SS CH86

Shen Wuduan felt as though he were dreaming.

It wasn’t until he channeled his energy to suppress the violently rampaging true qi of the Qilu Jing within Chu Xiwei’s body that he barely managed to recover his wits. Staring fixedly at the old friend he hadn’t seen in years, he still felt as though they were separated by a lifetime in a dream.

Chu Xiwei’s condition could be considered light, yet it was undeniably severe.

Shen Wuduan had long known about him simultaneously cultivating the Qilu Jing and the Jinghong Art. However, this stubborn child had always been obstinate; even if you broke his teeth, he wouldn’t utter an extra word. Coupled with the late Qin Liurong’s favoritism, Shen Wuduan had held his temper, figuring the boy would eventually hit his limit and come seeking help.

Unfortunately, Shen Wuduan had misjudged. He knew Chu Xiwei was stubborn, but he never expected him to be so stubborn that he wouldn’t shed a tear until his head hit the coffin—he had practically smashed right through the coffin lid.

Refusing to give up the Jinghong Art while gritting his teeth to cultivate the Qilu Jing was essentially courting death. Yet, the heavens must favor audacious fools. Not only did it fail to claim his life, but through the torment of this life-and-death struggle, he had actually fumbled his way onto a rugged path that merged the two.

The Jinghong Art emphasized adaptability and transformation, while the Qilu Jing focused on assimilation and utilization. “Adaptability” and “Assimilation” seemed unrelated but actually shared complementary traits. Chu Xiwei took an unconventional approach: instead of using the Qilu Jing to assimilate other martial arts for his own use, he used the Jinghong Art as his foundation, adapting it according to the shifting realms of the Qilu Jing. By refining this through constant combat, he had mastered the lineage of “adaptability and assimilation” far better than anyone else.

Logically, this was a good thing. The fatal flaw, however, was that Chu Xiwei was simply too young.

He lacked a profound understanding of his own foundation, and his martial comprehension was deficient due to a lack of experience—not to mention his state of mind.

Techniques without internal energy were mere flashy tricks; martial arts lacking mental cultivation were like fragile towers in the air. Both Chu Xiwei’s internal energy and his techniques far surpassed his peers, to the point where most established Jianghu experts were no match for him. But he hid too many things in his heart. Unable to open his mind to truly perceive the affairs of the world, how could he elevate his state of mind?

His state of mind restricted his vision and affected his control over his internal energy. Because of this, Shen Wuduan had re-gifted the Ice Soul Pearl—which Duanqing had given him years ago to calm the mind and nourish qi—to Chu Xiwei, serving as a temporary fix rather than a permanent cure. Yet he hadn’t expected this brat to be so foolishly straightforward, offering up his heart and soul to someone without uttering a single word.

Right now, the two streams of true qi were tangled into a knot. Even Shen Wuduan couldn’t forcefully separate them; they could only wait for Chu Xiwei to wake up and save himself.

Either elevate his state of mind to push the Qilu Jing to the next level, truly achieving the realm of “seeking common ground while reserving differences”; or entirely cripple the Jinghong Art and specialize in a single path. Although the latter was highly risky, with Shen Wuduan and Sun Minfeng present, his life wouldn’t be in danger. He would only lose half his internal energy, which could be slowly recovered later—a true case of “as long as the green mountains remain, one need not worry about a lack of firewood.”

Shen Wuduan did not avoid speaking in front of others. Though he seemed to be instructing Sun Minfeng, he was actually observing the reactions of Ye Fusheng and Duanqing.

Duanqing remained as unresponsive as a human-shaped iceberg, but Ye Fusheng’s expression changed drastically. Though he hid it quickly, Shen Wuduan, being a seasoned old fox, observed his reaction crystal clearly: after he finished speaking, Ye Fusheng’s lowered left hand clenched tightly into a fist, his knuckles turning white, and his breathing missed a beat.

Shen Wuduan felt inexplicably gratified, realizing that his adoptive son’s affections weren’t entirely one-sided. Viewing Ye Fusheng much more favorably, he waved his hand, gesturing for Sun Minfeng to lead the two of them out.

Only after kicking the irrelevant people out did he close the courtyard gate. Turning around, he saw that Duanqing was still sitting under the willow tree, not a single fold of his robes out of place.

Shen Wuduan held it in for a long time but ultimately couldn’t muster a single pleasantry. The reunion had come too abruptly. The thousands of words he had once rehearsed were now entirely stuck in his throat. He could only return to the house, bring out two jugs of wine, slam them onto the table, and bark at Duanqing, “Drink!”

Duanqing raised a pair of indifferent eyes to look at him but didn’t refuse. Tearing off the red seal, he took a deep swig.

This single gulp was endless; by the time he set the jug down, it was at least half empty.

Shen Wuduan stared fixedly at his still-pale face and suddenly asked, “Do you know what wine this is?”

Duanqing glanced at the black characters on the red paper of the jug. “It’s ‘Heavenly Mortal Intoxication’.”

“A single cup fells a heavenly immortal, plunging a mortal guest into a hundred-year slumber… With half a jug of ‘Heavenly Mortal Intoxication’ down my throat, I would be drunk for ten to fifteen days. Yet you don’t even have a flush.” Shen Wuduan’s gaze fell on the wine jug. “I clearly remember that you used to get drunk after a single cup.”

