Immortality Through Array Formations (The Quest for Immortality)

Chapter 1116: Silencing Witnesses

More than ten li away, at another mountain pass— Seven or eight mountain bandits lying in wait had been utterly incinerated.

Some had chests scorched black, others had their blood evaporated from their bodies, and some had been reduced to charred husks…

Mo Hua stood among the corpses, lowered his gaze to his pale, jade-like hands, and couldn't help but frown and sigh:

"Why can't I... control my hands?"

He had promised not to kill anymore. Yet barely half an hour later, upon arriving at this mountain pass and seeing these bandits looting and pillaging—hearing their vile words—rage surged in his chest, and once again he lost control. A few Fireball Spells later, and all of them were dead.

His chest felt relieved.

But the murderous impulse inside him had grown deeper.

Mo Hua could even feel a thread of baleful aura already coiling into his sea of consciousness, rooting itself within his very soul.

Which made it far too easy for killing intent to rise to the surface.

At the sight of someone deserving death, he instinctively wanted them dead.

This wasn't like him.

He had always acted cautiously, quietly. If someone had to die, he'd prefer to do it with stealth and schemes, never through open violence.

Moreover, he considered himself kind-hearted and believed in resolving matters peacefully.

He avoided killing whenever possible.

Unless absolutely necessary, he would not take a life.

But now, things were veering out of his control...

Mo Hua's expression grew grim. He looked ahead and silently warned himself:

"Please… let me not encounter any more bandits. And please, don't let anyone insult me to my face again. I really won't be able to hold back…"

Unfortunately, the heavens rarely grant such wishes.

Not even a few more li down the road, he encountered another group of bandits.

One of them, sharp-eyed, spotted Mo Hua from afar. He summoned the others and coldly said:

"Boy, hand over all the spirit stones you've got."

Mo Hua, not wanting to provoke their greed, shook his head. "I have none. Already got robbed."

The bandits exchanged glances and muttered:

"Several groups are ahead. This kid's probably been picked clean by now—nothing valuable left on him..."

"These mountains have always been full of wolves, not enough meat to go around..."

"Damn rotten luck."

Then, a burly bandit stared at Mo Hua's face for a few seconds. His eyes widened with shock and delight. He pointed at Mo Hua and said:

"No spirit stones? Doesn't matter. Grab him! Sell him in town—he'll fetch a fine price."

Someone next to him said, "Boss… he's not a girl…"

"No matter," the big bandit said greedily. "With a face like that, who cares if it's a guy or a girl…"

Before he finished speaking, a vicious fireball exploded into his face, blasting his entire head apart. The flesh around his neck burned into black ash.

The remaining bandits paled in terror. They turned to look— only to see the once-fair and harmless-looking youth now with a face cold as still water, his eyes pitch-black, the killing aura in his gaze chilling them to the bone.

"You killed my brother! I'll kill you!"

One musclebound bandit charged at Mo Hua with a blade.

Most of the others, a bit quicker-witted, turned and fled into the distance.

But whether they chose to fight or flee—it made no difference.

Murderous fireballs whirled through the air. In mere moments, every last one of them was burned to death.

The killing aura in Mo Hua's eyes thickened further.

The murderous intent in his heart, like wild grass kissed by spring wind, took root in his soul and began to grow.

Mo Hua let out a long, deep sigh and silently warned himself again:

"This was the last time..."

"I really... can't kill again..."

To completely suppress the desire to kill, this time he forced himself to travel using a concealment technique.

He could have done this earlier—avoided all these conflicts by hiding from the bandits—but he hadn't.

Partly because he thought concealment was meant for evading true enemies.

Petty mountain bandits weren't worthy of such caution.

But the real reason…

Now calm, Mo Hua analyzed himself and slowly came to a realization:

Deep down, he hadn't wanted to hide.

He wanted to walk right into these bandits, have them try to rob or harm him— So that he'd have a reason to kill them all.

He did it on purpose.

He harbored a latent desire to kill, and subconsciously he'd calculated this path of cause and effect.

And so, without realizing, he had let himself provoke conflict—create slaughter—satisfy that craving to kill buried deep in his heart.

Mo Hua's expression turned severe.

This meant he was losing control—not only of his desires, but of his mind and even his very sense of self.

Such inner chaos could not be allowed to grow.

Mo Hua forcibly steadied his mind, activated his concealment technique, and his figure gradually faded as he continued on his journey.

The desolate and rugged mountain path was empty of any travelers.

But hidden in the shadows, Mo Hua moved lightly and calmly forward.

He encountered two more bands of mountain bandits.

