Chapter 548: Who Is the Daoist
Chapter 550: Who Is the Daoist
The sky dimmed; evening glow spilled down.
A streak of dusk’s leftover light fell upon that eerie Daoist, giving off the sallow hue of a corpse.
Mo Hua’s breath hitched, his heart pounding wildly.
Though he had never seen this Daoist before, this aura… he knew it all too well.
The resurrected Great Demon Feng Xi of Tōngxiān City.
The King of Ten Thousand Corpses of Nanyue City, who had stepped half a step into Dao-Sin.
And that pitch-black, deathly figure that surfaced in his Sea of Consciousness whenever he recited that Dao-title…
Every trace of aura… identical.
Mo Hua trembled inside.
This man was the one his master forbade him from thinking about, forbade him from mentioning—
the vicious, monstrous Daoist of the Demonic Sect…
The Strange Daoist!!
On the other side, the gathered Golden Core demonic cultivators, upon seeing this Daoist, wore expressions ranging from solemn to puzzled to outright scornful.
Not everyone among them knew the Strange Daoist.
But the old Blood-Robe Demon did.
He was the Holy Son’s servant—late-stage Golden Core, old in both age and experience. Though he had never witnessed it personally, he knew plenty of the Demonic Sect’s taboos.
The Strange Daoist…
The title “Daoist” was no trivial honor. One did not receive it merely from having high cultivation or heavy karmic slaughter.
Even more so when the bestowed title carried the character “Strange.”
The Blood-Robe Demon grew grave.
He didn’t know why the Strange Daoist had suddenly appeared at this time, nor what he intended. He cupped his hands:
“Senior…”
But the Strange Daoist acted as though he heard nothing. His steps—one deep, one shallow—continued wobbling toward the crowd.
The Blood-Robe Demon’s face darkened.
Some demonic cultivators sneered, “That’s the Strange Daoist?”
“Why is he so shabby?”
“He looks like some beggar off the streets…”
“And his cultivation… isn’t he just Foundation Establishment?”
“Is he… a living corpse?”
“Trying too hard to act mysterious…”
A wave of disdain washed across the group.
Dali Mountain Prefecture was a third-grade prefecture; under Heaven’s restrictions, Golden Core was the upper limit.
And among them were more than twenty Golden Core demonic cultivators—tyrannical, practically unstoppable in this prefecture.
Unless someone wielded a Life Preservation Talisman or similar heaven-defying treasure, they feared nothing.
But two of those talismans were already shattered.
The Golden Dharma Body had been erased by Heaven itself.
Treasures of that level were rarer than phoenix feathers; there would definitely not be more.
So these demonic cultivators felt no fear toward the Strange Daoist.
Even if their words were disrespectful, they assumed he couldn’t do anything to them.
Yet the Daoist, corpse-like, ignored everything—only walked forward.
His steps weak; blood-qi depleted.
The Blood-Robe Demon frowned, suspicion taking root.
“Is this guy really the Strange Daoist?”
He stared at this “man” for a long time, even sweeping him with Divine-Sense, but sensed nothing unusual.
His divine consciousness weak, his cultivation meager, his fleshly body broken nearly beyond repair.
He looked nothing like someone who carried the prestige of a Demonic Sect “Daoist.”
“Could we have mistaken him…”
The Blood-Robe Demon frowned deeper.
Even the Holy Son felt doubtful and asked directly:
“Are you the Strange Daoist?”
The Daoist still gave no reply—only kept walking.
A red-faced demonic cultivator finally snapped, shouting, “You there, Daoist, how dare you! The Holy Son is speaking—you dare ignore him?”
Still no reaction.
Unable to tolerate it, the red-faced cultivator strode forward and kicked the Daoist over.
He hadn’t even kicked hard, yet the Daoist’s bones snapped.
The Daoist writhed on the ground, trying to get up, but his limbs were disjointed—like a mantis with its body twisted, pitiful and ugly.
The demonic cultivators roared with laughter.
Bai Zisheng and Bai Zixi frowned, confused.
Mo Hua, instead, did not laugh—his eyes deep, expression growing more and more solemn.
The Daoist was still struggling, looking tragic and grotesque.
The Blood-Robe Demon remained cold.
