Chapter 77: The Tree of Flames

Soon, the second stretch of thirty miles came to an end, and everyone was nearing their breaking point. At that moment, Wei Cheng immediately cast two Immovable Golden Bells, granting the group a brief respite.

This was crucial, much like a drowning man who, if given a few breaths of fresh air every minute, is no longer drowning but merely playing in water.

However, when Wei Cheng lifted his gaze to the distance, he saw, dozens of miles ahead, a mass of fiery clouds floating silently in the sky—striking and terrifying within this sinister poison zone.

The fiery clouds seemed to cover a vast expanse. He was uncertain whether they should detour, for it was likely a stronghold of demons and monsters.

But after surviving three waves of Cursed Shadow enhancements, could they possibly handle such a stronghold now?

If they tried to go around, Wei Cheng doubted they could avoid it—behind them was the ruined city of Floating Cloud, now a sea of magma and fire, making retreat impossible.

Only three directions remained: west, then southwest—the path Zhou Wu’s group had taken, which also led toward Cangwu City. There were probably no more demon strongholds there, yet the occasional flicker of dim fire in the black sky made Wei Cheng’s skin crawl. In their current condition, encountering another flaming giant bird would be disastrous.

The alternatives were due north or east. Yet, in those directions as well, the dark clouds were tinged with eerie red-black, surely marking further mutated and upgraded demon outposts.

There was no way around.

So, they would face it directly.

They would carve a bloody path through.

After about fifteen minutes, the two Immovable Golden Bells dissipated like soap bubbles, their duration ever shortening.

“Follow me!” Wei Cheng called, leading the way. The others wore bitter expressions, not daring to look around, clinging tightly behind him.

They had advanced barely five or six miles when Wei Cheng was forced to knock Yu Liang unconscious with a slap—he was once again hallucinating, more severely this time, turning back and crying, “Mom, I want ice cream.”

In truth, Mei Renli and Cheng An were also hearing things—whispers at their ears, or voices of family, or the soft murmurs of beautiful women.

As for Xu Shan and Liu Sui, their Thunder Rings had dropped to +3 in strength, and their hearts ached with regret.

“Guard your minds! No idle thoughts!” Wei Cheng barked.

Wei Cheng suddenly shouted with the force of thunder, clearing the space for ten meters in every direction. The group was jolted to their senses, quickly reining in their wandering thoughts.

But this was not so easily resisted. The incursion of the Cursed Shadow was beginning to affect them all, and Wei Cheng was forced to shout at intervals to keep the others awake.

They felt drunk, or as if at the limit of exhaustion, growing numb and dulled to their surroundings. This was not a good sign.

Only by Wei Cheng’s constant vigilance did they press on—otherwise, they would have collapsed and died within moments.

Fortunately, they managed, before dawn and with three hours left before the fourth Cursed Shadow wave, to cover over a hundred miles.

They had put three hundred miles between themselves and the ruins of Floating Cloud City. The others felt nothing, but Wei Cheng clearly sensed the ominous presence had weakened by thirty percent.

Yet their path was completely blocked ahead—a demon stronghold, but no longer the old checkpoint type. Instead, it was a colossal tree of flame.

The fiery clouds he had seen before were merely the light cast by this tree.

The thing towered over a hundred meters, part of its trunk engulfing half a city wall and spanning hundreds of acres, from which thousands of flexible, tentacle-like branches grew.

Strangely, each branch was perpetually ablaze, so that from afar, the tree looked like a giant torch.

Those fiery branches stretched four or five miles in length, twisting and writhing like sentries on patrol.

Worse, on the thicker branches grew countless blood-red sacs, shifting and pulsing as if something lived within.

There were tens of thousands of these blood-filled cocoons. Once they hatched, an entire army would be born in an instant.

Wei Cheng’s scalp tingled at the sight. This poison zone’s difficulty was absurd—calling over even Zhou Wu’s entire group might not be enough.

This was no trial; it was a massacre.

But the choice was no longer his. The moment his eyes met the blood-red sacs, a strange, unimaginable force locked onto him.

Immediately, a crackling filled the air, like beans popping—those blood sacs catalyzed all at once, bursting into a swarm of flame-wreathed mosquitoes, each larger than a crow, swarming toward them at terrifying speed.

“Damn!” Wei Cheng broke out in a cold sweat.

Glancing at his companions—Xu Shan, Liu Sui, Mei Renli, Cheng An—all were in a stupor, as if drunk, their spirits depleted. Counting on them was pointless; they would only be a burden.

No, at least they had some use.

Wei Cheng darted forward, grabbing every last jar of osmanthus wine from the group’s packs—only thirty-two remained.

He downed them all in one go, the spiritual energy burning through him like fire.

Then, merging his Mountain Moving Visualization with the Golden Bell Visualization, he poured out the full force of his seventy years of internal strength, unleashing the ultimate form of the Immovable Golden Bell.

The instant the enormous golden bell took shape, it seemed to enrage the tree of flame. Tens of thousands of branches flailed like the hair of some vengeful ghost, sweeping the skies in a fury, but never reaching their target.

Seconds later, the army of fiery mosquitoes swept down, a scene both terrifying and breathtaking—at least to Wei Cheng, safely ensconced within the ultimate Golden Bell.

The sharp mandibles wreathed in flame, the powerful wings, those slender waists—each one a perfect killing machine.

These mosquitoes knew no fear, no hesitation—knights among insects, brandishing lances in aerial assault. Wei Cheng almost wanted to sing them a knight’s hymn.

The sound was relentless: thud, thud, thud, on and on.

The ultimate Golden Bell radiated golden light, dazzling and provocatively mocking, ensuring not a single fiery mosquito lost its way.

Wave after wave, swarm after swarm.

Clang, clang, clang, on and on.

That was all Wei Cheng could say, until the bell’s defenses were worn down by a fifth, its surface riddled with punctures and fine cracks, and only then did this desperate onslaught end.

Who knew how many fiery mosquitoes had died—the ground around the bell was carpeted with bodies, rivers of blood flowing.

They had chosen the wrong target.

Incidentally, these fiery mosquitoes also exploded upon death.

Such a twisted evolutionary path—truly malicious.