Chapter 730 — A Paintbrush Cannot Capture Its Spirit
The Herdsman of the Wasteland · Page 3 of 4
The vermilion bird spread its wings and rose from the blaze, great fire spreading everywhere.
"I will take up the martial spirit and fight my way in!
" He cast aside all distracting thoughts, forgot all divine powers, forgot his sword techniques and his sword way, forgot all the conflicts and troubles outside, forgot Jingping, and let his spirit return to early childhood, to that time of bitter cultivation at Hidden Remnant Village, to that time of arduous training under Old Huo, the Blind Elder, and the Butcher.
In those days he had tempered his body with the elders of the village, and in his spare time herded cattle and played a bamboo flute. His mind became utterly simple, as if he were once again a boy tending cattle -- and yet there was a difference.
In the past his mind had been simple as blank paper; now, after enduring all manner of trials and perils, he had let his heart settle and clarify. The wisdom beads that Emperor Shakra Heavenly King Buddha had given him suddenly scattered around his neck; one by one the wisdom beads fell away, and with each that fell, another wisdom bead formed.
These were wisdom beads formed of his own wisdom. Each bead was the size of a chicken's egg, round and translucent, flowing ceaselessly around his neck as if they could refract the human heart.
Shen Mu strode boldly into the Southern Heaven Gate.
The moment he entered, he felt an invisible pressure pressing down, crushing his bones until they crackled.
This pressure was comparatively mild against the flesh, but its assault on the primordial spirit was the most savage of all! Shen Mu roared, urging on his Mystic Body Three Elixirs Art, and forcibly withstood the pressure as he advanced. The farther he went, the greater the pressure.
From within his body came waves of dragon roars -- the Eight Tones of the Ancestral Dragon -- and the roaring shook through him, driving his qi and blood to flow through every part of his body.
He had already caught up with the first wave of those who had collapsed and could not rise.
He reached down and lifted them up, one in each hand, and flung them out of the Southern Heaven Gate.
To leave them beneath the gate would only let them be crushed to death, and his heart could not bear it. The pressure grew heavier and heavier, and the qi and blood around Shen Mu overflowed, growing denser and denser.
His qi and blood were nearly wild, churning behind him into a surging torrent, while his gaze grew brighter and brighter.
Behind him, the torrent of qi and blood sometimes transformed into an azure dragon with thunder rolling, sometimes into a black tortoise stirring waves on a black sea, sometimes into a vermilion bird with flames towering to the sky, sometimes into a white tiger fierce and savage.
All manner of manifestations shifted and changed behind him, helping him cleave through waves and press boldly forward!
At last he caught up with those ahead.
They had been crushed into people no more than three inches tall, and yet not one of them had fallen back; they continued forward, blood ceaselessly streaming from eyes, ears, mouths, and noses, still bearing the pressure, still trying to walk out of the Southern Heaven Gate.
Shen Mu too was crushed until he stood little more than a foot tall. He stepped ahead to the front of the crowd and suddenly burst into laughter, wild and unrestrained: "What the painter's brush cannot capture is the spirit!
" Drawing on the Eight Tones of the Ancestral Dragon and the Sanskrit chants of the Buddhist school, he shouted aloud, walking bare-chested, and chanted at length: "How could so petty a thing exhaust the lofty sage's intent? Wings lighter than powder, thinner than silk, forever drawn by blossoms, unable to bear itself!
" Behind him, the crowd listened intently and were unconsciously moved by his voice; the qi and blood within their bodies surged, linking together, emboldened by Shen Mu's essential spirit.