Chapter 69

Beneath the stone archway of the Yaochi Peak mountain gate, the atmosphere was so thick and bizarre it could be wrung out like a wet cloth. The "madman" of whom the patrol disciples spoke was sitting cross-legged on the bluestone steps, a cracked clay bowl perched atop his head. The ashen hemp robe he wore was tattered enough to double as a fishing net, hanging in shreds that exposed his lean, dark ribs. In his hand, he was genuinely holding a smoking, battered wooden sign. The smoke was bluish-gray with the acrid scent of burning mugwort, and scrawled across the sign in charcoal like a poker-faced ghost's graffiti were the words: "The First Generation Chicken Dinner Tournament Has Begun! Losers Dance on Graves!" The handwriting was as sloppy as a drunken talisman. "This old bastard... has some real tricks up his sleeve." Supported by two medicine boys, Nangong Lie leaned against a pillar of the mountain gate, wincing and hising through his teeth. His chest was wrapped like a mummy, but his eyes remained locked on the shimmering, light-bending force field that hovered around the madman. The field was strange—neither the clear, ethereal light of the immortals nor the churning roil of Demonic Qi, but rather looking as though... space itself were having a seizure.