The Blade-Wielding Legend

The damp fog lingers year-round, tightly entwining itself between the dark green mountain ridges and the deep valleys. Even at noon, the light appears dim and oppressive.

The paths grow increasingly narrow and rugged, flanked by towering ancient trees that block out the sky, their gnarly branches stretching like ghostly claws through the fog, casting eerie shadows.

The air is thick with the musty scent of decaying vegetation and the damp smell emerging from deep within the soil, occasionally mixed with a faint, elusive burnt smell wafting from the distant village.

A group of people trudged along the muddy mountain path.

Sha Lifei wiped the mist from his face, muttering under his breath, "Cursed ghostly place, not even a single bird call, utterly lifeless."

Saying that, he instinctively reached for the flintlock gun slung across his shoulder.

Wang Daoxuan, holding a turtle shell compass, frowned deeply, his fingertips gently tracing the surface, "This place is entrenched in evil qi, the earth vein is chaotic, there’s likely something amiss."

Indeed, when they reached a small village built against the cliff halfway up the mountain, they noticed something unusual.

The village was small, with only a few dozen households.

The wooden houses were low and dilapidated, many of the doors and windows haphazardly nailed shut with planks.

The crops in the fields were sparse and yellowing, a few emaciated chickens listlessly scratching at the dirt.

The strangest thing was the people.

At the village entrance, several raggedly dressed old farmers were squatting with tobacco pipes in hand. Upon seeing Li Yan and his group of outsiders, armed with swords and weary from travel, their eyes shifted away swiftly, filled with a numb fear and avoidance rather than wariness.

Even the children hid behind the adults, their faces pale, not daring to make a sound.

Kong Shangzhao stepped forward, speaking in fairly fluent dialect, inquiring about the route and supplies from a slightly dull-looking old man.

The old man’s eyes flickered, mumbling indistinctly, only vaguely pointing towards the direction of the Capital City, steadfastly refusing to mention anything about the village.

When Kong Shangzhao casually asked if things had been peaceful lately, the old man’s murky eyes suddenly contracted, his hand holding the tobacco pipe trembling slightly, shaking his head like a drum: "No...no! Our village is doing just fine, nobody’s gone missing!"

"It’s best for you gentlemen to... to keep moving!"

The few people around him also lowered their heads, as if touching on a taboo.

Li Yan watched with cold eyes, saying nothing.

Wang Daoxuan quietly approached an abandoned shrine by the village entrance.

Inside, an unknown divine statue was enshrined, already covered in cobwebs, yet in front of the divine platform lay some fresh, dark red-spotted glutinous rice balls and blood-stained coins.

He pinched a bit of soil and sniffed it, shaking his head slightly to Li Yan, muttering, "There’s a scent of blood, very faint, but fresh."

The group immediately understood, bypassing the village and camping on the mountainside.

After nightfall, the village’s eeriness peaked.

From deep within the village, which had been deathly silent during the day, came the muffled sound of drumbeats and a peculiar, seemingly weeping yet chanting monotone song.

The group silently investigated, only to find behind the village in a small clearing surrounded by rugged rocks, a bonfire was lit.

Under the firelight, dozens of villagers dressed in ragged white clothes, their faces painted with exaggerated vermillion oil paint, were performing an extremely bizarre dance around the fire.

Their movements were stiff and twisted, at times mimicking beasts on all fours, at others flapping like birds with their arms wide open, muttering words, their eyes vacant, as if pulled by invisible threads.

The shadows cast on the terrifying rocky walls seemed like a chaotic dance of demons.

"Heavenly Dog Festival..."

Kong Shangzhao crouched in the grass, his voice lowered, "Before coming here, I read about it in some Japanese miscellany, it’s a sinister rite praying for the Anma Tengu to grant power or wisdom. Usually, it involves living sacrifices, looking at this setup, I’m afraid..."

Before finishing his sentence, the drumbeats suddenly quickened!

Four robust villagers carried a young man to the bonfire, bound with hemp rope, a cloth stuffed in his mouth, his eyes filled with terrified despair.

At the edge of the clearing, an old samurai wearing a faded Array Feather Weave, with a tachi at his waist and a gaunt appearance, stepped out.

His eyes revealed fervor as he deeply bowed towards the direction of the bonfire and the eerie rocks, loudly proclaiming, "Esteemed Yamabushi! The last hapless descendant of the Yoshikawa Family offers a pure body in exchange for the strategy to protect the family’s honor! Begging for your mercy!"

