Chapter 32: The Taoist Captures the Golden Tortoise

The Taoist paid no attention to the commotion around him, his focus entirely on the compass in his hands. From time to time, he muttered something under his breath, the words indistinct and mysterious. Before long, their procession came to a halt by the banks of a crystal-clear stream. On one side of the river rose a steep mountain, while on the other stretched a broad plain, spanning several hundred acres.

Directly in front of the Taoist lay a massive boulder, strikingly shaped like a turtle.

“Here. Dig!”

At his command, the four strong men behind him unfastened the hoes from their backs and began to dig with all their might. In no time, the pit was more than a meter deep and water had already begun to seep in from below.

The onlookers chattered among themselves. An elderly villager laughed and said, “It’s all sand down there. You won’t get much deeper.”

The four diggers straightened up, glancing at the Taoist for further instructions.

“Another half a meter.”

The men had no choice but to widen the hole, hoping this would allow them to reach the required depth. Not long after, a metallic clang sounded from the pit—one of the hoes had struck something hard.

“Ha! We’ve found it. Pull back, you lot. Mr. Mei, it’s your turn!”

The masked man nodded, produced a drum, and began circling the hole, beating and dancing in a strange ritual. As those gathered watched in confusion, a tremor ran through the pit.

“It’s awake!”

The masked man swiftly unfastened a large net from his belt, threw it into the pit, and hauled with all his strength.

“Are you all blind? Get over here and help!”

The strong men, clearly intimidated by the Taoist, rushed over to assist with the net.

The masked man kept singing and dancing, the drumbeat growing ever more urgent and shrill, setting Shen Xin’s teeth on edge—he felt an overwhelming urge to dash over and shatter that dreadful drum.

As the net was drawn up, signs of struggle could be seen within it. Everyone held their breath, staring at the net, when suddenly the entire village seemed to quake, and the river began to recede at a speed visible to the naked eye.

“Stop! Stop right now!”

At this, the villagers could no longer stand by. Their livelihood depended on these fields—without river water, how could they plant crops? In an instant, a crowd surged toward the four strong men, voices raised in fury.

One of the men, losing patience, kicked an elderly man with such force that the old fellow, already well past seventy, was sent flying and collapsed unconscious.

This act of violence incited a wave of outrage. Some of the more conscientious livestreamers shouted, “How dare you hit someone?”

“Exactly! To strike an old man like that, you’re worse than animals!”

“We’re recording everything—just wait until the authorities see this!”

The strong men were unfazed, glaring at the crowd with contempt. “Yeah, I hit him. What are you going to do about it? If you’re not happy, come over here!”

A few old farmers, teeth clenched, rushed forward. As the strong men raised their feet to kick again, Shen Xin activated his ocular power. In an instant, the attacking man was hurled ten meters into the air, crashing to the ground with a heavy thud. Still, the man was clearly trained—he adjusted his posture midair and managed to roll upon landing, lessening the impact, though he still lay on the ground, coughing up blood from the internal injuries.

Shen Xin had held back—he could now teleport objects weighing up to two hundred pounds as far as fifty meters. Had he sent the man fifty meters into the air, the fall would have been fatal.

The Taoist had watched with an impassive face until Shen Xin intervened; then his brows furrowed, and with a swift motion, the sword on his back leapt into his hand, his gaze sweeping the crowd in vigilance.

The masked man shouted, “Keep pulling!”

He flipped the drum and struck it forcefully; the piercing sound cut through the air like a blade, stabbing at the eardrums of everyone present.

Apart from the Taoist and his black-clad men, the rest of the crowd clutched their heads and fled from the din.

Unable to bear it any longer, Shen Xin flicked his gaze toward the masked man, sending him crashing into the turtle-shaped boulder. After several heavy impacts, the accursed drumbeat finally ceased.

Those wounded by the drum’s assault quickly recovered and, emboldened, surged forward—villagers and streamers alike—raining blows on the Taoist’s group with whatever they could find: stones, bricks, phone mounts, selfie sticks, anything that came to hand.

The Taoist and his men were soon scrambling for cover, beaten and battered.

In the chaos, Shen Xin manipulated his throwing knife, teleporting it to the net and slicing it open. The golden turtle, only half pulled from its den, vanished in an instant.

Old Mo had watched the spectacle with a cold eye, now glancing at Shen Xin in puzzlement but saying nothing, lest he draw attention to him.

Shen Xin hadn’t thought it through, but coming from a rural background, he believed the spiritual turtle was a local talisman of peace and should not be taken away. Besides, there were other super-powered teams in the area—if a fight broke out, there was no guarantee they’d win the golden turtle. Better to set it free and earn a little merit, rather than let it fall into the hands of some wealthy patron whose intentions were unknown.

Chen Jiawang had also noticed the flying knife but pretended not to see. He knew that, even with the golden turtle caught in the net, claiming it was far from certain. Risking his life for a reward of a hundred million—split between so many superhumans—meant maybe ten million apiece. He wasn’t desperate for that kind of money.

Tang Ziran summoned her Exploding Bear, which stood guard beside Shen Xin, eyes scanning the crowd. If anyone dared approach, the bear would retaliate at once.

After the golden turtle vanished, the river did not return; instead, the water level dropped ever lower, and within minutes, the stream had dried to nothing.

The villagers cursed the Taoist and his ancestors for eighteen generations.

Soon, the crowd drifted away from the riverbank.

Shen Xin and his group left Huangni Village, heading for their car, preparing to depart.

“Stop right there! You haven’t seen the last of me!”

The speaker was the Taoist in the yellow robe, a man in his forties.

“As if we’re afraid of you!”

Chen Jiawang rolled up his sleeves, ready for a fight, but Old Mo stopped him, smiling at the Taoist. “Daoist, we’re strangers passing by. Why this hostility?”

“Hmph! Hostility? I’m skilled in divination—I know one of you meddled just now. You have two choices: hand over the culprit and the matter ends here, or prepare for the boundless wrath of our Infinite Temple! You’ll beg for death and find no escape!”

Shen Xin studied the Taoist curiously, wondering why he was still so confident. Their side had nine people, the Taoist’s only six, two of whom were injured.

If a fight broke out, it would be nine against four, assuming the Spirit Fox Team chose to remain neutral. Clearly, only the Taoist and the wounded masked man among their group had special abilities; the rest were just skilled fighters, hardly a match for Chen Jiawang alone.

To Shen Xin’s surprise, Old Mo fell silent for a moment before answering, “The Infinite Temple, is it? That’s not a force to be trifled with. We’ll hand over the one responsible.”