Master, Your Salted Fish Has Arrived - Chapter 51
Sima Jiao had long suspected that Master Qianlu was no simple man. In their past clashes, he had noticed the elder’s restraint—Qianlu had never once revealed the full measure of his strength.
Perhaps it was because, back then, the Shi clan was not the only party present. Other palace masters and elders had been watching as well. Qianlu could contend with the Sima clan, but he still had to guard against the eyes and ambitions of the other great palaces. And so, he had hidden his true hand.
Besides, at that time, Sima Jiao had not yet forced him to the edge. Qianlu had believed there was still room for maneuvering, for balance—and thus, for mercy.
But now? Matters were different.
The fruits of the Shi clan’s years of toil were sealed within this barrier. If Sima Jiao lost control and destroyed it, Qianlu could not endure the loss, no matter his pride.
No longer feigning composure, Master Qianlu revealed himself at last—and his true cultivation even gave Sima Jiao pause. This man had concealed his realm so deeply that it seemed he had already stepped into Grand Completion.
Beyond that stage lay the Tribulation. Success meant ascension. Failure meant death.
It was no wonder that the ever-collected Qianlu now raged openly. It all traced back to immortality. He knew of the spirit fire’s secrets, had seen with his own eyes what it could grant. And like Sima Jiao, he coveted endless years.
The dozen or so disciples he brought with him were all Shi clan blood—his most loyal confidants. Yet when the two titans clashed, even they dared not intervene. They stood watch by the barrier instead, their gazes drawn skyward where storm clouds roiled and split, awed and terrified in equal measure.
This was a battle far beyond their reach.
Though Sima Jiao gradually seized the advantage, Master Qianlu’s resilience was greater than expected. Killing him outright was no simple task. Still, Sima Jiao was in no hurry. He circled, pressing, striking—each clash throwing shockwaves down to the barrier below.
He seemed to do it deliberately, driving his blows to test the boundary’s strength. Qianlu countered desperately, pushing their battlefield aside again and again, trying to shield the barrier from harm.
For a time, neither yielded.
Meanwhile, Liao Tingyan had returned to Master Yu Xiang’s Wind Flower City, though unease gnawed at her. For cultivators, such a premonition was never baseless—it often heralded personal calamity.
Could it be that Sima Jiao was in danger?
She had not pressed him earlier, but from his expression, she could tell that the place he was heading toward was fraught with secrets—and danger always shadows secrets.
Then she reminded herself: with Sima Jiao’s cultivation, who in this world could kill him? Even injured, he would never fall so easily. The thought brought her some relief.
She sat by the jade window carved with birds and blossoms, overlooking a garden overflowing with flowers. Master Yu Xiang adored his aviaries and blooms; the palace corridors were fragrant with them.
At this hour, she would usually lean there, watching the streaming mirror with idle amusement, nibbling snacks while flipping through her compendium of arts, learning whichever eccentric techniques caught her fancy. For the ones she couldn’t grasp, she always had Sima Jiao—there was nothing he did not know.
And the little black snake, ever faithful, would wriggle over, tail wagging, stealing her treats to feed the birds. It had a peculiar fondness for raising pets wherever it went.
Yet today, there was no sign of him.
“Little Black?” she called.
“Snake-snake?”
Her voice echoed faintly, unanswered. A strange tension pressed down upon her, like invisible hands squeezing the air from the room. It felt as though the world itself was being pulled toward a vacuum.
Her fingers tightened around the ornate pendant at her chest. Don’t panic, she told herself. Maybe it’s only nerves.
“Hiss—”
The sound was sharp as silk strings drawn taut.
Her instincts flared. She flung herself backward—and in that instant saw the crisscrossing threads glinting in the lamplight.
“Damn!” she swore.
The hiss grew louder. Strings laced the air before and behind her, above and around, sealing every escape.
Were it Sima Jiao, he would have torn through them like cobwebs. But Liao Tingyan knew if she so much as tugged, she’d be diced to ribbons. Well… perhaps not ribbons—the Ancestor’s defensive armor would save her from that. More likely she’d be trussed up into a neat little egg.
And trussed she soon was.
Figures stepped from the shadows—over a hundred of them, each radiating the poise of a master. Their cultivation was beyond her perception, all leagues above her own. She felt like a level 50 player dropped into a pit of level 90s.
Really now—was all this truly necessary just to capture her?
“Just her? Sima Jiao isn’t here?” someone asked.
“The sect leader ordered it. If we can’t take Sima Jiao, then bring the woman at his side.”
“What use is she?” another scoffed.
“She must be of value. Why else would Sima Jiao guard her so closely?”
Liao Tingyan’s lips twitched. Here it comes—the classic hostage routine. No doubt she’d be dragged to the front lines, a blade at her throat, used to force Sima Jiao’s hand. Oddly, the thought soothed her. If she could just see the Ancestor again, she’d be safe.
Shi Qiandu, Master Qianlu’s sister, stepped forward. Her zither shone as her silk threads snapped tight with killing intent. Hatred burned in her eyes—after all, Sima Jiao had destroyed Hundred Phoenix Mountain, ruining years of her painstaking work.
Now, with him absent, she would vent her fury on his woman. Perhaps even sever an arm—wouldn’t it be amusing for Sima Jiao to return and find her maimed?
Her strings whipped down.
But they stopped a hand’s breadth from Liao Tingyan’s skin, unable to cut deeper.
Shi Qiandu’s eyes widened.
Defensive armor. The Ancestor’s work. Impeccable.
Try as she might, the strings could only cocoon Liao Tingyan, binding her tight. Not harmed—but immobile.
An elder of the Shadow Palace intervened at last. “It’s useless. She wears a defensive immortal artifact. You won’t break it. Take her back—wasting time here is foolish.”
Shi Qiandu lowered her hand, bitter but compliant. She swept her sleeve, hauling the bound woman forward.
“Very well. I’ll bring her back to my brother. The rest of you—will you wait here for Sima Jiao, or prepare at Taixuan Peak?”
A sneer passed silently among the crowd. Catch him in one fell swoop? If only it were so easy. Were it not for life-and-death stakes, few of them would even dare approach Sima Jiao.
“It’s better to return together,” someone said. “If he finds her gone, he’ll surely attack Taixuan. Let us set our formation there instead.”
Agreement rippled quickly. Plans were laid: gather their elite disciples, array a net of heaven and earth, use the woman as bait.
Liao Tingyan listened, trussed up and ignored, the silk strings biting into her armor but not her skin. To them, she was no longer even a person—merely a tool, a lure.
Througgh the gaps in the threads, she studied their grave faces. They wore the look of men and women on the cusp of justice, preparing to sacrifice all for the greater good.
And she—she was the villain’s hostage.
She said nothing, because what could she say? Escape? Impossible.
Only Sima Jiao could break such a siege.
Her only prayer now was that when he discovered her capture, his wrath would not burn so hot that even she would be caught in its flames.