Chapter Eighty-One: Diverting Disaster Eastward

The mountain breeze was originally cool and refreshing, but after that thunderbolt struck, a lingering warmth now hung in the air. Wisps of white vapor still curled above the river, drifting lazily. On both banks, the trees were lush and verdant, the water murmuring as it flowed. The white mist looked almost like a veil of fog.

Qingyuan stood by the river’s edge, gazing at the herd of wild deer before him. With his skills, it would be no challenge at all to bring down every last one of them. Yet, with his path obstructed and his thoughts momentarily stilled, he found himself growing calm.

The divine thunder had streaked off downstream, away from the direction he needed to go in search of his treasure—utterly contrary to his intended path. He had risked so much to enter Mount Fuzhong, not for the divine thunder, but to find the treasure that could save his own life and dispel his looming troubles.

To seize that treasure, he would inevitably have to contend with the giant stag, which would only cost him precious time. Should he be delayed, the situation might change by the time he returned to search for the treasure. Mount Fuzhong was now teeming with cultivators, many of them advanced practitioners. If he was even half a step late, the treasure might fall into another’s hands.

It was not yet a matter of desperate urgency, but this was no time for him to be distracted. “Enough—my life comes first. I’ll look for the treasure…” he muttered to himself. “There are plenty of divine thunders in Mount Fuzhong. Once I’ve secured the treasure, perhaps I’ll have another chance at a different one.”

He had always known how to weigh his choices. With that, he took a step back and turned away.

The wild deer watched his retreating figure, then one by one turned as well, going off to seek their leader and help surround the crimson thunderbolt.

Just then, a sudden crash resounded behind him. Qingyuan turned to look. He saw a giant stag slam into a tree, splintering it clean in half. The other deer scattered in alarm.

“A cultivator fighting for fortune is one thing, but you, a mere beast, dare to covet the divine thunder’s blessing?” came a cold voice. A young man stepped out from among the trees.

He was dressed in drab yellow robes, a sword in hand, his expression icy. His gaze swept over Qingyuan before settling on the stag. The stag had already taken a slash and a kick from the young man—not wounds fatal, but certainly not light.

Qingyuan cast a quick glance with his aura-sensing art. This sword-wielding youth was also a cultivator at the second realm, yet to form his own method.

But the fact that the giant stag had been defeated in just a few breaths proved this young man’s skill in combat was not to be underestimated.

Qingyuan hesitated. Not wishing to get involved, he retreated a few paces in silent declaration of his neutrality, then turned as if to leave.

Just then, a thunderous crash echoed through the woods. The crimson divine thunder fell from the canopy, landing right beside the stag.

With a long, wild cry, the stag bounded toward the thunderbolt.

“Courting death!” the young man spat, his face darkening but betraying little anxiety. To subdue a divine thunder took time; as long as he killed the stag before it could claim the thunder, the prize would still be his.

But unexpectedly, the stag made no attempt to claim the thunder. Rearing up, it bellowed mightily—a roar so fierce it became a wave of force, blowing the divine thunder away.

And the direction it sent the thunder—straight toward Qingyuan.

“Trying to shift the trouble onto me?” Qingyuan thought as the divine thunder shot toward him.

Seizing the opportunity, the stag gave another howl and fled, a flock of deer following close behind into the forest.

“Damnable beast,” the sword-bearing youth cursed, seeing his prey escape by tossing aside the divine thunder. Though he burned with anger, longing to strike down the cunning stag, he knew what mattered most: the thunder.

“Hand it over!” he demanded coldly.

Qingyuan frowned slightly, eyes fixed on the crimson thunder now hovering nearby. Its searing glow flowed like magma, sending waves of heat toward him.

Ordinary ground thunder might explode without warning, but this divine thunder was an opportunity—so close now, he could reach out and grasp it. Yet to fight over it would only complicate matters.

But to simply give away such a chance—was that possible?

Qingyuan hesitated, exhaling softly, but before he could speak, the sword-bearing youth shouted and rushed at him.

“Hand over the divine thunder,” the young man barked, sword raised. “Do so, and I’ll leave your corpse whole.”

“Are you saying that even if I hand over the thunder, you’ll still kill me?” Qingyuan couldn’t help but laugh coldly, his expression turning icy.

He reached out and seized the thunder, though with a protective layer of energy between his hand and the bolt. If the thunder entered his body directly, he would have to quell it instantly with his cultivation, or risk death. Without having reached the status of a third-realm master, he couldn’t subdue it in a flash; it would take time.

Their skills were evenly matched—neither could overpower the other. To fight while also subduing the thunder would be courting disaster.

“Well, then, I’ll just take it.” An ordinary person would have no choice but to engage the enemy, and only seek out the crimson thunder once the duel was decided. But Qingyuan was different. He wrapped the thunder in his spiritual energy, then sealed it again with a talisman, and slipped it directly into his ancient Immortal Pouch.

His actions were swift, and he retreated as he worked, but the other young man was even faster, already closing in.

“You’re courting death!” the youth bellowed, seeing the thunder vanish into the pouch. His sword flashed with light as he struck.

Qingyuan sneered, meeting the attack with his iron staff.

The clash of metal rang out through the mountains.

The young man was forced back ten paces, his face shifting from pale to flushed.

Qingyuan remained where he stood, unmoved.

“How is this possible?” the youth gasped, his hands numb. “Who are you?”

He had already tried to gauge Qingyuan’s cultivation. Though he could not probe its depth, he was certain Qingyuan had yet to form his own method and was still within the second realm.

The youth prided himself on his exceptional talent, renowned as the Sun clan’s most promising disciple, already at the peak of the second realm.

His face was dark with frustration. “Even if you’re at the second realm’s peak,” he thought, “my clan’s ancestral techniques are second to none! In this mountain, only the Orthodox Dao Sect and the Lianhua Pavilion are my equals at this level—the Seven Spirits Sect perhaps barely compares. As for those unaffiliated cultivators, even those from the mid-third realm—what do they amount to? You’re neither from those sects nor a scion of a great clan, just a lone wanderer—how could you surpass me?”

The Sun clan youth was left shaken, racking his brain for a way to prevail.

“Seems killing me won’t be so easy after all,” Qingyuan said softly, his tone icy.

He, too, was now at the peak of the second realm, his physical form tempered to perfection within the Refining Tower. The techniques he practiced were true transmissions from the Celestial Palace, the very teachings of the Dao Patriarch himself—how could he be outmatched by a mere mortal family?

At the same level, Qingyuan also possessed strength on par with the most formidable internal energy masters.

“If you want the divine thunder—come and take it!”