Chương 444: Tales of Blood (IX)

Long Tao bit into a rather spectacularly green plum, the bitter juice spattering out quickly and coating the insides of his mouth. His expression remained rather indifferent as he stared at the stretch of dying land laid bare in front of him. Running right through it was a massive river of ash-colored water, chugging along through the canyons and crevices eroded away in the dirt.

Surrounding it were jagged, jutting protrusions, some slanted like rooftops on one end and flat on the other, some shaped like a spear tip, some like normal plateaus, but regardless of which shape the land took, the unifying factor among them all was that it was toxic. In fact, even tens of miles away from the river, Long Tao had to use Qi to block out the venom in the air as he breathed in.

His expression twisted slightly as he sighed, a sense of melancholy overcoming him; this was actually where his palace once stood, long, long before he was proclaimed enemy of the realm. The ashen river was once made of milky-white Qi, its purity unmatched, while the land itself was suffused with the roots of highest-grade herbs money could buy.

At the heart of it all was a structure beyond descript, twisting through dimensions like a fold, with the wings of an Ethereal Dragon that Long Tao slayed as the baptism after becoming an Emperor framing the vast ends of the place, etching out the borders of the region. He recalled the day his friend simply... vanished. It wasn't exactly unprecedented--be it for him, or Emperors in general--as most often if one heard the news at that stage, they had to go immediately.

What was odd, however, that he never appeared again--about two thousand years would pass, in fact, before Long Tao learned what happened. One of his Disciples stole something that Long Tao himself left inside the palace--Sword Tablet. He casually inscribed a few movements of the sword for his own Disciples and simply left it on a display in the palace, not thinking too deeply of it.

However, any trace of an Emperor was worth more than just a fortune to non-Emperors, as it could contain at least a hint of the Imperial Realm, the true Imperial Realm. He went to chase down the thieving Disciple, and fell into a trap prepared beforehand, where he eventually succumbed after nearly a year of enduring. Not before sending this place to drift through the spacetime, somehow ending up here and being treated as some ancient tomb for a phoenix. Would that damn chicken even feel flattered by it? Hardly.

It'd likely set them all on fire and gleefully laugh as they screamed in pain. It was unlikely that it was time which eroded this place--even if he didn't use the finest stone to make the palace, there were so many anti-time arrays implanted in every inch of it that, even if hundreds of millions of years had passed, the palace would remain. Whoever discovered the realm likely robbed it clean of everything, leaving behind ashen desolation in front of him.

Long Tao rarely thought too much about the past--there were so many memories that were buried just under the surface that, if he thought of just one, all would come crawling to the front of his mind. There were still a few people he worried about and wondered if they survived, or if they, too, had been captured because of their association with him. Did you know this text is from a different site? Read the official version to support the creator.

Treading back the old paths that were vaguely familiar made him feel oddly nostalgic about the time that he could barely even remember at this point. He'd been an Emperor far, far, far, far longer than he hadn't, and most of the memories before his Crowning were... blurry, as though covered in a strange haze. But, oddly enough, he wasn't nearly as impacted by remembering as he thought he'd be. Seeing this place, and recalling all of it, it should have drudged up more things from his past.

And yet, his mind was calm. No... it wasn't that odd. He found and forged new attachments, whether he wanted to admit it or not. It wasn't just Master, either, though he did spearhead the whole thing. It was the kids, too, for better or worse. He wasn't as alone as he thought he'd be in this life, not as consumed by vengeance, not as driven by madness. Would they mock him? No. They always clamored that being an aloof, detached type didn't suit him. That he looked best in a group, surrounded by people.

Of all the prophecies to ever come alive, he'd never though it'd be that one. Chuckling, he sat up from the rock and stretched lazily. Life, dauntingly, was a flux that could not be held down. Its unpredictability was one of the greatest wonders of Dao. How a single choice, seemingly banal one, could utterly alter the course of everything else. On that day, had he chosen to listen to everyone and find a different Master, just how different his life would be?

He would have left long before the sect was attacked, and would not have cared the slightest bit for it. He'd be sleeping and eating alone, drifting through the wild and killing anyone and everyone who he came across.... would he have even lived? Or been utterly consumed by madness, blinded by blood? It didn't matter, in the end. That man's kindness was like a strange whetstone, sanding him down around the edges. He was the oddest friend he'd ever made, and likely would ever make.

Shaking his head as though to disperse the thoughts, he jumped off the ledge and into the toxic wasteland. He sensed a faint calling from the depths, remnant of something they didn't take. He couldn't quite make out what it was since the calling was so faint, but whatever it was ought to be helpful in their current circumstances. About a mile in, he realized he was being followed, but didn't change the cadence of his steps at all.

It was that boy who tossed the dagger that destroyed the flower; Long Tao wasn't particularly surprised that the boy had latched onto him. If there was one thing those bound in shadows loathed and despised, it was being discovered. It was more than just a point of pride for them--it was a shame that they had to wash by blood. Blood of the one who discovered them. The boy's skills were quite impressive, Long Tao mused. In fact, the longer he studied him, the more confused he got.

It was borderline impossible, what the boy was doing.... with the exception of one. He paused abruptly and turned around, facing the direction of the boy--he was about four miles or so away, nestled into one of the protruding rocks. Long Tao parted his lips and spoke rather softly, knowing well enough he'd be heard.

"Little Yi?" he mumbled into the wind.