The Demon Lord of All Forms

Chapter 2 Immortals, Qingming Mountain

Su Qinghe went up to the second floor and pushed open the carved wooden window.

The March wind carried in the sounds of the marketplace: the peddler's shouts, the snorting of mules and horses, the jingling of children chasing iron hoops, and the crisp sound of a storyteller slamming his gavel on the table in a distant teahouse.

The streets were bustling with people: some carrying loads, some leading donkeys, some with baskets, and some carrying children. Everyone had a rosy complexion, walked with ease, and their clothes, though not luxurious, were clean and presentable.

Three years passed since Lin'an City fell into Su Qinghe's hands, another three years were spent managing the surrounding villages, and then six years of leisure followed, during which Su Qinghe never stepped out of the palace again.

Su Qinghe leaned against the window frame, his gaze sweeping over the busy or leisurely faces on the street. He knew everyone's name and remembered everyone's life: the cries at birth, the confusion of adolescence, the trembling on the wedding night, the fear of becoming parents for the first time, and the deepening aches in their joints as they grew old.

The joys and sorrows of nearly 200,000 people piled up in Su Qinghe's mind like a boundless warehouse, and it took him six whole years to sort them out one by one.

The novelty that Su Qinghe initially felt from the abilities he awakened after reincarnation had long since worn off. Touching the body, devouring the soul, bestowing a soul—it was all just that. The size of Su Qinghe's soul ranged from one to one hundred thousand. Relics condensed, the Wheel of Rebirth appeared—everything proceeded in an orderly fashion, like a game whose ending was already known.

So he started looking for ways to have fun.

The pillar wasn't the first one.

The way that thin boy crawled forward with his forehead pressed against the jade brick was exactly the same as the dozens of people before him.

An old woman rushed into the hall trembling with a kitchen knife, a scholar smuggled a dagger among the servants, a widow poisoned the well water, and a child pulled a sharpened iron hairpin from his sleeve.

Su Qinghe spared these people, returned their devoured relatives to them, and allowed them to live on with their complete memories, then waited for them to seek revenge.

After watching the same show dozens of times, it's definitely getting a bit boring.

Su Qinghe's fingers tapped unconsciously on the window frame, his gaze fixed on the end of the street.

There was a teahouse there, and the storyteller was telling an exciting part of the story, with the tea drinkers clapping and cheering.

The storyteller's surname was Zhou, and he was fifty-seven years old this year. Su Qinghe remembered the embarrassment he felt when he first went on stage at the age of twenty-three, the seven days and seven nights he kept vigil at his wife's coffin after she passed away when he was thirty-four, and the tears he secretly wiped away when he took on a disciple at the age of forty-one.

Old Zhou was beaming with excitement. He slammed his gavel and began to say, "The sword immortal flashed a blue rainbow from his sleeve and took a man's head from a hundred miles away."

Sword Immortal.

Su Qinghe stopped tapping on the window frame, his gaze shifting from Old Man Zhou to the gray-tiled eaves of the teahouse, past the flags on the city wall, and beyond the continuous green mountains outside the city, looking towards a more distant place.

There is a mountain called Qingming Mountain. It is steep and shrouded in clouds and mist all year round. The villagers say that there are immortals on the mountain. They have heard thunderous roars and the roars of giant gods, but no one has ever dared to go up there.

Su Qinghe once thought it was just a rural legend, until three months ago, when he devoured an old man who had fled from the north.

The old man has a memory of a white light.

A white light fell from the clouds and landed on the city wall of a large city to the north. After the light dissipated, a man in a blue robe stood on the city wall and pointed casually. Thousands of bandits outside the city fell down like wheat.

The old man knelt among the crowd in the city, bowing and calling out to the immortals along with everyone else. This scene was etched deep in the old man's memory, clear and vivid.

This is not a legend, not a play, not a fairy tale told by the villagers.

In this world, there are immortals.

Su Qinghe leaned against the window frame, a smile slowly curving his lips. This smile wasn't a deliberate attempt to amuse himself out of boredom, but rather a genuine, heartfelt interest.

How long has it been since he devoured something so interesting? The soul of an immortal.

The streets outside the window were still bustling with activity. Old Zhou struck his gavel again, and the tea drinkers cheered.

Su Qinghe turned his gaze from the direction of Qingming Mountain back to the street. A vendor selling candied hawthorns was passing by under the window. His straw basket was full of bright red hawthorns, which gleamed with an amber luster in the afternoon sunlight.

The vendor looked up and saw Su Qinghe by the window, and grinned.

Su Qinghe smiled too.

Before dawn, 130 people were already standing at the foot of Qingming Mountain.

Zhao Dabao, Li Erzhu, and Zhang Hu—these names belonged to the yamen runners, guards, and hunters of Lin'an City in their lifetimes; now they belong to Su Qinghe.

Without orders or flags, the 130 people naturally split into five teams and climbed up different ridges.

Qingming Mountain is not high, only a thousand ren high, but the mountain is steep, with ancient trees reaching the sky, vines intertwined like snakes, and layers of humus accumulated over countless years. It feels soft and spongy underfoot, and occasionally you will sink into the cracks covered by fallen leaves, where poisonous insects rustle and crawl in the dark.

Zhao Dabao drew his sword, the long blade cleaving through the thorns blocking his path, the tinderbox flickering in the dark forest.

These people do not tire, do not fear, and do not stop because their companions are bitten by venomous snakes. In fact, the bitten person simply cuts open the wound, squeezes out the blood, sprinkles some herbal powder, and continues on his way. Pain is just a signal to them, like hunger and cold, which can be received or ignored.

Before noon, all five groups of people had reached the summit.

There was nothing on the mountaintop.

There was no celestial light or auspicious colors, no magnificent palaces or jade pavilions, no white-bearded old man sitting on a stone platform waiting to enlighten those with destiny. There was only a jumble of rocks, scattered haphazardly. To the southeast stood a stone pillar, its grayish-white surface pitted and scarred by wind and rain, like a face covered in pockmarks. Not far away was a small puddle, covered with moss, the water murky and its depth indiscernible.

Li Erzhu walked across the gravel to the edge of the puddle, bent down and looked inside. One of his companions stuck his scabbard in and stirred it. The murky water surged up, but there was nothing there.

Li Erzhu straightened up, his expression unchanged, while Su Qinghe, far away in the jade brick hall of Lin'an City, frowned slightly.

The first group searched every single rock on the mountaintop.

The second group arrived and searched the area again.

The third, fourth, and fifth batches, a total of 130 people, turned the mountaintop upside down, even probing every crack in the stone pillars with the tip of their knives.

There was nothing there.

Zhao Dabao stood on the edge of the cliff, looking down at the clouds and mist swirling around the mountainside. The fields and villages in the distance spread out like a chessboard, gleaming lazily in the afternoon sun. What a beautiful view, but Su Qinghe was not satisfied.

Very dissatisfied.

He spent half a month getting these 130 people to walk from Lin'an to here, only to come here to see a pile of stones?

The wind is blowing.

A strong wind surged up from the mountain stream, carrying thick, impenetrable clouds and mist, like a giant hand that gripped the entire mountaintop.

The thick white fog swallowed up sight, sound, and everything. Zhao Dabao closed his eyes in the fog, and everyone else did too.

Then they opened their eyes at the same time.

One hundred and thirty pairs of eyes turned to the southeast in unison.