An off-road vehicle drove across the arid wilderness. Chen Chuan sat in the back seat. All he had seen along the way were vast stretches of wasteland. At first, herdsmen could occasionally be spotted, but later even they vanished, leaving only the distant silhouettes of a few wild horses.
The Biesa Khanate covered a vast territory. Shahran was quite far from Ba'erketu, and driving there took the better part of a day.
He could have traveled much faster on foot, of course, but this trip would most likely lead to a clash with another martial artist. The opponent's strength was an unknown. He would not underestimate the man simply because he was a martial artist from a small country. Moreover, this was abroad, where unforeseen circumstances could easily arise, so there was no need to expend too much energy before the battle.
He had arrived at Ba'erketu Center City in the morning. Entering the city and wrapping up his business had taken less than two hours before he departed immediately. By now it was around five-thirty in the afternoon, and night was already close to falling in the Biesa Khanate.
Just then, the wind abruptly picked up, whipping dust and sand from the ground. Seeing the distant landscape blur into obscurity, the driver glanced at the sky, promptly turned around, pulled down his scarf, and shouted, "Sir, a sandstorm might be coming! How about we find a place to take cover?"
Chen Chuan asked, "About how long do sandstorms usually last here?"
The driver spat out a mouthful of sand before replying, "In this season, not too long, but it'll still take at least two or three hours."
Chen Chuan asked, "How much farther is it to Shahran?"
"Probably two to three hundred kilometers."
Chen Chuan nodded and said, "Then find a place to take shelter first. I'll cover the rest of the way on my own."
The driver paused, startled, but did not attempt to dissuade him. Instead, he gave an obedient nod.
Before departure, his superiors had instructed him: whatever this man wanted to do, do not question, do not interfere, just comply. He wrapped his scarf back in place and brought the vehicle to a stop.
Chen Chuan pushed the door open and stepped out. He cast a glance toward the sky. Likely due to the approaching storm, the sky, already verging on nightfall, had turned a dim, murky yellow in just moments, earth and air blending into one hazy expanse.
Because they had been traveling across an open wilderness, he had brought Chaoming along, and the bird had been following behind him the entire way. Now, faced with high winds unfavorable for flight, it too needed to find shelter.
He signaled toward the sky. Chaoming let out a penetrating cry, lowered its altitude, and glided down toward one side.
Chen Chuan looked ahead, pressed a hand to his hat, and a faint shimmer of light flickered across his body. A split second later, his figure vanished from where he stood. Moments afterward, a sound akin to rolling thunder echoed across the desert. The sandstorm ahead seemed split down the middle, parting to either side. The billowing dust churned for several moments before closing back up, while at the very vanguard, a faint, lightning-like flash flickered once and vanished into the far distance in an instant.
Chen Chuan sped onward. By the time the sky had turned almost completely dark, he arrived before a sandstone bluff standing in the desert.
This had to be Shahran, one of the ancient ritual grounds of the Biesa Khanate. Beams of light projected from atop the formation. Even through the obscuring veil of dust, he could see them from a great distance.
Because Great Shun intelligence had limited knowledge of the area, he had initially assumed the perimeter would be heavily guarded. Yet upon arriving, he discovered that apart from several watchtowers atop the bluff, there were no outer fortifications, bunkers, or similar defenses—astonishingly crude for the primary stronghold of a rebel faction.
On second thought, they likely believed that with a martial artist protecting the place, such measures were unnecessary.
That reasoning was not entirely wrong. Given the Biesa Khanate's military capacity, they had no ability to deploy substantial forces out here. Even if soldiers came, they could never withstand the slaughter of a martial artist on the open plains—not unless another martial artist stepped in to match him. And in a battle of that caliber, ordinary fortifications were utterly meaningless.
The sandstorm was growing progressively fiercer. Halting ahead, he took out a mask resembling polished jade with a vertical crimson mark between the brows and put it on. His red scarf whipped in the wind. Sand and grit swept past his mantle, but once the particles entered within a certain radius of his body, they lost momentum, hovering in place before swirling around him. From a distance, it looked as though an empty void had carved itself into the dense storm.
With the mask secured, he grasped the Xuejun Saber and walked forward.
Inside the watchtowers atop the bluff stood numerous sentries bundled tightly in wind masks and head wraps. At the moment, they looked thoroughly lax, leaning against the sandstone walls drinking mare's milk liquor, boasting with their companions, and bursting into loud laughter from time to time.
Whenever a sandstorm arose, it was precisely when they let their guard down most. Who would ever come during a sandstorm? It was completely unrealistic. Besides, who would dare attack a stronghold guarded by a martial artist?
If the one from Ba'erketu were coming, he would have come long ago. According to what their guardian god had told them, the so-called god of Ba'erketu had long since become a running dog of Great Shun—like an old wolf on the barren plains whose fangs and claws were no longer sharp, whose fur had long gone bald. He could only curl up in his city and howl uselessly, glaring outside with venomous eyes, terrified to step out and fight the beast encroaching on his doorstep.
