ATAVID CH39

Jiang Qunyu’s brow contracted, his hand instinctively rising to grab the Soul‑Devouring Sword.

The moment he moved, Wei Xun pulled him into a tight embrace and forcibly switched them back.

By the time Jiang Qunyu realized what had happened, he had become a soul body.

He looked down at his translucent, half‑see‑through hand. His chest instantly filled with fury. “Wei Xun, what the hell are you doing?!”

If the “two bugs” in that second wish really were Wei Xun and Wen Xingyao, then at least, if something terrible was about to happen, Wei Xun was powerful enough that he might survive. But Wen Xingyao? He was almost certainly going to die.

In the original story, Wen Xingyao later became Shen Peiqiu’s disciple—but that was only because he never met Jiang Qunyu or Wei Xun. No matter what, Jiang Qunyu absolutely did not want Wen Xingyao’s death here to be because of him.

He had promised him he would help him walk the Nine‑Heaven Path.

It would have been better if Wei Xun just killed Wen Xingyao outright, rather than standing by while he died like this.

“This thing is dangerous,” Wei Xun said, his expression no longer pleasant, lips curling coldly. “You’re suicidal.”

Jiang Qunyu felt like he was about to collapse from irritation. “What thing is so dangerous? And why do I nearly dying even matter to you? Is that exactly what you want?”

Wei Xun’s aura went icy, and he didn’t answer. He raised his sword, blocking the thick, flowing black hair surging toward them.

The Soul‑Devouring Sword left its sheath, its light as white as snow, cutting a cold gleam through the dark. The black hair was severed—then almost instantly re‑gathered, as if endless.

“What the hell is this thing?!” one of the Xuanjian Sect disciples scowled, fingers flashing into a seal.

Jiang Qunyu forced himself to calm down and saw that the sea of black hair, alive and writhing, had spread over half the tunnel, coiling along the ground.

As the rapid “thump, thump, thump” sound grew closer, the group instinctively held their breath.

“Help… save me…” A trembling voice rose in the silent passage.

They turned—

A hundred meters away, another Xuanjian disciple stared back at them with pure terror and despair.

More than half his body was buried in the black hair. Those strands wound around his wrists and neck, sharp as blades, slicing into his flesh and slowly stripping away his skin.

“Senior brother… save me…” The disciple forced a smile, yet his voice came out as a desperate roar. His voice grew weaker and shakier. “Ah! I don’t want to die, I don’t want to die!”

The disciple nearest to him couldn’t watch any longer. He gritted his teeth, stepped forward, and swung his sword at the hair entangling his junior.

“Don’t!” The disciple beside Wei Xun roared, “This evil thing is at least at the Transcendent Void Realm level!”

It was already too late.

The moment the sword fell, the dense black hair rose like an enraged swarm, surging in every direction.

It crawled over the first disciple, then instantly coiled around the second’s wrists, ankles, and neck.

“Ah—!”

The scream echoed through the tunnel.

At first the disciple wept; half his body lay exposed, stripped to raw, red flesh. He cried, “Senior brother… senior brother, don’t get up… I’ve dragged you down…”

Wen Xingyao finally couldn’t hold back and doubled over, dry‑heaving, his whole body trembling.

Jiang Qunyu, standing nearby, wasn’t much better, his face pale and ghastly.

Wei Xun, however, didn’t feel much; he’d seen far crueler, bloodier scenes.

But Jiang Qunyu hadn’t.

He frowned and finally strode forward with his sword, fingers gathering qi. The long blade twirled in the air, its tip drawing a frosty arc like a full moon.

The next instant, the Soul‑Devouring Sword shattered apart.

Ten thousand ice blades erupted from nowhere, their edges edged with crystalline frost that sparkled like a starry sky turned upside down, flooding the entire tunnel with a cold, bright light.

Countless sword shadows, laden with bone‑numbing cold, poured down over the black hair.

Where the blade passed, the hair severed inch by inch, then disintegrated into powder and vanished into the dark.

The tide of black hair finally receded.

The two Xuanjian disciples fell heavily to the ground. The first was already half‑gone, the lower half of his body consumed by the hair.

His eyes were wide open, blankly staring at the ceiling, his mouth half‑open as if he still had something to say.

The second disciple barely lived, but his body was covered in fine wounds, blood streaming unstoppably.

