SS CH38

By the time Chu Xiwei and Ye Fusheng stepped out of that courtyard, darkness had already swallowed the sky.

There were no longer any living souls left inside the house, but Ye Fusheng felt completely frozen all over, his body temperature dropping to a chill no different from a corpse.

He stared at Chu Xiwei as if looking at a stranger.

During nearly four hours of brutal interrogation, the captive had refused to break under any threats or temptations. Faced with Chu Xiwei’s Soul-Seizing Technique, the man had even steeled his heart to gouge out his own eyes rather than utter a single word.

Having spent ten years operating within the Lingying Guards, Ye Fusheng had witnessed plenty of dark, torturous imperial affairs. He had personally held the blade to execute lingering slow-slicing punishments on corrupt officials and rebel traitors. He had evolved from someone who initially wanted to vomit up his own bile to someone who could calmly eat a meal in front of a pile of mangled flesh; he had long since grown accustomed to such horrors.

Yet Chu Xiwei’s methods just now were not a single bit inferior to his own.

Chu Xiwei had snapped the man’s legs, then used his precise finger strength to slowly crush all ten fingers of his hands. His internal energy was domineering and sinister; flexing it through the flesh, he could grind human bones into absolute powder while leaving the surface skin largely unblemished, leaving the limbs looking like a soft pool of mud.

From the fingers to the arms, as long as the man held his tongue, Chu Xiwei questioned him with terrifying patience. Over and over, untiringly and unfailingly, each wrong answer or silent defiance resulted in another section of bone being crushed, systematically reducing a living person into a pulp of skin and meat.

It was only when he finally extracted the desired answer that he crushed the man’s spine, granting him his longed-for release.

From beginning to end, Chu Xiwei never cast a single glance at Ye Fusheng, and Ye Fusheng had been unable to utter a single word.

He still remembered the cowardly, obedient child from years ago—an imperial descendant who held the power of life and death, yet rarely spoke a harsh word to the palace servants, let alone struck them down. Most of the time, the boy had merely thrown pampered tantrums, yet he always maintained a sense of propriety and never engaged in calculated torment.

Since their reunion, Chu Xiwei’s behavior before him had mirrored the past—his arrogant temper had grown and his sharp tongue hid a soft heart, successfully dispelling the deep shadows in Ye Fusheng’s mind. That was until just now, when the darkness was dragged into the light, spinning into intricate, deeply rooted threads that tangled into an unresolvable knot.

A question Ye Fusheng had deliberately avoided thinking about was finally laid bare before his eyes—how exactly had Chu Xiwei survived these past ten years? How exactly had an innocent, pure young boy transformed into the Lord of the Hundred Ghosts Sect, holding absolute sway over life and death in the martial world?

“How did I survive? Naturally, I lived through it day by day.”

Ye Fusheng jolted, only then realizing he had been so deeply lost in thought that he had spoken his question aloud. Chu Xiwei, who had been walking two paces ahead of him, stopped in his tracks and turned his head to look at him quietly. A cold, mocking smile played at the corners of his lips, resembling a vengeful ghost demanding a debt. Word by word, he said chillingly, “Every single day, time dragged like a year. But it eventually allowed me to crawl my way up to this position, step by step.”

He did not offer a lengthy explanation, yet Ye Fusheng could deduce a great deal from those few words.

The Hundred Ghosts Sect had existed for nearly a century, and almost none of its previous leaders had met a peaceful end. They either died from martial world vendettas or perished in internal sect power struggles. It was neither a great clan bound by blood ties nor an orthodox sect that adhered to benevolence, righteousness, propriety, and wisdom. Every single “ghost” within who wished to occupy a high position had to scramble up from the lowest depths of hell, treading through mountains of blades and seas of fire over a path of withered bones and flesh, until they managed to crawl back to the human realm to stand atop a hundred ghosts.

He had also heard rumors that the title of Sect Master in the Hundred Ghosts Sect was never explicitly designated; anyone with the capability and ambition could claim it. Through successive rounds of brutal slaughter, ten Young Sect Masters would emerge, and the old Sect Master would then assign them tasks. The ten would compete to complete them, killing one another in a process akin to raising venomous gu insects—a narrow escape from death where only one survived.