The Holy Son sneered.
Growing bolder, the red-faced demonic cultivator stomped forward, shattering the Daoist’s limbs one by one. Still not satisfied, he drew a ghost blade and hacked the Daoist into a bloody mess.
Some demonic cultivators clicked their tongues.
“Why make it so gory?”
“You really have too much time on your hands…”
The red-faced cultivator snickered, “What do you know? This is the ‘Strange Daoist’—a legendary Daoist. He should at least die with some dignity.”
“I killed the Strange Daoist!”
He cackled wildly, “Once I kill him, my name will shake the demonic path! The next Daoist… will be me!”
“Bullshit,” a squinty-eyed demonic cultivator spat. “What nonsense are you spewing?”
The red-faced cultivator’s pupils turned pitch-black. “You disagree?”
“Disagree with what? You think you’re worthy?” the squinty-eyed one sneered.
The red-faced man stared blankly at him. “You also want to be a Daoist?”
“What Daoist—”
Before he finished, his expression twisted, and he snarled, “Of course I want to be a Daoist!”
The red-faced cultivator rasped, “Foolish dream. There can only be one Daoist!”
The squinty-eyed cultivator’s expression went strange. He grinned, “Exactly—and that person is me…”
The red-faced cultivator roared, ghost blade slashing with fierce demonic qi, “You? You think you’re worthy?!”
The squinty-eyed cultivator lifted his twin Yin-Soul swords, yin-energy billowing, and charged, “If I’m not worthy, are you, you useless trash?!”
Their faces twisted with bloodlust as blades and swords clashed—fighting as if no one else existed…
The Holy Son stared, dumbfounded.
What in the world were these two idiots fighting about?
Fighting for the title of Daoist—now?!
Did pigs eat their brains?
“Stop!” he barked, annoyed.
But instead of stopping, the two only fought harder—more vicious, every strike aimed to kill.
The other demonic cultivators watched with mocking amusement.
Demonic cultivators were unruly by nature; even among the same sect they schemed and clashed. Now that two were fighting to the death, no one felt inclined to stop them.
But as the two fought ferociously, Golden Core demonic qi swirling, stray attacks inevitably struck others.
A huge demon beast cultivator with a face full of muscle accidentally had his robe sliced open by a stray blood-qi slash.
He exploded in fury. “You bastard, you’re looking for death?!”
The red-faced cultivator—his eyes now fully black—looked at him coldly, devoid of human emotion:
“You also want to be a Daoist?”
“Daoist your mother!”
The beast cultivator’s muscles bulged further, body swelling like iron, demon-qi surging. He punched at the red-faced cultivator—
But suddenly his expression froze; his words twisted:
“Who the hell… doesn’t want to be a Daoist?”
And the beast cultivator joined the killing frenzy.
The Holy Son frowned sharply. “Stop!”
But the ones caught in the battle paid him no attention.
Worse—more and more Golden Core demonic cultivators were dragged into the absurd, eerie slaughter…
The Holy Son finally sensed something amiss. Fear crept into his heart. He glanced toward the Blood-Robe Demon.
The Blood-Robe Demon’s eyelids twitched. Guarding the Holy Son, he slowly stepped back.
Meanwhile, the bloodbath grew increasingly uncontrollable…
“I am the Daoist!”
“No—you’re unworthy! I am!”
“If I kill you all, I’ll be the Daoist!”
…
The words “Daoist” carried a strange power—an enchantment born of darkest desire. Every Golden Core demonic cultivator was gradually drawn toward that title:
“I cultivate the Profound Yin Demonic Art and refine Yin Banners—I should be the Daoist!”
“Profound Yin Demonic Art? Not even worth dog crap!”
“I walk the Demonic Beast Path, eat human flesh, drink human blood—I’m the Daoist!”
“Whoever survives becomes the Daoist!”
“Whoever dies is an ant!”
“Kill!”
“Kill!”
“Kill!!”
……
All the Golden Core demonic cultivators seemed to lose their minds entirely, plunging into an endless, insane frenzy of mutual slaughter…
Demonic qi raged; blood drenched the earth.
Even the sunset seemed stained scarlet by the carnage.
Flesh clashed against forbidden arts.
