“Liu Bo, are you alright?”
The thick-browed youth in a black cotton jacket cursed loudly, “We’re from the same school, and it’s fine if we don’t join forces, but to fight each other? Aren’t you afraid of being taken advantage of?”
“Long Zaitian, stop acting all high and mighty!”
The youth in a military green coat rode a sturdy black donkey with eyes shining white, dragging a long-handled scythe behind him, leading a dozen figures in straw raincoats and holding fishing spears, charging fiercely towards the opposite side.
All the while, he didn’t forget to curse, “If it wasn’t for you pulling on my donkey’s tail in the last speed race, would I have almost been eliminated? Now you’re pretending to be the good guy, too late! In this Qing Shan Cup, it’s either you or me!”
“Why bother.”
Long Zaitian shook his head with a hint of helplessness, leaped up, and landed on the back of a penguin with a sharp beak and pitch-black eyes, letting it slide on the ground like a “sandboard,” carrying him in a swift dive.
Behind him followed several majestic polar bears wrapped in armor and entwined with ghostly thunder.
The two sides collided with each other.
Scythes flew and spears thrust, beaks pecked and bear claws swiped.
In this vast sea of sand, they stirred up boundless ghostly qi.
“Is there a possibility… that neither of you will remain?”
Chronicle muttered to himself, raised his arm to catch the hawk, then pointed towards the direction of the small flag, signaling the falcon to pluck it for him.
In the next second, the graceful bird turned into a streak of shadow, swooping over the battlefield from high above, using its beak to snatch the flag and delivering it to his hand.
“You two keep fighting, I’ve got business to attend to.”
Chronicle thought to himself, wiping the sand off the flag, carefully storing it away, then mounted the beast of the year and headed southeast.
— He had just discovered through Shared Vision that nearby, a person with incredible luck had effortlessly found three flags, and it was the perfect time to go and pick peaches.
“Go.”
Chronicle once again sent the falcon flying to scout for the enemy.
In the midst of the flying sand, a youth in a “Goose Encounter” down jacket was holding a compass-like device, leading a dozen backpackers with black shovels and a weathered look, walking on the slightly undulating sand waves.
Watching this scene reminiscent of “tomb raiding,” Chronicle fell into deep thought.
“So professional, it looks quite authentic. It seems that his finding those three flags wasn’t just luck.”
Chronicle thought to himself, gestured with his hand, signaling eight Ghost Soldiers with the physique of Dwayne Johnson and armed with crossbows to step forward.
In a crouching stance, they aimed their crossbows at the “Goose Encounter” youth and the dozen little black shovels.
“Fire!”
Just as the “Goose Encounter” youth, with a smile on his face, dug out a blood-colored flag from the sand dune, Chronicle waved his hand fiercely, and the eight warriors sprang into action.
A series of extremely satisfying mechanical sounds of gears meshing rang out as specially made crossbow bolts with a dull sheen dropped from the quiver into the groove and shot out through the small hole at the front.
Dense as rain, like a flock of crows.
“Thud! Thud! Thud!”
The warriors, holding their powerful crossbows, were like Siberian outlaws wielding their precious “AK47s”.
Pulling the trigger without letting go, they released a large number of arrows in two or three seconds without even aiming, sweeping across the area.
In the blink of an eye, the sand below was covered with dense crossbow bolts.
“woc, we’re under attack!”
Before the “Goose Encounter” youth could put away the flag, he was struck by an arrow.
The sharp arrowhead pierced through his down jacket in an instant, causing a flurry of goose feathers.
Fortunately, he reacted quickly, using his psychic energy to protect his body and swiftly twisting his waist, narrowly avoiding a direct hit.
Even so, a long gash was sliced across his ribs.
The most terrifying part was that this ancient battlefield artifact, named the “Zhuge Crossbow,” was now in the hands of the Ghost Soldiers, each strike carrying an extremely dense ghostly qi.
The wisps of chilling qi were like a bone-deep ulcer, bypassing the wound and directly entering the lungs and marrow.
“Hisss~ Ow! My back is freezing!”
