Han Yong stood frozen inside the city, his burning gaze fixed tightly on the two figures—one in yellow, one in blue.

Just two people, yet they were like anchors holding down the raging tide, preventing the iron cavalry’s brutal flood from advancing even half a step.

Only two people, stopping tens of thousands of prairie barbarians from crossing the boundary. What kind of divine spectacle was this? What kind of overwhelming power?

He suddenly remembered a few lines his teacher had taught him when he was young: With feather fan and silk kerchief, amid laughter and talk, the mighty fleets turn to ash and smoke.

He no longer remembered who wrote the verse—only vaguely that it was meant to praise some sage of the previous dynasty.

Han Yong was never a good student, and he thought he had long forgotten the line.

But in this moment, the distant memory stirred to life again, and he felt that nothing could describe the two men before him better than those words.

A shiver crawled over Han Yong’s scalp; his entire body trembled uncontrollably. He held his breath and stared at the two figures, eyes blazing with fervor.

Han Yong had never believed in immortals.

The so-called gods were nothing but empty illusions. Better to rely on oneself than pray to them.

Besides, if gods truly existed, why would good people not live long, while evildoers who committed every atrocity lived smoothly their whole lives?

But today—Han Yong saw immortals.

If immortals existed, they must look like them.

Just moments ago, he’d been utterly hopeless. He wasn’t afraid of death—his lowly life wasn’t worth much. What he feared was what would happen to the hundreds of thousands of people in Beihuang once he died.

Han Yong had seen what the barbarians did to a city after entering it.

He had witnessed it with his own eyes.

Every year around harvest season, the barbarians would raid the small towns near Beihuang. The garrison Han Yong served in always arrived too late—only in time to hear the thunderous cries of the survivors, to face the piled corpses by the roadside, and the wheat fields stripped bare like fallen leaves on the wind.

Even those who survived often didn’t make it through winter. Food shortages, crushing taxes—many couldn’t survive even after selling their children. To avoid being dragged away by the authorities, countless families sold their land cheaply and became slaves.

In chaotic times, human lives were like weeds—one gust of wind and an entire patch would fall.

Whenever Han Yong thought of Beihuang City being ravaged the same way after his death, hatred choked him. He would die with his eyes open.

If Bodhisattvas existed, if gods had eyes, why didn’t they descend to save the people? Why didn’t they punish evil, eliminate demons, and restore peace to the world?

Guanyin Bodhisattva who saves the suffering… hahahaha…

If you exist—come out!

Come out and let me see you!

Save your believers from hell!

As if some divine being truly heard his desperate cry, in the next moment heavenly radiance descended, light flaring brilliantly. From the swirling clouds of dust emerged two silhouettes.

Clearing away the haze of history, the deities of ancient legends seemed to awaken and step onto a battlefield of blood and fire, just as in the bygone days when they strode proudly across the heavens.

Closest to him was a Daoist in blue robes. His posture was lofty and pure—like a startled swan, like a soaring dragon. The cold sword in his hand killed without leaving a trace; its blade slipped through barbarian armor like slicing tofu, cutting down those who had climbed onto the wall with effortless ease.

But the one who left the deepest, most shocking impression on Han Yong was the yellow-robed monk below the wall.

Separated by the towering walls and the endless wave of barbarian cavalry, Han Yong couldn’t see the monk’s expression clearly. But amid the roar of battle and swirling dust, he happened to catch a single backward glance from the monk—and was shaken to his core by those shimmering golden-glass eyes glowing with divine light.

Han Yong didn’t know much about Buddhism, but he still knew the saying: “Saving one life surpasses building a seven-storied pagoda.” Buddhism emphasized mercy, avoiding killing.

Yet the monk at the gate wore a sorrowful, compassionate smile while committing acts fit for an Asura. The demon-subduing staff, meant for slaying monsters and purifying evil, became a slaughtering weapon in the young monk’s hands.

He walked leisurely through the surging tide of enemies. The staff danced like a butterfly, sweeping through the crowd. Wherever it passed, barbarians collapsed silently like autumn wheat. A few droplets of blood splashed across his face, tinting the flawless jade-like features with a ghostly sheen.

