Damon's Ascension-Chapter 118: War In Xiangyang 19

It was the early morning of the fourth day in this instance, and Damon could already tell there was going to be something weird going on when he saw a flash of purple glow on the horizon at the first peek of the sun.

That faint purple glow lasted barely a second and was quick enough for most to miss, but Damon still caught it since he was at the balcony overlooking Xiangyang from his villa with his arms behind his back.

This purple glow was definitely not a variation of light from the rising sun, but something else, something mystical. Just standing in its presence had increased Damon’s Internal Force by a fraction of a percent, and he hadn’t even been cultivating.

Either way, it didn’t matter as today was the beginning of the end for Xiangyang County’s old balance. fгeewebnovёl.com

.................

The journey to the festival grounds was nothing short of surreal.

Crane Ridge Villa, located high above the county’s level, offered Damon’s group an elevated view of the growing festivities as they descended the ridgeline path.

The usually calm streets of Jiangxia City were now teeming with people, mostly locals, but also dotted with foreigners, cultivators, merchants, sect disciples, and entourages from noble houses.

From the outer markets to the main city square, every space had been transformed with a kind of celebratory intent. Colorful banners of various meanings fluttered from rooftops and flagpoles, each bearing symbols of the five sects and three noble families.

Vendors lined the streets, selling incense, talismans, and hand-crafted trinkets. The air was thick with the scent of roasted pork belly, sweet lotus buns, grilled yams, and sour plum wine. Peddlers shouted to attract customers, their voices nearly lost in the growing tide of foot traffic that surged through the bustling marketplace.

Many commoner children ran up and down with wooden swords emblazoned with fake clan sigils, roaring at each other as they fought their own dramatic ’wars’.

Some vendors tossed incense into the air dramatically while pretending to be spiritualists who offered love readings for copper coins, capturing the ’old’ women in their twenties who were still unmarried and anxious.

Nearby, jugglers tossed flaming torches with practiced ease, drawing clusters of wide-eyed children and entertained passersby. Just beside them, a troupe of hired performers reenacted legendary duels between famed sect heroes of old, their exaggerated movements and dramatic flair captivating the audience gathered around a makeshift stage set along the roadside.

To any outsider, this all seemed like a celebration of unity, quite a lovely scene in any scenario be it slice of life or even horror, but to the silent Damon, it was the calm before the storm.

The Jiangxia Martial Arena stood in the southern part of the city, a vast, tiered coliseum constructed from spiritual stone mined from the haunted ridges of Ghost Valley. Its four concentric rings held fighting platforms that rose in elevation the closer they came to the center, deliberately designed to separate casual duels from the high-stakes matches between sect disciples and noble house champions.

It just so happened that at this very moment various dignitaries were arriving there. From the Heaven Dew Sect, Elder Bai Tianmu, an icy-eyed woman in pale green robes, arrived on a floating lotus platform carried by disciples. Rumors whispered she had once been rejected by the Supreme Immortal Pavilion, a righteous sect from the upper province, for being too innovative in her poison craft.

The Iron Banner Hall brought their main force via military procession. Armor-clad warriors marched in step, led by Elder Duan Xing and the infamous Banner Son, Tie Wulang who was a brutal young man with hands so deadly said to have never needed a weapon to kill.

The Azure Sword Pavilion remained aloof as always, their envoy composed entirely of white-robed disciples with mirrored blades. Their leader, Master Yan Qiu, didn’t speak - his sword did. His gaze alone caused the surrounding crowd to part.

The Ghost Valley School, true to their name, simply appeared with no fanfare, nor a flashy entrance. Feng Meizhen was seen already seated in the pavilion reserved for sect heirs, sipping from a gourd as if nothing of consequence was about to occur.

And then came the noble families.

The Liu family rode in carriages marked with silver emblems, flanked by dancers and servants, while their current heir, Liu Yuren, was notably absent, likely preparing a spectacle for the second day.

The Cao family arrived with quiet dignity, their matriarch wearing mourning silks despite the celebratory air. Their junior combatants wore red sashes in honor of a recent ancestor, a strategic move to garner sympathy while flaunting tradition.

The Sun family made the greatest entrance with sun-patterned banners, a full musical troupe, and the overconfident return of Young Master Sun Jianhao, whose injuries from Damon’s earlier lesson seemed to have healed... though his pride certainly had not.

Atop the central tower overlooking the arena, the Governor of Xiangyang, a long-faced man named Zhao Fengliang, appeared dressed in the official robes of black and white, accompanied by several civil ministers and military officers.

But the real power behind him, a veiled official from the Prefecture Capital, sat beside him with folded arms, watching silently. That alone made the sects more cautious.

Damon and his group arrived not with trumpets, nor with flags, but rather on foot. No one recognized him at first until the energy in the air began to shift around his figure.

As they made their way through the bustling city toward the arena, the crowd parted before them, not out of respect, but from something deeper. A primal instinct stirred in the people, warning them to step aside.

A few sect scouts whispered to each other and took notes. More than a few noble retainers felt their breath catch as Damon passed, trying, though failing, to pin down his presence with their senses.

