Chapter 129: Underground Chaos
Chapter 0129: Underground Chaos
The underground chamber of the Hanz Clan’s Martial Arts Arena thrummed with chaotic energy, its stone walls reverberating under the onslaught of unleashed power.
Jorge Blue and Rodney Luther, both formidable Ninth Layer Qi Refinement cultivators from the Abyss Pit Sect’s Thirst Bull Squad, stood at the forefront, their silhouettes wreathed in swirling spiritual energy as they faced a relentless tide of training dummies and Dao puppets. These mechanical constructs lurched forward with jerky, unnatural movements, their carved faces blank yet menacing under the chamber’s flickering torchlight. Jorge unleashed a torrent of joss paper which burnt in flame from his folding fan, the crimson tide incinerating a row of dummies, while Rodney’s resentful ghosts army breached through a bunch of Dao puppets’ iron frame, sending errie green sparks cascading like a demonic shower. The air grew thick with the acrid scent of charred wood and molten metal. Despite their overwhelming strength, the two cultivators’ eyes remained sharp, their bodies taut with vigilance, as if sensing an unseen threat lurking beyond the fray.
As the two Ninth Layer cultivators tested the waters, their devastating strikes carving a path through the onslaught, the rest of the Thirst Bull Squad surged into action, their coordinated assault transforming the chamber into a maelstrom of destruction. Dozens of martial spells erupted in vibrant hues—crimson fireballs, jade-green wind blades, and obsidian shadow spikes—colliding with the advancing constructs in a symphony of chaos. Cultivators hurled an array of Dao Fulus, their paper talismans glowing with intricate runes before detonating in bursts of spiritual energy. A Thunderclap Fulu shattered a puppet’s core, while a Frostbind Fulu encased a dummy in crystalline ice, only for it to be pulverized by a follow-up Earthrend Fist.
The deafening BOOMS of each explosion shook the underground chamber, dislodging dust and debris from the cracked ceiling, which rained down like ash from a forsaken sky. In mere moments, more than half the attackers lay in ruin, their splintered limbs and shattered frames littering the stone floor like a grim harvest.
Amid the carnage, the three bewitched gray-eyed cultivators—remnants of Soren Langley’s ill-fated Ghostclaw Squad—met a swift, brutal end. Their hollow gazes, clouded by some malevolent enchantment, offered no resistance at the fierce attack. In a blink, their heads were severed, their bodies collapsing into a dozen neatly sliced pieces. A resentful ghost, summoned by Rodney Luther, flickered into existence, its spectral form darting among the fallen to retrieve their storage pouches before delivering them to their master’s outstretched hand.
Yet neither Jorge nor Rodney relaxed. Their senses remained razor-sharp, scanning the chamber’s shadows for the next threat.
Their vigilance proved wise as the scattered fragments of the destroyed dummies and puppets began to glow with an unnatural light, their splintered limbs twitching like insects stirred from slumber. Within moments, the broken pieces knitted back together, reforming into weaker but still functional constructs. The regenerated dummies lurched upright, their wooden joints creaking, while the Dao puppets whirred to life, their metal frames scarred but operational. Though their auras were noticeably diminished—barely a fraction of their original strength—their relentless revival sent a chill through the squad.
Jorge Blue’s brow furrowed, his sharp gaze darting to the cracked ceiling above, where faint, luminescent traces of array patterns pulsed like veins. "A minor Spirit Gathering Array," he declared, his voice low and grim, cutting through the chamber’s oppressive hum. "It mimics our holy sect’s grand protection array, the Nine Heavens, Ten Realms, Yin-Yang Plague World Array, but it’s laced with other formation designs. It siphons stray spirit energy from the entire Twin Peak Hill above, feeding these constructs to fight enemies or train the Hanz Clan’s disciples. If Junior Brother Luther hadn’t damaged the ceiling’s formation patterns upon our entry, these puppets would regenerate endlessly, drawing power from the entire mountain range until we were overwhelmed."