Blood-qi condensed into blades; Yin-qi manifested as swords.
Demonic treasures filled the sky—skulls, blood banners, ghost knives, nether swords, Soul-Hiding Coffins, Corpse-Suppressing Pagodas… each displaying their sinister might.
For the sake of becoming the “Daoist,” the demonic cultivators were consumed by primal malice—seething hatred, spite, curses, roars…
They even gnawed and tore at one another, fighting to the death…
They slaughtered desperately, howled with cracking voices, and laughed with twisted madness.
The entire Great Li Mountain had become a living hell.
The Blood-Robe Old Demon, having kept his distance, still sane, was shaken to his core at the sight—despite all his years, he could hardly believe it.
“Dao-Heart… Demon-Seed?”
Even the Holy Son was horrified.
“Dao-Heart Demon-Seed…”
“This is… Dao-Heart Demon-Seed?”
No—wrong.
The Dao-Heart Demon-Seed he understood was nothing like this—
Nowhere near so overwhelming. Nowhere near so terrifying…
Twenty Golden Core demonic cultivators—without warning, without awareness—had their hearts seeded with demonic obsession, turning to slaughter one another, unable to stop…
Like livestock in a slaughterhouse, played with as flesh-and-blood swine…
Not even knowing how they died.
This was… the Strange Daoist?
……
The Golden Core slaughter shifted from absurdity, to intensity, to savagery, to cruelty… and finally fell silent.
The forest became a ruinous purgatory.
The battle for “Daoist” came to an end.
Of twenty Golden Core cultivators, nearly all lay dead.
Only one remained—a tall, gaunt man with an utterly forgettable face.
He walked to the corpse of the “Daoist” the red-faced cultivator had killed earlier, stripped off the filthy, blood-soaked Daoist robe, and put it onto himself.
A grotesque smile of triumphant madness slowly crept across his face.
“I am the Daoist.”
The moment he spoke, a chill seeped into everyone’s heart.
The “Daoist” moved stiffly, like a puppet—awkward limbs shifting as he wore that ill-fitting robe in an even stranger, more sinister fashion.
Then, as always, the Daoist walked toward the Holy Son.
As if simply continuing the path he had not yet finished.
Only now—his steps were light. Almost cheerful.
The Blood-Robe Old Demon gritted his teeth and blocked his way.
“Senior… please, show mercy!”
Seeing no reaction, he trembled and continued:
“Senior, he is the Holy Son!”
“You and I are of the demonic path—we know the Holy Son’s status!”
“His bloodline is noble… he has the right to claim the Dao Lineage, to inherit the title of Demon Lord. He may very well be the future Demon Lord—he must not suffer any harm!”
“The Holy Son—”
……
But no matter what he said, the “Daoist” continued forward.
He acted solely on his own will; everything beyond his heart—people, things, pleas—meant nothing.
Seeing there was no turning back, the Blood-Robe Old Demon’s eyes turned cold.
“Very well. Since you refuse to listen, do not blame this old man for being discourteous!”
He summoned an ancient bronze Soul-Guard Bell to protect his mind. Then, with a muttered gu-curse, his blood-robe writhed like a living creature—turning into a pool of flowing blood to protect his body.
A pitch-black demonic sword rose before him.
His Life-Bound Treasure—the strongest, vilest, most bloodthirsty class of demonic weapon available to a Golden Core demonic cultivator:
The Black Demon Sword.
Guarded mind, protected body, killing blade.
Within the Three-Rank constraints of Great Li Mountain—
A late-stage Golden Core Blood-Robe Old Demon wielding these three treasures was near the peak of power allowed under the heavens.
He glared at the Daoist.
“Who offends the Holy Son—dies without pardon!”
His power seemed to shake even the Daoist.
The Daoist stopped.
Pitch-black eyes shifted from the Blood-Robe Old Demon to the Holy Son. Then he spoke, voice cold:
“You would protect him?”
His voice rasped like rotting wood, as though wind leaked through cracks.
“Naturally…” said the Blood-Robe Old Demon.
“Why?”
“Does he deserve it?”
The Daoist spoke more—and stranger than before.
Though from one mouth, it felt as if many voices spoke together—each with different tones, different emotions—yet overlapping from a single throat.
