Chapter 20: The Demon’s Power Soars to the Heavens

The young woman was utterly stunned. It was as if her body had been doused in powerful glue—only her eyes could still blink, and she was incapable of anything else.

In the darkness, a streak of blue-violet comet arced across the sky, circling beside Wen Jinge, hovering for a long while as if confirming something, before finally settling precisely into her hand.

“So it really is,” Wen Jinge chuckled.

The young woman, on the other hand, burst into tears.

Wen Jinge had used the scale given by the Sacred Light Riven Python; now, she too would become the master of this night.

The world was once again rendered in black, white, and gray, and Wen Jinge at last saw what lay upon the ground.

It was not snow at all, but swarms of red insects, resembling the sacred scarabs of Egyptian myth, writhing across the ground. Fortunately, the sword had already carried Wen Jinge into the sky.

As for the young woman, she was nothing but rosy-pink bones, her deep eye sockets crawling with worms.

Wen Jinge glanced at her empty hand. Weren’t these insects supposed to be cold-blooded? Why, then, did they feel warm?

“So, it’s this face my lord favors. If only you’d said so earlier, I wouldn’t have gone to such lengths to win your affection.” Forced by Wen Jinge, the young woman revealed her soul form, drifting out from the skeleton.

“I liked you better a moment ago—the tangible you,” Wen Jinge replied coldly. “Are you of the demon race?”

“Yes, indeed!”

“Sealed here by someone?”

“It’s easy talking to someone as clever as you. I speak, and you understand everything at once.”

“I’m not your lord,” Wen Jinge denied.

“If you didn’t care for me, you could have just said so—why make sport of me? Men, truly…”

“I’m not a man.”

The young woman: …

“I’m a eunuch.”

The expression on her face was a spectacle in itself; she laughed in exasperation. “I, a proud saintess of the demon clan, have been toyed with all this time by a eunuch!”

“No!” Wen Jinge took a step back, still serious, and clutched her stomach. “I was born this way.”

“You! You! You!” The demon saintess sucked in a sharp breath, never before having encountered such shameless, brazen roguery. “I, the Northern Demon—”

“Demon Bell!” Wen Jinge kindly reminded her, seeing she was too angry to speak, even humming a little tune in rhythm. “Good morning… Lingling, bell bell bell~”

“You, you, you!” The Northern Demon Bell drew a tambourine from her back, shaking it angrily. “So you know my title, yet you’re so arrogant? Today, I’ll teach you a lesson you won’t forget.”

Wen Jinge paused. Only a fool wouldn’t have guessed by now.

In this world, the demon clan dwelled in the desolate northern wastes, where ten thousand miles lay locked in ice, nothing but endless tundra.

She was a demon, tambourine in hand—what else could she be called but the Northern Demon Bell?

“No, no, I didn’t know,” Wen Jinge stroked the demon sword in her hand, cleared her throat, and after careful thought, declared, “What I mean is, you’re not worth me knowing. Because, among all those present—”

Though the ground was a sea of insects, Wen Jinge felt several gazes fixed upon her, making her uneasy. “You, and the rest of them, are all trash!”

“Form the array!” Northern Demon Bell gave a command, and the insects scattered, condensing at the four directions into human-shaped cocoons, growing larger and larger.

Wen Jinge kept a wary eye on both the cocoons and the sword she held.

A sword possesses a spirit.

As its master’s strength grows, so too does the sword spirit’s will.

But a demon sword is different; it carries a hint of wickedness, more belligerent than ordinary blades.

A fine sword must be tempered.

The reason the original “Wen Jinge” left it by the Sacred Light Riven Python was likely because the killing intent within the realm of illusions was perfect for sharpening a sword.

“Did your master ever name you?” she asked.

Below, the insect cocoons began to crack, splitting with jagged fissures.

Creak, crack.

The demon sword trembled, but Wen Jinge did not look; her curious gaze remained fixed on the increasingly fiendish Northern Demon Bell.

“For this setting… if you were called Demon Zither, it would suit my tastes.” Wen Jinge spread her fingers, slipped off the prayer beads that suppressed her cultivation, and conjured a prosthetic finger with spiritual energy. “With a demon zither, call me the Zither Demon. Now, I am the legendary Six-Fingered Zither Demon.”

The demon sword buzzed loudly, flickering with blue-violet light, forcing Wen Jinge to glance down.

She was stunned.

The words “Demon Zither” were engraved on the blade, exactly where the “Gouchen” sword bore its inscription at Ten-Thousand-Fathom Peak.

Clearly, the name had been chosen long ago.

A strange feeling welled up in Wen Jinge’s heart once more…

Northern Demon Bell stood at the center of the array, her gaze suddenly shifting. She sensed that this unremarkable person before her now exuded a powerful presence, her cultivation soaring.

East, south, west, and north—the four cocoons burst open.

To the east was a monk, kindly faced but with a darkened brow, chanting scriptures under his breath.

To the south stood a Daoist, his robe filthy and beard sparse, cradling a handful of lamp oil in his arms.

To the west, a drunkard, clothes in disarray and eyes bloodshot, guzzling wine straight from the jug.

To the north, a scholar, immaculately dressed and dignified, yet clutching a wooden fish, tapping it absently.

“East against west, south against north, a wine-soaked monk, a fallen Daoist.” Wen Jinge smirked playfully. “But is that all? I hear many voices—surely there are more than these?”

Northern Demon Bell, never pausing in her anger, waved a hand. “These are more than enough for you!”

“Not nearly enough!” Wen Jinge wagged a finger, not as a provocation, but because her body now felt as boundless as it had when she fought Shan Hongxing.

Then, she’d meant to lose, never expecting her own body to act as a bottomless pit, drawing on all the power within several miles. Had Shan Hongxing not arranged the array to draw lightning, she might never have stopped.

It was then she realized something was wrong with this body. Killing opponents of a higher level left her drained for days, because her foundation was insufficient.

The previous Wen Jinge’s cultivation must have been terrifying, for after lying in bed for half a day, her strength was still at zero, yet she could move about like an ordinary person. But why did everyone else think she was merely a third-rank, able to surpass only the second?

What was she hiding?

In some fantasy tales, the protagonist’s lost cultivation is given to the sword spirit in their mind. Perhaps “Nonexistent” was that sword spirit.

Could “Nonexistent” have been created by Wen Jinge herself, as a reminder to complete some task?

Any spirit form risks being devoured, especially before great monsters and demons, so “Nonexistent” separated from her.

“Benevolent one! Turn back before it’s too late. Amitabha.”

As Wen Jinge waited for them to unleash their ultimate moves, brooding over her past, she was interrupted and grew impatient. “So, have you turned to demonhood because you did turn back?”

The monk: …

“Fellow Daoist, wait!”

“What are you trying to say?” Wen Jinge picked at her ear. Two can play at word games.

“A foot of Buddha, a yard of Dao.”

She blew on her sixth finger. “Got it.”

“Fellow Daoist…”

“So demons are ten thousand yards high, then.”

The Daoist: …