245: Chapter 245 Blood River Blocked, A Mix of Surprise and Astonishment

Although Blood Butcher had retreated, the severed remains of the blood vines were still writhing on the ground. Black blood seeped into the rock crevices, crawling slowly like living creatures.

Blood Butcher stood at the center of the Formation, his hands hanging by his sides, his fingertips twitching slightly.

He didn't Move, nor did he speak; even his breathing was suppressed to an extreme low.

The only sound left in the cave was the hum of that shield, a rhythmic sound like a pendulum coming from deep underground, thumping against his eardrums.

He stared at that transparent barrier without blinking.

That strike just now had carried seventy percent of the power of his Blood River Demonic Art.

Three hundred years ago, he had relied on this Move to tear apart the joint grand Formation of three Righteous Path sects. The blood mist had spread for ten miles, staining even the clouds in the sky red.

But now, those blood vines that had once crushed Nascent Soul Cultivators like ants had struck it as if hitting thin air. They hadn't even stirred a ripple, leaving only circles of dispersing waves—light and airy, as if mocking him.

It wasn't that it couldn't be broken.

It was that it couldn't be touched at all.

He suddenly recalled a scene he had witnessed twenty years ago in the ruins of the Northern Plains Sun Clan—

That day, he had just sucked dry the essence blood of a Golden Core Elder and was about to stop when he saw a flash of green light in the distance. The last junior of the Sun Family rushed at him holding half a broken sword.

The child's eyes were bloodshot, and he was shouting for his "father and mother," but his footsteps were unsteady, his Spiritual Qi was dissipating, and he couldn't even stand straight.

With a gentle wave of his hand, blood threads entangled the child's neck, and with a pull, the head was gone.

At that time, he found it laughable. An ant daring to shake a tree?

But now, standing here facing this silent shield, he suddenly felt as if he had become that moth flying into the flame.

He slowly raised his right hand, palm upward. Blood threads moved beneath his skin as dark red True Qi surged through his Meridians.

He didn't rush to attack again, but concentrated on feeling the flow of power within his body.

There was no problem. The Cultivation Technique was operating normally, the Blood River True Qi was abundant, and there wasn't even a hint of stagnation.

But why... could he not break through?

He narrowed his eyes, his gaze sweeping across the edge of the shield.

There were no runes, no Formation lines, and he couldn't even perceive any spiritual energy fluctuations.

It was as if it simply belonged there, standing there as a matter of course, unquestionable and unshakable.

“What exactly is this?” he whispered to himself, his voice dry.

Memories suddenly flooded back.

Three months ago, he had heard a rumor in the territory of the Zhao Clan of Xiling—

The Chen Family had created a new kind of "mecha" that wasn't driven by Spirit Stones, but powered by something called a "Psionic Core." It could dig through ten layers of rock walls underground and Move faster than sword-kiting.

At the time, he had scoffed at it. For millions of years, the Cultivation World had relied on Spiritual Qi for cultivation; where would "technology" come from?

But now, the shield before his eyes was clearly an extension of that kind of thing.

It wasn't a Spell.

It wasn't a Formation.

Nor was it a Magic Treasure.

It was more like... a Law.

As soon as this thought emerged, he startled himself.

Laws? Heavenly Laws? That was something only an Immortal Emperor could touch!

On what grounds could the head of a small clan from the Eastern Desolation establish a Law?

And yet, this shield stood there regardless.

He took a deep breath and suddenly raised his hand. A very fine blood thread, only the thickness of a hair, condensed at his fingertip and silently probed toward the side of the shield.

This time it wasn't a violent attack but a probe, like a blind man feeling an elephant, trying to see if this thing had any weaknesses.

The blood thread touched the surface of the shield.

There was no explosion.

No rebound.

No corrosion either.

It just slid gently, like a raindrop falling on a lotus leaf, sliding along the curvature of the barrier and falling to the ground with a splat, turning into a puddle of black water.

His pupils shrank violently.

It wasn't that he was too weak.

It was that the opponent... was not on the same level.

He suddenly remembered what Chen Wuwang had just said: "You didn't come here on your own."