The calm words were laced with the grief and fury of all existence—
Anger, resentment, hatred, mockery, disdain… thick as wine, dark as ink.
“You are Golden Core—a great demonic cultivator!”
“Why risk your life for this junior?”
“Because he’s the Holy Son?”
“He is the Holy Son?”
“Why is he the Holy Son?”
“Why can he command you? Why must you bow? Why must you kneel?”
“Because of his bloodline?”
“What is bloodline?”
“After death, all flesh becomes rot, all blood dries. What is bloodline?”
“Why is someone born a Holy Son—”
“While someone else must be a slave?”
“Just because of a stinking sack of flesh? A puddle of dried blood?”
“Why?”
All those voices merged—shrill, jarring, drilling into the heart:
“Why can’t you be the Holy Son?”
“Why can’t you be the Demon Lord?”
“Is the Demon Lord’s bloodline so divine?”
“He is but flesh and blood…”
“Alive, the same. Dead, the same…”
……
The demonic voice burrowed deep.
The Blood-Robe Old Demon trembled, nearly collapsing, struggling to hold onto his mind.
“No… no! He is the Holy Son—he has the Holy Son’s bloodline!”
The Daoist’s voice softened—yet turned even more chilling, filled with bewitching malice:
“Then eat him…”
“Eat his flesh. Drink his blood.”
“Devour his bloodline.”
“And you—will become the Holy Lord.”
The Blood-Robe Old Demon staggered, legs weak, retreating in panic. Terror filled his eyes.
He felt his Divine-Sense splitting—one half clinging to reason, the other drowning in primal urge and hunger.
That instinct drove him—eyes greedy—step by step toward the Holy Son, as if truly intending to…
Eat him alive.
“No!!”
His remaining sanity fought back.
He could not harm the Holy Son!
His face twisted in agony as reason clawed its way back, granting him slight control over his body—
But only partial control.
He controlled his left leg; the right stepped toward the Holy Son.
He fell, seized control of his left hand; the right clawed at the ground, dragging him closer.
No matter how hideously he struggled, he could not stop his advance.
And the closer he crawled, the stronger his killing intent surged—the deeper his hunger grew.
The Holy Son had already been scared senseless. He just stood there, frozen, unable to move.
“I cannot harm the Holy Son!”
“The Holy Son is sacred—he must not be lost!”
With a savage resolve, the Blood-Robe Old Demon crushed his own meridians—crippling his limbs to stop himself.
But he was Golden Core—severed meridians and ruined limbs were nothing. He still had blood-energy, magic power, and his life-bound artifact…
As long as he remained alive, the Holy Son would die.
Despair washed across the blood-robed old fiend’s face.
“So this… is the Strange Daoist…”
He glanced at the Holy Son, let out a bitter smile, then hardened his gaze. Two fingers clenched into a claw, he shattered his own heart meridian, and with reversed spiritual force, destroyed his own Golden Core!
A Golden Core’s self-destruction—its power was immense.
In an instant, demonic qi surged skyward, and blood mist billowed everywhere.
The old fiend sealed the power of his self-destruction within his own flesh, just to avoid hurting the Holy Son. Thus the blood mist was thick, the spectacle overwhelming, yet very little force actually leaked out.
The blood-robed old fiend died.
Everyone present paled in shock.
The Strange Daoist’s expression stayed calm. He dismissed the old fiend’s death with utter disdain:
“Bold enough to die, but not bold enough to rebel. Too much slave-bone…”
With that, he stepped toward the Holy Son again, gaze indifferent—as though looking at a patch of weeds.
As if even someone as exalted as the Holy Son was nothing more than a pile of decayed bone and rotten flesh.
The dumbstruck Holy Son finally snapped out of it. His legs gave out, and he collapsed onto the ground, scrambling backward.
Twenty-plus Golden Core fiends—every one of them had died at the Strange Daoist’s hands!
And each death was bizarre, cruel, sudden—impossible to guard against.
The Holy Son’s face, once arrogant and cold, was now only fear. Endless, bottomless fear.
“I… I’m the Holy Son… You can’t kill me!”
“No—don’t plant a devil seed in my Dao-heart!”
“Don’t seed me!”
