Chapter 109: Secret Treasure of the Ghost Path

The ruthless tactics of Hei Da unfolded relentlessly, each move tightening the noose, driving He Chang’an to the brink of despair.

Then He Chang’an made his move.

With a thunderous bang, a massive shield suddenly appeared out of thin air—a sturdy talisman shield. It not only blocked Hei Da’s slashing blade but also kept every poisonous needle at bay.

Indeed, the Daoist methods were extraordinary.

The only real trouble was the Soul-Summoning Banner.

Black mist surged forth in waves, and in an instant, the air grew icy cold. Wails of ghosts and howls of wolves filled the ears, accompanied by sharp, bloodthirsty gnashing sounds, like a tidal wave sweeping over everything.

A grotesque, monstrous face emerged from the banner, mouth wide open, snapping viciously.

He Chang’an’s expression changed dramatically. A sharp pain stabbed through the depths of his spirit, as a strange, devouring force seemed intent on tearing his soul to shreds, pulling it into the banner.

In moments, He Chang’an began to falter; blood trickled from all his orifices.

The fragility of a warrior’s spirit was laid bare once more.

Yet he gritted his teeth, resisting the urge to unleash his little black rod immediately. Instead, he formed a talisman with his fingers, activating it recklessly, and hurled it at the ghastly face.

At the same time, he somersaulted backward, distancing himself by about thirty feet.

With crackling explosions, dozens of talismans transformed into fireballs, wind blades, and lightning, pulverizing the ghostly visage into fragments.

A piercing shriek echoed before the face gradually vanished back into the banner, the black mist retreating in a rush…

He Chang’an knelt on one knee, wiping blood from his face, the stabbing pain within his soul somewhat relieved.

In the first round, he was overwhelmed, utterly defenseless. Without the unexpected Daoist talismans, his life would have hung by a thread.

He vaguely sensed the Soul-Summoning Banner was indeed formidable, though the ghost within was of low rank and had not fully unleashed its power.

Otherwise, with his feeble spirit, he would have been no better than a morsel for that ghostly treasure.

Already, thoughts of killing to seize the treasure had taken root in He Chang’an’s mind.

Hei Da’s expression was even grimmer.

What should have been a guaranteed kill—one that even experts at the sixth or fifth warrior grade might not escape—was slipping away because of a mere small fry. This fueled Hei Da’s malevolence.

What troubled him most was the banner’s backlash.

This ghostly treasure had been a gift from an elder of the Night God Sect. When first acquired, it was a broken relic, severely damaged, housing a low-level ghost.

For this banner, Hei Da and Bai Er had mercilessly slaughtered countless martial heroes, even venturing into several cursed lands to refine and restore it.

Two years ago, to improve its grade, Hei Da risked entering an ancient battlefield ruin, painstakingly forging a millennium-old ghost into the banner, vastly amplifying its power.

With the Soul-Summoning Banner alone, even facing stronger foes, Hei Da had never been so desperate.

He casually produced a stack of talismans, indicating He Chang’an’s considerable resources.

Hei Da had long harbored the desire to kill and seize treasures; now it burned stronger than ever.

Enduring the agony as his flesh and soul were devoured to feed the ghost, Hei Da swung his blade again and unfurled the banner.

This time, before the ghost could emerge, He Chang’an suddenly surged forward, stomping hard on the bluestone slabs, shattering two beneath his feet, dodging Hei Da’s waist-level slash, and charging in.

Two sturdy talisman shields activated, covering his entire body.

Simultaneously, he flung out another stack of talismans, regardless of whether they struck Hei Da, then rolled lazily aside, retreating behind Hei Da by some seventy or eighty feet.

Still kneeling on one knee.

He sensed Hei Da’s energy rapidly waning as the banner was reactivated, dropping to mid-sixth-grade warrior level.

This was a good sign.

What He Chang’an feared least were the ghostly objects. His only real concern remained the overwhelming martial prowess of a sixth-grade warrior—one misstep could be fatal.

When the banner was first deployed, the little black rod in his dantian’s spirit sea had already been itching to strike.

But He Chang’an suppressed it, unwilling to reveal his trump card before the crucial moment or a guaranteed hit.

Hence, he dared risk confronting Hei Da head-on.

Hei Da’s cruel smile twisted again, fully channeling the ghostly treasure in his palm, intent on melting He Chang’an’s soul into the banner.

He recalled how the stubborn youth had writhed in agony, clutching his head, struggling desperately for nearly half an hour under the ghost’s torment, until finally dying a withered death. Madness gleamed in Hei Da’s eyes.

Having always been ruthless and bloodthirsty, the Black Flag Mountain Lord had become even more ferocious through the banner’s refinement.

“Go to hell!” he snarled.

After silently grappling through two rounds, Hei Da finally lost control, bellowing fiercely as he forced forth a surge of vital blood, spitting it onto the banner.

Suddenly, a raging chill swept the area, black mist thickening so dense that within thirty yards, one could not see their own hand before their face.

Amid the ghostly shrieks, Hei Da laughed wildly, teeth gritted as he roared, “I will melt your soul into the banner, feed you thousands of vengeful spirits, and make you a fierce ghost of my banner! No, I will turn you into a ghost king, bound to my will!”

Then his laughter abruptly ceased.

He saw He Chang’an step forth slowly from the thick black mist, facing him squarely, assuming an unremarkable stance, and calmly throwing a punch.

His banner and the summoned ghost struggled wildly within the mist, as if confronting a formidable foe.

Hei Da’s eyes flickered with confusion. He casually blocked He Chang’an’s punch.

He speculated what secret technique He Chang’an was using to survive the ghost’s assault and emerge unscathed from the mist…

But He Chang’an allowed no time for thought. One punch followed by another, then two more…

For the first few punches, Hei Da easily parried, unconcerned by the attacks of this ninth-grade warrior small fry. His only goal was to escape into the mist and investigate the situation.

He Chang’an would not permit that.

He had practiced an ancient fist technique tens of thousands of times, so familiar it was ingrained in his dreams—no punch would ever falter.

Moreover, this time he employed slow punches delivered rapidly, unleashing dozens in one breath, each punch following the last in a strange, wave-like effect.

He intended to let the overlapping punch intent resonate and amplify, the so-called “wave after wave” effect.

Hei Da’s expression darkened.

He did not care about the youth’s enduring and refined punch force, but one chilling, sword-like aura within those punches made his own energy stagnate.

As the dense barrage of punches continued, the accumulating punch intent was enough to inflict light injuries.

He wanted to strike back with full force but was constrained, his mind tethered to the banner, leaving him unable to move freely.

Fortunately, the gap in cultivation meant He Chang’an’s fierce onslaught caused only limited damage. Even taking three or four hits was unlikely to be fatal.

What Hei Da truly feared now were the so-called “treasures” on He Chang’an’s person, and the seemingly endless talisman stacks he wielded.