Han Li sat quietly in meditation inside his room. After an indeterminate length of time, the spiritual power he had depleted from traveling gradually recovered to its peak state.
When he opened his eyes and turned his gaze inward to inspect his condition, a faint smile surfaced on his face.
Ever since cultivating the Azure Essence Sword Art to the tenth stage, he had noticed a marked improvement in his spiritual power recovery. It was a pleasant, if unexpected, bonus.
With that thought in mind, Han Li pondered for a moment before reaching into his robe and pulling out a lustrous, ink-black wooden box. Several luminous green talismans were sealed across its lid.
He swept one hand over the lid, and the talismans peeled away, transforming into streaks of green light that shot into his sleeve.
Then he tapped the box with a single finger, and the lid sprang open of its own accord, revealing what lay within.
A palm-sized talisman covered in intricate runes rested quietly inside. Across its surface, a tiny blood-red serpent could be seen swimming back and forth in an endless loop.
Han Li extended his hand and beckoned lightly. The talisman flew out, circled once, and settled gently into his palm.
He had spent several days and failed three times before finally succeeding in refining this talisman. Although he didn't know exactly how powerful it would be, he was certain that its strength fell well short of what the refinement method described.
After all, those three failures had cost the eighth-grade flood dragon soul most of its spiritual energy. Its true effectiveness could only be tested in actual combat.
Han Li ran his fingers over the various runes on the talisman's surface and sank into deep thought, his expression shifting between light and shadow.
While Han Li sat cross-legged in contemplation, some dozens of miles from the Tiannan grand camp, in a stone chamber buried twenty or thirty feet underground at the Spell Warrior encampment, a handful of mysterious figures were gathered around a stone table, deliberating.
Five men and two women. Two of them — one man and one woman — were shrouded in black robes, their faces completely hidden from view.
Among the others, two were people Han Li had encountered before. One was the woman surnamed Le, who had wielded that ancient lamp during the Battle of Yellow Dragon Mountain and given him considerable trouble. The other was the middle-aged scholar who had pursued him for days and nights, gravely injuring his vitality — Divine Master Zhong.
The remaining three men were a withered, ink-dark old man, a dwarf who stood less than four feet tall, and a handsome, broad-shouldered man in brocade robes.
"High Master Le, how is the spirit oil coming along? You must understand — the duration the Sacred Lamp burns directly determines how long the Sacred Bird can remain in this realm. There can be no room for error." The withered old man's face was lined with wrinkles, but his eyes were clear and luminous. He sat at one corner of the stone table and addressed the woman surnamed Le in an even tone.
"Divine Master Zhu, rest assured. This battle concerns the life or death of our entire clan. I've brought out in one go all the lamp oil our tribe has stored for over a thousand years — more than enough to sustain the Sacred Bird through this engagement." The woman in green, surnamed Le, spoke with a solemn expression.
"Brother Zhong, the grand spirit arts formations you've organized should be in order as well, I trust? Our Spell Warriors are inferior to the Tiannan cultivators in both the quantity and quality of their magical implements. Our only recourse is to suppress their attacks through the grand formations." The old man turned his gaze toward the middle-aged scholar.
"No problems there. I haven't spent centuries studying spirit arts formations for nothing. I've already passed on several newly improved grand formations to them. If the Tiannan cultivators still try to gauge this battle by the power of our old formations, they're in for a considerable surprise." The scholar spoke calmly.
"That's what I like to hear! Brother Bi, once the melee begins, have all the high-ranking Spell Warriors summon their Illusory Spirit Beasts and attack first — draw their fire, burn through as much of the cultivators' spiritual power as you can. Sect Master Fang, this will require cooperation from your giant beasts as well." The withered old man gave a few instructions to the dwarf, then addressed the black-robed figure with a courteous tone.
"I'll hand the giant beasts over to you before the battle. However — the promise your tribe made to us won't be retracted once things are settled, will it?" The black-robed man agreed readily enough, but added a pointed remark.
"Retract? Brother Fang, you jest. Fresh off a war with the cultivators, would our Mulan tribe do something as foolish as offending your esteemed sect? After all, your Yin Luo Sect is one of the ten great demonic sects of Great Jin. Once we Mulan seize Tiannan, we intend to focus on recovery and consolidation. Handing over a few mere mortal kingdoms for your sect to manage is hardly a great concession. Besides, these mortals are all Yan people — their lives and deaths are no concern of ours." The withered old man's gaze flickered as he spoke with cold detachment.
"Good. If it weren't for the fact that our Yin Luo Sect's treasure, the Ghost Luo Banner, had several banners destroyed by those righteous Path fellows and urgently needs a vast quantity of living souls for repairs, our sect would never have involved itself in this war between your Spell Warriors and the Tiannan cultivators. Harvesting living souls on a large scale in Great Jin would inevitably draw those righteous Path dogs to interfere. We don't fear them, but the restoration of the treasure cannot be delayed." The black-robed man nodded, his voice devoid of emotion.
"Additionally — the souls of every cultivator who dies in this coming battle belong to our sect. I trust Divine Master Zhu has no objections to that?" The black-robed woman also spoke. Her voice was coarse and hoarse, entirely at odds with her slender frame — anyone hearing it for the first time would have been startled.
"The cultivators' souls, we naturally won't interfere with. But can't you simply identify and release the souls of our Spell Warriors? Your recent unrestricted harvesting of battle-dead souls has put us three old men in a very difficult position. We could offer some compensation in other areas." Upon hearing this, the withered old man's expression shifted slightly, and he replied.
"That won't do. The souls of cultivators and Spell Warriors are fundamentally no different — there's no way to distinguish between them. And even if there were some means of identification, tomorrow's battle will see thousands upon thousands of Spell Warriors and cultivators dead. How exactly are we supposed to sort through them one by one? Are the three Divine Masters intending to break your oath over this matter?" The black-robed man narrowed his eyes, and his pupils instantly turned an eerie emerald green. A sinister, bone-chilling cold radiated from his entire body.