Journey to the West: The Immortal Clan Begins by Feeding Monkeys at Five Elements Mountain

Chapter 85 Preparations for Strike
"How dare you try your best to master a small skill?"

Just as the thick fog was billowing and ghostly figures were everywhere, a long shout suddenly rang out from the army, like metal or stone falling to the ground, piercing through the fog and clouds with a resounding clang.

Before he finished speaking, a clear light suddenly shone in the camp.

One after another, like the night sky being cleaved open by a sharp blade, or like the first rays of dawn, illuminating people's hearts.

Master Chongxu finally made his move.

He rose into the air, his green robe billowing without wind, his whisk flicking lightly, his figure hovering above the mist, like a noble scholar stepping out of a painting, aloof and untouched by worldly dust.

He muttered incantations in a calm tone, with clear and distinct pronunciation.

It was as if he were invoking a god, or punishing a ghost, yet his tone revealed seven parts of unquestionable authority and three parts of the unrestrained, otherworldly air.

With a low shout, the tip of the whisk suddenly burst forth with a bright light, transforming into a sharp arrow that pierced through the air and disappeared into the depths of the sea of ​​mist.

With a whoosh, the ghostly figure in the mist suddenly cried out like a startled bird, its voice so loud it sent chills down one's spine.

It was as if a demon had been struck in its vital spot, tumbling and struggling in the fog, unable to escape.

But Master Chongxu showed no emotion, not even raising an eyelid. He simply raised his hand slightly, moved his whisk again, and did not move an inch.

His expression remained calm, with a hint of mockery at the corner of his mouth.

It was as if these ghosts and evil spirits were nothing more than mosquitoes and flies in the corner to him, which he could dispel with a single thought.

Behind him, the dozen or so Taoist priests from the Celestial Masters sect were already lined up in formation.

Their robes fluttered in the wind, and they held various law enforcement instruments, such as jade seals, bells, or wooden swords.

They are all arranged in the eight trigrams, sitting cross-legged, like old pine trees on a mountain, motionless.

They are not like the Venerable Chongxu who stirs up trouble, but they have the imposing presence of a great bell or cauldron.

It was as if a palm had been pressed down from the deepest depths, slowly stirring up a faint, magnificent energy in the world.

A surge of righteous energy rose slowly from the formation, unhurried and gentle, like water spreading across sandy ground, or like spring returning to the earth.

As the righteous energy arose, the sea of ​​fog in front of the camp began to change.

As it rolled, a faint hissing sound could be heard, like snow falling on burning charcoal, or like rotten paper encountering flames, as it anxiously contracted and retreated.

The ghostly figures in the fog began to blur and distort, as if an invisible giant hand was pressing down on them, crushing them mercilessly.

A few larger shadowy figures were still struggling and writhing, their bodies shrouded in a thick, cold, deathly aura, as if they were fighting like trapped beasts, rushing straight into the camp.

But the True Man Chongxu remained silent.

With just a flick of his sleeve and a light step before the fog, his figure soared into the air, his green robe billowing like a stroke of ink falling into the night, instantly disappearing into the depths of the sea of ​​fog.

The robes of the Taoist priests of the Celestial Masters sect fluttered in the wind, their whisks billowing and emitting a hazy, clear light.

The real person, alone and solitary, is like a bright lamp, shining alone amidst a sea of ​​ghosts.

He didn't show any earth-shattering power; as soon as he stepped into the fog, there were continuous ghostly howls and mournful screams.

Occasionally, one could hear the sound of talismans exploding, like heavenly fire cast down by the gods, burning wantonly in the depths of darkness.

The fog was initially as thick as ink, impenetrable to water, completely enveloping the entire mountain forest.

But in less than half an incense stick's time, a crack appeared in the center, and the grayish-white liquid rolled up like the receding tide.

As the fog receded, the forest in front of the camp was revealed. The grass and trees were unharmed, their branches and leaves swaying in the breeze, as if they had never been disturbed.

True Man Chongxu stood on that open space.

He wore a snow-white robe, a whisk held casually at his elbow, and his temples were perfectly straight, yet his expression was languid, carrying a hint of unfinished enjoyment.

Several corpses lay scattered at my feet.

