151: Chapter 150 The Mantis Stalks the Cicada? I've Arrived at the First Floor of the Library

Lin Feng's silhouette vanished into the depths of the desert.

The wind blew from the west, gradually smoothing over the footprints he left behind; grains of sand rolled and filled those deep impressions, and soon the ground returned to its original state, as if no one had ever walked there.

Within the complex of buildings, those eight corpses still lay where they fell.

Rodrigo lay prone on the ground, face down; his blood had stopped flowing, coagulating into dark brown crusts that clung to the sand.

The Japanese man lay on his back, eyes still open, his pupils already dilated and hazy, like the eyes of two dead fish.

The Korean man lay on his side, curled into a ball as if asleep, but he would never wake again.

The others—some leaned against walls, some were collapsed in piles of rubble, some lay face down at the end of the corridor—were in various poses, but they were all the same: dead.

The wind whistled through the collapsed walls, wailing like someone crying.

Grains of sand pelted the corpses, making a faint rustling sound.

A scorpion crawled out from a crack in the rocks, stopped beside Rodrigo's finger, probed with its pincers, and then retracted them.

Footsteps echoed from a distance.

It wasn't the footsteps of one person, but many—fragmented and chaotic, like a group of people in a hurry.

The first group to appear was the Americans.

Johnson walked at the very front, wearing a deep blue military uniform, blonde-haired and blue-eyed, with that faint, ambiguous curve at the corners of his mouth.

Behind him followed Williams, the black officer, whose burly frame was like an iron tower; every step he took was heavy, causing the sand to sink beneath his feet.

Anderson walked at the very back; she had short hair and a round face, looking quite young, but her gaze was sharp, like an unsheathed blade.

Three people, three guns, muzzles pointed down, but fingers resting near the triggers.

Johnson stopped in his tracks, looking at the corpses on the ground.

His smile vanished, and his brow furrowed.

He crouched down, turned over Rodrigo's corpse, examined the wound at his waist, and then looked at the expression on his face.

He stood up, walked to the Japanese man, and looked at the wound on his neck.

He walked to the Korean man and looked at the wound on his chest.

He walked to the other five people, examining them one by one.

After finishing, he stood in place, silent for a few seconds.

"Killed with a single sword strike," he spoke, his voice very soft, as if talking to himself or to the people behind him.

"Eight people, all killed with a single sword strike.

No struggle, no resistance, no signs of a fight.

They didn't even have a chance to fight back."

Williams looked at him, his thick brows furrowing. "Done by one person?"

Johnson nodded. "One person."

Anderson walked over, crouched on the ground, and touched the sand beside Rodrigo's wound with her finger.

"The blood is already dry; they've been dead for at least an hour."

She stood up and patted her hands. "But the bodies are still warm. The temperature here is too high to judge accurately."

Johnson didn't speak; he looked at the corpses, his gaze becoming increasingly solemn.

"Captain, are we still going forward?" Williams' voice came from behind him.

Johnson turned around and looked at him. "What do you think?"

Williams was silent for a second. "These eight people are from small countries like the Philippines, Japan, and Korea.

They arrived before us, found something before us, and then were killed.

The person who killed them definitely took the items and left.

If we go forward, we might run into that person."

He paused. "Or we might run into something even more formidable."

Johnson nodded, then shook his head. "You're right, but not entirely."

He pointed at the corpses on the ground. "Do you see? They have nothing left on them.

Storage Pouches, rings, bracelets—all gone.

The person who killed them didn't just take their lives; they also took their belongings.

What does this indicate?"

Williams didn't speak.

Johnson answered himself. "It indicates that the person didn't lack time, courage, or means.

He killed eight people, searched them for their belongings, and then left.

He left quite calmly, without even leaving a footprint."

Anderson spoke up. "Then we should definitely not go forward.

We can't afford to provoke someone like that."

Johnson smiled.

That smile wasn't one of mockery or contempt, but... excitement.

