

The instant she crossed the threshold, a stab of pain lanced between Bai Xiang’s brows.

She frowned, scanning about, but found nothing amiss.

“Bai Xiang?” Noticing she’d stopped, Huang Qian assumed she was unwell and asked with concern, “Tired? Want to rest a bit?”

Bai Xiang felt no real discomfort; the pain was only a moment. She waved him off and shook her head. “It’s nothing, Commandant, don’t worry.”

Those present were either command‑level officers like Huang Qian or on‑duty operatives like Cao Chuan—each seasoned and not about to act rashly.

Once Huang Qian was sure she was fine, he nodded and went to confer with Cao Chuan.

In a place like an ancient ruin, even the first to step in might trigger traps—and since the enemy had already got here ahead of them, they had to assume the mechanisms were in enemy hands.

So the others stayed put while Cao Chuan made a solo circuit around the hall. After confirming there were no seams for mechanisms and no danger, he let the rest sit to rest and move about to examine things freely.

“How could there be a Buddha hall here?” Cao Chuan still found it odd. “And one on this scale…?”

In Great Yu, worshiping the Buddha came with strict rules.

From a temple’s scale to the size of its images, everything was ranked.

At Yinling Temple, the images within were not permitted to exceed four meters.

Longhua Temple ranked above Yinling, but even there images could not exceed five meters.

Rеaⅾ οո ΚаtReαdiոgCαfе

Even the highest‑ranked temples could display at most six‑meter statues. This Buddha had to be seven or eight meters at least, and both it and the surrounding murals had been smeared with gold‑powder paint.

In Cao Chuan’s memory, this kind of gilded worship had long been banned. That suggested the hall was very old—possibly two or three centuries.

Was this the site of an ancient Buddhist sect?

Or a dojo‑cum‑demon‑breeding ground purpose‑built by a Buddhist‑swordsman cultivator?

“Eighty percent chance it’s a demon‑breeding ground,” Huang Qian said, staring up at the Buddha, awed by the opulence. “I’ve never seen nor heard of that insect demon—must be an old relic site!”

As for gold‑powder worship becoming common, that goes back around a thousand years.

Back then, the Sword Dao had risen but nowhere near its modern development. Many at the bottom still focused on the Dao and Buddhism; the poorer and more chaotic a place, the truer that was.

Many couldn’t even afford a meal yet dreamed of “banking merit for the next life,” pouring heirlooms and hard‑saved coin and silver into temples, even converting their fields into temple land.

Only later, when an anti‑Buddhist campaign surged up and those predatory demon monks and bone‑gnawing temples were cut down—when feudal superstition was smashed hard—were Buddhist and Daoist beliefs steered back on course.

Cao Chuan thought it over and inclined to agree.

While the two studied the Buddha in front, some soldiers looked around; more simply sat and ate or drank.

Bai Xiang had eaten and drunk not long before and wasn’t hungry. She moved to another section to carefully read the outlines of the figures.

She couldn’t read the inscriptions.

She had seen this kind of script just recently—the same as that engraved on The Startling-Spirit Cicada scroll—but there the meanings had come to her naturally despite not knowing the characters. Here that convenience was gone.

She could extrapolate, but the time was far too short. Forcing a comparative decoding would be a slog even for her.

So she focused on the carved pictures instead.

Each carving was simple, abstract in style, yet still managed to show clearly what it depicted.

After half a circuit, Bai Xiang was sure there was a pattern.

For example, the murals were tiered.

The lowest layer told one ancient’s life: born, studied, calamity at home, a resolve to learn the martial path; but despite hardship, his hopes never bore fruit, and in his later years he shaved his head to be a monk and slowly burned out under lamplight and Buddha.

The next ring up—the second tier—told the life of another ancient.

He was born wealthy, with wives and concubines in number. Gifted himself, he passed young into a civil post instituted by the Imperial House.

Rеаd oո КαtReαԁіոɡСаfe

Step by step it showed him into middle age: parents alive, many children—he should have settled into family joys, yet for no clear reason he quit office and ran off to become a monk.

Becoming a monk wasn’t enough—he took up the sword.

The second tier ended with a long‑bearded man in monk’s robes holding a longsword, striking a pose, with dense inscriptions beside him—introducing who‑knew‑what.

They didn’t seem to be from the same dynasty…

Bai Xiang keenly picked out the differences: across the two tiers, the clothing and rites had changed.