They were all shamans of the Ghost Bun tribe, dressed in animal skins, wearing bone ornaments on their heads, and their faces painted in bright colors, looking like ghosts and demons.

A layer of dark red blood had formed on the ground, some of it still steaming, a gruesome sight.

One of them was particularly tall and robust.

His head was adorned with a topknot resembling a python, wrapped with several blood-red ropes, from which a ghostly bone staff was slanted, feathers dangling from its end, dripping with still-warm blood. His aura was the strongest, his malevolent spirit lingering, clearly indicating that he was the leader of that group of sorcerers.

But now, only a hard, unyielding skeleton remains, lying at the feet of Master Chongxu.

A gust of wind blows, and the bone staff sways gently, as if it is kowtowing to a real person.

Master Chongxu didn't even glance at him. He flicked his whisk lightly, a smile playing on his lips, a half-smile, and uttered a faint, indifferent remark:
"How dare a mere evil spirit approach the orthodox lineage of the Celestial Masters?"

The setting sun casts its last rays, its warmth like fine wine.

The crowd, who had been feeling suffocated by the thick fog, finally managed to catch their breath.

Inside the camp, a few low cheers rang out, not loud, but connected in a line, dispelling the gloom, like the first rise of spring water.

It was the relief of escaping death, and the shock of witnessing the immortal master break through the enemy in mid-air.

In an instant, the morale of the army soared, and the fear and suspicion that had been weighing on their hearts were also suppressed by this clear light.

With a flick of his whisk and his green robe fluttering, Master Chongxu descended slowly from the clouds, surrounded by a group of disciples of the Celestial Masters Sect.

He walked with ease, his sleeves fluttering slightly.

It was as if the terrifying fog just now was nothing more than a leisurely stroll in the mountains, and they were too lazy to even brush off the dust.

As they approached the camp, they happened to walk past Ma Changfeng.

A fleeting glance from the corner of his eye revealed a faint smile playing at the corners of his lips.

Then, his voice was neither hurried nor slow, but clear and soft, yet it was easy to hear clearly:

"A bunch of mountain barbarians with a few underhanded tricks, do they even deserve to talk about war?"

"If they are elite troops and capable generals, they can bring talismans and pills, set up magic formations, and attack in one fell swoop. Why would we, the true immortals, need to personally exorcise evil spirits?"

Although no names were mentioned, the words were sharp and incisive.

Three parts were mocking Ma Changfeng for his poor judgment of character, and seven parts were bringing up old grievances, still dwelling on the matter of "the talisman is ineffective."

Upon hearing this, Ma Changfeng's brows furrowed slightly, his face showing no anger but rather a hint of melancholy.

At this moment, a sudden silence was heard outside the camp.

Several figures staggered in, covered in dust and blood, and stumbled into the army formation.

It was those spies who had previously gone missing.

Now the fog has lifted and people have returned, their breaths faint, but their shoulders and backs are ramrod straight, and their eyes shine with a light that is almost blinding.

What they brought back was a piece of military intelligence that was absolutely crucial.

Once you cross that mountain ridge, you'll reach the lair of the Ghost Bun tribe, nestled deep in a mountain valley, surrounded by dense forests and secluded valleys, in a treacherous and dangerous location.

Upon hearing this, all the generals in the camp paled and whispered amongst themselves like ants swarming around a pot.

Only Ma Changfeng remained unmoved, simply standing up and flicking his wrist to gesture to the guards beside him.

He didn't speak, but his actions clearly indicated that the order had been given.

Before long, the three teams of the most experienced scouts in the mountains were summoned and divided into three groups from the west, south, and north to conduct another reconnaissance.

The scouts went out quickly and returned even faster; within an hour, all three groups had returned with the same story.

That mountain hollow was indeed the main stronghold of the Ghost Bun tribe, and it was sizable in number and heavily guarded.

Upon hearing this, Ma Changfeng finally raised his eyes and looked towards the end of the mountain ridge.

The setting sun cast a slanting light on his face, reflecting a thin layer of light. His originally cold and hard features now revealed a sharp and murderous edge.

His eyes were like iron, concealing three parts contemplation and seven parts sharpness.

Without saying much, he only uttered a low sentence:
"Prepare for action. We will strike tomorrow morning."

(End of this chapter)