"His Majesty!!"
The guards of Duan Zhengming stood frozen in shock as they watched the man in white whisk their emperor away right before their eyes.
By the time they regained their senses, Duan Zhengming had already disappeared into the forest.
"After him! Capture him!"
The guard captain roared in fury, rallying his men.
They charged after the figure... only to be met by a flash of dazzling sword light.
The soldiers at the front collapsed to the ground, cut down before they even had time to scream.
A deep gully split the earth before the remaining troops, its sheer depth stopping them in their tracks.
Their hands trembled on their weapons.
They raised their eyes cautiously.
On the treetops above, a woman in white stood poised, sword drawn, veil fluttering in the night breeze.
It was Wang Yuyan.
She said coolly, "Anyone who crosses that line will be killed without mercy."
Her voice was as beautiful as her appearance—elegant, graceful—
but there was no mistaking the lethal threat behind her words.
The flower was beautiful, but the flower was deadly.
The captain gritted his teeth and forced himself to ask,
"Fairy, may I ask—who is your young master? Why has he captured our emperor?"
Wang Yuyan replied calmly,
"You don't need to know.
But rest assured—we won't kill him."
Their goal was not to create chaos.
It was to control Dali quietly.
As long as Duan Zhengming lived—and became a believer—the rest would follow easily.
The captain turned back to his men and whispered, "Go notify the prince. The rest of you surround the mountain. No matter who this demoness is, we cannot let her escape!"
"Yes!"
The soldiers scattered in every direction.
Though they spoke softly, nothing escaped Wang Yuyan's sharp senses.
She heard every word—but merely smiled coldly.
Rescuers?
What could they possibly do?
They were masters commanding over a thousand elite fighters.
Even if Dali brought a hundred thousand troops, they wouldn't be afraid.
———
Meanwhile, Duan Zhengming had already been brought before Murong Fu.
Looking at the young man before him, Duan Zhengming's heart grew heavy.
This youth—barely more than a boy—already possessed such terrifying strength.
If only he had walked the righteous path...
What a pity.
But reality offered no time for regrets.
"Duan Zhengming," Murong Fu said lightly,
"You don't need to fear.
I have not brought you here to overthrow Dali, nor to take your life."
"Then why?"
Duan Zhengming snapped, his voice full of suspicion.
Tianlong Temple had been destroyed—there was not a Buddha statue left standing—and now he was a prisoner.
Who could believe there were no dark intentions?
Murong Fu didn't bother explaining.
He simply drew his sword, leaned forward slightly, and vanished from sight.
The next moment, Duan Zhengming witnessed something he would never forget:
A towering cliff, tens of meters high, was sliced cleanly apart by a single sword strike.
The rock face crumbled into rubble.
Murong Fu returned to stand before him, his breathing steady, his face composed, as if he had merely waved his hand.
Duan Zhengming's legs buckled.
He dropped to his knees.
His lips trembled as he forced out,
"Murong Fu... whatever you desire, just spare my people! Speak your demands!"
Facing such inhuman power, what choice did he have?
In Dali, there were few—if any—who could match this man.
Murong Fu smiled.
"A wise man submits to fate.
I ask very little, Duan Zhengming.
Today, your Dali Kingdom shall renounce its Buddhist faith."
He leaned forward slightly, voice low and forceful.
"From this day onward, you will revere the Eternal God.
Gather all rare treasures and riches to build an altar.
Prepare the sacrifice for my god."
Duan Zhengming swallowed.
"...I will have it arranged immediately."
Faith?
Buddhism?
What was the use of prayers when death was at the doorstep?
Facing Murong Fu's terrifying strength, Duan Zhengming no longer hesitated.
All he wanted was to keep his people alive.
Yet in the back of his mind, a sliver of defiance remained.
He secretly dispatched men to Shaolin Temple, begging for help.
Surely the revered monks of Shaolin—and the heroes of the martial world—would not let this madman run rampant for long.
As for Duan Zhengchun, who led troops to reinforce Tianlong Temple that same day—
his fate was no different.
He was swiftly defeated and imprisoned.
Inside the royal palace, Murong Fu now sat leisurely in the emperor's dragon throne.
He raised his goblet and toasted Duan Zhengming, who sat opposite him with a forced smile.
"Your Majesty," Murong Fu said lightly,
"what materials are available in your treasury to build the altar? Best prepare them soon."
Duan Zhengming nodded hurriedly.
"I will have my ministers prepare gold and silver jewelry, rare treasures—whatever you require."
Murong Fu's eyes gleamed.
"Very good.
But remember—my god values sincerity above all.
Empty your treasury.
Gather every scrap of gold, jade, and precious gems.
The fifteenth day of this month shall be our day of sacrifice."
Today was only the fifth.
There were ten days left.
It would be enough to build a modest altar.
That night, as Murong Fu meditated in his chambers, Feng Bo'e hurried in with news.
"My lord," he said excitedly,
"the Duan family really has sent men to seek help! What are your orders?"
Murong Fu opened his eyes, and his lips curved into a sneer.
"From today onward, call me Divine Envoy—not Young Master Murong."
"Yes, Divine Envoy!"
"As for their pitiful rescue plans..."
He laughed, shaking his head.
"What good are those chickens and dogs?
Shaolin monks? Heroes of the martial world?
They will kneel before my god all the same."
Ever since witnessing Li Shimin soar on a sword, and others burning down mountains or transforming into dragons—Murong Fu had cast aside all doubts.
He would follow the Eternal God without hesitation.
Strength was all that mattered.
However, there was still one minor problem:
Sacrifices.
Animals like pigs and cows were too common.
Real treasures were still rare in this world.
Murong Fu tapped his fingers against the armrest, deep in thought.
Perhaps he should gather beauties from the region instead.
Offer them to the god as tribute.
After all, even Li Shimin had sacrificed his own sister.
Compared to that, what was a mere cousin?
Murong Fu's eyes gleamed coldly.
He would make sure this sacrifice was worthy—and in return, he would rise above all.