The tunnel dropped into a brief, suffocating silence.

Only the weak moans of the injured disciple broke the quiet.

The disciple standing beside Wei Xun blinked, face complex. “Thousand‑Frost Break… you’re Wei Xun of the Lingxiao Sect.”

That move was far too familiar.

So familiar he could still clearly recall the Sect Grand Competition twelve years ago.

Back then he had only been an inconspicuous outer‑disciple, standing far below the stage, gazing up at that dazzling, brilliant figure in the arena.

By age, Wei Xun should only have been eligible for the under‑twenty prodigy division, but his talent was so terrifying he jumped ranks and fought alongside older, already‑famous youths over twenty—in which he crushed them all and took the championship.

That final decisive sword he’d once seen was exactly this one: Thousand‑Frost Break.

Back then, he and many of his juniors had been away on cultivation practice, so they hadn’t recognized Wei Xun when he arrived.

But anyone who’d ever seen Wei Xun’s sword technique would never mistake it.

Wei Xun didn’t acknowledge him, only glanced aside, his expression still ice‑cold.

“Thank you,” the disciple muttered, and then quickly went over to help up the injured one.

“Senior brother…” The junior’s lips were almost colorless. “Junior… junior brother seems dead.”

“At a time like this, don’t dwell on grief,” the senior frowned. “We’ll get out of here first.”

“There’s nothing else we can do,” the injured disciple mumbled, letting his senior drag him to his feet.

The tunnel fell quiet again. Water droplets clung to the rock walls, gathering and then falling with a steady “drip, drip, drip.”

“Jiang… Jiang Qunyu.”

Just then, Wen Xingyao suddenly spoke, his voice tight.

His throat bobbed. “I… I feel like something is behind me. Maybe I’m imagining it. Do you think I’m wrong?”

Jiang Qunyu’s heart lurched.

The moment he turned his head, his eyes slammed into a face.

Behind Wen Xingyao, something hung upside down from the tunnel ceiling, no one knew how long it had been there.

A cold mask covered its face. One hand was locked in the stone; the other dangled down, its fingertips almost touching the back of Wen Xingyao’s neck.

As Jiang Qunyu turned, the creature’s previously hanging gaze slowly lifted, fixing directly on his eyes.

“Thump.”

“Thump, thump.”

Jiang Qunyu could feel his heartbeat accelerating, his mind going blank. In that instant, he was certain: this evil thing was Yun Shuangyi, and she could see him too.

“Run! Run!” Jiang Qunyu shouted without thinking.

…But Wen Xingyao couldn’t hear him.

Jiang Qunyu had no time to think. The sound‑transmission jade talisman was useless here.

Teeth gritted, he poured his demonic qi into his body, gathering the condensed mist in the air and hurling it toward Yun Shuangyi.

“Hss—” A strange sound scraped against Wen Xingyao’s ear.

His legs locked, feeling leaden, unable to move. He was about to give up, then suddenly slapped himself twice and forced himself to sprint forward.

The black hair moved faster.

In an instant, a cold, stifling aura pressed down on his back.

Wen Xingyao froze, every hair standing on end, a wave of terror rushing from his feet to the top of his head.

It had caught up.

He closed his eyes, despairing, and screamed, “Jiang Qunyu, remember to pick up my corpse. If you need them, take all my possessions in the mortal world…”

But the imagined scene of being flayed never came.

A young figure in green robes, sleeves fluttering like falling water, blocked Wen Xingyao as if descending from the heavens.

The sky‑filling black hair slammed into Jiang Qunyu’s sudden demonic barrier, shrieking with a sharp, grating sound.

Jiang Qunyu’s body erupted with black mist, swirling upward into a tidal wave that raced along the cold strands, charging straight for Yun Shuangyi.

But just before his demonic qi reached her, the black hair abruptly halted.

A moment later, every strand was retracted into Yun Shuangyi’s control.

Her hair fell to her ankles, jet black, spilling down her back, tips tinged with lingering cold qi, faintly swaying with her every move.

The next instant, the air twisted around her, an oppressive, crushing pressure plunging down.

Yun Shuangyi ripped through the void itself, surrounded by eerie spiritual energy, almost teleporting. The next second, she stood directly in front of Jiang Qunyu and Wen Xingyao.

The distance was too close.

