Chapter 34: Slaying Immortals and Dethroning Sovereigns (Part I)

At the center of the altar, Yun Zheng and Chen Yuchong—now possessed by Duan Zhengyan—stood facing one another, as steady as deep pools and as imposing as towering mountains.

Ye Xi’s gaze, soft as mist over water, enveloped Yun Zheng’s figure, a flicker of anxiety hidden deep within her eyes.

Human strength cannot rival the gods; one cannot account for every contingency. There are always accidents that even Yun Zheng cannot foresee. Had he not decided on a whim to lead this expedition himself, An Miaotong, who usually bore the brunt of exploring the unknown, would likely have met a grim fate.

A boy in a thin spring shirt—Ye Xi suddenly recalled their first meeting. Back then, the "Asura of the Broken Army" was merely a sensitive, fragile boy. He would bury his head against his chest, sobbing softly, letting her rest her palm upon his head and stroke his hair.

But tears cannot restore the life of the departed, only blades can guard the safety of the living.

Time flows like water, shifting like clouds. That callow youth, who once forced himself to be strong, had somehow learned to stand firm, his feet planted on the earth, his head brushing the dome of the sky.

Eyes dried to the bone, the world indifferent. The boy who could no longer shed tears had transformed into the "Asura of the Broken Army," a man who appeared to have a heart of iron and stone.

His sensitivity and fragility were silently sealed away; the thousand wounds in his heart were dismissed with a laugh. Once the boy wiped away his tears, he grew into a man, and many dreams of tenderness became nothing more than reflections in a mirror or moonlight on water.

It was always like this, wasn't it? Charging ahead alone, downplaying the danger, bearing the greatest physical pain to shield his companions.

Because he feared loss, he carried everything upon his own shoulders.

Ye Xi knew that even if Yun Zheng’s opponent were a true celestial being, he would only stride forward with pride, heedless of death.

...

Chen Yuchong—no, it should be said, Duan Zhengyan—exuded an awe-inspiring aura naturally. It was the majesty of an emperor who ruled the world, and more so, the presence of an immortal who transcended the mortal realm, looking down upon all living things.

Although the remnant soul of Duan Zhengyan possessing Chen Yuchong could not unleash his full power, he remained a Yang God who had cultivated his soul to its zenith; his aura alone remained entirely undiminished.

Duan Zhengyan knew that under the shroud of his overwhelming presence, even local warlords, usually haughty and dominant, could not help but feel awe, seized by a powerful urge to bow and pay homage. Even veteran generals, hardened by a hundred battles and possessed of hearts like iron, would find their bodies betraying them. Despite their firm will and inexhaustible inner strength allowing them to mentally resist the crushing pressure to submit, they would often succumb to a strange, lingering weakness, their limbs turning to jelly until they collapsed, drained of all support.

Yet, the moment Duan Zhengyan’s aura—as towering as a mountain and as vast as a river—was unleashed, a shocking killing intent erupted from Yun Zheng.

The killing intent was like a sharpened blade, slicing through the air, bringing with it a bone-chilling cold.

An invisible force surged within Yun Zheng, forming a delicate balance with the imperial majesty, yielding not an inch.

Yun Zheng slowly drew the Seven-Star blade at his waist. The steel shimmered with a cold light, like a silver dragon poised to take flight.

Seven years ago, Yun Zheng had accidentally transmigrated into this magical realm, not unlike the Great Ming. He was not greeted by a flourishing era, but by the sudden siege of rebel forces.

After the ten-month siege, only two hundred of the four hundred thousand soldiers and civilians remained alive.

At fifteen, Yun Zheng stumbled out of the ruins. His back bore the weight of the city’s horrific memories, while before him lay a world in the throes of chaos.

Seven years later, his wings had grown, and he intended to let his blade drink the blood of every ambitious warlord in the land.

Duan Zhengyan narrowed his deep eyes, revealing an imperial demeanor that commanded awe without anger: "You were aiming for me from the very beginning, weren't you?"

"You knew the Daoist Li could divine the future, and you knew that I knew he could. So, you could not have failed to prepare for the possibility of an ambush."

"Yet you still came yourself. Your true purpose must have been to use yourself as bait to eliminate the hidden threat once and for all."

"Only, you clearly assumed the threat came from me alone, never imagining that Yuchong might have received my empowerment. That is why you were too slow to save the Daoist when he was attacked."

"That Daoist was lucky. Had he landed on his head when he was thrown, even an immortal could not have saved him."

"However, I remain curious about one thing. The power you are exerting now may barely allow you to contend with this body I control, but it is still a far cry from my true strength."

"Where do you find the courage to challenge the might of an immortal?"

Yun Zheng sneered coldly:

"On the battlefield, it is the realm of the Asura; there is no logic to be found here. We both linger between life and death. Only the living are called heroes; only the dead leave behind white bones."

"I have never killed a man who dared call himself Emperor. Let's start with you. You old immortal thing can take comfort in this: at least you managed to force me to unleash my killing intent."

Yun Zheng’s words sounded arrogant, yet they were spoken from the heart. Only when facing a powerful enemy would his Asura killing intent manifest on the surface.

Duan Zhengyan was not angered by the words; a flash of surprise crossed his eyes: "So, it is the path of Asura slaughter."

"To endure the tribulations of the world, yet remain untainted by hatred; to perceive suffering, yet resolve karma through compassion and wisdom during cultivation; to maintain a Buddha-nature amidst the slaughter of the mortal realm."

The *Sutra of Miscellaneous Parables* records that the King of Asuras once made a great vow in a past life: "May I, through this merit, be born with a body so great in my next life that no deep water can reach above my knees."

Because of this cause and effect, he later attained a form of immense stature. The four great seas could not reach his knees; standing in the vast ocean, his body towered over Mount Sumeru, his hands resting upon the mountain peak, looking down upon the Trayastrimsa Heaven.

However, myths are myths after all. In reality, for a mortal to obtain power rivaling the gods, they must undoubtedly pay a heavy price.

Duan Zhengyan had long learned from Chen Yuchong about the later life of the great general who had once imprisoned him in the Great Desolation City:

After pacifying the southwestern frontier, Mu Ying devoted himself to the flourishing of Confucianism. He promoted land reclamation, encouraged agriculture, and championed education, like a weathered yet compassionate, honest elder.

His life seemed to be divided into two distinct chapters: the first half was a life of iron horses and glaciers, of blades and shadows; the second half was that of a Confucian scholar, like a gentle breeze and rain nourishing all things in silence, as if the wars of his youth were merely a distant dream from a past life.

Yet, pain had never truly left him. The passing of his dear friend and brother, Crown Prince Zhu Biao, drove a sharp blade deeply into his heart.

In an instant, intense agony swept through his world like a violent storm.

Just two months after the Prince’s death, Mu Ying, consumed by excessive grief, exhausted his life force and passed away in sorrow.

Some say Mu Ying’s premature death was the curse of the Asura King.

Outside the barrier, the worry in Ye Xi’s eyes surged like a rising tide.

But Yun Zheng had no time for such thoughts.

He and Duan Zhengyan were trapped together on this altar, which reminded him of a UFC cage.

In that iron-wrought prison, fighters stood with muscles tensed, nerves like taut strings; a single mistake would lead to a devastating blow from the opponent.

Now, though the altar lacked iron bars, it possessed a far more suffocating pressure.

There was no retreat, no reinforcements; only power and will could determine life and death.

This was the most primal battle between men.