Behind him followed several others dressed as similarly fallen samurai.

Each one looked tense yet hopeful.

"Ah——!"

A non-human scream filled with anger and pain echoed out of nowhere.

The shadows around the strange rock violently twisted and boiled.

The dense Yin Sha Qi turned into black mist, and a vague, gigantic phantom wearing a crimson mask, with a long nose and black wings on its back, flashed into sight.

However, before it could fully form, it quickly dissipated, leaving only a pungent sulfur smell, as a gust of Yin Wind swept past the bonfire, causing the flames to drop by half.

The elderly Yoshikawa samurai who presided over the ritual was struck hard, spitting out a mouthful of fresh blood, collapsing to the ground, his eyes filled with horror and despair:

"Divine... Divine Envoy..."

The household servants who had drawn their swords were also scared out of their wits, unable to hold their blades steady.

Clearly, this evil ritual ended in ultimate failure.

Li Yan and the others did not linger, swiftly leaving this valley filled with madness and despair.

As they exited the mountainous area and entered the relatively open river valley, they saw from a distance teams of mounted samurai in bright armor, waving banners with the Aoi crest, vigilantly patrolling the official road, their sharp eyes scanning every passerby, the atmosphere was murderous.

Occasionally, when ronin or merchants were checked, the slightest dissatisfaction would result in beating and kicking.

"It’s the Tokugawa’s forces,"

Kong Shangzhao whispered, pulling everyone into the woods by the roadside, "It seems the rumors are true; Toyotomi Hideyoshi is gravely ill, and various factions are already eager to make a move."

Sha Lifei looked at the distant, arrogant Tokugawa samurai, sneering: "Hah, this godforsaken place, it’s insane from top to bottom!"

His words brought nods of agreement from the others.

Along their journey, from the Ghost Soldiers’ camps at Tsushima Island, to the live sacrifices in the mountain villages, to the blatant power struggle before them, all evidenced this island nation, squeezed by ambition and evil spirits, was sliding into the abyss of chaos.

Several days later, the tall walls of the Capital City finally appeared on the horizon.

In name, this capital was far larger and more "flourishing" than any city they had encountered on their way.

However, when Li Yan and his group, following the crowd, passed through the Luocheng Gate into this thousand-year-old ancient city, they weren’t greeted by the grandeur reminiscent of the Golden Tang, but rather an extremely distorted, bizarre end-times scene.

On both sides of the street were lines of townhouses, silk shops, lacquerware stores, tea houses, bars, gambling houses bustling with patrons, the shouts of vendors, the sound of Sanmei Xian, and cheers blending into a deafening cacophony.

Courtiers, dressed in splendid Wu clothing, paraded through the streets in ox-drawn carts, ronin with swords lingered in bars, merchants fiddled with abacuses, and geisha fluttered fans with charming smiles.

On the surface, it seemed as if it were a time of peace and prosperity.

But Kong Shangzhao’s keen ears picked up another scene:

In the dark corners of the street, two ronin gulped down cheap sake, whispering fearfully:

"...Have you heard? There’s been more turmoil at Jule Mansion! The foot soldiers on night watch say that in the second half of the night, they can always hear someone dragging chains and crying in the corridors, shouting ’Injustice’... It’s Lord Hideyoshi’s Resentful Spirit!"

"Shush! Speak cautiously! Over by the Yakawa River, it’s even more sinister! A fisherman’s child was playing by the riverbank the evening before last and got dragged under by water weeds! When they fished him out... half his body was gone! They say it was a big group of River Monsters..."

"It’s not just River Monsters! At the Fujiwara Middle Minister’s House on Three Small Roads, just yesterday, their hundred-year-old old tea pot ’bang’ cracked open on its own, and a one-eyed Iron Rat jumped out, biting straight through the steward’s arm! If it weren’t for the powerful high monk they invited..."

"Ah, this Capital City... it’s too full of resentment."

Wang Daoxuan took out a Compass for a look, light flashing in his eyes: "Mr. Kong heard correctly. Above this city, resentment churns like lead clouds, mingling with a variety of chaotic evil spirit auras, filthy beyond measure. The Dragon Vein has been severely polluted."

As if to confirm his words, a shrill scream and a commotion suddenly erupted from the main street ahead!

A young courtier in lavish clothing, bloodshot eyes, looking mad, was wildly swinging a gorgeously decorated Tachi, hacking around on the street!

In the blink of an eye, the street turned into utter chaos...

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