Rather than a one-sided massacre, the scene looked more like a breathtaking, deadly dance.

There was nothing of a merciful Buddhist disciple in his actions—he was closer to a demon ascended from hell.

Han Yong heard a comrade beside him take a sharp breath and whisper, “…A Bodhisattva… the Bodhisattva has manifested…”

Yes—they came in answer to his inner cry. Immortals.

Immortals truly existed.

Great Liang was indeed blessed by destiny—shielded by all the gods in heaven, destined for a thousand years of prosperity!

Han Yong gazed reverently at the unwavering backs of the Daoist and the monk. His heart filled with a heavy sense of safety.

Their killing was for protection.

So Han Yong didn’t find it frightening—only thrilling, stirring his blood.

With these two immortals here, Beihuang would surely remain safe.

They were its guardian deities—the only gods worthy of Han Yong’s faith.

Faintly, voices drifted on the wind:

“Heaven has eyes! Heaven really has eyes! We’re saved!”

“Father, Mother—Bodhisattvas! The Bodhisattvas have manifested!”

“Hahahahaha! Retribution! Retribution at last!”

“Kill! Kill all the barbarians! Let these beasts repay their blood debts!”

“I don’t know which immortals they are, but once this is over, I’m building them a shrine—”

Han Yong blinked, walked a few steps toward the noise, then leaned over the wall. Only then did he notice that at some point, scattered townsfolk had gathered beneath the wall, peeking out toward the gate, chattering excitedly.

They were men and women, old and young, but their eyes were the same.

They followed the two immortals’ figures with burning devotion; their frost-bitten, despair-worn faces lit with the rarest hope one could find in a world of upheaval.

A soft sob sounded nearby. Han Yong turned in surprise and saw his comrades crying. Even moments earlier when they believed they would die defending the city, they hadn’t cried—but now, these bearded, hardened men wept uncontrollably, their whole bodies shaking.

Han Yong tugged at the corner of his mouth and rasped mockingly, “A bunch of grown men crying like this—isn’t it embarrassing…”

“You—you’re laughing at us? You’re crying too…”

Han Yong touched his face and realized he had long been crying unknowingly.

“I’m not crying… just… got sand in my eyes.”

He burst into laughter. “What a sight! To witness immortals guarding the city gate—worth it! I’ll brag about this for the rest of my life!”

Even though he knew the immortals wouldn’t notice a small nobody like him, he still knelt sincerely and kowtowed three times toward the two blood-soaked warriors. “Thank you, Immortals, for saving the people of Beihuang!”

His act seemed to trigger something. Soon, kneeling and kowtowing sounds echoed all around. Han Yong looked up and saw a sea of bowed heads. The thunderous shouts surged from all directions, forming a tide of sound:

“Heaven bless Beihuang! Heaven bless Great Liang!”

“We of Zhonghua fear no barbarian invaders!”

Standing atop the wall, the blue-robed Daoist turned and surveyed the crowd, whispering softly, “Heaven and earth may be merciless… but my heart is not.”

Han Yong froze slightly, a strange feeling stirring in his chest.

Before he could ponder it, he saw the Daoist clasp his sword and tilt his head toward them. “I’m going down to help. Can you hold this position?”

“Of course!”

“Please rest assured, Immortal!”

Han Yong also wiped his face hard and shouted loudly, “Immortal, go ahead! Just a few petty barbarians—I’ll make sure none of them come back alive!”

Truth be told, all the barbarians’ firepower was now concentrated at the breached city gate. No one was trying to set up ladders along the walls anymore.

The blue-robed Daoist nodded slightly at Han Yong’s words, then drifted down from the battlements to stand before the yellow-robed monk guarding the gate. Without any words, the two exchanged a tacit glance; the yellow-robed monk retreated into the city, leaving the blue-robed Daoist to face the barbarian cavalry alone.

