Shuiyun Village, a fishing village.
Amidst the restless roaring of the Yangchun River, the villagers, holding torches, illuminated the ink-dark night.
Firelight interwove with shadows.
Their faces flickered uncertainly, silently staring ahead, pupils reflecting the dancing flames with a hint of frenzy.
A group of strong men armed with fishing spears pressed the sharp ends against the chests of several grievously injured Demon-suppression Marshals.
Liu Xiujie and Li Xiaoer lay on the ground, gasping for air, their gazes scattered, consciousness already muddled.
Ma Tao had it worse; known for his close-quarters grappling, his body was now a broken mess, his long shirt soaked in thick, coagulated blood, his breath as feeble as a thread.
They couldn't understand what kind of temptation could make a River God, who had painstakingly accumulated centuries of reputation and washed away its demonic name, suddenly rebel and violently attack the Demon-suppression Marshals.