Great Yu only claims sixteen hundred years, which is roughly like the Sima clan usurping and renaming their dynasty “Han,” and Zhao Kuangyin donning the yellow robe and still calling it “Han”—but there would be cultural breaks in between; each ruler’s era had its own laws and dress.

How many such stories were there?

Bai Xiang looked up and estimated the height from floor to domed ceiling.

Each tier of these “biographies” was the same height, but because the hall was hemispherical, the higher tiers were smaller rings—so the higher they went, the less each life recorded.

The very top was basically a disk, with only a handful of images to cover a whole life—slapdash to an extreme, stark against the detail below.

They all sought the Buddha; why this favoritism?

Bai Xiang shook her head, disapproving.

But as she shook her head… her brows suddenly knit tight.

Something’s off.

Off?

That disk at the top—that “slapdash life”—why did it look so familiar?

From birth to adulthood: two panels.

From adulthood to entering the Dao: two panels.

From cultivating to seeking the sword: two panels.

Then hunted down, a battle in a temple: four panels.

Finally, taking to the hills as an outlaw and dying in the wilds: one panel.

That was the shape of this person’s life.

Rеаԁ oո ΚаtReаⅾіոgCαfе

But the problem was… Bai Xiang had seen this life‑path elsewhere!

The Scripture of Returning to Origin and Transforming Qi! Daoist Qu—“Huang Ye”!

How was it exactly the same as in Huang Ye’s own account?

Absorbed by the mystery, she failed to notice the subtle change in the hall.

The Chilong Army soldiers gradually fell silent.

Huang Qian and Cao Chuan’s discussion turned strange, their answers not matching their questions—as if each heard something different.

Soundlessly, the gilt Buddha opened its eyes.

With its chest rising and falling in breath, the temperature of the whole hall began to climb; even the walls and floor quivered.

As if this wasn’t a building at all but the inside of some colossal creature.

The instant the tremors began, Bai Xiang noticed.

She looked to Huang and Cao, only to find them smiling, talking past each other, carrying on their own conversations.

“Must be those nasty bugs!” Huang Qian raised his brows.

“This place should be a thousand years old…” Cao Chuan frowned, thoughtful.

What the hell?

Bai Xiang narrowed her eyes and was about to clap them awake when she glimpsed the floor under their feet softening, sinking… a pit yawned open and swallowed them both.

Hiss!

Hiss hiss!

Not just those two; the seated and strolling Chilong soldiers as well—

—they all stood as if bewitched, making no move to dodge as the depressions swallowed them.

This isn’t ground…!

Bai Xiang sprang aside, avoiding the hole unfolding underfoot, but when she landed it felt like stepping on a wad of cotton—the entire floor was turning soft.

Plop! Plop!

Rеαd оո KatRеadiոɡСαfе

In an instant, as if angered by her dodge, tendrils burst up from the softening floor in all directions, striking at Bai Xiang from almost every angle!

An attack like this should have been impossible to evade.

Bai Xiang pressed her lips together, drew her feet in and stood straight, wooden sword held upright before her; her wrist began to vibrate at high frequency.

Vmmmm—~~~~!

Invisible ripples pulsed out from her, and every stabbing tendril struck them—bouncing off as if they’d hit a hidden barrier.

“Oh?”

A sound came from above.

“Shenming Sword?”

“What’s your relationship to Bai Muying?”

Following the voice, Bai Xiang saw the giant Buddha tilt its head slightly; its lips moved—this thing was speaking!

She caught her breath, thought a moment, then said to the statue, “Bai Muying… is my Bai clan’s Patriarch.”

Founder of the Shenming Sword Dao, Patriarch of the Shenming Dojo.

As for this person, Bai Xiang had seen her portrait when she was little—Bai Shengju had taken her to see it.

What era she was from, Bai Shengju didn’t really know either; only that she was the founding Ancestor, and that Bai Xiang and Bai Zhuqing were to recognize and venerate her without presumptuousness.

“Now that is curious!”

The statue’s voice suddenly shifted from weighty to sharp and childlike; its huge mouth opened, and a fist‑sized golden cicada flew out.

“Curious… curious…”

The cicada demon circled Bai Xiang three times, hovered before her, its wings whirring as it spoke human words from its belly.

“You say you’re a descendant of the Bai clan.”

“Then who was it that came to seek me earlier?”