"Can't afford to provoke?

We didn't come here to provoke anyone; we came to get things.

If there are things here, people will come to take them.

If he can take them, so can we."

He turned around and looked into the depths of the desert. "Let's go."

Williams and Anderson exchanged a glance and followed him.

The second group to appear was the Europeans.

Dupont walked at the front, sporting a well-groomed beard and wearing a deep blue uniform with the European Union flag embroidered on the chest.

Behind him followed Schneider, the German woman; her short hair was neat and her expression serious, like a precision machine.

Beltini walked at the very back; with long hair draped over his shoulders and deep-set features, he looked quite artistic, but his gaze was very alert.

Dupont saw the corpses on the ground and stopped.

He didn't crouch down to examine them, but simply stood there, watching.

After a while, he spoke. "Killed with a single sword strike.

Eight people, all killed with a single sword strike."

His voice was very calm, as if he were discussing something that had nothing to do with him.

Schneider walked over, crouched down, and looked at Rodrigo's wound. "The sword was very sharp and very fast.

The person who struck has strength far beyond theirs."

She stood up. "Are we still going forward?"

Dupont didn't answer immediately.

He looked into the depths of the desert, where there was nothing but the dusty ground and the dusty sky.

He looked for a long time, then spoke. "We've already come this far."

Schneider nodded and said no more.

The three of them continued forward.

The third group to appear was the Russians.

Ivanov walked at the front; he was bald with a scar on his face that ran from the corner of his eyebrow to his chin, like a centipede crawling across his face.

Behind him followed Petrov, who was broad-shouldered and even more muscular than Ivanov.

Sergey walked at the very back, sporting a large beard like an old hunter from the forest.

Ivanov saw the corpses on the ground and stopped.

He crouched down, turned over the Japanese man's corpse, and looked at the wound on his neck.

He stood up, walked to the Korean man, and looked at the wound on his chest.

He walked to the other five people, examining them one by one.

After finishing, he stood up, his face expressionless, though the scar seemed to deepen.

"A Chinese person did this." His voice was deep, as if squeezed from his chest.

Petrov was taken aback. "How do you know?"

Ivanov pointed to the wound on the Korean man's chest. "Sword wound.

A Chinese sword was used!

At the Hundred Nations Conference, there was a Chinese person who had a sword hanging from his waist."

Petrov fell silent.

Sergey also fell silent.

The three of them stood beside the corpses as the wind blew past, carrying the scent of blood.

Ivanov turned around and looked into the depths of the desert. "Let's go."

Petrov and Sergey followed.

The fourth group to appear was the Indians.

Singh walked at the front, sporting a large beard and a turban, wearing an earth-yellow military uniform.

Behind him followed Patel, a Skinny Tall Guy wearing round-framed glasses, looking like a scholar.

Rajput walked at the very back, a short and stout fellow with a gold chain around his neck, looking like a nouveau riche.

Singh saw the corpses on the ground and stopped.

He didn't crouch down to look, but simply stood there, watching.

After a while, he spoke. "Dead. They're all dead."

Patel pushed up his glasses. "Who did it?"

Singh didn't answer.

He looked into the depths of the desert and was silent for a long time.

Then he turned around. "Go back."

Patel was stunned. "Go back?"

Singh nodded. "The things here are not for us to take."

He set off, walking back in the direction they had come from.

Patel and Rajput exchanged a glance and followed him.

The fifth group to appear was the Pakistanis.

Ali walked at the front, with a short beard and a determined gaze, wearing a green military uniform.

Behind him followed Hussein, who looked very shy, like a college student who had just graduated.

Rahman walked at the very back, a middle-aged man with traces of wind and frost on his face and thick calluses on his hands.

Ali saw the corpses on the ground and stopped.

He crouched down, looked at Rodrigo's wound, stood up, and was silent for a few seconds.

"A Chinese person did this." His voice was very calm, as if he were stating a certainty.