Jiang Qunyu could see his own reflection in the one visible eye, clear and sharp.

Only one thought filled his mind.

Yun Shuangyi was strong…

So strong that even Wei Xun, in all likelihood, couldn’t beat her.

At that moment, Jiang Qunyu actually thought about dying.

If he died, Wei Xun’s sword path could advance to its fourth stage—maybe then he could kill Yun Shuangyi.

And he didn’t want Wen Xingyao to die, either.

He was a bit of a hero in his own way; he genuinely couldn’t stand the thought of Wen Xingyao dying because of him. If he promised something, he meant to see it through.

So Jiang Qunyu curved his lips into a faint smile, suddenly raising his hand and condensing a small ball of demonic qi at his fingertip.

At the same moment, Yun Shuangyi’s hand pierced through his soul body.

Pain spread through his soul, instantly breaking apart into faint, fading light.

Jiang Qunyu’s hand, in that same instant, touched Yun Shuangyi’s face.

“Click—”

The half‑silver mask slid from her face, hitting the ground with a clear, ringing sound.

Her eyes were beautiful.

Slightly upturned, clear and moist, the pupils as dark as ink, yet with a faint, childlike softness glimmering in them.

They really were like Wei Xun’s eyes—except Wei Xun always looked at him with that cold, bored gaze, his face utterly blank.

He didn’t know whether it was because he was about to die again or not, but Jiang Qunyu felt strangely happy.

He figured Wei Xun was probably happy, too.

But he was startled to see, from the distant Wei Xun, who still held the Soul‑Devouring Sword, an expression that looked like panic and regret.

Jiang Qunyu thought that was strange.

What was Wei Xun panicking about? What was he regretting?

He couldn’t find an answer, so he just chalked it up to being too far away and seeing it wrong.

Jiang Qunyu died.

*

*

After the mask was ripped away, Yun Shuangyi, frightened, covered her face with her hands, didn’t even bother picking up the mask, and quickly vanished from the spot.

The surviving Xuanjian disciples, shaken and dazed, eventually heard someone break down crying. “Senior brother… senior brother, junior brother is dead…”

The older disciple’s own eyes were red.

He opened his mouth, trying to say something, but no words came out. He only reached out and gently closed the already half‑torn, blood‑splattered corpse’s eyes.

Wen Xingyao cried, too, as he watched Wei Xun approach.

The sword still in hand, head slightly lowered, he reached out toward the empty air, where only he could see faint, fading light.

At this point, Wen Xingyao didn’t even need to look for the mole to tell whether it was Wei Xun or Jiang Qunyu anymore.

He wiped his tears and asked, “Senior brother Wei, where is Jiang Qunyu?”

“Jiang Qunyu?” Wei Xun echoed, as if not hearing clearly.

He had been silent for a long time.

Water dripped steadily, the tunnel vast and empty.

After a long while, Wei Xun said quietly, “He’s dead.”

Then Wen Xingyao sat on the ground and began sobbing, “He died trying to save me… waaah…”

Wei Xun’s lips curled, but not in a smile.

It had all happened too fast.

Too fast for him to react, and Jiang Qunyu had vanished from his eyes once more.

He should have been happy.

He’d reminded himself over and over.

Yet this time, he felt like everyone present in that space deserved to die.

If they weren’t such useless cowards, Jiang Qunyu wouldn’t have felt compelled to protect them; he wouldn’t have gone rushing in.

If he hadn’t rushed in, Wei Xun could have… he could have been there to save him.

Wen Xingyao should have died, too. If he hadn’t needed to save him, Jiang Qunyu wouldn’t have died.

Malice brimmed in his chest, yet his face stayed cold.

Kill them.

They should be put down. All of them, sacrificed as if to accompany Jiang Qunyu into death.

The Soul‑Devouring Sword trembled in his palm, seeming to sense its master’s murderous intent, humming faintly.

He raised his hand—

Yet just before the blade fell, his motion stopped.

Wei Xun’s eyes flickered with a hint of confusion.

…Transcendent Void Realm.

He had broken through.

At the moment Jiang Qunyu died.

He suddenly remembered: the last time Jiang Qunyu died, he’d entered the Transformation Realm. Every time Jiang Qunyu died, he seemed to advance in cultivation.

He suddenly realized.

Ah.

Perhaps the one who deserved to be dead the most… was himself.