They believed that narrative implicitly, trusting that their guardian god would lead them to cast off foreign interference, make the Biesa Khanate a fully sovereign nation, and flourish under the protection of the Great Molitian.
Within the watchpost, a fighter paced back and forth. Unlike the others, he was not lounging about; he remained exceptionally vigilant, sharp eyes scanning outward every so often. When he peered out once more, his expression suddenly tightened. He rushed to the observation slit, stared intently for a few heartbeats, and yelled, "Someone's coming! Get up! Move! Grab your guns!"
Hearing his shout, the militants drinking mare's milk liquor scrambled to their feet in a panic and aimed their rifles downward. But night had already fallen, and with swirling sand choking the air, visibility was abysmally poor. They fired several shots blindly into the dark below—an act that accomplished little beyond steadying their own nerves and stoking unnecessary panic.
The fighter ran over to the searchlight, swiveled it back and forth across the expanse, adjusted the angle, and finally pinned the beam squarely onto Chen Chuan.
Chen Chuan did not dodge, nor did he look up. He continued walking forward at his original pace, yet the billowing red scarf and the stark crimson mark on the mask sent a jolt of terror through the men above.
For reasons he could not fathom, the leader felt a surge of dread and barked, "He's right there! Fire! Open fire!"
Instantly, weapons of every caliber erupted above. Flashes of gunfire spat through the darkness. Yet even with the searchlight illuminating the target, the distance was considerable, and the militants' marksmanship was laughably poor; not a single bullet struck him.
Only as he drew steadily nearer did their accuracy improve, at which point the heavy machine guns above opened up as well. But as the rounds penetrated within dozens of meters of him, they abruptly decelerated, ultimately losing all force and dropping one by one into the soft sand.
Witnessing this, the leader's eyes went wide, his entire body trembling. Swallowing hard, he silently stepped back several paces, spun around, and sprinted inside.
By then, Chen Chuan had reached the base of the bluff. With a single leap, he landed squarely upon the terrace over twenty meters high. After he touched down, the men above froze in a momentary stupor before howling frantically. Every rifle swung toward him, triggers pulled all the way back in a desperate barrage, clicking emptily even after their magazines ran dry.
A split second later, an invisible wave seemed to sweep across the platform. Their eyes rolled back, and they collapsed in unison. The surrounding area fell instantly silent.
Chen Chuan glanced toward a passage ahead and followed the fleeing leader's footsteps into the interior of the sandstone structure.
He appeared to walk at an ordinary stride, yet after a step or two, his figure seemed to flicker, reappearing abruptly far ahead before flickering once more.
Inside, numerous guards and armed militants still patrolled the halls, but wherever he passed, they tumbled to the ground in succession, leaving only the dull thuds of bodies striking stone.
After a minute or two of pursuit, the fleeing leader scrambled into a cavernous, domed hall. Tumbling and crawling forward, he cried out to the towering figure seated ahead, "Molitian, there... there is—"
Mid-sentence, his consciousness vanished. His strength failed him, and his face slammed heavily against the floor.
A moment later, accompanied by approaching footsteps from outside, Chen Chuan's figure appeared in the entrance of the hall. Looking ahead, he saw a burly, bare-chested man covered in scars sitting there, continuously pouring mare's milk liquor into his mouth, the liquid spilling down across his scarred chest.
Fighters generally refrained from drinking. While a trace of alcohol had little effect on them, let alone a martial artist, deeper considerations were involved that most chose to observe. Furthermore, a martial artist could easily erase scars from their body, so any visible scar was without exception deliberately kept.
To all appearances, the man before him was somewhat unorthodox. It was impossible to say whether this stemmed from a vow bound upon breaking through his limits, or simply his inherent nature.
Plunging the Xuejun Saber into the floor, Chen Chuan walked into the hall and looked at him. "You must be Artamur of the Biesa Khanate. I have come to retrieve what belongs to Great Shun. I hope you will return it to us."
Tamur took another swig, crushed the cup in his grip, tossed it aside, and wiped his mouth before rising from his seat. "I knew the Great Shun government couldn't sit still. All that talk of negotiation was a lie—they were bound to send someone sooner or later."
As he straightened up, the field around his body abruptly expanded outward, slamming against the biological field surrounding Chen Chuan. At the boundary where the two fields pressed together, countless fine fissures instantly splintered across the air.
"Your Great Shun has stripped so many resources and talents from us, latching onto us Biesa like leeches to suck our blood and flesh. What, we take one rotten stone from you, and you can't stomach it?"
He drew a jade fragment from his pocket, tossed it lightly in his palm, and slammed it down against the armrest of his chair, driving it entirely into the stone. "You want it? Fine. Bring something worth trading for it!"
Chapter 830