I Swear I’m Not a Demonic Cultivator - Chapter 35
Chapter 35: Performance Art
Fang Zheng dragged his battered body through the wilderness, each step a staggering stumble.
Within him, the God-Slaying Sacred Mark pulsed like a festering wound across the earth, ceaselessly unleashing its chaotic, surging power. The single drop of Water of Grace he had swallowed acted like a crude patch, temporarily sealing the wound but intensifying the internal conflict to a frenzied pitch.
He needed more Water of Grace.
He needed a tranquil Spiritual Land to fully absorb this Glorious Medal.
But more urgently, he needed to complete the System’s mission.
Mission First Phase: Liberate the Lambs. The Host must journey to the remaining thirty-five ‘Medicinal Field’ villages under Hundred Herbs Valley’s control. With boundless compassion, liberate all suffering souls from their mortal shackles and grant them eternal rebirth within the Human Emperor Banner.
The System’s mission description, every word shimmering with righteous fervor, spurred Fang Zheng onward.
The tragedy of Willow Wind Manor must never be repeated.
Thirty-three more villages of innocent people languished under the lingering poison of the False God, awaiting his salvation.
The thought of their plight overwhelmed Fang Zheng’s physical agony with a burning sense of duty.
“Demon Monarch, this way, please. There’s a whole lotta controlled villages over here,” Lu Chuxue said, once again guiding Fang Zheng.
Caiyun Manor.
The villagers stood huddled together, their faces numb.
At the center of the group was Ai Luchu, a disciple of Hundred Herbs Valley.
He was stripping off his clothes, preparing to engage in his favorite performance art.
Judging by the villagers’ expressions, this was clearly not the first time.
Fang Zheng, who had hurried to the scene, observed this bizarre spectacle. After a moment’s thought, he concealed himself in the shadows to assess the situation.
I’ll see what kind of wickedness Hundred Herbs Valley is up to.
Fang Zheng’s gaze fell upon Ai Luchu.
What met his eyes was an anaconda.
Fang Zheng’s first reaction wasn’t disgust, but awe.
The anaconda hadn’t emerged from a toilet’s cesspool; instead, it lay coiled on the ground at the village entrance, its head resting against Ai Luchu’s heel.
Calling it an anaconda was apt. Its girth seemed far too large to have emerged from a human anus—it was even thicker than the rope used for tug-of-war.
Yet calling it an anaconda felt wrong, for its colors far surpassed those of any real anaconda.
Beyond the usual fecal yellow, it was adorned with kernels of corn, glittering like agates; delicate golden enoki mushrooms coiled around it like a dragon soaring skyward; and splattered remnants of digested, unidentified foods created patterns resembling flowing cloud designs, echoing the dragon’s form in an indescribably wondrous manner.
“They’re just relieving themselves wherever they please!”
“How utterly disrespectful!”
Fang Zheng finally couldn’t bear to watch any longer.
Ai Luchu flinched violently at the sudden, furious shout.
The anaconda, severed in two, slid upward along his thigh, starting from his heel.
Fang Zheng gazed at the tormented villagers, their eyes reflecting profound suffering and despair.
A wave of compassion swelled within his chest, threatening to overflow.
“Your suffering…”
Fang Zheng spoke slowly, his voice amplified by Demonic Energy, resonating across the entire village.
“…ends here.”
His words struck the deathly silent pond like a massive boulder.
In the village center, several Hundred Herbs Valley disciples snapped out of their initial shock, replaced by blustering rage masking their inner fear.
“Demon Lord! How dare you!”
The leader, a Foundation Establishment Stage cultivator who appeared to be the steward, pointed at Fang Zheng and roared, “Do you know whose territory this is? This is Hundred Herbs Valley’s property! If you dare cause trouble here, the Valley Master will extract your soul and refine it into nothingness, condemning you to eternal damnation!”
He attempted to intimidate the uninvited guest by invoking the Valley’s authority.
But Fang Zheng merely cast him a pitying glance.
Another poor soul blinded by evil, stubbornly clinging to delusion.
Fang Zheng didn’t even bother wasting words on him.
For these accomplices of evil, any attempt at verbal persuasion would be futile.
Only thunderous action could reveal a Bodhisattva’s compassion.
Fang Zheng raised his hand.
Alarm bells blared in the Foundation Establishment Steward’s mind. From Fang Zheng emanated a terrifying pressure that made his very soul tremble.
“Quick! Form the formation!” he roared, his voice cracking as he and the other disciples frantically wove hand seals.
A pale green barrier, reeking of rotting medicinal herbs, instantly rose up, enveloping them.
This was the Hundred Herbs Valley’s unique “Corpse Poison Miasma Formation”—an incomparably venomous technique. Even Golden Core cultivators trapped within would be corroded by the poisonous miasma, reduced to pools of festering pus.
They believed this formation could hold out for a while.
Fang Zheng gazed at the shimmering barrier and shook his head.
A mantis trying to stop a chariot—how pitiful.
He didn’t use any cultivation technique.
He merely channeled his pure, unwavering will—”Break Evil and Reveal Righteousness”—and pressed it forward gently.
“Break.”
One word.
The law followed his utterance.
Behind him, the Human Emperor Banner fluttered without wind.
In Fang Zheng’s eyes, a golden torrent of righteous energy, carrying the sacred mission of purifying all worldly defilement, surged toward the green barrier.
Boom—!
There was no earth-shattering explosion.
The Corpse Poison Miasma Formation, capable of withstanding even a Golden Core cultivator, disintegrated like thin ice under sunlight upon contact with the Ghost Tide. It didn’t last even a breath, collapsing instantly as it was overrun, devoured, and dissolved!
The terror etched on the faces of the Hundred Herbs Valley disciples trapped within the Formation froze forever.
Their protective spiritual light, flimsy as paper, shattered upon contact with the Ghost Tide. Countless pale, ghostly hands tore their bodies to shreds.
Their flesh, their mana, even their very foundations, were drained dry in an instant.
Only a few strands of souls—more substantial and mournful than those of the two earlier disciples—were swept up by the Ghost Tide, their piercing screams merging into the Human Emperor Banner.
The black light emanating from the banner seemed to intensify by a fraction.
Having completed this task, Fang Zheng didn’t even glance at the now-empty clearing. His gaze settled instead on the villagers huddled together, trembling like windblown leaves.
The expressions on their faces weren’t the joy of being rescued.
Instead, it was the primal, soul-deep terror of witnessing a being far more terrifying and incomprehensible than the “immortal masters” of Hundred Herbs Valley.
Their eyes were no longer blank with apathy.
Instead, they were utterly, deathly vacant.
Fang Zheng understood.
His heart overflowed with boundless compassion and pity.
Poor souls.
Enslaved for so long, tormented for so long, they’ve even forgotten what hope and freedom look like.
They fear not me, their savior.
They fear change itself. That long-extinguished yearning for rebirth.
It doesn’t matter.
I understand your pain.
I will end your fear.
Let me grant you ultimate, eternal liberation in the gentlest way possible.
Fang Zheng stepped forward, slowly approaching the villagers.
The villagers emitted suppressed, despairing whimpers, their bodies instinctively shrinking back, huddling together in a terrified mass.
None could tell whether the senior before them was a god or a demon.
Fang Zheng stopped before them.
From his Storage Bag, he solemnly retrieved the Eternal Grace Holy Grail, cradling it in both hands.