At the gate to the arena, the crowd parted for the first time not for pomp or prestige... but for something far more dangerous.

"Who is that?" Someone asked from the side.

"He’s... no one important, I think? Just a wandering cultivator, right?" Another replied, but their voice faltered.

And in the Heirs Pavilion, Feng Meizhen, sipping lazily from his gourd, paused with his drink at his lips and smiled thinly.

"So you came, it seems war is unavoidable." He muttered to himself.

The other sects and noble families were far less composed, their expressions shifting the moment they noticed Damon’s companion, a revitalized Xu Baochun. His hair was freshly trimmed, his frame filled out with renewed strength, and he wore the robes of the Zen Sect proudly, a faint, knowing smile on his face.

The arrival of Damon Arnan, flanked by a reborn Xu Baochun, was like dropping a thunderstone into a still pond, sending ripples of shock through the gathered elite.

It was subtle at first as a few sect elders squinted from their high platforms, feeling something in the air. Young disciples who had been laughing suddenly fell silent, turning their heads left and right in fear. Cultivators practicing blade forms midair stuttered in their motions, looking toward the main gate like startled birds sensing an unseen predator.

However, the energy in the arena shifted too rapidly to ignore and like before, it was not spiritual pressure in the traditional sense, but a crushing silence that choked the senses while triggering instincts. Even the incense burners in the ceremonial corners of the arena flickered as if a wind blew through.

At the Heaven Dew Sect’s pavilion, Elder Bai Tianmu narrowed her icy eyes, the pale lotus beneath her feet dipping a full inch from loss of spiritual equilibrium.

"...He’s here." She muttered sullenly.

Her junior disciple leaned closer. "Who, Elder?"

"Someone who should not exist here... and someone our sect cannot easily touch anymore." Her words held no edge, only resignation.

Across from her, Elder Duan Xing of Iron Banner Hall frowned deeply. His instincts, honed from dozens of campaigns in distant battlefields, were screaming that there was a fatal ambush, despite no visible sign of hostility.

He cracked his knuckles, fingers itching for a blade.

"Such misfortune," He complained bitterly.

"From the Governor?" His adjutant asked.

"No, from the will of heaven," He turned his gaze toward the center platform.

At the Azure Sword Pavilion, Master Yan Qiu stood still as a statue, sword hanging silently by his waist.

His disciples whispered among themselves.

"Master, do you sense it?"

"...Something is not right."

Their master did not respond, but his fingers gently unlatched the clasp on his sword, his arms trembling.

The Sun family’s young lord, Jianhao, went pale the moment he laid eyes on Damon from across the arena.

He stood abruptly, knocking over his ceremonial wine cup.

"Him...! He dares show himself?!" He pointed at Damon and hissed with terror.

A steward whispered urgently, "Young Master, please, calm yourself—"

However, the young master was not listening at all. "He crushed my face and pride in front of a market crowd!"

Sun Jianhao’s jaw clenched. "I’ll kill him today. I don’t care if it’s against festival protocol—"

"Silence, fool! Look again!" His uncle shouted beside him, pointing behind Damon.

Sun Jianhao did so, and this time, he noticed not just Damon’s detached aura, but the old man walking behind him in black robes with a crimson sash.

The Zen Sect’s robes.

"...No, that... that’s..." Jianhao muttered, stepping back.

The Liu family, watching from their own tier, also reacted.

Liu Fan, advisor to the absent heir Liu Yuren, clicked his tongue.

"We need to inform the heir immediately." He said quietly.

"Why?" One other disciple asked.

"Because the ghost of the Zen Sect hasn’t just returned from hell..." Liu Fan said grimly, his gaze fixed ahead. "He’s returned in the company of someone we can no longer afford to ignore."

In the mid-tier seating area, dressed in the flowing white-and-saffron robes of a Buddhist cultivator, Brother Mian had gone still.

For the past year, he had played his role masterfully by spreading false teachings, stirring unrest, feeding sect secrets to the noble clans, all while wearing the mask of an ascetic monk.

Only a select few knew he was a tool of the noble families, yet despite that, fewer dared challenge his disguise and unmask him, with one being the former county martial judge.

But now... The fellow was sweating bullets.

The moment his eyes landed on Xu Baochun, standing proudly in restored robes with the original Zen Sect crest emblazoned across his back, Brother Mian felt the blood drain from his face.

"...Impossible," He whispered.

He started to rise from his seat, but then he froze in place because across the arena, perched on a rail just beside the platform for non-affiliated dignitaries, Xu Baochun met his gaze.

He didn’t blink, he didn’t smirk, he just looked at him.

And in that single glance was a hatred deep enough to shatter bones.

It was not righteous.

It was not moral.

It was ancient, pure, and personal.

Brother Mian’s legs went weak as he sat back down.

"...I need to leave," his voice was barely audible, but the monk beside him heard.

The junior who had no idea of the ruse turned to his superior. "Master?"

"I said, we are leaving," Brother Mian whispered again, panic rising.

But no matter how much he tried, he couldn’t get up because something, or someone, had spiritually pinned him to the spot.

Across the way, Xu Baochun tilted his head slightly, expression unchanged, and the pressure intensified.