Slaughter

The Tranquil Sword Contemplation, the cultivation method imparted to An Jing by the mysterious voice, was a visualization method. This method allowed An Jing to visualize a rusted sword within his mind. By sweeping away dust with his thoughts, conquering it with his heart, and polishing it with his obsession, he could ultimately forge a tranquil, translucent sword heart. With it, he could tame the restless monkey of his mind, rein in the wild stallion of his intent, and attain true inner freedom. It was also a method of spirit refinement. Not only could it expand divine intent, but it could also suppress the mental afflictions brought about by the Imperial Heaven Spirit-Piercing Primordial Qi-Nourishing Art. An Jing did not need to cultivate it to its ultimate pinnacle, nor was now the time to break through into Inner Breath. He merely needed to visualize this sword to suppress the tangled demonic impulses sprouting within him and quell the lingering influence of the demon meat and Unfeeling Water he had consumed for so long. Chanting the formula under his breath, he visualized the rusted sword in his heart. Polishing it with obsessive focus, his thoughts grew clear and pure, his tranquil heart unwavering. After fifteen minutes, An Jing opened his eyes. A flash of pure killing aura and murderous intent flickered across his gaze. He felt the numerous shackles and briars that had long entwined his soul get sheared away by a sweep of sword light, rendering his mind sharper and clearer, and his grasp over the Innate Primordial Qi in his body far more precise and acute. He stood up. "There's a sound." It was the dead of night. The rain beat down in a clamor punctuated by thunder. The farmstead was not entirely empty; torches flickered here and there, yet An Jing still caught a sound coming from a building not far away. It was the sound of children, wailing and weeping. There were still survivors. The sword voice issued its instruction: "Enter the dungeon. The key is in there—if you wish to obtain power that transcends all else, it is crucial." "Understood." An Jing did not know who this mysterious sword voice truly was, but he could tell it was by no means on the Demon Sect's side; in fact, it was their enemy, and it had helped him several times along the way. He was willing to heed its guidance. "How do I get in, though?" He had already located the "dungeon" where the sounds originated. It was a structure built directly into the mountain, with only a small portion protruding outward while the vast majority of its framework sat deep within the rock. The main entrance was an iron gate. An Jing had no key, nor could he force his way through with brute strength—the commotion would inevitably draw the many guards and instructors stationed at East Mountain Farmstead. "There is a window on the side," the sword voice directed. "You can enter from there, but you will have to find your own way." An Jing soon found the "window" the sword voice spoke of. It was an air vent situated along the side of the building, barred with iron rods, through which the faint, flickering lamplight of the dungeon was visible. The iron was of poor quality and had decayed over the years, yet it was still nothing that could be snapped with ease. An Jing could break it through sheer force, but the resulting noise would certainly alert those nearby. However, An Jing possessed plenty of intellect... and even if the wisdom of this lifetime fell short, he still had his Innate Wisdom. Glancing around, An Jing quickly scrounged up a few wooden sticks from a corner, then tore the lining from his clothes into strips of cloth. He soaked the cloth in the rain, arranged the sticks into a cross, and bound the damp cloth tightly between the wooden cross and two of the iron bars, twisting it into a tight knot to create a simple lever. An Jing slowly rotated the wood, using leverage to draw the cloth taut. The water-soaked cloth became even tougher, and combined with the subpar metal of the bars, the iron genuinely began to bend outward inch by inch under his twist, opening two gaps wide enough for a boy to squeeze through. "The principle of leverage." Seeing that he had truly warped the vent's iron bars, An Jing could not help but sigh in appreciation. He had never expected that the practical application of such a simple concept would yield such miraculous results, turning humble materials into something wondrous—an astonishing piece of ingenuity. In truth, prying them apart with a lever was not much different from pulling them apart with sheer strength; the lever was simply far more stable and controlled. An Jing had acted out of caution to keep from overexerting and making noise that would alert anyone inside. Now was not the time for idle thoughts. Like a great cat, An Jing slipped through the vent. He dropped into the interior of the dungeon. Within the dim subterranean space, the damp air of the storm swirled with the draft. Only far down the corridor did a kerosene lamp cast a faint, flickering light, carrying a foul, greasy stench. The dungeon reeked of urine and decay. Feeble wails and groans echoed ceaselessly, accompanied by a chilling stench of blood. An Jing warily scanned his surroundings. Before him lay a straight corridor paved in bluestone, slick with filth. The lighting was murky and dim, and it took him a long moment to make out the scene before him. Then, a bone-piercing chill shot up from the base of his spine, leaving him momentarily robbed of speech. A slaughterhouse. If one had ever had the fortune to visit a slaughterhouse, one would understand what true butchery meant: the slaughterer would mount the livestock on a rack, restrain its body, and use a bolt or a sledgehammer to drive a spike into its head or strike it senseless. A skilled butcher would then swiftly slit the blood vessels on both sides of the beast's neck, draining the blood as fast as possible into a bucket without wasting a drop. The animal might struggle, but the sturdy frame kept its every thrash in check; it could only screech and shed tears