Temple of the Kidney, forge it for me!

Noon.

Inside the grand hall of the Pure Immortal Temple.

Chen Huangpi sat cross-legged upon a meditation cushion, and behind him stood the abbot, who bore two heads.

Further back, three portraits of the abbot hung upon the wall directly opposite. Originally, this wall served as the shrine for deities. Yet, after Chen Huangpi’s master lost his mind, he drove the gods out and hung his own three portraits in their place.

Azure on the left, white on the right, and purple in the center. They were arranged by age and hierarchy—an order the Pure Immortal Temple took most seriously. The abbot was particular about it, Chen Huangpi cared, and even the brass oil lamp made much of it.

At this moment, the lamp sat high upon the threshold of the hall. To its left and right sat the Mountain Fox God and the Reaper.

“Don’t you feel there’s something odd about those three portraits of the abbot?” asked the Mountain Fox God.

“What’s odd about them?”

“I can’t say, but something isn’t right.”

To the Mountain Fox God, it always seemed as if the abbot in those portraits was staring directly at it, and the longer it looked, the more uneasy it felt.

The brass oil lamp cast a glance at the paintings but felt nothing at all. Those paintings had hung there for years, sometimes even placed upon the altar. It had long since grown accustomed; what could possibly be wrong?

“Little Fox, your soul has been severely damaged. It’s normal for you to be jumpy.”

“Is that really so?”

“What else? Are you saying your spiritual senses are sharper than mine?”

“Well, perhaps not,” the Mountain Fox God replied, half-convinced. Ever since half its soul was lost, it often suffered headaches and its memory was not what it used to be. Though it could not shake the sense of disquiet, if even the brass oil lamp said nothing was amiss, then surely it was only its imagination.

Just then, the Reaper suddenly spoke: “Huang Er, the branches are growing from the master’s ears again. Do you think he can really subdue that demonic tree?”

“Who knows if he can. He’s stranger than the demonic tree itself,” the oil lamp replied with a trace of worry as it gazed at Chen Huangpi. At that moment, it could sense a baleful aura emanating from within Chen Huangpi’s body, laced with a thread of vitality and a hint of madness—the aura of the demonic tree.

Daytime had yet to pass; to enter the old temple, they would have to wait until nightfall. Thus, with time to spare, Chen Huangpi instructed the three of them to guard the place, while he attempted to subdue the demonic tree imprisoned within the Kidney Temple.

At this moment, withered branches protruded from each of Chen Huangpi’s ears—and even his nostrils. The branches seemed to find their way into every crevice.

Chen Huangpi’s spirit sank into his body. The living Kidney Temple had replaced his kidneys; fascia and flesh grew upon it, twitching and throbbing from time to time.

Above and to the right of the Kidney Temple, in the position of the liver, faint yellow-green energy was being generated, circulating day and night, gradually forging the Liver Temple. Yet, just as with the forging of the Kidney Temple, this energy was still weak. Who knew how long before the Liver Temple’s form would take shape?

Chen Huangpi mused to himself, “The God Burial Tomb and the soil of the Underworld are fraught with peril. The energy from the Liver Temple will be of little use in the near term.”

The Five Viscera Spirit-Refining Art was truly extraordinary: kidneys as water, liver as wood, heart as fire, spleen as earth, lungs as metal. The five elements in cyclical balance, nurturing and restraining each other. With each temple forged, the corresponding organ vanished, and its energy dissipated.

But Chen Huangpi was far from content. He could accept losing both kidneys, and even the loss of the hard-won essence he had cultivated. What he could not accept was this: that after forging the Kidney Temple and imprisoning a calamity-turned demonic tree within, his own power had been diminished instead. To an outsider, it might seem it was not the demonic tree being suppressed, but himself.

Thus, he recalled his master’s words: If you bring the wood-natured demonic tree into the water-natured Kidney Temple, the tree will develop a spirit of rebellion. You must subdue it with force.

With that in mind, Chen Huangpi focused on the grand doors of the Kidney Temple.

Suddenly, his own figure appeared before the temple gates—his spiritual self.

The two massive doors were shut tight without a sliver of a gap; not even a wisp of black smoke could escape. Only sound could pass.

A rattling sound, as if the demonic tree’s body was shaking. A scratching, as its branches scraped the walls.

“Water begets wood,” Chen Huangpi observed. “The demonic tree must be thriving in here.” But regrets were useless now. Whether he could subdue the demonic tree depended on whether his fists were strong enough.

So, Chen Huangpi pushed open the temple doors.

At once, a still, mirror-like darkness greeted his eyes—the concentrated black smoke. Now that the Kidney Temple was formed, the black smoke was no longer restless. Even with the doors open, it would not escape; it seemed utterly dead.

Chen Huangpi stepped inside; the doors closed behind him. In the blink of an eye, the scene shifted. The space stretched, darkness receded.

The grand hall of the Kidney Temple was much like that of the Pure Immortal Temple, except that to each side stood two lofty, arched side-halls. Countless inky chains were anchored in the left and right side-halls, the other ends binding the demonic tree.