But this time, using his concealment technique, he passed directly in front of them and across the mountain passes—without provoking a single conflict, without shedding more blood.

Afterward, he continued for nearly twenty li.

He passed through rugged terrain, encountered a few scrawny wolf demons and some scattered bandits, and eventually crossed a patch of wild forest.

When he looked up again, he spotted a mountain stronghold to his left.

The stronghold was built on a perilous peak, half-hidden by trees, perched on high ground and occupying a vast area.

Thick wooden stakes surrounded it, embedded with crude defensive formations—easy to defend, hard to breach.

Watchtowers dotted the perimeter, manned by bandit sentries.

From a distance, the stakes atop the walls looked like towering spears. Bloodied cloths and human heads dangled from them, exuding a fierce and savage aura that discouraged any approach.

This was a long-established stronghold.

The bloodstains on the gate had formed a thick crust. After countless days of sun and rain, the red had turned almost black.

With just a glance, Mo Hua could see the stronghold was drenched in dense, clinging deathly energy.

Clearly, many had died there over the years.

Mo Hua extended his divine sense. Sweeping across the area, he sensed more than a hundred living auras inside.

Every single one of them was tainted with filthy murderous karma—their souls marred and dirty. Clearly all of them had blood on their hands and vile deeds in their past.

This was a den of filth and villainy—a bandit stronghold of rogue cultivators.

Mo Hua instinctively thought of the Black Mountain Stronghold.

The one near Tongxian City, hidden deep in the Great Black Mountains, funded by the Qian Clan's patriarch, where they harbored a host of criminal and demonic cultivators who murdered, robbed, and practiced forbidden arts.

This current stronghold wasn't as large in scale, but it was just as filled with dark energy and bloodshed—a malignant tumor.

Pain flared through Mo Hua's meridians. His blood surged violently. Almost instinctively, a surge of killing intent rose in his chest—but he grit his teeth and forced it down.

In the past, he would have eradicated this stronghold without hesitation.

But now, with murderous karma heavy upon him and the baleful aura already infecting his heart, he couldn't afford to unleash another slaughter.

"I'll leave this place first. Once I reach the Immortal City, I'll report this to the Dao Court. Let them come and destroy this stronghold. That way, I don't have to act…"

Mo Hua silently resolved.

But deep inside, his killing urge still stirred, whispering to his heart.

The baleful aura continued to gnaw at his sea of consciousness, leaving him irritable and on edge.

Mo Hua took a deep breath and forced himself to stop thinking about the bandits—stop thinking about the stronghold. He emptied his thoughts and stilled his mind.

Only after a long while did his inner world calm somewhat.

Then he turned decisively and walked in the opposite direction from the stronghold.

Out of sight, out of mind.

"Out of sight, out of mind."

As long as he stayed far away from that bandit cultivator stronghold, without the influence of its baleful aura, there would be no karmic trigger for murderous intent.

Thinking this, Mo Hua didn't look back and walked straight ahead, putting more than two li between himself and the place.

The mountain stronghold was soon blocked by towering peaks and disappeared from Mo Hua's sight.

His mood indeed improved somewhat, and the murderous intent in his heart began to dissipate.

He continued walking toward the other side of the mountain, doing his best to maintain inner calm.

The distance from the bandit stronghold grew farther and farther.

After walking another li, he came to a large tree.

Out of the corner of his eye, Mo Hua glanced at it. His gaze trembled slightly, and he fell completely silent.

It was a massive tree, with thick branches from which dozens of headless corpses hung, strung up haphazardly.

These corpses were thin and frail, their clothing tattered — clearly poor rogue cultivators. Bloodthirsty flies swarmed around the bodies.

Their heads had been hacked off and piled on the ground, their faces still frozen in terror.

Aside from the hanging corpses, there were also the bodies of several women on the ground. They had clearly suffered inhuman abuse — their limbs broken, wounds exposing bone.

Even children were among them, their necks twisted, tossed aside like discarded puppets.

The entire scene was brutal and bloody — utterly unbearable to witness.

This was a deliberate display set up by the bandit cultivators at the road's entrance — a show of "might" to flaunt their cruelty and inspire dread and fear in others.

But these grotesque sights deeply stirred the heart of Mo Hua, who had been doing his utmost to suppress his emotions.

A wave of fury instantly surged up from within him.

The killing intent he had repressed for so long burst forth like a flood breaching the Yellow River's banks.

Mo Hua closed his eyes and took a deep breath. When he opened them again, his gaze was pitch black, and his expression turned as cold as the dead of winter.

"…Forget it. Those who deserve death… will die sooner or later…"

This thought brought sudden ease to Mo Hua's heart.

