Wandering Gods of Day and Night-Chapter 426 - 229: Memories of Corridor River_2

"Hahaha."

Mr. Feng burst into laughter; he hadn’t expected reality to unveil itself as such a darkly comedic farce.

He had poured all his strength into fleeing—from Mingjiang Prefecture to Yellow Field Prefecture, from Yellow Field to Jingchuan, and eventually escaping to the Reincarnation Snow Mountain—all to avoid Zhou Xuan and the Painter.

And now, while the Painter’s whereabouts remained unknown, Zhou Xuan had indeed caught him but was unable to harm him.

"The heavens do not abandon me."

Mr. Feng shot a disdainful glance at Zhou Xuan before striding forward resolutely. He would use his own body to smash through the Bright Moon Cage, even if it meant shattering his bones, even if it cost him a leg. He was determined to leave this place.

Zhou Xuan was no threat to him—but the Painter was.

He needed to escape this situation as swiftly as possible.

"Mr. Feng, thirty years ago at Corridor River, there was a great drought, wasn’t there? Food Heaven arose during that very disaster."

"Boom, boom!"

As Mr. Feng slammed against the cage with increasing ferocity, the sound echoed loudly. Simultaneously, he retorted to Zhou Xuan’s question, saying, "That drought was the filthy business of the Gods—a cruel Unforeseen Disaster upon Corridor River. I’ll have my revenge, vengeance against those Gods,

no matter the cost, I’ll pay it."

Zhou Xuan had no desire to delve deeper into the topic of "the Gods’ business." Instead, he asked, "Back then, you were a storyteller. To advance from six sticks of incense to seven, you secluded yourself for five years. The drought struck during your third year of seclusion. By the time you emerged, successfully reaching seven sticks’ devotion, you received devastating news—your family had died in that very drought. Isn’t that correct?"

Everything he mentioned here came from a dream Yuan Buyu had crafted to restrain Mr. Feng.

"It wasn’t just my family—Feng Family Manor saw four hundred sixty-two lives extinguished in that disaster,

Some starved to death,

Some went mad with hunger and resorted to eating others, only to be beaten to death,

Others were sold off as slaves, brothel workers, or even turned into Magic Artifacts.

A thousand miles littered with the dead and dying—how can such devastation be summarized with a few casual words?"

Mr. Feng had no idea why Zhou Xuan was pressing him with such questions. But now that they’d touched upon the past events at Corridor River, he couldn’t suppress his urge to speak.

"Given your family, your manor’s people, perished from starvation or were killed by kidnappers, you founded the Kidnapper Hall and vented the tragedies of Feng Family Manor and Corridor River onto the innocent people of Mingjiang Prefecture?"

"If that’s how you see it, then you’ve underestimated me. The Gods’ business in Mingjiang Prefecture brought doom upon Corridor River. My vengeance is directed toward the Gods."

"With merely your Human World No Distance? You can’t even kill me—how do you plan to strike down the Gods atop the Heavenly Dome?"

"Must revenge require high devotion?"

Suddenly, Mr. Feng halted his assault on the cage. Tilting his head skyward, he declared, "Mortals are the greatest force of Jing Country. I will pit the lives of tens of millions of people in Mingjiang Prefecture against the Gods."

Zhou Xuan’s brows furrowed deeply upon hearing this. The tone of their conversation alerted him to one stark realization—Mr. Feng seemed to be harboring an enormous scheme,

"Pitting the lives of tens of millions in Mingjiang Prefecture against the Gods? You’re planning to destroy Mingjiang Prefecture?"

Zhou Xuan asked.

Mr. Feng didn’t reply. By now, the Bright Moon Prison had been broken down to a mere thin layer. A few more strikes, and Mr. Feng would escape, fleeing at human speed far across prefectures.

As for Zhou Xuan’s Day Trip Soul, it could follow him if it wanted—Mr. Feng didn’t care, since it couldn’t harm him anyway.

Mr. Feng didn’t believe Zhou Xuan could continuously patrol day and night, pursuing him to the ends of the earth.

"You intend to destroy Mingjiang Prefecture?"

Zhou Xuan asked once more.

"The thirty years of planning by the Kidnapper Hall is nearing fruition—not only am I plotting, but that young lady is too."

"The young lady you speak of—is she the mistress of Mingjiang Prefecture’s Evil God?"

Zhou Xuan questioned.

"Why inquire further? Zhou Xuan, you cannot save Mingjiang Prefecture—just as you cannot trap me."

"Just as, thirty years ago, you couldn’t save your family or your manor people?"

At this, Mr. Feng flared into a rage, whirling around and glaring fiercely at Zhou Xuan. But as he caught sight of Zhou Xuan’s gaze—a mixture of pity—his anger suddenly dissipated.

"You’re not mocking me?"

Mr. Feng asked.

"Of course not. I’m merely reminding you." Zhou Xuan clasped his hands behind his back, carrying himself much like a storyteller performing on stage, and said, "Mr. Feng, during my pursuit of you, my master taught me a dream. He said this dream could trap you.

This dream would take you back thirty years to Corridor River, forcing you to witness, once more, how your family and manor people perished so horrifically—you wouldn’t escape it."

Mr. Feng gnashed his teeth furiously upon hearing this. He hadn’t anticipated that Yuan Buyu, who had been his childhood friend, would concoct such a venomous plan for Zhou Xuan.

"My junior disciple—you learned your craft from me, yet you do this to me?"

"Don’t be too quick to curse my master. Along the way as I pursued you, I came to a realization—my master has been very kind to me, and I can’t bear to let him take the blame. Therefore, the dream he taught me, I won’t use it.

Instead, I’ll rely on my own dream—an original dream—as a disciple paying homage to his master’s craft."

Zhou Xuan spoke candidly. He knew Yuan Buyu’s dream would undoubtedly ensnare Mr. Feng,

but he also knew that if he used that dream to subdue Mr. Feng, his master might never sleep peacefully again for the remainder of his days.

"In the tradition of storytellers, there’s an old custom called a Thank You Letter. Upon completing your training, you share the stage with your master to perform one story, allowing your master to see if you’ve dedicated yourself, and for the disciple to discern if the master has withheld anything,

Today, though my master cannot stand by my side in battle, I will say my Thank You Letter upon this stage with you. For him, I shall craft a great dream."

"With your barely-formed talents as a storyteller?"

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