If the yellow-robed monk’s battle earlier had been as exquisite and graceful as a dance, then the blue-robed Daoist fought with none of that flourish. He simply repeated the same motion—raising his sword and cutting across—using the most simple, mechanical movements to kill. Yet this simplicity created an even stronger sense of fear and shock.

What puzzled Han Yong, however, was that despite the overwhelming power of the immortals, the barbarian soldiers still surged forward endlessly, as if scrambling to die first.

Were they not afraid?

So many of their comrades had been killed; even if the army didn’t collapse, it should at least be panicking, morale shattered! How could they still launch wave after wave of attacks so rationally and orderly?

Were the barbarian soldiers all fearless warriors?

Even if the soldiers strictly obeyed orders, would their commander really be so brainless? If they didn’t retreat now, these tens of thousands of barbarians would all be wiped out here! Could the Grassland Royal Court accept such a loss?

Han Yong’s heart thumped wildly. The soldiers before him, endlessly charging forward without emotion, felt too strange. A chill ran down his back. He felt an overwhelming sense of something fundamentally wrong with them.

…Were they still human?

After the two immortals killed several hundred people and corpses piled high at both sides of the gate, the barbarian assault finally stopped. The scene froze in eerie silence, but beneath that stillness, something ominous seemed to be brewing.

Han Yong felt a lump stuck in his chest. His eyelids twitched uncontrollably; a nameless panic was rising inside him.

He felt that something was about to happen.

Then, a sudden change—an arrogant voice echoed from above:

“I wondered who it was. Turns out it’s just two little brats who’ve barely built their foundation, daring to act so wildly. Running into me today is your misfortune. Prepare to die!”

Han Yong jerked his head upward and saw a middle-aged man in a purple robe floating in the air, standing atop a lantern-shaped magical device.

He was also an immortal!

Was… he the enemy?

No wonder he looked so shifty-eyed. Definitely not a good person!

Han Yong immediately felt disgust toward the purple-robed man.

But remembering the man’s earlier words, Han Yong couldn’t help feeling worried.

Although he knew the two immortals defending the city were powerful beyond imagination, the purple-robed man’s arrogant tone…

Could they defeat him?

“Is he also an immortal?”

“What kind of immortal teams up with barbarians? Probably some evil demon!”

“Ah! We’re doomed. Can the two immortals win?”

“Oh hush—there are two of them and one of him. Two against one—they’ll win for sure!”

Han Yong was instantly relieved.

True—he was worrying too much. From any angle, their side had the advantage.

…

Su Jian raised his eyes to look at the arrogant purple-robed man above. His sword tip shifted slightly, pointing at the man’s chest. His expression remained completely calm. “Since that’s the case, then come and try.”

Old Yang’s voice trembled inside Su Jian’s consciousness. “That’s a Nascent Soul-stage great demon! You’ve only just reached Foundation Establishment—you’re no match for him! You’re marching to your death!”

Lu Qingling’s face was pale as she shouted, “Su Jian, run! Are you insane? You can’t beat him!”

But the only answer she received was the two unwavering figures before her.

Her young man had once said that some things must be done, even knowing they are impossible.

Her young man had said that behind him stood the city—so he could not retreat.

The yellow-robed monk also shed his smile for the first time, his eyes filled with fierce killing intent, making him look terrifying.

He told her to watch carefully.

“If even at the end you still can’t understand why we choose to defend this city,” the monk glanced at her, his gaze cold as water, “then we simply walk different paths.”

Feeling a complicated emotion she herself couldn’t define, Lu Qingling did not leave. She stayed quietly, earnestly watching every movement on the battlefield.

She saw her young man clash swords with the purple-robed Daoist.

She saw him struck down, falling to the ground with blood spilling across his chest.

She saw the monk behind whom Buddha’s shadows flickered and holy light radiated.

She saw that glow shatter, saw blood tears fall from the monk’s eyes, saw him cough blood.

She saw a giant black hound appear, leaping through the sky like the legendary celestial hound that devours the moon.

She heard its furious roar—and saw that it could not harm the purple-robed Daoist.

She saw that Daoist standing high above them with utter contempt, mocking the two dying defenders.

