Chapter 81: The Duel of Magic

His face turned ashen, and the speech he had prepared was stuck in his throat. He could only manage a few gurgling sounds.

Protector Liu took a few steps back, then mustered his courage and shouted, “Heretic Daoist, don’t be so arrogant! The Heavenly Maiden of our holy cult is the earthly incarnation of the daughter of the Great Emperor of Mount Tai. Her magical powers are boundless. Your petty tricks are nothing—”

Although he was shouting at the top of his lungs, his voice didn’t carry far in the open wilderness. It was hoarse and strained, sounding desperate and exasperated.

“Hahahahahaha…”

Zhang Yingchen’s laughter, amplified by the speakers, immediately drowned out Protector Liu’s voice. Even those standing right next to Liu couldn’t hear him anymore; they could only see his mouth opening and closing like a dying fish.

A wave of unease spread through the cultists. Seeing their Protector’s face turn pale, unable to even speak under the opponent’s “Lion’s Roar,” they were terrified. They all looked to the Saintess, hoping she would use her powers to suppress the “heretic Daoist’s” arrogance.

However, the Saintess’s power relied on a set of sleight-of-hand tricks she had practiced since childhood. Larger “performances” required a team and props. They hadn’t had time to make such preparations. Besides, they had brought the Saintess along mainly to boost the refugees’ morale and incite them to charge the Cloud Ascension Temple. They believed that with tens of thousands of people rushing forward, the temple would be annihilated, and the heretic Daoist Zhang, no matter how skilled, would be forced to flee in panic. They had never expected to engage in a “duel of magic” and certainly hadn’t brought any cumbersome props.

Zhang Yingchen gave them no time to deliberate. He struck while the iron was hot, shouting, “Audacious heretic, falsely claiming to be a Heavenly Maiden! I see you are an ignorant woman, misled by heretics, who has strayed onto the wrong path and is being used to deceive the good people. You were destined to suffer the endless flames of karma, but I, the True Man, possess the virtue of cherishing life. If you kneel and convert to my teachings immediately, I will absolve you of your sins. Not only that, but I will also save all the starving people on this land!”

A stir went through the refugees kneeling on the ground. To them, a fight between immortals was none of their business. Whether True Man Zhang was a heretic was irrelevant. What mattered was getting something to eat.

As if to prove his words, the human wall on the earthen dike parted, revealing rows of large cauldrons, already bubbling with hot steam. The aroma of food wafted over.

The kneeling refugees grew restless.

Protector Liu, seeing that his every attempt to speak was suppressed by the heretic’s “Lion’s Roar,” was filled with a mixture of anger, fear, and hatred. The refugees were wavering, and he couldn’t rely on the “Saintess.” As he stood there helplessly, the heretic’s deafening voice boomed again:

“All you heretics, kneel and convert now!”

This shout was ear-splitting. It made Protector Liu’s ears ring and his head spin, and he almost lost his footing. In an instant, a dozen cultists, their faces ashen, fell to their knees.

Panicked, he roared, “Everyone, charge—”

Before he could finish, the fly-whisk pointed at him. Seven or eight rifle bullets were fired simultaneously. Protector Liu was hit by several shots, blood spraying from his wounds. He tumbled from the palanquin and rolled into the trench.

A few of Protector Liu’s loyal followers rushed to rescue him, but they were shot down by the rifles and fell dead at the bottom of the trench.

“All you heretics, kneel and convert now!”

Zhang Yingchen roared again. The remaining cultists all dropped to their knees. The burly men carrying the Saintess’s palanquin lowered it and prostrated themselves on the ground, not daring to look up.

Finally, only the lone Saintess was left standing, either frozen in fear or unsure of how to react. Zhang Yingchen’s gaze fell upon her. With a silent sigh, he pointed his fly-whisk.

The assault on the Cloud Ascension Temple by tens of thousands of refugees came to an end. In this contest on the plains of southern Shandong, Zhang Yingchen’s new Daoism had once again triumphed through technology and organization. The tens of thousands of surviving refugees and hundreds of cultists became captives under Zhang Yingchen’s “boundless magical power.”

Zhang Yingchen stood on the high platform, watching as the refugees passed in batches through the narrow path over the trench and into the refugee camp. The followers of the new Daoism formed a welcoming line on the dike. Those entering had to leave behind any wooden sticks, farm tools, or other potential weapons, but could keep their other belongings. They then walked to the dozen large cauldrons on the dike to receive a wooden bowl, into which someone would ladle a spoonful of hot gruel—much thicker than the gruel in the Pot and Jar Array.

The gruel was provided in unlimited amounts, but each person received only one bowl at a time, just enough to keep them alive. The Daoist priest couldn’t afford more. With tens of thousands of new mouths to feed, his grain reserves were stretched thin. Even by adding more water, he could only last for a week. He had to wait for Wang Ruixiang to bring back the new relief supplies as soon as possible.