"You were 'sent' in."

"The time of your death has been pre-selected."

At the time, he thought it was psychological warfare, a provocation.

But thinking back now, those words stabbed into his brain like knives.

He really shouldn't have entered so smoothly.

The Chen Family had thirty-six layers of early warning; missing even one would be ridiculous, yet he had encountered no obstacles the entire way.

Even more bizarre was that he was clearly aiming for the Demon Nest, so how did he run into Chen Wuwang the moment he landed?

A coincidence?

Or... did someone intentionally lead him here?

He slowly lowered his head, looking at his hands.

The blood threads beneath his skin were still flowing, and his demonic power was surging, but at this moment, he couldn't feel the slightest bit of strength.

It wasn't a problem with his body.

It was that his entire being seemed to be nailed to the spot.

He was once the Blood Butcher who struck terror into the Cultivation World.

He had killed countless people, turning rivers of blood into seas.

But today, for the first time, he felt like a marionette.

The shield was still there.

The humming continued as before.

Chen Wuwang stood behind it, motionless, his expression unchanged.

He just stood there like a solitary Peak, watching him coldly.

Blood Butcher finally understood that feeling—it wasn't killing intent, it wasn't pressure, but a kind of absolute control.

You attack, and he does not retreat.

You kill, and he does not grow angry.

You risk your life, and he just watches.

This calmness was more terrifying than any frenzy.

He slowly withdrew his hand, and the light of the blood Formation dimmed bit by bit.

The blood lines beneath his feet began to retract, burrowing into the ground like a receding tide.

He didn't flee, nor did he attack again.

He just stared fixedly at the space behind the shield, as if trying to see through that transparent barrier to discern Chen Wuwang's true nature.

“Who exactly are you?” he gritted out, his voice so low it was almost inaudible.

No one answered.

In the cave, there was only the hum of the shield and his own heavy breathing.

He suddenly remembered his days of cultivating in the Blood Demon Sect when he was young.

Back then, he hadn't met his wife yet, and his only thought was to become stronger.

His Master had said: “The Blood River Demonic Art relies on slaughter to advance. For every person killed, the blood river rises by one degree.”

He believed it and had walked this path ever since.

Until three hundred years ago, during a siege by the Righteous Path, his wife had blocked a fatal blow for him and died in his arms.

In that moment, he went mad. Overnight, he slaughtered eight hundred Righteous Path Disciples, blood flowing like a river, and the world changing color.

He thought that was the Peak.

But now, standing in this cave facing an invisible wall, he suddenly felt that everything in the past was nothing more than the struggles of a frog at the bottom of a well.

Chen Wuwang hadn't drawn his blade.

He hadn't chanted a mantra.

He hadn't moved a single step.

Yet he had already lost.

He hadn't lost to a Move.

He hadn't lost to cultivation level.

He had lost to vision.

He looked down at his hands and suddenly felt a sense of absurdity—all these years he had killed people to refine artifacts and sucked essence blood to break through realms, thinking he was on the path to the Peak of the Cultivation World. But others had already changed the track.

He slowly took half a step back.

It wasn't a tactical retreat.

It was an instinctive reaction.

His body realized faster than his brain: he couldn't go on.

His Aura had collapsed.

His confidence had cracked.

His Battle Intent... was frozen.

He stood where he was, arms hanging low, the blood Formation nearly extinguished.

He looked toward the shield with a complex gaze, as if looking at an incomprehensible existence.

He knew that in this round, he had to admit defeat.

But he was unwilling.

He was unwilling that he, the great Blood Butcher, was actually forced into a corner with no retreat by an "invisible thing."

He opened his mouth, wanting to say something harsh and leave with a flourish like before, leaving a "we shall meet again."

But the words reached his lips and were swallowed back down.

It was too fake.

Even he wouldn't believe it.

In the end, he said nothing.

He just stood quietly, like a wild beast trapped in a cage, waiting for the next judgment of fate.

The shield was not withdrawn.

The battlefield remained unchanged.

He still stood on the spot.

Deep in the cave, a faint fluctuation of Sword Intent quietly approached.