until its last shred of strength drained away with its blood, until even its tears turned red. Afterward, the drained carcass was hoisted on a hook from the rafters, its belly sliced open so that all its entrails spilled into a basin. Their hollow hulls would sway with the butcher's cuts, giving off a rank stench. A master butcher needed only a small knife to cleanly sever all the flesh from the bone, leaving behind nothing but a stark white skeleton. That was what a slaughterhouse was. Anyone unaccustomed to death who stepped into such a place, even if only livestock were being killed, would feel revulsion and dread. Such was the work of processing living beings into raw materials, which was precisely why the ancient sages said a gentleman kept his distance from the kitchen. And that was merely for livestock. Yet... What if it was humans being slaughtered? What if those hung-up hulls, those white bones, eyeballs, blood, and viscera... all belonged to people he knew? "The Demon Sect... heh. I never quite grasped what made them demons before, but now I understand a thing or two." The teeth-gritting chill that surged from the depths of bone and blood was swept clean by a blaze of fury born from his spirit. An Jing's expression did not waver in the slightest; instead, with unnatural calm, he looked over everything before him—the "hulls" suspended along the dungeon walls. Zhao Yongan, Xu Yi, Xie Pinglan, Li Junyi, Zhao Ran'er... Name after name surfaced in his thoughts, remembered, branded into the deepest recesses of his heart. He was spared from being livestock only because he had talent... but what if he hadn't? Closing his eyes, An Jing reminded himself of his purpose. He could not allow fury to cloud his judgment. Because there were still people alive. There were quite a few surviving children in the cells, but most were exhausted and asleep, while the few still groaning were in a daze. An Jing caught the scent of Unfeeling Water. It seemed the medicinal broth had been fed to these boys and girls, forcing them into a sedated stupor where they could neither struggle nor harm themselves, unable to resist, unable even to observe what was happening around them. An Jing silently studied their faces. He remembered every single one of them; they were all Children of Calamity who had been gradually "eliminated" over the past several months. Though there were still faces he did not see, most had likely waited here just like this—waiting for death to arrive. "The key is up ahead." The sword voice's tone had turned noticeably grimmer as it guided him. An Jing looked along its direction toward the dungeon exit. A guard was stationed by the doorway. It was an elderly member of the Demon Sect with a full head of white hair, though his frame was still fairly robust. He sat slumped in a chair, his head lolling to one side, fast asleep. An Jing recognized him. It was an instructor he rarely encountered, surnamed Song. He had only caught glimpses of him on occasion; so this was where he had been stationed all along, serving as a jailer. It made sense. No matter how lax their supervision or how easy it was to watch over children, someone still had to guard the door. An Jing looked closer and noticed an empty medicine cup on the table. Was the old man an insomniac, using a sedative like Unfeeling Water as a sleeping draught? —Haha. Could it be that seeing such horrors made him uneasy? What an utter failure of a Demon Sect member! His mind entirely calm, An Jing spotted the keys hanging on the wall beside the guard. There were several rings, each holding three keys. "Take the keys." An Jing narrowed his eyes, staring at the old demon cultivator. The old wretch was also at the Inner Breath stage. The fortunate part was that he was not a man in his prime; should he suddenly wake, An Jing still stood a chance of putting him down swiftly. Yet the man slept far too deeply. Using the Mysterious Step, An Jing advanced and retrieved the keys without making a sound. Instructor Song showed not the slightest reaction throughout the entire exchange, and An Jing even caught the scent of liquor on his breath. —The old bastard drank wine on top of the draught? An Jing was thoroughly speechless. With this kind of discipline, he could have twisted the man's head off with one hand. Now was not the time, however. Clutching the keys, An Jing slipped back out through the vent. Using the wooden sticks, he bent the distorted iron bars back into place bit by bit. Though slightly warped, an ordinary person would never notice. "Go," the sword voice said with a hint of agitation. "To the vault in the adjacent building." "Right." An Jing took a deep breath, his heart pounding violently. Suddenly, he snapped his gaze toward the main manor. "Wait, there are sounds over there!" Having begun learning the Tranquil Sword Contemplation and using his fury, hatred, and helplessness to grind the rusted sword, his senses had grown remarkably keen. This visualization method vastly enhanced his perception and five senses, allowing him to perceive silhouettes slowly advancing toward East Mountain: "People from the main manor are coming!" "This may well be a test for you—their indulgence has its limits," the sword voice replied, regaining its composure. "Will you slip back amidst the chaos, or follow my directions?" "Do you even need to ask?" Without a shred of hesitation, An Jing strode briskly toward the vault. "Once I have made up my mind, I will not waver." The vault was not far from the dungeon, separated only by a long passageway. Moving with haste, An Jing quickly reached its location. Like the dungeon, the vault was built into the mountainside, sealed behind heavy dark-iron doors. "Open the door." For once, the crisp sword voice carried a slight tremor. An Jing drew out the keys. Setting aside the dungeon key, he tried the remaining two, one after the other. The first did not work and refused to turn. An Jing did not panic in the least, switching immediately to the second. A turn, and it unlocked. The vault of the Tianyi Sect swung open before An Jing.