Chapter 110: The Seven-Colored Battle Armor Emerges in the Southern Wilderness

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It was the sixth month of the year, during the peak of the hottest days. The vast southern wilderness was engulfed under the relentless blaze of the scorching sun. In this land of towering mountains, dense forests, numerous swamps, and suffocating mists, survival was exceedingly harsh and unforgiving.

At the border between the southern and eastern wilds lay a small tribe known as Fuxi Village. This settlement had existed for over a thousand years, its origins tracing back to the era when the sovereign Emperor Fuxi first devised the Eight Trigrams. Since then, the village had persisted through the ages.

Though modest in size and situated in a remote, scarcely inhabited barbaric region like the southern wilds, the village was cut off from commerce and trade, resulting in near zero outside contact throughout the seasons.

It is often said that poor mountains and treacherous waters breed cunning folk, and accompanying such harsh terrain were barren lands, isolation, and backward material conditions.

Yet despite these hardships, the villagers lived contentedly, rising with the sun to work and resting with its setting. Their self-sufficient, cyclical existence brought them a surprisingly high measure of happiness.

However, just a few days ago, the villagers began falling ill one after another.

At first, only one or two children took sick, and there was no threat to their lives.

But as time passed, more and more villagers grew pale and emaciated. Some who had always been frail became bedridden, their eyes hollow and lifeless after only a few days, like walking corpses.

Watching the able-bodied youth drained as if their very essence were being sucked away, the clan chief grew frantic.

The local shaman had examined everyone but found no cause for the illness. As time dragged on, one-third of the village became these living dead.

By day, they lay motionless in their beds, like those on the brink of death. But at night, they would become hyperactive, roaming the village aimlessly, sometimes even biting one another, their behavior eerie and unsettling.

At sunrise, Bi Fang soared swiftly through the eastern wilds, crossing into the southern frontier.

As he crossed the border, Bai Mu leaned from the air to spot a clear spring below.

Knowing he was about to enter the barbaric lands of the south, where he might have to brave the elements and travel tirelessly day and night, he instructed Bi Fang to descend and collect some spring water in their leather bread for the journey ahead.

They also planned to gather wild fruits from the forest to stave off hunger once in the southern wilderness.

After flying a full day and night from the Cold Abyss Valley, Bi Fang was naturally weary. Upon hearing Bai Mu’s suggestion, he quickly maneuvered to glide down beside the mountain spring.

This spring was a natural source, gently bubbling from deep within the mountain, forming a small pool roughly half a meter across.

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The pool contained several smooth, polished pebbles, their surfaces refined by years of flowing water. Under the southern sun, the stones lay quietly in the shallow water, reflecting a spectrum of beautiful colors.

After filling a pot with the crystal-clear water, Bai Mu turned to smile at Bi Fang, who perched on a tree branch behind him, and asked, “Would you like to drink some of this fresh spring water?”

“No!”

Bi Fang lifted his head proudly and refused without hesitation. “Bi Fang drinks only pure spring water and rests only in phoenix trees. How could such rustic mountain spring water ever please my eyes?”

“Oh ho.”

Bai Mu opened his eyes wide, amused. “Do you really think you’re a phoenix? You don’t have the destiny of one, yet you’ve learned all the bad habits of a phoenix!”

Bi Fang remained indifferent, holding his head high with pride. “The idea that phoenixes rest only in phoenix trees is a shallow human notion. Do you think only phoenixes possess the right to perch upon phoenix trees?”

“The Vermilion Bird, the Kunpeng, Bi Fang, the Fire-billed Bird—all these famed spirit beasts of the wilderness rest only in phoenix trees.”

“Forget it. How could sparrows understand the ambitions of a swan?”

With that, Bi Fang slowly turned away, no longer meeting Bai Mu’s gaze. His arrogance truly made him seem like he thought himself above others.

Bai Mu could only sigh and turn back to continue drinking, secretly entertained.

As he cupped the spring water in his hands, his gaze was suddenly drawn to several colorful pebbles at the bottom of the pool.

Driven by curiosity, he pointed and counted carefully—there were exactly seven.

Each was about the size of a pigeon’s egg, radiating seven distinct colors. Each stone emitted a faint spiritual aura, making them particularly delightful to behold.

“These stones are truly beautiful!”

“If I give them to Ling Yan in the future, she’ll definitely love them!”

Murmuring to himself with joy, Bai Mu reached in and scooped all the stones up.

At the very moment he pocketed the stones, a shadow flickered at the edge of the forest below the mountain. Then it vanished.

“Croak… croak…”

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At the same time, Bi Fang’s sharp cry rang from the forest’s edge.

Something’s wrong!

Bai Mu quickly hid the seven-colored stones, leapt from the pool’s edge, and darted like a phantom toward the forest.

Just then, the shadow flickered again. Two burly men, as if propelled by gusts of wind, sprinted swiftly toward the southwest side of the forest and disappeared without a trace.

“After them!”

Curious, Bai Mu led the way as he and Bi Fang raced after the fleeing men at full speed.

Just as they were about to enter the dense woods, Bai Mu’s peripheral vision caught sight of a figure lying quietly in the underbrush.

Though he couldn’t discern the face in the rush, the figure appeared thin and frail.

On impulse, Bai Mu hurriedly turned and approached the fallen man.

Drawing near, he gently called out, “Brother, are you alright?”

Unexpectedly, the man did not respond. Apart from the breathing of Bai Mu and Bi Fang, the forest was eerily silent.

Could he have been attacked?

A flash of thought struck Bai Mu. He rushed to the man’s side, parting the weeds before him. What he saw made him gasp sharply.

The man’s face was so emaciated that it seemed skin clung to bone. His deeply sunken eyes were tightly closed. His black hair was sparse as if already balding. His entire body was as thin and dry as dead wood.

Judging by his facial features, he was likely between thirty and forty years old. How could someone so young appear as frail as an octogenarian?

Most puzzling was that although the man was clearly dead, his body still emanated a chilling aura—a deathly presence far more terrifying than that of an ordinary corpse.