Chapter Fifty-Five: The Calamity of the Seventh Night (Part Eleven)

“Hahahahahaha…”
A burst of eerie laughter echoed suddenly.
Menghen Lige’s heart trembled violently.
In front of the locust tree stood a figure—or rather, a shadow, for this person seemed unreal, more like a phantom than flesh.
It was a woman, clad in a white robe, standing calmly atop the wall, her garments fluttering in the wind.
Her head hung slightly, hair cascading over her face, hiding her features.
Yet Menghen Lige could feel her gaze fixed upon her.
“It hurts…”
Abruptly, Menghen Lige cried out.
A pain pierced her eyes, as if needles were stabbing through her soul, sudden and overwhelming!
By reflex, her hands pressed against her eyes, only to find them slick with fresh blood.
Unbeknownst to her, even the moon had changed color.
It was the color of blood; the elders had said that the Inferno of Shura was just this hue.
Not pure crimson, but a dark red, the shade formed when blood accumulates, dries, and withers over time.
A color to make one’s heart quake with dread.
Under the dim reddish moonlight, the blood appeared even more vivid.
Menghen Lige stared at her bloodied hands, but instead of shuddering in fear, she grew calm, composed.
She glanced at her health, now pale yellow, realizing she had fallen victim to some hidden trap without noticing.
At this moment, Menghen Lige’s expression was chillingly indifferent, as cold as ancient, unmelted black ice.
She fixed her gaze on the Wind Demon before her, her other hand already resting on her sword hilt.
In an instant, the atmosphere was tense, swords drawn and ready.
“Wait,” Luo Hanya pressed her hand atop Menghen Lige’s sword hilt, halting her.
Menghen Lige looked at Luo Hanya, puzzled, and then froze.
She noticed the red ball on Luo Hanya’s nose, raised her eyebrows in displeasure, scoffed, then returned her hand to the sword hilt.
“Don’t attack! We’re not its match,” Luo Hanya sighed, helplessly addressing Menghen Lige.
“At a time like this, you’re still fooling around with such nonsense? And whether we’re its match or not, does it matter? I just refuse to die so miserably,” Menghen Lige glared at Luo Hanya with contempt, as if she’d swallowed gunpowder.
“Hey, how is this nonsense? I’m using it to probe their information,” Luo Hanya replied, perplexed by Menghen Lige’s reaction.

“Ah?” Menghen Lige had not expected such a strange device to have this purpose; her face flushed red in an instant.
Clearly, her misunderstanding was profound. She shot Luo Hanya a fierce glare, snapping, “Who knows what you’re up to? At a time like this, wearing something like that—you’re lucky I don’t call you crazy.”
“Alright, alright, my dear lady. Now you know, don’t you? Let’s focus on what’s in front of us.”
As the two spoke, a multitude of paper figures began to drift up around the Wind Demon.
It must be said, these paper figures were crafted with exquisite detail, almost lifelike.
Luo Hanya glanced over them and realized many were the same as those who had worshipped him during his faintness.
The Wind Demon suddenly let out a cackling laugh; the hair that covered her face was whipped up by a sinister wind, dancing wildly.
And what a face it was—
Scars, as though sliced by blades, crisscrossed her pale skin. The skin was delicate, yet beneath those dense, jagged scars, it appeared all the more terrifying.
Luo Hanya recalled the legend of the Wind Demon.
It was said the Wind Demon was a woman who died by punishment in the wind.
There were rebellious women, discovered by elders, hung from the Phoenix Eye, torn apart by fierce winds.
If grievances went unresolved, and resentment lingered, she would remain, mingling with the yin energies in the wind, until she became the Wind Demon.
As the sinister wind swirled, all the paper figures were etched with cracks; they shrieked miserably, as if enduring torment.
Some of the paper figures became uneven in color, their eyes turning white.
After the wind, the paper figures drifted down before the Flame Tiger.
The Flame Tiger remained hidden in the darkness, only the faint glow of fire flickering within.
The Flame Tiger, born of the Nine Nether Ghost Flames, could only be seen in places of extreme resentment.
The flames roared, and the paper figures were consumed.
Yet at that moment, something strange occurred.
The heads of the paper figures had faced in various directions.
But under the intense heat, their bodies began to bend.
Strangely enough, each bent at nearly the same angle!
Their heads twisted, as if alive, turning toward something.
With each bend, a distorted sound was heard.
Slowly, slowly, though gradual, the change was visible to the naked eye.
It was as if these figures had gained sentience, all gazing toward a single point.
At last, their heads froze, aligned in one direction.

That direction—
Luo Hanya stared in awe at where their eyes pointed: toward the giant locust tree!
The degree of their twisted heads was shockingly identical.
As the flames consumed them, their bodies shrank down, growing lower and lower.
No matter how one looked, it seemed as though the paper figures were kneeling toward the giant locust tree.
Such a bizarre coincidence, such a startling illusion—could it really be mere chance?
The fire burned quickly; all these movements took only a scant ten seconds.
After that, the paper figures were swallowed by the flames, reduced to ash.
At this moment, the sky rained paper money, all fluttering into the fire, burning together.
Beneath the giant locust tree, the mournful sound of a clay flute echoed, low and sorrowful, as if in ritual.
When the flames finally waned, a great wind swept through.
The ashes, just burned, were taken up by the wind.
Most peculiarly, the wind was fierce, yet it lifted no sand or stones—only the ashes, as if deliberately gathering them.
Luo Hanya quickly looked toward the direction the ashes were carried; they did not scatter, but were all swept toward one place—
The giant locust tree!
It was as if the power beneath the tree had gathered all the paper figures there.
As the ashes converged near the locust tree, ghostly blue flames suddenly appeared around it.
Each wisp of blue fire enveloped a small piece of ash.
The wind howled, growing more intense and mournful.
Another great crash erupted beneath the locust tree.
A blood moon hangs above, ghostly fire spreads, Wind Demon reigns, Flame Tiger prowls.
Thunderous booms echoed incessantly.
Another earth-shattering roar—
The giant locust tree fell!
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