The crowd of monks had already been struck dumb with terror by the scene before them. They wanted to run, but there was simply nowhere to go.
The iron chains and railings around them had been unlocked, but the soldiers had raised their shields, forming an impenetrable wall of bronze—nothing could get through.
The real battle was only just beginning.
From the rear ranks of the army, a volley of arrows shot into the sky, raining down toward the monks’ position.
General Curtain tried to rush back to help, but the deer-spirit, with blood still trickling from his lips, had already blocked his way to the monks. Behind him, Many-Eyes the Centipede remained seated on his horse, smiling faintly, making General Curtain hesitate to act rashly.
Prince Adrian clung tightly to Tripitaka, facing off against the goat-bearded Daoist.
Marshal Silver dragged his exhausted body forward, but he was already too spent to do anything more.
In the chaos, Barry Bear—already transformed into his giant bear form—hurriedly rushed back, trying to shield the monks from the arrow rain with his body. But at that moment, the massive tiger he’d been wrestling leapt and tackled him to the ground.
The two giant beasts tore into each other, sand and dust swirling as the earth shook. Their roars echoed across heaven and earth.
The arrow rain fell without hindrance, pounding down hard. In just an instant, the square was awash in blood—everywhere, monks lay writhing and howling, pierced by arrows.
Tripitaka stared in shock, his eyes wide as bronze bells, yet he uttered not a sound. It was as if he’d forgotten he was in danger himself, as if his soul had been snatched away in that instant.
A horn sounded.
At the front, the soldiers wielding great sabers threw back their heads and howled. Their muscles burst through their armor, sprouting claws, tails, and monstrous faces—they transformed into their demon forms.
A row of chilling, uniform eyes fixed on Tripitaka.
The shields at the very front of the formation unfolded like doors, and countless spear-wielding soldiers charged out, marching in step with the transformed demons—each step bringing them closer to Tripitaka.
Marshal Silver could only smile helplessly.
Tripitaka’s face was blank, his gaze still fixed on the blood slowly spreading beneath the monks.
Prince Adrian stared in horror at the scene. Across from him, two curled ram’s horns slowly sprouted from the goat-bearded Daoist’s head.
"Surrender. Endure it, and it will pass. Don’t make a pointless struggle."
"Not a chance!" Prince Adrian’s once-fair face erupted in patches of white scales. With a twist, he grabbed the dazed Tripitaka, transformed into his dragon form, and shot skyward.
"Trying to escape? Not so easy!"
The goat-spirit flicked his wrist—the tip of his horsehair whisk suddenly sprouted a blade, transforming into a spear! In a flash, he became a streak of light, chasing after them into the sky.
Hot on their heels, a swarm of demons emerged from the ranks—unfolding their wings and surging up after them.
General Curtain tried to leap up and help, but just as he took off, the deer-spirit lashed his feet with a whip, yanking him back down.
The battle was raging fiercely.
Transformed into a white dragon, Prince Adrian darted through the sky, clutching Tripitaka. Demons swarmed around him like bees—biting, clawing, and pressing in, weaving an invisible cage that left him no escape.
Ribbons of blood scattered through the air.
Barry Bear pinned the Tiger King to the ground and was about to deliver a fatal blow, but in a split second, the tiger’s tail whipped across his eye.
The pain made him release his grip and stagger back. The tiger sank its teeth deep into his shoulder.
As Barry Bear struggled to his feet, he found himself surrounded by a pack of demons.
The few remaining monks were forced into a corner of the square, with layer upon layer of shields behind them—there was nowhere left to retreat.
Marshal Silver carried Jack Rivers into their midst, speaking softly: "Take care of him for me."
Without waiting for the monks’ reply, Marshal Silver strode to the outermost edge, facing the advancing demons and spear soldiers head-on.
"You think I can’t fight without spiritual power?"
He calmly rolled up his sleeves.
A spear soldier roared and lunged at him.
In a flash, Marshal Silver dodged the spear tip, snatched the sword from the soldier’s waist, and swept past him.
The soldier barely got a few steps before the armor at his waist split open, and in the next instant, his entire upper body flew off.
Organs and blood splattered across the ground.
The demons advancing on Marshal Silver and the monks froze in shock.
What's happening? Hasn't his spiritual power already been exhausted?
Planting the sword tip into the ground, Marshal Silver staggered, barely managing to hold himself upright.
"Surprised?" He tilted his head back and let out a slow, weary laugh. "Before I even knew what spiritual power was, I'd slain monsters all the same."
In the early days of the Investiture War, before he had ever cultivated immortality, he was already the most decorated commander in the Zhou army save for the Celestial Sect disciples. That reputation lasted through the war's end.
"He's nearly finished—don't be afraid!" someone whispered.
The feet that had halted now moved forward once more.
Five demons, weapons raised, charged Marshal Silver from within the horde.
A long spear thrust straight for Marshal Silver’s chest.
In that instant, Marshal Silver deftly flicked the spearhead aside with his sword. As they crossed paths, the demon’s head flew skyward—without even time for a scream.
Another long sword dropped into Marshal Silver’s hand.
Quickly, Marshal Silver—now wielding swords in both hands—was locked in combat with the demon horde.
"Don’t let him catch his breath! All at once—attack!"
Dozens of demons surged forward together—in an instant, flesh and blood flew everywhere!
Marshal Silver darted nimbly through the demon ranks, felling one enemy after another.
Blood crept along the cracks in the paving stones, slowly spreading.
After fierce fighting, the demons began to retreat, leaving a field strewn with corpses.
Marshal Silver was still standing.
Though stabbed multiple times, he remained upright, unwavering.
He tossed aside the sword in his right hand, now dulled from battle, and picked up another blood-soaked blade from the ground. Wiping the blood away with his sleeve, he gripped it tightly.
"This sword is rubbish. Far worse than those from Blossom Mountain in the old days." His pallid face kept its faint smile. "Of course, you lot are nothing compared to your Blossom Mountain forebears."