She heard the people below shouting in unwilling fury and weeping helplessly.

She saw the two of them, covered in blood, knocked into the dust again and again, wounds everywhere, miserable, ragged—no longer the unparalleled, brilliant figures they were when she first met them.

Even so…

Even so!

They still stood up again and again!

And charged once more at the seemingly invincible purple-robed Daoist!

“Bodhi Buddha Fruit, Heavenly One Dao Sword…” The purple-robed man frowned. “So you two are a Buddha’s chosen child and a Dao seed. No wonder you lasted this long under my hand… But once a genius is dead, he’s no genius! Hahahahaha! To kill a Buddha-child and a Dao-seed at once—heaven blesses my clan!”

He summoned his life-bound sword, intending to give them the final blow. But when his gaze met their bright, unwavering eyes, he suddenly changed his mind.

“I just thought of a great idea.” His eyes shifted toward the battlements, filled with vile cruelty. “I’m going to slaughter every human in this city. And you two will watch, helpless.”

He flicked his sword lightly. A thunderous boom followed—an entire corner of the battlements was sliced off. Several guards were cut cleanly in half.

Cackling, he said, “Don’t blame me—blame them. If they hadn’t interfered, you two could’ve lived.”

Lu Qingling was stunned at his shameless twisting of truth!

Though she personally felt that Le Jing and Su Jian’s choice to defend the city was laughable, the people of Beihuang City had no right to criticize them!

They could have looked the other way. They could have pursued glorious futures.

Yet they stepped forward instead and chose the impossible.

She didn’t know why—but the citizens of Beihuang City benefited from their sacrifice.

Even she, an outsider, understood this. But could the ordinary people understand? Those weak, foolish, cowardly, selfish, cunning… mortals?

For a moment, she felt sad for Le Jing and Su Jian.

They defended Beihuang City with all their heart—what despair they must feel if the people they protected greeted them with hatred instead.

“Bullshit! I have eyes, you damned yellow-haired old demon—stop spouting nonsense!”

“Damn it! If Heaven won’t let me live, I’ll live just to spite him!”

“Heroes—wait for me! I’ll lend you my strength!”

“A head cut off is just a bowl-sized scar! Eighteen years later I’ll be a man again!”

“I ain’t some coward afraid of death!”

“If the city stands, we stand. If the city falls, we die!”

Lu Qingling turned around in shock and saw more than a dozen men rushing down from the battlements.

They knew no magic; they were the weak, foolish, cowardly, selfish, cunning… mortals.

But they stood tall, their weapons—blades, spears—glinting coldly. Laughing boldly, they shouted a single word that shook the heavens:

“Kill!”

Under the bowed heavens, everywhere were people unwilling to be slaves.

Lu Qingling’s vision blurred. Her eyes grew wet until she could only see those tens of silhouettes charging forward, resolute and unreturning.

So weak, and yet so brave.

And then in the next instant, twelve heads rolled to the ground.

Even Lu Qingling, accustomed to bloodshed, found the stench at this moment unbearably nauseating.

Yet it was only the beginning.

Wave after wave of men—fathers, sons, husbands—rushed out with spears, blades, pitchforks, hoes, whatever weapons they had.

Through her tears, she seemed to meet a pair of star-bright eyes. The young monk’s voice echoed in her mind: “Do you understand the answer now?”

The purple-robed Daoist flicked his sleeve and laughed coldly. “Overestimating yourselves.”

“I don’t understand.” Lu Qingling rushed in front of everyone, intercepting the purple-robed man’s strike at the last second. Facing him, she muttered, “I just don’t understand why you choose to overestimate yourselves like this!” Gripping her sword tightly, her eyes blood-red, she glared at him viciously. She looked nothing like an ethereal fairy—more like a battle-mad tyrant drenched in blood. “But—I won’t allow you to kill them!”

The girl said, “I won’t allow you to kill them.”

“A nobody like you has no right to slay heroes.”

Behind her, Beihuang City stood united, hearts as one.

As the saying goes:

When the whole city rises to defend the nation.