“I don’t want to become neither human nor ghost!”
But the Strange Daoist didn’t listen. In just a few steps, he was already upon the Holy Son. Those long, pale hands, stained with blood, slowly reached toward him.
The Holy Son felt his guts turning to ice. To survive, he squeezed out every thought he could muster:
“Don’t—don’t kill me!”
“I’m the Holy Son—future potential Demon Monarch!”
“My father is the Sect Master of Ghost King Sect! My mother is the Blood-Jade Rakshasa…”
…
But none of it stopped the Strange Daoist.
Only when the Holy Son cried out, “I have the bloodline of the Blood Daoist! I’m his descendant—!” did the Strange Daoist’s hands stop.
Mo Hua’s eyes narrowed slightly.
Another title of “Daoist” he had never heard before:
“Blood Daoist.”
Whether because of that, or for some deeper reason, the Strange Daoist slowly lowered his hands and spared the Holy Son.
The Holy Son gasped for breath, realizing only then that he was soaked in cold sweat.
The Strange Daoist had brought him unprecedented dread and pressure.
But now the crisis had passed.
And the Holy Son truly understood the weight of the word “Daoist.”
He secretly glanced up, trembling, and though his voice still quivered, he forced out a respectful tone:
“The Blood Daoist is my ancestor—an ancient great demonic cultivator. Since you also bear the Daoist title, I should address you as… Grand-Martial-Uncle?”
The Strange Daoist ignored him completely.
He turned his head to look at Bai Zisheng and Bai Zixi. In the darkness of his eyes flickered a strange emotion.
Then step by step, he walked toward the two.
His voice, though halting and stiff, no longer carried that eerie tone—becoming almost normal:
“You two… are my junior-brother’s disciples?”
“Or… my junior-sister’s children…”
“I want you to lead the way. Take me… to see my junior-brother.”
Bai Zisheng and Bai Zixi turned deathly pale.
Aunt Xue was even more horrified.
She understood at once—this wasn’t “leading the way.”
The Strange Daoist wanted to take Zisheng and Zixi as hostages!
He was unpredictable, vicious without limit.
He would not spare even a shred of old sentiment.
If they were captured, their fates would be unknown—fortune or calamity impossible to predict. And most likely… they’d never return.
And even if they did, they might be “Devil-Seeded,” forced to submit, living worse than death…
Aunt Xue felt her heart twist with anguish. “Senior—”
But she quickly realized she couldn’t speak at all. Not even lift a finger.
Bai Zisheng and Bai Zixi were equally immobilized.
The Strange Daoist approached them step by step, expression calm, extending that long, bloody hand intending to seize them…
Aunt Xue, frantic with anxiety, felt fire surging to her heart and spat blood.
The surroundings fell into utter silence.
At that moment, a crisp yet abrupt voice rang out:
“Martial-Uncle…”
The sound shattered the dead stillness.
The Strange Daoist turned and saw, not far away, a young cultivator standing alone. His expression was calm, his gaze clear, with a faint depth beneath it.
“I’ll take you,” Mo Hua said.
The Strange Daoist looked at Mo Hua, cold and dismissive.
And suddenly—his heart jolted.
Dismissive…
Why would I… dismiss this one?
Why would I… overlook this little thing…?
The Strange Daoist fixed his eyes on Mo Hua, calculating carefully. A haze lifted—cause and effect shifted—and in his mind, a small figure slowly emerged.
“This one… is someone my junior-brother hid away…”
His black pupils trembled faintly.
“Good…”
A strange, vivid expression surfaced on the Strange Daoist’s face. “Come with me…”
With you… it’s enough…
Mo Hua nodded.
“Junior-brother!” Bai Zisheng cried anxiously.
Bai Zixi’s eyes trembled. “Mo Hua!”
Aunt Xue bit her lip, helpless.
Mo Hua smiled gently at them and waved.
“Senior Brother, Senior Sister, you go back first. I’ll go with Martial-Uncle and take a look at Master…”
The Strange Daoist gave Mo Hua a surprised glance, then turned and staggered forward.
Mo Hua followed behind him.
The sun had already set.
One tall figure and one small figure—one eerie, one innocent—took step after step, walking back in the direction they had come…