Hussein looked at him. "Then we..."

Ali didn't let him finish. "Keep going.

The Chinese are our friends.

He won't make a move against us."

He set off toward the depths of the desert.

Hussein and Rahman followed him.

The three of them walked very hurriedly, as if they were in a rush.

Finally, the other Japanese and Koreans appeared.

They had been summoned.

That tall guy had run back to report the news and returned with a group of people.

There were Japanese, Koreans, and a few Filipinos.

They ran very quickly, panting, their faces full of expectation—expecting to find treasures, expecting to get a share of the spoils.

Then they saw the corpses on the ground.

Eight of them, laid out quite neatly.

Their expressions changed; expectation turned to fear, and greed turned to anger.

"Who did this?!" a Japanese man shrieked, his voice sharp, like a chicken being strangled.

No one answered him.

The wind whistled past as if answering, or perhaps mocking.

They stood there, looking at those eight corpses, silent for a long time.

Then they turned around and walked back in the direction they had come from.

No one spoke, and no one looked back.

The sound of footsteps grew further and fainter, finally vanishing into the wind.

The desert was quiet again.

There was only the wind, the dusty wind, blowing from the west and away to the east.

Those corpses still lay there in various poses, but they were all the same: dead.

No one collected their bodies, no one erected tombstones for them, and no one burned paper money for them.

They were just a pile of bones in the desert, waiting to be dried by the wind, waiting to be buried by the sand, waiting to disappear.

Meanwhile, Lin Feng had already walked out of the desert.

The sand beneath his feet turned into gravel, the gravel into rock, and the rock into a mountain.

The mountain wasn't high, but it was very steep.

He looked up at the summit; that building was still there, much closer and much larger than before.

Blue bricks and gray tiles, with flying eaves and intricate bracket sets, it was in an ancient style.

A plaque hung above the lintel, with several characters carved into it in curvy seal script.

He didn't recognize them, but he knew the meaning of those characters—Library Pavilion.

He took a deep breath and began to climb.

The mountain was very steep, and the path was difficult to traverse.

Gravel rolled under his feet, sand slipped under his soles, and the wind blew down from the summit, bone-chillingly cold.

But he climbed very quickly, much faster than when he climbed that snowy mountain before.

It wasn't because the path was easy, but because the jade pendant on his chest was glowing.

The Yin and Yang Fish Jade Pendant, with its black fish and white fish, rotated slowly against his chest.

With every rotation, the path ahead became a bit clearer.

The gravel, the sand, and the wind all became real.

It wasn't the kind of reality seen through a veil like before, but a naked, unshielded reality.

He could see the rock beneath the gravel, hear the voices within the wind, and feel the pulse within the mountain.

This mountain was alive.

He climbed for about half an hour and finally reached the summit.

The Library Pavilion was right before him.

It was very tall, at least twenty meters, and very wide, at least ten meters.

Blue bricks and gray tiles, with flying eaves and bracket sets, it looked like a bird spreading its wings.

The doors were made of wood, very tall and wide, with patterns carved into them.

The patterns were complex, featuring clouds, cranes, mountains, and water.

The clouds were drifting, the cranes were flying, the mountains were moving, and the water was flowing.

As he looked at those patterns, the jade pendant on his chest rotated even faster.

The black fish and the white fish traced a circle over his chest.

The patterns stopped moving.

The clouds no longer drifted, the cranes no longer flew, the mountains no longer moved, and the water no longer flowed.

They turned back into ordinary patterns carved into wood, remaining perfectly still.

Lin Feng pushed open the door.

The door was very heavy, making a dull thud as he pushed it, like pushing open a mountain.

Behind the door was the first floor of the Library Pavilion.

It was very large and very empty.

The floor was paved with bluestone slabs, which had cracks in them, and moss grew within the cracks.

The walls were lime-washed, but most of the lime had already fallen off, revealing the blue bricks beneath.

The ceiling was very high, and the roof beams were visible.

