Martial Dao: Peace by Force

Chapter 162: Chapter 127: Exorcism! Coordinating From Within and Without

The entire base consisted of four levels in a concentric layout.

Wan Ze covertly surveyed his surroundings.

The outermost level was the artifact storage area. It was filled with neat rows of high-density shelving, piled high with crates and various objects that had just been shipped in.

He followed the group deeper inside. Soon, through glass panels, he could see researchers in white lab coats hunched over various instruments.

Zhai Jia gave him a discreet nudge on the arm.

Wan Ze nodded.

’I see it...’

He then nonchalantly looked away.

Deeper inside was the living quarters.

The Core area was completely sealed off by steel plates. A warning sign at the entrance read, "UNAUTHORIZED ENTRY PROHIBITED."

’This place really is heavily guarded. It’s suffocating.’

Every access point had three layers of security.

Armed guards patrolled every twenty meters, the walkie-talkies at their hips occasionally crackling with confirmations.

Researchers in white lab coats hurried by. One pushed a cart laden with test tubes and logbooks.

Others stood talking at hallway corners, gesturing with what looked like charts, completely oblivious to Wan Ze and his group.

Zhai Jia and Wan Ze exchanged a glance, both somewhat shocked.

’This Secret Palace really is well-hidden.’

But that shock was quickly replaced by excitement.

’So where should we start...?’

Subsequently, Wan Ze and Zhai Jia were assigned to the artifact storage area, tasked with moving several newly arrived crates.

With the brims of their caps pulled low, the two pushed a flatbed cart between the high-density shelves.

The shelves were lined with a wide assortment of items.

During a gap in the guard rotation, Wan Ze slipped sideways into the shadows between two rows of shelving.

Zhai Jia nonchalantly took a few steps forward to block the view, acting as a lookout.

Wan Ze reached out and placed his hand on a Bronze Sword that had just been unloaded.

The blade was broken, with only half of it remaining. Dark brown stains still clung to its spine... clearly blood.

Stealing Celestial Secret, successful!

The moment his fingertips touched the blade, his vision abruptly went dark.

In a trance, it was as if Wan Ze’s vision was traveling through time and space.

...

A figure stood atop a mountain peak, sword in hand. The blade, bathed in moonlight, pulsed with a cold glint three feet long.

Across from him stood a burly Martial Artist, vital energy and blood steaming from his body.

They faced each other for no more than three breaths before the swordsman moved. The light of his blade unfurled like a bolt of silk as he slashed down.

The burly Martial Artist’s Horizontal Training shattered like tiles. Blood sprayed thirty feet as he fell backward, kicking up a cloud of dust.

Beads of blood rolled down the blade, seeping into its spine.

The image vanished in a flash.

...

Wan Ze’s hand was still on the sword, his knuckles trembling faintly.

’This sword... it’s killed many Martial Artists.’

’And all with a single strike.’

’What a shame... that even a peerless Divine Sword like this could be broken.’

[Stealing Celestial Secret: Sword Momentum - Cold Demon]

He slowly pulled his hand back, his peripheral vision scanning the area.

The shelves stood in silence. In the distance, he could hear the footsteps of the guards. Everything was normal.

Zhai Jia glanced back at him, a question in his eyes.

Wan Ze gave a slight shake of his head, pushed the flatbed cart, and continued deeper inside, reaching out to touch another artifact...

’Nothing!’

’Nothing!’

’Nothing...’

’Nothing!’

Not until he touched a Peach Wood Sword did an icy sensation suddenly jolt him!

...

Beneath the night sky, a lone earthen hut stood in the deep mountains.

An old man stood before the hut, dressed in a gray, front-fastening jacket with sleeves rolled to his forearms. His left hand gripped a dark red Peach Wood Sword, and his right hand held a lantern, its light flickering in the night wind.

There were no Taoist robes, no horsetail whisk, none of the flashy Magical Artifacts from the legends.

Just him.

A sword, and a lantern.

The old man circled the earthen hut, his pace steady. He angled the Peach Wood Sword toward the ground, its tip tracing a circle in the dirt that enclosed the entire structure.

When he reached the spot directly in front of the door,

The old man stopped and pulled three sheets of Talisman Paper from inside his jacket.

The Talisman Paper was a cheap yellow variety. On it, crooked Runes were drawn in Cinnabar—just a few simple, curving lines.

The old man crouched, placed the three sheets of Talisman Paper side by side on the ground, and weighted them down with a clod of earth.

Then he rose, faced the hut’s entrance, raised his Peach Wood Sword, and began to chant.

His voice was low, as if he were muttering to himself.

Or perhaps speaking to something unseen.

Wan Ze couldn’t make out the words, but he sensed a strange rhythm in the intonation.

It was different from the long, drawn-out drone of a Buddhist monk chanting sutras. It was more like a rambling murmur in a language no one understood anymore, like a traveler asking a mountain god for directions.

As he chanted, the old man moved.

He took his first step... and then his seventh. The old man raised his Peach Wood Sword and slashed at the night sky.

At that moment, the lantern’s flame leaped.

The lantern was hanging from a nearby tree branch, and the night wind had been blowing steadily.

But this time it jumped violently. The wick suddenly shrank and then flared, the flame turning from orange-yellow to a pale cyan. It lasted for less than a breath before returning to normal.

The old man didn’t stop. He continued his steps, his chant, and his slashes at the night sky with his sword.

With each step he took, the three sheets of Talisman Paper on the ground trembled faintly, as if something were trying to tear them away.

The clod of earth weighting them down rolled away, but the Talisman Paper didn’t fly off. It remained pressed firmly to the ground, as if held in place by an invisible force.

On his forty-ninth step, the old man stopped. He plunged the Peach Wood Sword into the ground, right in the center of the hut’s entrance. The blade sank half a foot into the earth, leaving only the hilt exposed.

He then pulled a red cloth from his jacket and tied it to the hilt.

The red cloth was faded and washed-out, its edges frayed. It was clearly an old item that had seen many years of use.

The old man straightened up and stared at the Peach Wood Sword for a long time.

Finally, he pulled a cigarette from his pocket, lit it, and took a deep drag, breathing the smoke out toward the night sky.

The smoke swirled upward in the lantern light before being scattered by the night wind.

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