He slowly turned around and began retracing his steps.

He walked all the way back to the front of the mountain stronghold. Concealing his presence, Mo Hua sat silently upon a large boulder not far away.

The entire stronghold was full of rowdy voices. No one would have imagined that an invisible "ghost god" was now seated at their doorstep, watching them with a bone-chilling gaze.

As the sun set and dusk arrived…

The bandits who had gone out "hunting" began returning to the stronghold one after another.

Mo Hua calculated with his fingers and determined that none had escaped. A glint of icy sharpness flashed in his eyes.

Only then did he stand, silently and unseen, step by step walking toward the stronghold.

Night had fully fallen.

Within the stronghold, campfires were lit — glowing red like fresh blood.

The bandits, after a day of pillaging, were drinking and feasting.

The wine was cheap and harsh, and the meat, still bloody, was of unknown origin.

They bellowed and boasted of their plunder — the caravans they'd destroyed, villages they'd burned, heads they'd chopped, and women they'd violated…

All to fuel their drunken revelry and show off their brutality.

At the highest seat sat a burly man with a scarred face — a Foundation Establishment cultivator, and the chief of this stronghold.

Holding a cup, he looked upon his pack of wolves — killing and looting in this desolate region, feasting and drinking like beasts — and felt immensely pleased. He drained his cup of strong liquor in one go.

As the drinking wore on, and the third round passed, drunkenness began to take hold.

Everyone was getting groggy.

Suddenly, a gust of night wind swept through. The stronghold chief shivered involuntarily, an inexplicable chill rising in his chest. He glanced around and saw the surrounding darkness had deepened.

In that darkness, something seemed to be slowly drawing closer… encircling them.

The chief's expression shifted.

Years of living on the edge, licking blood off blades, had honed his instincts — something was wrong.

"Where's Old Huang? Why haven't I seen him?"

Someone below replied, "The third chief went out to rob a caravan — hasn't returned yet."

The chief frowned and shouted, "What about the sentries? Don't just drink all damn night! You still need to keep watch! What if we're attacked, huh?!"

"Chief, you're joking — who would dare come here…"

"Shut up!" the chief roared. "You bastard, go check if anyone's slacking off."

Grumbling, a bandit put down his cup and walked outside the stronghold.

He never returned.

A full stick of incense later, silence still reigned.

The chief sensed something was seriously wrong.

The previously drunk bandits also felt the chill creeping in — sobering up a bit.

"Where is he?"

The chief pointed to two more men. "You two — go take a look outside."

They weren't happy about it, but under the chief's fierce glare, they didn't dare refuse.

Weapons drawn, legs trembling, backs hunched, cold sweat pouring — they crept out step by step.

Outside was pitch-black — not even a hand could be seen before one's face.

Suddenly, a crimson flame lit up.

And just as quickly — darkness returned.

The boundless dark devoured everything — including the lives of the two bandits. They didn't even get a chance to scream before being slain.

Panic erupted. The entire hall was shaken.

The chief's face turned ashen.

"Who's there?!"

But in the darkness, no answer came.

Inside the hall, nearly a hundred bandits remained. All drew their weapons, forming ranks, eyes fierce and alert.

"Damn it — who the hell has the guts to come here?!"

Someone cursed. In the next instant — a fireball shot out of the dark, ferocious and blazing — instantly reducing the man to nothing but ash and bone.

"Fireball!"

"That was a Fireball Spell?!"

"Whose fireball was that?! How could it be so terrifying?!"

Before the voices finished, another crimson fireball came flying from the darkness.

This time, it didn't just kill one person — it pierced through three.

The first bandit was incinerated instantly. The fireball continued, searing through the second, then burned a hole clean through the third before finally dissipating.

The entire hall was filled with fear.

They were terrified by the power of the Fireball Spell.

Even more so — by the fact that they still had no idea who was casting it.

Soon, more fireballs came.

Swift, precise, merciless — like flaming cannonballs exploding through the crowd, molten death burning bandits into nothing but scorched bones.

And within the darkness — a silhouette, fierce and demonic, flickered in and out of view.

Like a Yama from hell, unleashing terrifying karmic flames, reaping their lives one by one.

"A ghost… it's a ghost!"

"If we don't run, we're all dead!"

"If we don't run, we'll all die!"

A mountain bandit, overtaken by terror and losing all composure, shrieked shrilly and bolted.

His escape was like the collapse of a great building—triggering a wave of panic. The other bandits' morale shattered as they scattered in all directions.

The bandit chief immediately grabbed one of them and snapped his neck, roaring, "No one is allowed to run! Cowards will be executed on the spot!"