He howled in pain, rolling back and forth on the sand.
The dozen backpackers frantically waved their black shovels, trying to fend off the arrows.
But the Ghost Soldier warriors were ferocious in their attack, sending dozens or hundreds of bolts flying every second.
Gathering like crows, scattering like flying spears.
In no time, the dozen backpackers were turned into porcupines and crumbled into ash.
“Boss, I give up, please stop, these four flags are all yours!”
The “Goose Encounter” youth quickly picked up the four flags scattered in the sand, placed them aside, and then yelled at the starry sky, “I forfeit!”
The next second, two black hands emerged from the sand dune, grabbing his ankles and pulling him into the sand.
Both the person and his legion disappeared from the spot in no time.
Seeing this, Chronicle waved his hand, commanding the falcon to pick up the four flags from the ground.
With this, he now had five flags in hand, giving him a bit of a foundation.
“Still not enough.”
Just this “Goose Encounter” youth found four flags in a few minutes.
Who knows if there might be someone with incredible luck who could find ten or twenty flags in these fifteen minutes?
“Seven minutes left.”
Chronicle glanced at his watch, then quickly calculated.
He realized that with his current psychic power, he could let the Ghost Soldiers run rampant for six or seven minutes with ease.
He then collected some of the Ghost Soldiers, leaving only the scouts and the falcon to confirm the positions of those with flags, and led the Yan Yun Eighteen Riders, sweeping away.
Now was the perfect time to intercept.
And then…
“I found the third flag so quickly, yay! I’m going to win!”
In the vast sea of sand, the youth in a red cotton jacket laughed loudly as he picked up a pale blue flag from the ground.
But before he could enjoy his triumph for a few seconds, a loud shout came from behind him, “You scoundrel, what have you won?!”
Immediately after, the sound of blades being unsheathed followed with a “swish swish.”
He instinctively turned his head, only to see on the nearby sand dune, eighteen fierce riders scattered about.
All dressed in dark felt cloaks and cotton cold-weather clothes, with sharp sabers and bows as strong as pine.
Men as fierce as tigers, horses like dragons, both men and horses robust and strong.
Looking over, each of these steeds was pitch-black, uniformly dressed in worn leather and iron armor stitched together, exuding the mottled weight of a thousand years of history.
They stood on the sand dune, looking down, occasionally raising their hooves and then heavily stomping down, stirring up billowing dust and shallow ghostly clouds.
The deep and powerful rhythm seemed to resonate with one’s heartbeat.
The youth in the red cotton jacket stared blankly at this scene, covering his chest with his hand.
“Thump! Thump!”
His heart pounded wildly, but the rhythm was eerily off, as if it might stop at any moment.
He swallowed nervously and turned to look at the eight or nine ancient scholar-like ghostly spirits beside him.
At this moment, they too seemed to have met their nemesis, standing frozen in place, their pen-tube guns dropping to the ground, sinking into the sand pits.
“It’s over.”
The youth in the red cotton jacket lamented in his heart.
The next moment, he saw the eighteen riders charge down the “mountain” like a gust of wind.
Though there were only eighteen “men,” their momentum was as grand as that of ten thousand horses and a thousand troops.
“Woo——”
Within the resounding call of the horn, the “Banner of a Hundred Trades Entwined with Ten Thousand Souls” swayed slightly.
Sabers were drawn, and as they swept by, the cold light shimmered like drifting snowflakes.
Sand like snow, stars like chess pieces.
Those white-robed scholar ghosts, like romantic literati from ancient times wandering in search of immortals, were entranced by the beauty, as if they were about to nod and sway, composing poetry in response.
“Zzzt…”
Before any fine verses could emerge, heads began to fall to the ground.
I’m going to push for publication this afternoon, I’ve organized the outline a bit, so I’ll write less today and aim for ten thousand words a day from tomorrow.
Everyone, watch my performance, and if you’re satisfied, please give me some votes. Your support will determine how far this book can go.
Begging, begging.
Oh, and on February 1st, no matter the results, I will create a full subscription group and distribute red packets, so you can join the general group in advance.