Duanqing looked at him. “Alcohol tolerance can always improve. Why make a fuss?”

“True enough…” Shen Wuduan chuckled. “I just didn’t expect… By the way, I mixed in a ten-year-old plum blossom brew. I originally wanted to send it to you back then, but unfortunately, I couldn’t find you. How does it taste now?”

Duanqing nodded. “Very good.”

Shen Wuduan suddenly fell silent. He stared into Duanqing’s eyes and at that head of white hair. All the playful laughter vanished from his face, leaving behind an expression as heavy and still as stagnant water.

“Wrong,” Shen Wuduan said. “I didn’t mix in any plum blossom brew. Just to spite you for vanishing for so many years, I deliberately mixed in mugwort oil. You have always hated that flavor… but now, you couldn’t taste it at all.”

Duanqing lowered his eyes and said plainly, “Oh.”

“The first moment I saw you, I thought I was dreaming,” Shen Wuduan said in a low voice. “We played together since I was twelve. Now, my hair is gray and I am old and frail, yet you remain as youthful and unaging as you were thirty years ago… How could this not feel like a dream?”

Duanqing replied, “Aging has never been solely about the skin.”

“Indeed. Seeing how you look now, I know that aside from your outer shell… your insides have probably completely decayed, dead and devoid of any vitality.” Shen Wuduan stared at him coldly. “Let me guess. You have lost your senses of smell and taste, you are immune to the effects of alcohol and medicine, you neither cry nor laugh, and you have no fluctuations of joy or anger… Like a living corpse frozen for years waking up one day. You look exactly as you did in the past, but in reality, you are just a walking corpse, aren’t you?”

These words were utterly merciless, even insultingly infuriating. Thirty years ago, Duanqing would have immediately raised a hand and beaten him until he cried for his parents. Yet now, he sat as immovable as a mountain, as if the person being spoken of wasn’t him at all.

The last trace of hope in Shen Wuduan’s heart was completely ground into dust by Duanqing’s unchanging expression.

It felt as if an ice pick had pierced his heart—the wound wasn’t large or deep, but it instantly froze all the blood in his body, nearly stopping his heartbeat entirely.

Slumping back into his seat, he murmured, “You entered the Realm of Forgotten Emotions… Which level?”

“The second level.”

“Indulging in desires without restraint, severing love with ruthlessness, forgetting emotions and severing all thoughts…” Shen Wuduan repeatedly mumbled these twelve words. Suddenly, he stood up, grabbed Duanqing by the collar, hauled him up to meet his eyes, his own sockets practically bleeding.

“Mu Qingshang!” He glared at Duanqing with a mix of ferocity and despair, desperately calling out that long-unspoken name in his agitation. “How dare you… how dare you turn yourself into this?!”

Caught somewhat off guard, Duanqing’s expression remained unchanged. A slightly cool hand covered the back of Shen Wuduan’s hand as he said faintly, “I am fine.”

“You don’t even live like a human anymore, how is that fine?!” Shen Wuduan violently shoved him away, his eyes nearly splitting at the seams. “Back then you said, ‘I would rather die like a mayfly after a hundred days, than yearn for immortality leaving only empty regrets.’ Why did you go back on your word now? You promised Gu Qifang not to waste your life, you promised me to live well. All those words… did you fucking eat them?!”

Duanqing said, “Wuduan, calm down.”

“Calm down?” Shen Wuduan slammed a palm onto the table. “Thirty years ago, we parted at Fuxue, and now it has become an eternal farewell… Liurong is gone, Gu Qifang is dead, and you have turned into this! You tell me to calm down? Duanqing, how can I be calm?!”

Duanqing looked at his reddened eyes, slowly shifting his gaze to the graying hair and the wrinkled face, finally landing on Shen Wuduan’s slightly trembling hands.

These hands that once wielded fans and swords with unrivaled romantic flair—hands that could make the maidens of the red chambers swoon with the mere hook of a finger—were now, despite good maintenance, loose with aging skin and worn calluses. Even if their lingering might remained, they were undeniably the hands of an old man.

Shen Wuduan was truly old now.

This man who, in his youth, laughed amidst life and death, whose expression wouldn’t change even if a tall mountain collapsed before his eyes, could still scheme and strategize. But he was no longer young; he had lost his frivolous, sharp edge, and had grown sentimental.

Duanqing had never realized so clearly that their era had aged away with the years. Now, beauties were fading, and heroes were at the end of their roads.

He looked at his own hands—smooth for a long time, yet pale and bloodless. Just as Shen Wuduan had said, he was like a walking corpse with nothing but an empty shell.

He had grown accustomed to this over the years and didn’t feel there was anything wrong with himself, but he knew Shen Wuduan was grieving because of it.

Duanqing wanted to comfort him with a few words, but he also knew that whatever he said now would be of no help.

The so-called changing of seas into mulberry fields—the most terrifying part wasn’t the earth-shattering transformations, but how everything and everyone had completely changed.

In the end, Duanqing simply said, “Cry then. I will watch over you.”