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Chapter 23: The Vajra Subdues the Demons
Old Liu pressed the pistol against the head of an oncoming Zan god. Before the grotesque creature could react, the bullet struck true. The hollow-point round tore through its flesh, and fragments of bone, blood, and brain erupted from the back of its skull. In terms of basic physiology, these Zan gods were no different from other animals.
But not a single Zan god retreated, even for a moment, at the death of its companion. They emitted a cackling sound, like a morbid grin of death. Another Zan god, still tearing into its fallen comrade’s flesh, lunged toward Old Liu with hoof-like claws extended.
Old Liu swung the Tibetan knife Pasang Dorje had given him. The blade lacked ornate decorations but was undeniably sharp. It sank deep into the Zan god’s neck—a blow that would have decapitated any human—but this was no ordinary opponent; it was a demon.
The Zan god didn’t die. The grievous wound seemed inconsequential to it. Blood gushed from its neck, far redder and more pungent than human blood, inducing nausea. Still, it clawed at Old Liu.
The knife lodged firmly in its bones, as if meshed gears had locked onto the blade. No matter how much strength Old Liu exerted, he couldn’t sever its head completely.
With a roar, Old Liu gripped the knife embedded in the Zan god’s neck and slammed the creature’s body, along with the blade, onto the ground. Reversing his grip on the knife, he planted his foot on the blade’s spine and stomped down hard, finally severing the Zan god’s head.
The severed head continued snapping its dog-like jaws, drooling thick saliva and biting at the air. Old Liu raised his pistol and fired another shot into the head, silencing it for good.
Having dealt with those two Zan gods, Old Liu finally had a moment to survey the situation around him.
Under Pasang Dorje’s leadership, the Tibetans fought back tenaciously. But their resistance wasn’t due to superior tactics—it was simply because most of the Zan gods were preoccupied with the larger vehicles carrying livestock and horses.
This encounter wasn’t a premeditated attack by the Zan gods; it resembled a natural disaster, like an earthquake or typhoon. The Zan gods weren’t hunting or attacking—they were merely feeding.
Only the stray Zan gods, unable to squeeze into the feast of livestock, turned their attention to the Tibetans. Even so, just two or three of these demons were enough to inflict heavy casualties. Ignoring all other attacks, they seized one person at a time, dragging them out of the Tibetan ranks and devouring them alive. The victims’ screams dealt a severe blow to morale.
If Old Liu had his squad of twelve men and four vehicles, they could easily annihilate these so-called Zan gods. Compared to the other threats they’d faced on their journey, these creatures weren’t particularly formidable.
“Let’s go,” Lin Song whispered, his finger resting lightly on the trigger, his eyes scanning the Zan gods warily. He couldn’t fire recklessly, but the rifle’s firepower was sufficient to fend off a wave of Zan gods in short order.
“No,” Li Xingyuan replied tersely. “Look.”
Not all Tibetans had the courage to fight the Zan gods to the bitter end. Some had already begun retreating faster than Lin Song. Some climbed into vehicles and floored the accelerator, breaking out of the hastily assembled defensive circle.
Pasang Dorje shouted angrily, raising his rifle. But the Zan gods were faster. Several of them, previously engrossed in devouring livestock, lifted their blood-soaked faces—more ghastly than any demon.
With a powerful leap, defying the biological limits of carbon-based lifeforms, they pounced onto the fleeing vehicle. What had once been vulnerable to bullets now matched the strength of steel beasts. Like predators dismembering prey, they tore apart the car and dragged the driver out, ripping him to shreds.
Clearly, the Zan gods cared little for resistance or retaliation—but escape? That was unacceptable.
No gourmet would tolerate their meal escaping the table.
Even Old Liu, witnessing the terrifying capabilities of the Zan gods, couldn’t help but feel stunned.
If the two Zan gods he’d killed earlier possessed such horrifying power, he likely wouldn’t have stood a chance against them.
“They’ve eaten,” Li Xingyuan observed the Zan gods, trying desperately to summon the force of the light within his mind.
Though he usually avoided the light like the plague, now he relied on its power to find a way out.
Strangely, despite how eagerly the light usually invaded his thoughts whenever he let his guard down, it remained eerily silent now, as if it had vanished entirely.
Perhaps it hadn’t recovered from the previous incident—or perhaps even the light feared the divine power of these Zan gods.
The situation worsened with every passing second. More Zan gods finished their frenzied feeding, yet they remained ravenous. The vast quantities of flesh they consumed only fueled their madness further.
The grinding, guttural sounds grew louder. Pasang Dorje laughed like a wrathful Vajra, his fury rivaling that of the Zan gods—if not surpassing it. Swinging his Tibetan knife, he hacked at the Zan gods while the Tibetans rallied around him and his vehicle, adorned with the Lungta flag, shouting in unison as they battled the demons.
The Lungta flag fluttered fiercely in the wind, its galloping horse seeming to come alive. Pasang Dorje believed himself to be a descendant of King Gesar—and perhaps he wasn’t wrong. If not for the hero’s blood coursing through his veins, how could he muster the courage to lead humans against legendary demons?
But as Pasang Dorje grinned savagely, yanking his knife from the skull of one Zan god, another clamped its jaws around his arm. The demon swallowed hungrily, crushing his bones and exposing tendons. Its barbed tongue coiled around the limb, pulling it into its maw as a feast.
Pasang Dorje screamed in agony. He was no Vajra, after all—just a mortal man. And when facing demons, even a Vajra might not always emerge victorious.
But the next instant, the head of the Zan god gripping his arm exploded. Pasang Dorje turned to see who fired and found Tenzin Dawa reloading his weapon.
Pasang Dorje’s face twitched with pain as he stared at his severed arm, then at Tenzin Dawa. His expression suddenly grew almost serene. “Tenzin Dawa, my brother, I will die here.”
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