The roof beams were made of wood and were very thick, thicker than his waist, but they had decayed and were black, looking like charred bone.

The first floor had nothing in it.

No bookshelves, no tables, no chairs, no books.

It was empty, containing only dust and spiderwebs.

Spiderwebs hung from the ceiling, layer upon layer, like gauze curtains.

Dust lay on the floor in a thick layer, making a soft puffing sound when stepped on.

He stood at the doorway, looking at the empty first floor, while the jade pendant on his chest continued to rotate.

The black fish and the white fish traced circles over his chest.

He stepped inside.

His footsteps echoed in the empty hall, very loud, like the beating of a drum.

He walked to the center of the hall, stopped, looked up, and stared at the ceiling.

There was a painting on the ceiling, very large, occupying the entire roof.

It depicted a person standing on a mountain peak, facing the east.

He wore a Daoist robe, with long hair draped over his shoulders, and held a sword in his hand.

The sword pointed toward the sky, where there was a sun; the sun was shining with ten thousand rays of light.

It was exactly the same as the mural he had seen in the cave before.

But this person was not that person.

That person was an old man, with white hair and a hunched back, who could no longer even lift his sword.

This person was a young man, with black hair and a straight back, and his sword was sharp.

He stood there like a newly grown tree, full of vitality.

Lin Feng looked at that painting for a long time.

Then he lowered his head and looked toward the end of the hall.

There was a staircase there, made of wood, very steep and narrow, leading to the second floor.

There were also spiderwebs on the stairs, layer upon layer, like curtains.

He walked over and stepped onto the first step.

The wooden board creaked beneath his foot, as if it were about to break.

He steadied himself and continued upward.

With every step, the wooden board creaked—creak, creak, creak—like an old person coughing.

He walked for about a minute and reached the second floor.

The second floor was much smaller than the first, only half the size.

But it wasn't empty.

There were bookshelves, many of them, arranged in neat rows.

On the bookshelves were books, many of them, densely packed like a forest.

But those books had already rotted.

The paper had yellowed and become brittle, crumbling at a touch.

The characters were also blurred and illegible, like ink in water.

Lin Feng walked to the nearest bookshelf and picked up a book.

The cover was blue, but it had already faded into a grayish-white.

He flipped to the first page, and the paper shattered, turning into powder that leaked through his fingers.

He flipped another page, and it shattered as well.

He closed the book and put it back.

He picked up another; it was the same, crumbling at a touch.

He picked up another, and it was still the same.

He tried over a dozen books, and they were all the same.

Those books had rotted through completely, leaving only a shape; the characters inside were all gone.

He stood before the bookshelves, looking at those books.

The jade pendant on his chest rotated even faster; the black fish and the white fish traced circle after circle over his chest.

On the spines of those books, something began to glow.

It was very faint, like a flickering candle in the wind, like a dying firefly.

He leaned in to look; they were characters.

Those characters weren't written on paper, but carved into the spines of the books.

They were very small and fine, like strands of hair.

He narrowed his eyes and read them character by character.

Those characters were the titles of the books.

Taixu Sword Manual, Taixu Alchemy, Taixu Formation, Taixu Talisman, Taixu Artifact Refining, Taixu Beast Taming, Taixu Astronomy, Taixu Geography, Taixu Calendar, Taixu Music...

Book after book, row after row, densely packed.

He couldn't count how many there were; there were too many, at least several hundred books.

The books had rotted, but the characters remained.

The characters were carved into the spines, carved into the wood, carved into the cracks of time.

He stood before the bookshelves, looking at those titles for a long time.

Then he turned around and headed toward the third floor.

The staircase was still there, even steeper, narrower, and older.

He stepped onto the first step, and the wooden board creaked, louder than before, as if it were about to fall apart.

He steadied himself and continued upward.

Creak, creak, creak, one sound after another, like bones rattling.

He walked for about a minute and reached the third floor.

He pushed open the door and walked in.