Chapter Sixty-Two: Divine Archer of the Ninth Rank

Riding on the back of the Nether Tiger, Li Pingyang struck a heavy punch. The beast roared in pain, struggling with all its might to shake him off. Li Pingyang pressed his legs tightly against the tiger’s body, delivering several more blows, this time infusing them with true energy—the force doubled. The sustained barrage clearly stunned the Nether Tiger; the once ferocious glint in its eyes gradually calmed.

Li Pingyang leaped off the tiger’s back, dusted his hands, and turned to the crowd with a smile. The spectators were elated; Li Pingyang had not only bested the fierce beast but had also extinguished the arrogance of Tibet for Song. Sensing the shift, Hakule lashed his whip again, intent on reigniting the Nether Tiger’s fury. The shadow of the whip drew ever closer in the beast’s pupils.

Deep in its consciousness, the fear of the whip was ingrained. It mattered not whether the wielder was Hakule or anyone else; terror prevailed. Visibly trembling, the Nether Tiger shrank back. Just as the whip was about to strike, Li Pingyang stepped forward, spreading his arms protectively before it.

A sharp crack echoed through the hall. All eyes turned to Li Pingyang, confusion written across their faces—including Hakule’s. None understood why he would shield a demon beast, deeming it unworthy of protection.

To them, a demon beast was always lesser, a brute whose life was as insignificant as a blade of grass. No one cared whether it lived or died. In the Nether Tiger’s existence, its only value seemed to lie in the amusement it brought. Human nature divides people into the good and the wicked, and so too with monsters. Li Pingyang seized the moment to challenge their beliefs.

The whip landed on Li Pingyang’s arm, leaving a vivid scar, which he seized firmly in his hand, his gaze icy as he confronted Hakule.

“Life has no hierarchy! To guard life is a strong man’s respect for the weak. Those who treat life as expendable are no better than a stray dog…”

Channeling domineering true energy, Li Pingyang gripped the whip and shattered it to fragments in an instant. The shock traveled up Hakule’s hand, splitting his palm and forcing him to cry out and let go; he staggered back several steps, barely avoiding collapse.

Hakule could not grasp his words, but the fury was palpable. With the whip taken from him, the Nether Tiger no longer feared, and it roared at Hakule.

“You… you dare! Stay away from me!”

The Nether Tiger pawed the ground, baring its fangs as Hakule retreated in panic. Seeing the beast regain its ferocity, Li Pingyang’s heart swelled with satisfaction. This time, it fought for its own sake—for those lost to the whip, for the wounds covering its body.

With a leap forward like lightning, the Nether Tiger attacked. Hakule turned to flee toward the hall’s exit, but he stood no chance; the beast overtook him within moments, pouncing and tearing away half his trousers. The crowd burst into laughter.

Hakule raised his arms, desperately holding the tiger’s head at bay, ignoring his tattered clothing—his life mattered more. With one hand pressed against the beast, he fumbled at his waist for a small blade. But one hand could not keep the tiger’s head at bay; its jaws drew ever closer, the dagger-like teeth nearly at his throat.

He shrieked in terror as the Nether Tiger’s jaws locked onto his arm before he could draw the knife. In desperation, he stabbed at the beast’s heart. Even so, the tiger refused to release, biting down with all its might. Driven to the edge, Hakule stabbed repeatedly at the beast’s body.

Blood pooled on the floor—some from the Nether Tiger, some from Hakule. As the struggle wore on, Hakule’s strength failed; he collapsed backward, staring blankly at the hall’s ceiling.

The Nether Tiger finally succumbed to blood loss, and Hakule was poisoned by its fangs, convulsing and foaming at the mouth.

The other two Tibetans remained indifferent; Hakule called to them for help, his voice pleading for rescue. After a brief struggle, both Hakule and the Nether Tiger died.

On the surface, the three Tibetan leaders seemed close—sworn brothers—but in truth, each belonged to a different faction, each harboring their own ambitions. The death of Hakule, thanks to the Nether Tiger, was an unexpected boon, eliminating a formidable rival.

Their disagreements ran deep. The tribes never accepted one another, always divided. Recently, however, they set their sights on Song’s Princess Wanting. This birthday banquet was a pretext for their true purpose: a marriage proposal.

They wanted the Emperor to grant Princess Wanting in marriage to Tibet. Should he refuse, they would declare war against Song. Though Tibet was small, its strategic position rendered Song’s southern defenses weak. With the Nine Provinces of the Cloud Realm newly returned and still reorganizing, Song’s armies—though strong and well supplied—would face a savage and formidable Tibetan force. If the tribes united over the princess, the situation would become dire.

Now, Tibet was fractured, its factions scattered. But should they unite against Song, they would be a force to reckon with.

After Hakule’s corpse and that of the Nether Tiger were removed, a thin man with a hooked nose and triangular eyes stepped forward. He introduced himself as Naruge. An archer, like Li Pingyang, Naruge was also a practitioner of cultivation, his true energy honed to a masterful level.

Naruge was Tibet’s foremost warrior.

He was the first in this world to master ordinary feathered arrows to perfection, elevating his archery to the ninth rank—a legendary archer.

A ninth-rank divine archer—what did that mean? Aside from modern firearms, nothing could match his speed. By the time you raised your sword and struck a pose, you were already dead.

Naruge was known as the world’s fastest arrow. His command of the divine archers allowed his tribe to stand firm in Tibet. Once he targeted prey, there was no escape. By virtue of his uncanny skills, he had won countless victories for Tibet.

Unlike his two rough-hewn brothers, Naruge possessed etiquette and honor. He knew how to accept defeat, how to let go, and faced his actions with courage.

Naruge stepped forward, placed his left hand over his chest, bowed his head and knelt, offering the highest respect to the Empress Dowager and Emperor of Song. Rising, his gaze fell upon Princess Wanting, just as he had seen in her portrait—only the real person was even more beautiful.

The Tibetan warrior’s heart stirred, unable to express himself in words; his admiration was written plainly across his face, his excitement evident.

“If anyone in Song can challenge me in archery and win, I will accept defeat, abandon the marriage proposal, and so long as I live, my tribe will never wage war against Song!”

His words echoed through the hall, but none stepped forth. In matters of archery, no one dared claim victory over a ninth-rank divine archer.

The Emperor of Song knew that a war with Tibet was inevitable. Yet he dreaded the suffering it would bring to the people. Song was still rising, not yet ready for conflict. To grant the marriage was intolerable—better to fight.

Just then, a voice rang out:

“I will challenge you!”