Chapter Fifty-Seven: All Belongs to Me

When the demonic figure Lan Yi incited chaos with his followers in Pu Hai, neither the Qing court nor the foreigners paid it any mind. Just another charlatan from the martial underworld pretending to wield mystical powers—if they couldn’t deal with the foreigners, surely they could handle the likes of him? They scoffed, certain their rifles and cannons would send this rabble of rebels straight to oblivion.

But when the Daoist Lan Yi resolved the Pu Hai concession, obliterated a fleet of warships, and unleashed a magnificent resurgence of spiritual energy, the Qing authorities and the foreigners began to take notice. Could it be real? Were there truly immortals in this world?

No matter—so they believed. They possessed the punitive southern fleet, the greatest combined force of all the empires in the Far East. Even supernatural power, they thought, would surely tremble before the might of steel hulls and heavy artillery. Later, they could seize that sorcerer’s secrets and forge their own invincible imperial army!

But when Lan Yi descended upon Jinling, the Qing court and the foreigners were rendered speechless. The punitive fleet was utterly annihilated, warriors of supernatural power seemed to spring up endlessly, and the entire southern region fell. Every fact now made it clear: Lan Yi was not merely an individual wielding extraordinary strength—he could integrate regional resources, construct new systems, and foster self-sustaining governance.

To the rulers, this was truly terrifying. For as the immortal master Lan Yi’s mighty hand advanced northward, the higher one’s perch in the old order, the less they were needed. They would be swept from their lofty thrones by the tidal wave of new warriors, sacrificed to usher in a new era. Their heads would be the tokens to shatter the fear and ignorance of the past.

What was to be done? This was not a matter that could be solved by reform or the creation of a cabinet. Could they rely on the foreigners? The foreigners had already been beaten senseless; after venting their frustrations in Yanjing, they said not a word more and began evacuating their citizens with the battered remains of their fleets. Save for the Easterners who had nowhere to run, the foreign powers, realizing the southern monster was an unstoppable force, decisively chose to flee first. Would it be better to sit and wait for death? When even battleships and armies were powerless against that fiendish sorcerer, they left the Celestial Empire behind to enjoy lives of privilege elsewhere in the East. Since the long-term gains were lost, they grabbed one last short-term benefit before leaving, abandoning the pretense of civility they had maintained to better bleed the land.

After all, this land was not theirs. They could walk away with no regret.

The foreigners were gone. Had this happened before Lan Yi’s arrival, the ministers of the court would have laughed themselves awake in their dreams at the prospect—no more overlords to serve with trembling care, they could once again act without regard, returning to that carefree fantasy of the Middle Kingdom’s supremacy. Anyone would be elated.

But now, with the foreigners fled, what could they use to fend off the man-eating demon Daoist advancing from the south? The army? The new troops trained in Pu Hai and Jinling used modern foreign weapons and tactics, yet they were swept aside; could the demoralized, repeatedly defeated garrison in Yanjing possibly succeed? They would likely surrender at the mere sight of Lan Yi.

So what was to be done? There was, in fact, a plan! Lan Yi, the demon Daoist, was a wild fox of unclear origin—certainly less legitimate than the true masters of Dragon Tiger Mountain or the living Buddhas of the West. And among the people, it was rumored that many formidable individuals had recently emerged, even causing the foreigners to retreat in dread. Why not send these folk heroes, miracle-workers, and religious adepts against Lan Yi? Would that not solve the problem?

Indeed, it was a brilliant idea! Whether it would work or not hardly mattered—it was something to try! Perhaps one of them might prove capable of subduing the demon Daoist. That would save the court, would it not?

Thus, as Lan Yi paused in Jinling, busy with massive construction, the north was far from quiet. Chaos reigned as the authorities sent forces in every direction, arresting anyone of supposed ability or popular acclaim—shamans, Daoists, monks—dragging them before the Prince Regent to perform their arts.

Their performances included, but were not limited to: cursing Lan Yi to death, casting spells to bewitch him, praying to heaven to send immortals to spirit him away, forming armies of Daoist or Buddhist warriors, divining his fate to find his nemesis, seeking out his family’s ancestral tombs, summoning heavenly soldiers to vanquish evil, and searching for the nation’s dragon veins to slay the demon. It was truly a spectacle beyond compare! With so many methods, surely the demon would perish. With the court in high spirits, it was time to unite and march forth to destroy Lan Yi!

The Prince Regent was delighted, rewarding his ministers and assuming all the airs of an emperor. Of course, these rituals to bolster courage and soothe nerves were for show, but privately, real efforts were being made.

The Prince Regent dispatched envoys south under cover of darkness.

He sent a secret letter to Lan Yi. Its contents were blunt: he was willing to divide the realm with the immortal master, and if that was not enough, the entire country could be handed over—so long as his own position was preserved. Should he ascend the throne, he would honor Lan Yi as supreme national preceptor, granting any wish and serving as shepherd to the people.

On the fifth day of Lan Yi’s stay in Jinling—a day that also marked the city’s second great purge—the Prince Regent’s secret missive arrived.

At that moment, Jinling was awash in blood and carnage. In recent days, numerous attempts had been made on the lives of the warriors, and some reckless souls had even tried to attack the immortal master’s residence. Behind these assassinations lay the desperate counterattack of the old powers—those whose networks of profit had been severed, their means of gentle, hypocritical exploitation destroyed. Their response, like the faint drone of insects at dusk, served only to irritate and achieved nothing more.

Assassination did not work. Disrupting public order did not work. Passive resistance was even less effective. Led by the fierce general Zhao Jian, warriors selected from the ranks of the laboring masses faced bullets, rifles, even makeshift cannons and explosives head-on, dragging the so-called local emperors—those who had ruled for generations—out from their strongholds like dogs.

Zhao Jian was well versed in dealing with these vermin. He stripped them of their clothing, shaved their bodies bare, and hung entire families from streetlights like monkeys, forcing them to watch as the ill-gotten wealth and property they had amassed through generations of plunder was distributed to the commoners. This was a thousand times more painful than death.

Through the imperial streets, nobles and ministers were trampled, treasuries burned to ashes. The virtuous were rewarded, the wicked punished. When a warrior-led massacre is seen as justice, slaughter brings not terror but applause. Jinling did not descend into chaos; instead, it underwent a swift, surgical purge, as newly promoted local warriors and revolutionaries took control of every household with astonishing efficiency.

Traveling journalists recorded volumes of precious material, calling it a great transformation led by a sage.

And the sage they revered, at that very moment in a makeshift laboratory, laughed coldly.

“Everything belongs to me, does it?” he sneered. “How naïve this Prince Regent is. When they are all dead, won’t everything be mine regardless?”