Chapter 48 — The Sunken River Dragon Soul Has Not Perished
The Herdsman of the Wasteland · Page 1 of 3
Om—Behind Shen Mu, a halo of light revolved at the back of the Buddha's head, blazing with fierce radiance, casting beams in every direction; even the eerie mist was swept clean away by the Buddha light.
Thud after thud came to his ears without cease, and Shen Mu looked about to see dried corpses tumbling down from the air, so many that he could scarcely find a place to set foot. Besides the dried corpses, there were skeletons too—their flesh completely gone, nothing left but bones—yet wearing loose and voluminous garments that looked like official robes. The mist around him vanished, and all at once everything became clear. The singing, however, went on—only somewhat more distant now—still plaintive and melancholy, laden with boundless grief.
Shen Mu dispersed his vital energy, and the Buddha's silhouette behind him gradually faded. "How can so many corpses be hidden in this great hall?
These bodies don't look like those of ordinary people. .
.
" Shen Mu studied them, frowning slightly.
There were far too many corpses here, and none had decayed—that was plainly unnatural. After all, even the corpse of the Dragon Emperor of the Surging River outside had rotted away to a mere skeleton. How could the bodies inside this hall have been preserved all the way to the present?
"There's one possibility: these people came in after the Wasteland Ruin catastrophe. Like me and Snow Fox, they too discovered the road leading to the Raging River Dragon Palace, then entered this hall.
" The corner of Shen Mu's eye twitched.
He looked ahead—deep within the great hall, dense mist still hung in layers.
"Something in that mist killed them, turned them into this! " His scalp went numb; he gripped his staff tightly.
The Brahma-Quiet Twelve-Ring Staff truly deserved its reputation as a treasure worth an entire city—just now, merely by pouring his vital energy into it, he had unleashed terrifying power. It had been Grandmother Zhu's idea to bring the staff out this time.
Grandmother Zhu was greatly concerned for his safety; besides the staff, she had also transformed into various forms, keeping him safe in secret.
"Grandmother must be worried sick. . .
" Shen Mu felt a pang of guilt, then braced himself and swept his gaze around. "The source of the mist should be inside this hall—and so is the danger! What exactly was it that killed these warriors who came here to explore?
" Just then, the mist from the depths of the hall surged toward him, reaching his ankles, then climbing slowly higher. And the dried corpses on the ground, swallowed by the mist, slowly twisted their bodies and rose to their feet in grotesque postures.
The mist rose ever higher, gradually passing over Shen Mu's head, and within the mist those dried corpses likewise floated up little by little; as the fog thickened, the corpses vanished into it, no longer discernible.
"What cursed thing is playing tricks and stirring up storms? Ximilo! " Staff in hand, Shen Mu advanced; after some hundred-odd feet, the singing drew near once more. He raised the staff and struck the ground with violence.
Buddha light blazed forth, Buddhist tones resounded in the air, and behind him the form of a great Buddha emerged again, its universal radiance scattering the mist, sending the dried corpses thudding to the ground one by one once more.
"You little bald donkey. .
. " A voice suddenly rang through the hall, enough to raise the hackles—but it spoke only that one sentence, leaving Shen Mu and the little fox to wonder whether they had misheard.
At last, Shen Mu saw the source of the mist. At the center of this dragon palace stood an ice sculpture, and from it the mist emanated.