Dragon Vein Storyteller

Chapter 22 Killing Intent Suppresses Meridians

"Immortal, this door..." Feng the Cripple's hand, gripping his cane, bulged with veins as he glanced back at me. He had just used his cane to drive back the most aggressive earth dragon at the cave entrance, and the tip of the jujube wood cane was still stained with silvery-gray blood, which trickled down the shaft.

"Push." ​​I took the jade scroll out of my bosom and held it in my palm. A bluish light spilled out from between my fingers, making the lines on my tiger's mouth appear bluish. "It has waited for countless years, waiting for this."

Sanjin shoveled into the ground, his sturdy body thrusting forward, his shoulder pressing against the right side of the stone door. Feng the Cripple lowered his crutch and braced himself on the left. The two exerted force simultaneously, their throats churning out muffled roars like thunder. The stone door emitted a deep, muffled thud, like a throat that had slumbered for tens of thousands of years finally exhaling its first breath. The bluish-gold light emanating from the crack in the door suddenly brightened several times over, forcing me to squint.

The door opened.

A chilling aura surged from within the doorway—not the wind, not the cold, but a murderous intent. It was so thick it seemed you could scoop it up with your hand, carrying the smell of rust and blood, seeping into the very bone. Standing in the doorway, I felt as if a bucket of ice water had been poured over me, every hair on my body standing on end. In a daze, I heard the clanging of weapons, shouts of battle, the clashing of hooves, screams… not just sounds, but the murderous intent seeping into my pores and exploding directly in my brain.

This thing is not only cold, it's also heavy.

My shoulders felt like they were weighed down by a thousand pounds, my knees buckled and I almost collapsed. I quickly reached out and grabbed the doorframe to steady myself. A strong, metallic taste of blood filled my mouth, like I had just licked a rusty iron pot. It was both fishy and bitter, and even my esophagus ached as I swallowed it.

Ladies and gentlemen, let me tell you something I'm not exaggerating. Those of us in this line of work have been to at least eighty or a hundred tombs, seen zombies, corpse demons, and earth dragons, but never before have I felt anything like that moment… Standing at the entrance, I felt as if a thousand knives were simultaneously pressed against my neck. That kind of cold wasn't the cold of an ice cellar; it was the cold of blades pressed against my Adam's apple.

"Immortal, this place is not right..." The little chick gripped my sleeve tightly, his little hands were icy cold, and his teeth chattered. He still had half a lump of wet mud left over from sealing Cui Dake's soul in his pocket. He had flattened the mud, and dark mud slurred out from between his fingers.

Feng the Cripple didn't speak, but simply took his crutch off his back and gripped it in his hand. His lame leg tapped on the ground, the joints making a soft cracking sound. He held a three-pound shovel horizontally in front of him, his shoulder and back muscles taut like iron, and two heavy breaths came out of his nostrils. Liao the Bald stood protectively beside the little chick, his other hand pressed against Cui Dake's bundle on his back, his knuckles cracking.

I took a deep breath and stepped over the threshold.

Suddenly, my eyes lit up.

The light was so blinding that I squinted for several breaths before recovering. Having spent who knows how long in the darkness, my eyes had long since grown accustomed to the dim yellow of the torches, and the sudden appearance of this white light almost burned my eyes with tears. I raised my hand to shield my eyes and peered out through my fingers… Above me was a dome, not one of those low, oppressive stone domes found underground, but an absurdly high, arched dome, easily five or six zhang tall, as if it had hollowed out the belly of an entire mountain. The dome was studded with countless luminous pearls, some as large as a fist, others as small as a pigeon's egg, each emitting a cold, white light. It wasn't a warm light; it was cold, like moonlight crushed and spread out, blindingly white, eerily white.

Weapons were suspended among the luminous pearls.

I craned my neck so high it almost snapped before I could make out the weapons. They hung from the dome, suspended in mid-air, unattached by any ropes, floating there as if suspended by something. Some swords were three feet long, their blades covered with dense patterns, gleaming coldly as if freshly sharpened; some knives were broad-backed and thick-bladed, their surfaces inlaid with dark red patterns of some unknown material, like dried blood; some spears were pointed downwards, their tips stained with dark brown marks; and there were also hammers, halberds, spears, axes, and battle-axes… almost every weapon I could name was there.