But his threats were useless.

Compared to being killed by him, it was far more terrifying to die in the "Infernal Hellfire."

Nearly a hundred mountain bandits fled like wild animals, scrambling through gaps around the wooden hall.

But suddenly, five-colored light flared.

The ground lit up with mottled patterns—array formations emerged one after another.

Some were sliced to shreds by golden light; some were burned into ash by underground flames; some drowned alive in conjured water prisons; others were buried in flowing sand or strangled by vines…

"Formation arrays?!"

"The hall's sealed by formations!"

Terror spread like wildfire.

The bandits began trampling each other. Some lost their minds entirely, unable to find the enemy and turning on one another in panic.

The chief barked commands, but in the chaos and madness, no one listened.

Formations slaughtered, fireballs incinerated.

Very soon, the hall was cleared of life—every bandit lay dead.

The chief stood there, face twisted, heart filled with grief and hatred.

These were his brothers. His life's work, painstakingly built over the years, gone in the time it took to finish a drink.

Hatred consumed his heart.

But he did not lose his reason. As long as he lived, the mountain would rise again. Brothers could be recruited anew, the stronghold rebuilt. As long as he survived, there was hope for a comeback.

Blood flowed in streams. Corpses littered the grand hall.

"Senior..."

The scar-faced chief cupped his hands toward the darkness, speaking respectfully, "Surely this can be discussed..."

He knew this wasn't the work of ghosts or monsters, but a cultivator.

And a powerful one.

"This junior believes... I've never offended you..."

There was no reply from the darkness.

He swallowed, then said gravely:

"If you want something, just name it—spirit stones? Treasures? Women? I can steal them for you..."

"Whatever you want done, I'll do it."

"If you want this stronghold, I'll gladly hand it over..."

Still, there was no answer. He spread his divine sense, probing the darkness, but couldn't find a trace.

He gripped his blade tighter, knelt, and kowtowed three times, then looked up.

"Senior, please say something. Even if you won't spare me, at least let me understand why I must die."

"Let me know... what I did wrong..."

Suddenly, a realization struck him. "Could it be... you're punishing injustice?"

He hastily kowtowed twice more, face filled with grief.

"To tell you the truth, senior... I had no choice."

"This realm—Jizhou—is desolate and impoverished, starved of cultivation resources. With no other path to pursue the Dao, I had to take risks, turn to banditry, and rob other cultivators to survive."

"This world has no justice to speak of. The aristocratic clans exploit us endlessly. The Dao Court is corrupt and useless. All across the land, tyrannical levies bleed the people dry..."

"For rogue cultivators like us, cultivation is already near-impossible—just surviving is a struggle."

"If I didn't do this, I'd never rise above. Forget Foundation Establishment—even reaching the ninth level of Qi Refinement would be a miracle..."

In the darkness, the silhouette appeared to waver in silence.

"You..."

A youthful voice rang out—crisp, unmistakably a boy.

But the scar-faced chief didn't care.

The instant the voice sounded, he used the skill he had trained in his whole life to locate its position by sound alone.

The voice came from the center of the hall—empty and silent.

He couldn't see it with his eyes or sense it with his divine sense.

But his ears told him—someone was definitely there.

His qi sea had long been ready. The moment was now.

He poured sinister blood-tinged energy into his blade, drawing a streak of crimson light and, without hesitation, struck at the source of the voice.

Cultivators die most often from talking too much.

This move had killed many powerful foes before.

But before his blade could fall, faint blue water chains materialized in mid-air, binding his joints tightly—bringing with them a suffocating sensation of drowning.

"This spell?!"

The chief's eyes widened. Then, from the darkness, a figure slowly emerged.

When he finally saw clearly, his face filled with disbelief and horror.

Too young!

Fair skin, delicate features, a weak scholarly look—he couldn't even be twenty!

And yet this very person had just slaughtered him and over a hundred of his brothers singlehandedly?!

And his cultivation level... could it be...

Late Foundation Establishment?!

The chief was frozen in terror, wanting to beg for mercy, but the water prison spell had sealed his mouth.

Mo Hua stepped up in front of him, raised a fair finger, and touched the chief's forehead, speaking coldly:

"Aristocrats exploit. The Dao Court is corrupt. Rogue cultivators suffer..."

"But you, a rogue cultivator, only ever killed other rogue cultivators."

The chief's pupils contracted.

A spark of flame lit at Mo Hua's fingertip.

Boom!

Flames erupted. The destructive power of annihilating fire howled out and instantly blasted the bandit chief's head into blackened ash.

(End of this Chapter)