The demonic tree’s form was immense. Even without its crown, its tangled branches alone could blot out the sky. Its trunk was towering, like the world-supporting tree of legend.

But now the demonic tree was in a pitiful state. The black chains from the side-halls were pulled taut, pinning it firmly to the altar. Countless chains pierced its body, locking roots and binding branches; the living chains tormented it to the brink of madness. The more it struggled, the tighter they became—and the more excruciating the pain.

Chen Huangpi understood at once: the chains were the black smoke, leeching the demonic tree’s power, even as they infused it with black smoke, nourishing it.

He looked at his own fists, then at the demonic tree, brimming with murderous intent.

He promptly lowered his fists and spoke, “Oh demonic tree, though I’ve confined you here, and I admit it’s not comfortable, I am a reasonable man. We’ve no old grudges or recent feuds, and we’ll be seeing much of each other in the days to come. Why make things so tense? Here’s my proposal: you surrender your power to me. I’ll put it to good use and never tarnish your might.”

Already, branches from the demonic tree were sprouting from his body—a sign that its power, drawn from the temple, was being channeled into him. But the demonic tree continued to resist. Though imprisoned, it remained the god of the Kidney Temple, undying here—impossible even to die if it wished. The chains of black smoke drained its strength but nurtured it still, making it ever more terrifying.

It was becoming something greater—but at a cost. A cost the demonic tree could not accept, for it would ultimately become nothing more than Chen Huangpi’s puppet.

So it resisted with all its will.

It was as if the demonic tree were a bottomless reservoir with two outlets—one above, pouring something in to make it more fearsome, the other below, narrow, letting only a trickle of power flow out. The intake and output were utterly unbalanced.

Chen Huangpi understood all this. If the tree cooperated, he could draw out its power and abilities for his own use. But the demonic tree remained unresponsive, relinquishing only a meager trickle. It was calm, still resisting with reason.

Chen Huangpi grew anxious. “I’ll treat you well in the future,” he promised.

No response.

“I’m very good at growing trees,” he added with sincerity.

The demonic tree’s body trembled.

“I’ll water you every day,” Chen Huangpi vowed.

The demonic tree remained utterly calm.

Just as Chen Huangpi was about to despair, the tree’s composure snapped.

A furious rustling, like a sudden downpour—the demonic tree’s endless branches writhed and its trunk shuddered madly. Driven to frenzy, it strove to break free from the altar, intent on killing Chen Huangpi, even if the chains tore it asunder.

Planting and watering—a mere mention of these two acts shattered the demonic tree’s grim resolve, its pain and endurance collapsing like an avalanche.

The countless human-shaped fruits hanging from its branches all opened their eyes, fixing Chen Huangpi with a deathly stare. Each one was both an individual and an extension of the demonic tree’s will. Now, the gaze of every fruit burned with ferocity, madness, and implacable hatred.

The demonic tree’s malevolence soared.

Chen Huangpi, bewildered, asked, “So, demonic tree, are you agreeing or not?”

He had the sense that the demonic tree was refusing. And yet, he could clearly feel its power being drawn out by the chains of black smoke—not in trickles as before, but as if a floodgate had opened. In just a moment, the amount of energy drawn equaled half of its peak.

Chen Huangpi pondered, “Master said the demonic tree would resist and had to be subdued by force, but clearly, it’s capable of reason. My master is old, always reciting dogma, unlike me, who knows that blind faith in books can be folly.”

A thought flashed through his mind.

“Come!” he called.

With a gesture, a branch appeared from thin air—not thick, but as long as thirty feet, like a whip. At his will, it lashed out.

With a thunderous crack, even the air shattered. This was the power of the demonic tree—its very branch.

“But this is not the limit!” Chen Huangpi declared, and with a sword-like gesture, the branch unleashed a harsh, lifeless gray sword energy.

This was the Demon-Slaying Sword Art of Taisui, now driven by the demonic tree’s power—strange and sinister.

To slay demons and exorcise evil—this was the sword’s intention.

Malice and violence—this was its chi.

And it was far stronger than before.

Delighted, Chen Huangpi said, “This power is marvelous! Thank you, demonic tree. I’ll be going now, but rest assured, I’ll keep my promise. Before I enter the old temple tonight, I’ll come water you.”

With that, he vanished from the Kidney Temple.

As he departed, the grand hall of the Kidney Temple transformed. The side-halls became flesh and blood, like organs, and the black chains rooted in the demonic tree sucked greedily at its power with every pulse.

The demonic tree’s trunk withered, agony driving it mad, trembling uncontrollably. Yet as its strength was drained, more black smoke poured into its body, seeping from every crevice. It was being remade.

To halt the process, it had to remain lucid—but the thought of Chen Huangpi coming to water it that night destroyed its sanity utterly. The memory of being watered day and night for centuries, until it perished, filled it with boundless hate.

All the human-fruits opened their mouths wide.

“Chen Huangpi, may you die a wretched death!”

Through these fruits, the demonic tree let out a piercing, hate-filled wail—each word weeping, each word seething with vengeance.