The central sword, a green-bladed blade, was three-tenths narrower than an ordinary longsword, as thin as a sheet of ice, its entire body gleaming with a chilling blue light. Two characters were engraved on the hilt… ​​I squinted for a long time before recognizing them: “Ding Qin” (定秦). The moment those two characters entered my mind, a chill ran down my spine. The Ding Qin sword, the First Emperor's personal sword. The killing intent emanating from that sword was so dense it was impenetrable. Even from several meters away, I could feel the coldness emanating from its blade, as if an emperor in a twelve-symbol imperial robe stood before me, looking down upon me. That killing intent wasn't just fierce; it was cold, the kind of indifference that comes from sitting on a dragon throne, deciding the life and death of millions with a single word: your life is nothing but a speck of dust beneath that sword.

Following my gaze, Feng the Crippled looked over, his Adam's apple bobbing. He took a half-step back with his lame leg, and his cane tapped the ground involuntarily. "The First Emperor's sword... is here too."

Baldy Liao looked around, counting the weapons, his voice booming: "The Yue King's sword, the Chu Overlord's halberd, Huo Qubing's spear, Guan Yu's saber... Damn, this is a collection of weapons from famous generals throughout history."

Sanjin gripped the shovel, saying nothing, but the blade trembled slightly… not out of fear, but because the shovel itself was shaking. This shovel was something I'd taken from a dead captain in Beiman Mountain; it was made of fine steel, the blade still bearing the marks of quenching. It had been with us for years, never trembling. Now, it trembled slightly in that murderous aura, like an old horse smelling the scent of a tiger or leopard.

Sanjin stared at the Dingqin Sword above his head for a long time, breathing heavily through his nostrils, his brows furrowed, as if he were pondering some enormous problem, the wrinkles on his forehead so deep they could trap a fly.

"Sanjin, have you figured it out?" I asked.

He held it in for a long time before finally managing to squeeze out four words: "Killing intent... to calm the meridians."

"What's with the murderous aura?" The little chick gripped my sleeve, its face pale.

Feng the Cripple took over the conversation, his voice as deep as stone, "These weapons, each one of them grew by feeding on human flesh and drinking human blood. Hanging here, you could say that the most murderous and deadliest things in the world are gathered here!"

As soon as those words were spoken, we all fell silent. I looked down at my feet. The ground was paved with bluestone slabs, the same stones from the same vein as those used for the outer city walls, their grain matching perfectly. The bluestone slabs were covered with marks of chisels and axes, old and new, some worn smooth, others with fresh chips. Several mummified corpses lay scattered on the ground, their skeletons loose, their clothes tattered beyond recognition, their heads lolling to one side, revealing yellowed cervical vertebrae.

There were grooves in the bluestone slab. Not cracks, but grooves carved out by man, about two fingers wide and a palm deep, winding and extending in all directions, as if the entire slab had been used as a carving block to create a huge pattern. The grooves were dark, filled with grime accumulated over countless years, and when the torchlight shone on them, they faintly glowed a dark red.

I crouched down, rubbed the grime at the bottom of the crevices with my finger, and brought it to my nose to smell. Rust. Not the rust of water, but the rust of blood. I'd smelled this scent countless times in mass graves; there was no mistake.

Blood has flowed into this groove. Not just a drop or two, but enough blood from a person to fill the entire groove.

Before I could even figure out what the totem was supposed to mean, I was stunned by the sight before me.

This lobby is not empty.

Dozens of people, divided into seven or eight groups, each occupied a piece of land, sitting cross-legged on the ground. Almost all of them had taken off their outer garments; robes, jackets, cassocks, Taoist robes… all sorts of clothes were piled up beside them, some neatly folded, some crumpled into balls. Without the cover of their outer garments, these people didn't look like martial arts masters at all, but rather like a group of caged beasts, each with a pale face, cracked lips, and eyes filled with wariness and despair.