Chapter 57: Encountering the Corpse King Again

Shuiling stormed over in great strides. I quickly shielded the old man behind me, raised the Frostblade before me, and braced myself for a life-or-death struggle. Unexpectedly, Shuiling seemed not to even notice me, dashing right past. Judging by its panicked steps, it appeared to be fleeing from some threat. I hurried after it, darting into the left corridor. Shuiling was swift, but I managed to keep pace after a frantic chase. The old man was left far behind, but I could no longer spare a thought for him; I followed Shuiling through twists and turns until we reached the corridor’s end—there was nowhere left to go.

Shuiling turned back, eyeing me warily, its body slightly crouched in a defensive posture. I glanced over my shoulder; the old man had yet to catch up. Gripping the Frostblade, I charged forward. Sensing my aggression, Shuiling dared not be careless. From the single eye on its forehead, a blinding beam burst forth—much like my own laser vision. How could this be? The Corpse King I’d met before had also unleashed beams from its eyes, and now Shuiling did the same. I’d once thought my laser vision was unmatched, but now, faced with Shuiling, I realized its beam seemed even stronger.

I dodged desperately as the light came searing toward me, the stone wall behind me shattering wherever the beam struck. Shuiling unleashed one beam after another, leaving me no chance to approach. At this rate, I’d soon be exhausted. I had to think of something. I stepped back several paces, watching the beams. They lost their power after ten meters or so, leaving only faint scorch marks on the wall.

A ranged attack—if only I had one! But my laser vision couldn’t be used often. What now? Suddenly, I remembered my pistol. How foolish of me! I was a police officer by training; I was no stranger to guns. Why not just shoot it? Why hadn’t I thought of this during the duel with the Birdman? There were plenty of firearms and ammunition stashed in my spatial ring. I quickly retrieved two revolvers—spoils from the Green Dragon Gang. Revolvers generally hold five or six rounds. The bullets are loaded in the cylinder, and with each shot, the cylinder rotates to align a new round with the barrel. Once empty, the cylinder swings out for reloading. Most revolvers swing left to suit right-handed shooters—hence the name. Their firepower is somewhat greater than a regular military pistol, but the limited rounds mean they’re best for self-defense, not offense.

I chose the revolver, hoping its power would inflict real harm on Shuiling. Raising my arm, I fired without even needing to aim. A bullet whistled toward its single eye, embedding deep within. This was the fruit of years of dedicated marksmanship; among the entire detective squad, I was second to none, my shots never missing their mark. This shot seriously wounded Shuiling—its eye struck, the bullet lodged in its skull. The beast staggered, then, with a furious howl, charged at me. It still wasn’t dead—unbelievable! At this moment, the old man finally caught up.

“Careful, get back!” he warned.

Before I could react, Shuiling was upon me. A flash of white light, and I felt as if struck by a speeding locomotive. My organs seemed shattered; I lay motionless on the ground, pain blotting out consciousness.

A cool sensation filled my stomach. I opened my eyes to see the old man holding a small black bottle.

“How do you feel, young man?”

I struggled to sit up, my bones cracking, my organs still aching so badly I nearly fainted again. The old man slashed my wrist, then his own, transmitting energy into my body—a direct and effective method. Beads of sweat rolled down his brow. When the transfer was done, my pain eased. I stood and thanked him, then turned to examine Shuiling’s corpse.

Just before death, Shuiling had detonated itself—a self-destruction technique often used by the weak when facing a much stronger foe, hoping to inflict grievous harm. Its body was now mangled beyond recognition. While I was unconscious, the old man had absorbed all its essence, leaving behind only a heap of rotten flesh. I stowed the Frostblade away and switched to the revolver; its advantage was versatility—good for both offense and defense, unlike the Frostblade which was only for close combat.

With Shuiling dead, the old man’s long-cherished wish was fulfilled. I immediately asked him to help me retrieve the soul from the riverbed. He agreed at once, unable to hide his excitement, thanking me repeatedly. Seeing him so pleased, I felt genuine happiness as well. I could restore his humanity and reclaim Murong Xue’s soul—a double blessing. The old man led the way, I followed. We were just about to leave the corridor when, suddenly, a dark shadow dropped from above—its target was me. I was knocked to the ground, and, looking up, I recognized the attacker.

It was the Corpse King! How had he ended up here? Had he followed me, seeking revenge? One hand gripped my throat, the other raised high, ready to deliver a fatal blow. Three-inch black nails glinted coldly as they slashed toward my face. I fired twice at his face; the force made him pause, and in that instant, I survived.

The old man, alerted by the commotion, spun around just in time to see me in danger. He flashed forward, appearing behind the Corpse King. Though he reached for the deadly claw, he was a second too slow. Had I not fired, I’d be either poisoned or disfigured by now—neither outcome I wished to contemplate.

Having regained his energy, the old man was much stronger. He grabbed the Corpse King’s arm and flung him against the stone wall, sending him crashing to the ground. I rolled to my feet, revolver aimed at the Corpse King’s head. Remembering my shots hadn’t blown his head apart, I aimed for his eyes instead. But he seemed aware of the revolver’s threat, narrowing his eyes to slits so the bullets simply bounced off his eyelids. Seeing the gun was useless, I returned it to the ring and drew the Frostblade.

The Corpse King rose and fixed his gaze on the old man and me. Suddenly, he spun and bolted toward the corridor’s exit. I doubted he was fleeing in fear; more likely, he was cunning, realizing that the cramped space left him at a disadvantage and luring us out. The old man and I gave chase, arriving at the shattered floor left by Shuiling. The Corpse King leaped up and out; the ten-meter height was no challenge for me now. Sword in hand, I followed, but when I reached the top, he was nowhere to be seen.

The old man emerged, instantly on guard, eyes fixed on the river. I followed his gaze—waves were surging as the Corpse King shot from the water and landed before us. Yet he didn’t attack; instead, he turned to face the river, as if anticipating something. A massive shadow surfaced. Could it be...

“A demon dragon,” the old man said warily. He conjured a white barrier three meters before us. The Corpse King slowly retreated to our side, glanced at me, and then continued to stare at the river.

Gradually, the demon dragon revealed itself—a colossal black dragon, whiskers as thick as a grown man’s finger. With a roar, it leapt from the water, its massive body crashing down before us, the ground caving in beneath its weight, stones and sand flying everywhere. Thankfully, the barrier shielded us from the debris. As soon as the dragon emerged, it attacked—the barrier shattered with its roar, and the old man, the Corpse King, and I were hurled away by the massive shockwave.