The miserable state of the refugees this time moved even Zhang Yingchen, who was accustomed to famine. They had traveled hundreds of miles in the dead of winter in search of survival. He didn’t need to ask to imagine the horrific scenes of corpses littering the roads along their journey.

After all those who could walk had been taken in, the militiamen and cultists went out to search for survivors among those lying on the snowy ground. They worked in groups of three: two to carry a stretcher, and one carrying a wooden bucket full of gruel. They would kick anyone they saw. If there was a response, they would quickly pour some gruel down the person’s throat and carry them back on a stretcher. If there was no movement, they were left for the corpse-disposal team. Many people collapsed on the snow, never to rise again.

After drinking their gruel, the refugees were settled into the camp. Some pit-dwellings had been vacated by the last group that left, but it was far from enough for the massive number of new arrivals. Zhang Yingchen ordered bonfires to be lit to provide warmth for those sleeping in the open.

“At least a few hundred will die tonight,” Ye Mengyan said as he came down from the watchtower, looking at the crowd slowly moving into the camp.

“Many of the elderly and children probably won’t make it through,” Zhang Yingchen said. He had taken off his lotus crown—it was too cold—and replaced it with a cotton hat. “And some have injuries or illnesses. Luckily, the cold reduces the risk of infection.”

As they were talking, two militiamen carried a person past them. His head and face were covered in blood-stained gruel, frozen in some places. Zhang Yingchen recognized him as the man he had seen in his telescope who had leaped into the gruel pot, and he couldn’t help but take a second look.

At that moment, Xiao Chu Ba groggily regained consciousness. His “heroic feat” had brought him nothing but numerous cuts and bruises on his head, shoulders, and arms. After diving into the pot, he had been knocked unconscious. If others hadn’t found his head an obstruction and pulled him out, he would have drowned in the gruel.

If a member of the collection team hadn’t kicked his injured, severed finger, causing a jolt of pain that woke him up, he would have frozen and starved to death in the wilderness.

Now, with gruel in his stomach and a straw mat for a blanket, his body warmed up, and he gradually came to his senses.

He opened his eyes and saw a young Daoist in a crane-feather cloak looking down at him with a serene expression and an air of immortal grace. His stomach no longer felt empty, and his body was no longer cold. He thought he had died and entered a paradise.

“Where… is this place?” he asked in a murmur.

“This is the Cloud Ascension Temple,” Zhang Yingchen said with a look of profound compassion. “You have escaped the inescapable hell of the heretics. Repeat after me: Supreme Daoist Jewel Heavenly Lord…”

Xiao Chu Ba was mentally and physically exhausted and didn’t fully understand, but whether he was alive or dead, he had finally escaped his suffering. He closed his eyes and began to murmur, “Supreme Daoist Jewel Heavenly Lord.”

As for the several hundred captured Namo Amitabha cultists, Zhang Yingchen gave them a choice: they could stay or leave. Those willing to convert to the new Daoism would remain to perform labor and undergo “thought reform.” Those unwilling were free to go. However, he gave them a stern warning: “If I find out that any of you have returned to the path of heresy, I will ensure you suffer a terrible death and are condemned to the eternal flames of karma!”

These words terrified those who had planned to leave. They pointed to the heavens and swore on the earth that they would live as law-abiding citizens from now on and would never again follow the cult.

Two-thirds of the captured cultists left, but Zhang Yingchen was not concerned. Many of them were core members of the Namo Amitabha Cult, some with families under the cult’s control. Forcing them to convert immediately was both unrealistic and would plant hidden dangers within his own flock. Unlike the refugees who owed him their lives, their loyalty was highly questionable.

Those who stayed were mostly attendants of the Saintess and the Protector. With both their leaders dead, they would face severe punishment from the Outer Dharma Hall if they returned. Their only option was to seek refuge with the new Daoism. Lei Zilin thus “converted.” As for Wang Xing, he had not only “failed in his duty” but had also lost all hope in the Namo Amitabha Cult. Although he was reluctant to take orders from the new Daoism, in this icy, famine-stricken land, without the support of the refugees he had failed to incite, leading his few dozen followers as bandits would only mean freezing and starving to death. So, he had to “convert.”

“True Man! The bodies of the two heretics have been brought here. Please inspect them!” a cultist reported.

“Little Ye, let’s go take a look,” Zhang Yingchen said.

“What’s there to see in dead people?” Ye Mengyan said dismissively. “But Daoist Priest, you are quite ruthless.”

“It’s not that I’m ruthless, but the situation left me no choice,” Zhang Yingchen said with a slight sigh.

“…Many years later, I still remember Daoist Priest Fu’s desolate expression at that moment. He glanced at the corpses on the ground, his eyes a mixture of pity and mockery, then instantly became firm. He turned his head slightly and said to me, ‘A revolution is not a dinner party.’ Then he turned back to look at the bodies scattered outside the trench, as if deep in thought. He stood there for a long time, unmoving, leaving me with only the image of his desolate back…”