Ye Fusheng wanted to say something, but his mouth opened and closed before he finally managed to squeeze out a broken sentence: “You… I remember back then, you couldn’t even lift a slightly larger saber.”

Chu Xiwei turned around completely. He was already a bit taller than Ye Fusheng now, and as he stepped closer, an oppressive aura loomed, causing Ye Fusheng to instinctively take a step back.

Seeing him retreat, the mocking smile on Chu Xiwei’s face vanished. The corners of his lips slowly leveled out into a sharp, rigid line as he said, “Indeed. Back then, this disciple was useless. That I can achieve what I have today is entirely thanks to Master’s grace.”

These words acted like a rust-laden blade, tearing through flesh and driving beneath the ribs to pierce straight into his beating heart. The iron rust scraped against old wounds while mottling fresh blood, leaving Ye Fusheng in agonizing pain from head to toe.

After a long silence, he twitched the corners of his mouth and said, “Thanks to my grace… heh, these words, I truly… richly deserve them.”

He was smiling, but the smile looked more hideous than a ghost’s. Chu Xiwei suppressed the churning emotions in his chest, staring at the face that had turned instantly pale. He wanted to say something but did not know what was left to say. Reaching out his hand to offer a supportive tug, he suddenly remembered something and pulled out a handkerchief to messily wipe his hands.

Chu Xiwei had just killed a man. Even though he hadn’t been stained with a single drop of blood, he felt his hands were filthy and that he shouldn’t touch anyone, least of all Ye Fusheng.

In his flustered state of mind, his movements lacked all precision, nearly snapping his own fingernails. The commotion snapped Ye Fusheng out of his daze, and the smile on his face suddenly softened.

…This exasperated, exasperating display was exactly the same as back then. No, it was even more awkward than before.

The sharp conflict from a moment ago was simultaneously cast aside by both men. Ye Fusheng snatched the silk handkerchief, entirely unconcerned as he wiped the sweat from his face, laughing, “First-rate silk. Give it to me.”

Chu Xiwei cast a sidelong glance at him, let out a cold snort, and turned to walk away.

Ye Fusheng folded the silk handkerchief into a neat little square, tucked it inside his robes, and quickly caught up, asking, “Given the current situation, what are your thoughts?”

“The Burial Soul Palace truly acts on the principle that a man with too many debts doesn’t worry; they seem to stick their hands into every mess. This time, they’ve even dug up the earth over the imperial court’s head,” Chu Xiwei said flatly. “Slaughtering the Lingying Guards and masquerading as the Son of Heaven’s envoys to abduct the Southern Scholar—the imperial court will absolutely not let this matter rest.”

Hearing this, Ye Fusheng gathered his focus. “But as of right now, the court still has no idea they are the perpetrators, and we possess no evidence either.”

“The captive mentioned that a member of the Hundred Ghosts Sect broke into the place two days ago; one was killed, and a young girl escaped. That should be Lanshang,” Chu Xiwei mused. “Given Lanshang’s temperament, she will definitely not let it drop. There is no sub-branch of the Hundred Ghosts Sect nearby, so she would have pursued them on her own. By now, she has ten to one fallen into trouble.”

“She is just a young girl who poses no threat, yet she possesses an excellent identity. Unless the people of the Burial Soul Palace are absolute fools, they won’t be in a hurry to kill her; instead, they’ll use her to extort ample benefits from the Hundred Ghosts Sect.” Pausing for a moment, Ye Fusheng added, “According to what was just said, both Ruan Feiyu and Lu Mingyuan have been taken away. To the Burial Soul Palace, Ruan Feiyu’s identity is highly sensitive and extraordinarily important, while Lu Mingyuan is entirely expendable. They kept him alive presumably to exploit Ruan Feiyu’s affection for his beloved disciple, using it as leverage to coerce him into agreeing to something. Yet, there is only one matter that can maximize the utility of someone like Ruan Feiyu.”

Chu Xiwei’s gaze sharpened. “The New Laws.”

The New Laws proposed by Ruan Feiyu primarily targeted tax collection, the imperial examinations, and hereditary privileges. Among them, the reformed imperial examination system had already been implemented for ten years, resulting in numerous officials from humble backgrounds replacing the old guard in court. Although they lacked a deep ancestral foundation, they possessed the support of the Son of Heaven and the alignment of the common people’s hearts, faintly establishing an opposing force against the conservative faction and causing the execution of the reforms to steadily heat up.

