Chapter 21: You Brought This Upon Yourself

"Next!" Wen Jinge waved her hand dismissively. Pathetic—what were these paltry tricks supposed to be? If someone wanted to become her heart demon and exhaust her here, they’d need the permission of the former Wen Jinge at the very least. With such a strong body and resilient frame, unless “Wen Jinge” herself took possession again, there was nothing anyone could do to her.

“Don’t get cocky!” Bei Moling snapped. “Wait until you know who they all are! I’ll see if you dare act so arrogant then!”

“No, no, I’m not arrogant! I’m just this strong.” Wen Jinge rubbed her temples. “Arrogant would be more like—like this. Woof! Woof! Woof!”

Bei Moling felt she was about to go mad. She bitterly regretted not leaving her true body behind—if only she were here in person! If Wen Jinge dared utter a single “no,” she’d have snuffed her out on the spot. How had she fallen so low, to be bullied like a tiger trapped by dogs?

“All together now!”

“Wait!” Wen Jinge stopped her.

“Oh! Are you scared?” Bei Moling brightened a little. This foolish girl was finally afraid. So what if her cultivation had improved? In the end, she was still a coward!

“Let me put on some earplugs—I’m afraid you’ll be too noisy.” Wen Jinge plugged her ears, hugged her demon lyre-sword, and closed her eyes. “Go ahead, then!”

The drunk: …

The scholar: …

The monk: …

The Taoist: …

“East, south, west, north wind—mahjong!”

Bei Moling: …

“She can’t hear us now. All together!” Bei Moling ordered.

“Yes, by your command, Saintess!” The four responded in unison, advancing on Wen Jinge—but just then, Wen Jinge suddenly opened her eyes.

Bei Moling froze, a bad premonition rising in her chest, but she couldn’t falter. “What are you all waiting for?!”

“Yes.”

The drunk hurled his wine jug; the spilled liquor turned to icy needles, flying at Wen Jinge. The scholar pointed at his scroll; characters leapt from the page, forming spears that shot toward her. The monk closed his eyes, chanting as he produced a wooden fish; green smoke billowed from his face as sonic waves rippled out. The Taoist cradled a flickering lantern, scattering firelight that fell across the dark sky like shooting stars. The witch shook her drum, bells jingling in time with the pounding, echoing a heartbeat…

Everything was in place.

But, quite inconveniently, at the moment of crisis—

Wen Jinge vanished.

Or rather, the Wen Jinge who had been speaking with them had only ever been a mirage.

“Despicable!” Bei Moling cursed viciously. She was a saintess of the demon clan—when had she ever suffered such repeated humiliation? Whether it was Wen Jinge or that unseen junior disciple, she would see them both dead!

“If I may say so, that’s one of my finer qualities.” The voice came from all directions. The five demons looked around warily, but still could not spot Wen Jinge.

“Hiding and skulking—how dare you call yourself righteous?”

“A happy coincidence.” Wen Jinge teased. “I’m known in the martial world as the Six-Fingered Demon Lyrist, and I wield a demon sword. When was I ever righteous?”

“Aren’t you a disciple here for the trial?” Bei Moling frowned. Could her information be wrong?

She had acted only because she knew disciples of the Xuan Yun Sect would come for the trial, and that the natural sword embryo among them was the perfect vessel for the previous demon lord’s soul. She had risked exposure to deploy her sealed incarnation here.

But this person—shameless, underhanded, wielding a demon sword—could it be some other demon had beaten Xuan Yun Sect to the prize?

“I am now.” Wen Jinge tore through the darkness, deliberately displaying her sixth finger, and lovingly caressed her demon lyre-sword. “Once my business is done, I won’t be.”

“You know the demon lord is about to return?”

“I don’t.” Wen Jinge grinned broadly, her two big white teeth at odds with her sallow, thin face. “Wherever there’s a spectacle, you’ll find me, the Six-Fingered Demon Lyrist. I love nothing more than a lively scene. Do you think I chose a good-looking body, miss?”

Bei Moling’s expression hardened. All five of them were injured to varying degrees; ice needles and the scholar’s spear still jutted from Bei Moling’s back. Luckily, she was in soul form now, and the pain would pass. The monk, who looked as if misfortune had clouded his brow, was now dark as night, stuck full of icy needles, a glowing little black figure. The Taoist fared no better: hair wild, black smoke wound around his neck, his flesh barely hanging together. The scholar was worse still, blood streaming from every orifice, all dignity lost, his own spear impaled in his side. The drunk stared wide-eyed, unwilling, his corpse bristling with his own icy needles.

In this world of darkness, Wen Jinge had replaced the tree that stood before—any harm meant for her had rebounded onto her enemies and their weapons. Only the drunk and the scholar had strong enough cultivation to make a fight of it, but they were now dead beyond any hope.

Wen Jinge was relieved—thank goodness she’d used Qiao Yu as a weapon and thrown him out.

“If you’re a demon, why make things hard for me? I’m the demon clan’s saintess!”

“When did I ever say I was a demon?”

“You—!”

“Is that the only word you know?” Wen Jinge, growing bored, thought she’d tarried here long enough. She still had to find Qiao Yu—who knew if that kid had managed to escape?

Bei Moling knew she couldn’t run. Her powers were useless in this land of darkness; otherwise, she wouldn’t have been so quick to summon the souls of fallen demon cultivators to her aid. If she hadn’t escaped injury before, she certainly couldn’t now, not with the rest so gravely wounded.

“You can’t kill me. If you do, you’ll never have peace!”

“I know who you are, but that means nothing to me. I promised to send you home.” The demon lyre rose, about to strike, when Bei Moling cried, “If you kill me, they’ll die too!”

“As if not killing you would let them live. Aren’t they all dead already?”

“No, it’s not the same.” Bei Moling shook her head. “They’re all from the orthodox sects, forced into my demon cult. This place was erected for them.”

“What does that have to do with me?” Wen Jinge’s indifference was absolute, her blade poised to fall.

“It does—if their souls disperse, the seal on this place will break!”

“Still not my concern. I do love a good commotion, though!” Wen Jinge pursed her lips, her brow knitting. “You’re a strange one—concerned about the orthodox sect’s barrier breaking, just so I don’t send you home. Am I really so shameful to be seen with?”

Bei Moling’s lips trembled. This person was impervious to reason; she was at a loss for words.

“In any case, you can’t kill me! If you do, the demon realm, the human realm, and the orthodox sects will all be plunged into chaos! You cannot strike first!” she screamed hysterically.

“Oh.” Wen Jinge nodded with feigned understanding. She sheathed her demon lyre-sword, though she was itching for a fight.

“Look at me!” She spun her fingers, lifting Bei Moling’s soul. “Ugly, am I?”

Bei Moling couldn’t guess her intentions. She shook her head, then nodded.

“I never lie.” Wen Jinge closed her eyes. To Bei Moling’s shock, the demon lyre appeared in her own hands.

And now, she was wielding the demon lyre-sword, stabbing toward Wen Jinge. “No!”

“I didn’t kill you! You brought this on yourself!”