Chapter Sixty-Two: The Purple Blossom

This was Steward Liu’s famed technique, the Spatial Soul-Extinguishing Palm. Just wait for your death. And as for your detestable sister, I’ll make sure she neither lives nor dies with ease. Zichen Yu pinched Li Zihong’s cheek.

At the mention of his sister, Dao Sansheng’s hand seals shifted rapidly. Suddenly, the Dao Sansheng who had been trapped split into two, four, eight, sixteen… In another moment, the entire arena was filled with Dao Sansheng’s figures, each one shouting in unison, “Thousand Shadows, Myriad Forms.”

Faced with over a hundred identical figures, Steward Liu could no longer distinguish the real Dao Sansheng. Yet, every cultivator knew that with such techniques, only one was real—the others were mere illusions. Once he unleashed his attack, the genuine one would surely be exposed.

As he prepared his technique, the black vortex in Steward Liu’s hand began to glow, shooting straight at the crowd of Dao Sanshengs. This time, however, he had miscalculated. Not a single one of those hundreds of figures shattered; each was solid, each fought back with their own techniques.

The enormous palm descended from the sky, and all the figures vanished into thin air. The palm, formed of condensed spiritual energy, was shattered by Steward Liu’s strike. After unleashing such a powerful technique, Steward Liu found his spiritual energy nearly depleted.

But then, something unexpected happened. The figure just dispersed reappeared behind Zichen Yu, clothes torn, blood trickling from the corner of his mouth—a sign of severe injury.

The Thousand Shadows, Myriad Forms technique—every shadow is the true body. So long as one escapes, survival is assured. Yet, if only one escapes, the user pays dearly, their cultivation gravely diminished, much of their vital essence lost.

A gleaming dagger pressed against Zichen Yu’s throat. On the other side, the exhausted Steward Liu was still swallowing a pill. The milky-white pill had barely entered his mouth when a shrill scream startled him so much that he spat it out.

He knew this voice all too well—the young master he had served since childhood. Whenever that demon wailed like this, it meant trouble for him; misery was sure to follow. The scream made him jump in fright.

Just as he spat out the pill, Steward Liu turned and saw the flash of the dagger and that familiar face—the brat was still alive. He was a master at the peak of Foundation Establishment; even an ordinary attack should have been enough to kill that boy. Yet, after unleashing the Spatial Soul-Extinguishing Palm, the boy still survived. Even among Foundation Establishment experts, few could escape.

“You’re still alive? Still alive…” Steward Liu stammered, terror etched on his face. Was this brat merely playing the fool, waiting to strike? Had he and his master finally encountered a true nemesis? Probing with his spiritual sense again, he confirmed—the boy was only at the eighth level of Qi Refinement.

“Steward Liu, save me! If I die, my father will skin you alive, tear out your tendons, and use your soul as a lamp to torment you forever!” Steward Liu’s forehead broke out in a cold sweat, his teeth chattering uncontrollably.

The gleaming dagger in Dao Sansheng’s hand pressed tightly to Zichen Yu’s throat. The icy blade made Zichen Yu’s nerves taut with fear. As the blade slid along his neck, even the fine hairs were shaved off, and Zichen Yu burst into tears.

“If you mention skinning and tendon-pulling again, I’ll show you how it’s done—right here, right now.”

Utterly terrified, Zichen Yu collapsed limply to the ground, dropping Li Zihong, who he had been holding, in the process. Li Zihong scrambled up, darting behind Dao Sansheng; the heat of the battle had finally restored her senses.

Clutched in Zichen Yu’s hand was a jade pendant, which he crushed. A beam of purple light shot into the sky, blossoming into a purple flower that stood out even in broad daylight, drawing the attention of everyone in the city.

Within the Zi family, one of the three great clans, chaos erupted. Everyone rushed to check the ancestral hall's soul lanterns and soul jades for their younger generation.

Zi Fancheng sat in the seat of honor, sipping tea and consoling a distraught woman. She wore a long red robe, her eyes darting anxiously as she paced the hall, muttering, "Please, let Zichen Yu be safe… please, let nothing happen…"

“My dear, don’t worry. Apart from his daily revelry, Zichen Yu never gets involved in anything else—he doesn’t dare to. He’s never caused me any trouble. It’s always the children of the second and third branches, fighting and hunting spirit beasts all day; Zichen Yu is much better than them,” Zi Fancheng reassured her.

Only then did her anxious heart settle a little. Zi Fancheng had always believed his son, though somewhat spoiled, would never provoke serious trouble, let alone put his life at risk.

The household was in an uproar. The search began with the soul lanterns and tablets of the collateral branches. An event threatening the Zi family hadn’t occurred in a hundred years.

As the search worked inward, they found the soul tablet bearing Zichen Yu’s name fractured, covered in cracks. A wave of panic swept over everyone.

“Master, something terrible has happened!” A servant dashed in, but hadn’t even reached the door before stumbling to the ground.

“Look at yourself—what a disgraceful panic! Is it the second branch, the third, or one of our collateral relatives?” Zi Fancheng feigned anger, scolding the servant. These country bumpkins, unused to real crises, always lost their heads like this.

The servant crawled up, trembling with fear, and whispered the name. “Reporting to the family head—it's the young master. The young master…”

He lay flat on the floor, not daring to move, awaiting the master’s response.

“Say it again—louder. Whose name?” Zi Fancheng roared.

“It’s Zichen Yu, the young master!”

The words had barely left his mouth when the woman beside him fainted. Several servants rushed to her side.

“Madam, madam…” they called, shaking her, but she remained unresponsive.

Zi Fancheng hurried over, pushing the servants aside, and shouted her name. “Ling’er, wake up! Wake up!” He scooped her into his arms and carried her away, the servants trailing behind as they left the hall.

The other two branches, having checked their soul lanterns and tablets, found everything intact and began to calm down.

Carrying his wife toward the bedroom, Zi Fancheng ordered his people to send message talismans to the other two families, summoning them for urgent talks.

In Zi Immortal City, message talismans fluttered through the air. The entire city was sealed—no one allowed in or out. Such an event hadn’t happened in decades; the last city-wide lockdown was fifty years ago, when someone stole an item from the Zi Immortal Palace. The family sealed the city and, within three hours, caught the thief. He was strung up on the city wall, his spiritual energy drained until he died under the sun.

A group was just about to leave through the city gate when it slammed shut. The city guards brandished magical artifacts, pushing the crowd back. A little girl fell and was nearly trampled, but an elderly man pulled her up in time, saving her from disaster.