The old laws severely mistreated the commoners and their farmlands, imposing an exceptionally heavy tax burden while granting absolute exemptions and conveniences to the lands owned by officials. Furthermore, the hereditary system was the primary pathway through which the conservative faction preserved their generational interests; even if titles degraded with each succession, it guaranteed at least three generations of prosperity. However, the New Laws aimed to abolish hereditary privileges entirely, shifting to a system where official ranks were earned through military merit and entry into officialdom required passing the imperial examinations. Those without merit would suffer degradation of rank and demotion, while those who committed offenses would face doubled punishments.

Every single one of these three elements carried monumental significance; to many people, they were fatal thrusts that threatened their very foundations.

“Ruan Feiyu possesses long-term vision and grand ambitions, but he has blocked the path of too many individuals. For the moment, we cannot fathom exactly who is digging this pit for him,” Ye Fusheng sighed. “What do you plan to do?”

Chu Xiwei let out a cold laugh. “The affairs of the imperial court have nothing to do with me. I only want to find Lanshang.”

Ye Fusheng understood the boundaries and said, “Regrettably, that man was merely a discarded pawn left behind to sever the trail; he had no idea where they intend to head. They certainly won’t bring such a hot potato back to Mizong Ridge, but this world is vast, making them exceedingly difficult to find.”

“It has only been two days, and they are burdened with hostages. They cannot have traveled far.”

“Since they are transporting hostages, they likely won’t take the main streets or the major roads with checkpoints. They must be taking a detour through the wilderness and mountains.” Ye Fusheng pondered for a moment. “Why don’t we purchase some water and provisions, and ask the locals about the nearby mountain paths so we can pursue them?”

Chu Xiwei nodded in agreement. However, the hour was already late, and the few shops that existed were closing one after another. The two of them walked a long street from beginning to end before finally spotting an elderly street vendor in his twilight years packing up his stall at an intersection.

He was selling common mantou and crudely made cakes that did not look particularly appealing, which explained why he hadn’t sold many throughout the day. He wrapped his ragged jacket tightly around himself while packing his wares with trembling hands.

Beside the stall stood a single table. Atop it lay a plate of cold, hard mantou and a bowl of millet porridge that was only half-finished. Seated by the table was a man who looked to be of a similar age to Ye Fusheng. His dark hair was loosely tied behind his head, and he wore a heavy violet robe with flowing sleeves, exuding the unbridled, untamed air of a famous scholar. He was currently lowering his head, completely absorbed in painting.

Chu Xiwei stared at the mantou and cakes, his brows furrowing into a tight frown, clearly filled with distaste. Yet he did not voice his criticism aloud, merely picking up a pair of clean chopsticks to turn over the food that looked passably acceptable. Ye Fusheng shook his head at this unrepentant, pampered temperament, and chose instead to look at the man’s painting.

With that single glance, he found himself unable to pull his eyes away.

Depicted on the paper was a single flower blooming with rampant fury, its petals a vivid crimson like fresh blood. Unfortunately, only half of it remained intact, as if a ruthless hand had violently torn away the other part.

Yet it remained an exceptionally beautiful flower. It did not appear vulgar due to its intense coloration, nor did it lose its luster because of its ruined state; it carried a scorching, radiant beauty that felt alive.

However, such a vibrant red flower was cradled between the fingers of a withered skeleton.

The background of the entire painting was a battlefield beneath a sinking evening sun—ruined walls, broken halberds, and shattered blades, carrying a heavy sense of sorrow and cruelty. Yet amidst the scorched earth, a skeletal frame sat leaning against a boulder. Many parts of its body lay scattered in pieces, but between the finger bones of its perfectly intact right hand, it held this broken flower. The contrast of red and white was extraordinarily enchanting.

“When he died, he must have been smiling,” Ye Fusheng remarked.

The man’s brush came to a sudden halt. He looked over with keen interest, and only then did Ye Fusheng discover that this person possessed remarkably striking features—with sword-like brows and starry eyes, he resembled a flawless mask from a painting, where gentleness manifested intensity and extreme elegance gave rise to an enchanting mystique.

The man curled the corners of his lips, offering a faint smile. “Oh?”