Chapter 427 — The Buddha's Bone Relic
The Herdsman of the Wasteland · Page 2 of 4
His qi and blood were no longer as abundant as before, his physical strength far inferior to what it had been. In former days, by the power of the Thunder Roar Mahayana Sutra he could have fought on without knowing weariness, abundant qi and blood lending enormous might to his every move and divine art; now he felt his strength fail him, and he was beaten down by his foe.
Lord Huo, on another field, tried again and again to come to the rescue, but his opponent held him fast and he could never free his hands. His own plight was much the same: he too had cultivated the final realm of the Thunder Roar Mahayana Sutra, the Great Brahma Heaven realm, gods and Buddhas encircling him, twenty tiers of precious aspect about him.
Yet Lord Huo's strength lay in his youth, in his vigorous body; Old Tathagata's qi and blood were withered and spent, and he could not hold out much longer.
"Shariputra: emptiness is not different from form, form is not different from emptiness!
" A chanting voice came from Old Tathagata's mouth, and his qi and blood surged up at once; the power of his every technique grew greater and greater, his fighting strength more and more terrible, until he surpassed his opponent.
Lord Huo's heart quivered, and he cried out loudly, "Master!
" Old Tathagata turned his head and looked at him, and smiled.
"The Buddha-dharma — I leave it to you.
Pass it on for me!
" "Feeling, perception, mental formation, and consciousness — the same is true of them. " Buddha-light blazed forth, drowning Old Tathagata and that god together.
The Blind Elder, meanwhile, roamed from battlefield to battlefield, using the Heart-Sage Eye to spy out the flaws in an opponent and strike by surprise — though all he could manage was to force the gods onto the defensive and save the lives of his own people. The Butcher's fight with his opponent, Star Lord Yan, could only be called madness: a heedless, desperate manner of fighting, in which nothing existed but the saber.
One man, one saber — no matter how grave his wounds, no matter how fierce the enemy's attack, he bore his saber forward and split everything apart! Behind the Silent Artisan, the great furnace belched sky-high divine fire; silver pellets flowed out of his box, transforming in a thousand ways, evolving into every kind of divine weapon and sharp instrument, while in his dantian there seemed to be another great furnace holding boundless energy; the twin furnaces burned together, granting him matchless power.
The Deaf Elder splashed ink and painted: his ink invaded heaven and earth, painting amid the snow mountains and the land, until painting and reality overlapped. The painting hid within the mountains and waters, and the mountains and waters overlapped with the painting, presenting one after another a world both gorgeous and uncanny, carrying his opponent with him as he shuttled between painting and reality — yet never crossing weapons with him. In a straight clash he would surely be no match.
So in this span of time he painted with great strokes mountain after mountain, river after river, for a hundred-odd li; within the painting, another painting; within a world, another world.
He drew his opponent into the painting and left him lost, unable to find any path out of that painted world. The Deaf Elder leaped free of the painted world and was just about to annihilate that whole landscape, painting and all, when of a sudden a streak of sword-light flew out from within the painting and ran him through the chest.
The Deaf Elder was carried backward, flying, by that sword-light; he summoned all he had into his brush and swept it in one heavy stroke, and at once mountains and rivers for a hundred-odd li around caved in and crumbled, collapsing inward into annihilation, the energy released terrible beyond words!
"A mere mortal — you have no business grasping the power of gods and demons! " From within the explosion of that collapsing world came a furious roar.