SS CH117

Xuan Su hurried along his path. His sudden, forceful push of internal energy left his meridians throbbing with dull pain, but with his mind occupied by threats on both ends, he dared not pause or relax for even a second. When he finally reached the entrance of the stupa forest, he merely leaned against a tree trunk to catch his breath before shifting his footwork and entering.

The stupa forest contained ninety-seven stone pagodas, each seven stories high. Seven of these pagodas were arranged in the formation of the Big Dipper, while the remaining ones were distributed according to the Manjushri Nine Palaces layout. This formed a remarkably ingenious and complex matrix. Aside from their positioning, every pagoda looked identical from the outside, differing only in minute details. Outsiders would find it impossible to grasp the underlying mysteries, and anyone stepping inside would likely become hopelessly lost.

Xuan Su naturally lacked the ability to navigate it either. However, the wind direction was in his favor, and his sense of smell was sharp. Catching the metallic, rust-like scent of blood in the oncoming breeze, his expression turned grave. He darted into the shadows, advancing closely along the pagodas like a stealthy night owl.

He quickly approached the source of the bloody scent. This particular stone pagoda was located very close to the center of the stupa forest. The bronze doors at the base were slightly ajar, and no lamps were lit inside. Only sparse moonlight illuminated the pagoda’s exterior, giving it an inexplicably eerie and sinister atmosphere.

Xuan Su didn’t go through the doors. Pushing off the ground, he grabbed the railing and hung onto the side of the pagoda. Not rushing to enter, he held his breath and listened to the sounds on each floor. Finally, he heard the sharp clashing of metal from the seventh floor, indicating a fight was underway.

After scaling seven floors in succession, Xuan Su’s arm strength was nearly spent, his muscles trembling slightly. Knowing he couldn’t delay any longer, he vaulted over the railing and landed steadily on the corridor. Through the octagonal carved stone window, he peered inside.

Unfortunately, it was pitch black, making it impossible to see any figures clearly. He could only hear the combat growing increasingly fierce. Xuan Su estimated there were at least three people engaged in a tangled brawl. Amidst the clashing of weapons, there was also the eerie, rustling sound of rattling iron chains.

The stench of blood wafted through the window and hit Xuan Su’s face. He felt slightly nauseated, but instincts carved into him from his early years caused his limbs to grow warm, triggering an uncontrollable excitement—like a sleeping wolf awakened by the scent of blood.

Xuan Su’s pupils contracted. His fingers sought out the cold jade flute, gripping it tightly like a set of reins, hauling himself back from the edge of the cliff until he finally regained some clarity.

The fight inside grew increasingly vicious until one person couldn’t hold on and shouted, “This lunatic doesn’t recognize anyone again! We have to strike ruthlessly!”

“If we strike ruthlessly, how are we supposed to explain it to the Left Protector?” A low shout accompanied a metallic clang, sounding quite exasperated. “The Left Protector ordered repeatedly that he must be brought back without a single scratch. Who dares to lay a heavy hand on him?”

“But he killed Lao San!” the first man roared, gnashing his teeth. “The four of us brothers have always shared everything, and now Lao San is dead by his hands!”

“If you dare make a move and the Left Protector finds out, you’ll be sent down to the Yellow Springs to be brothers with Lao San again!”

“…”

Xuan Su frowned. Suddenly, something shot out from the darkness toward him. He quickly sidestepped, only to see an iron chain as thick as an infant’s wrist smash heavily against the stone window. The sheer force of the impact shattered the intricate carvings completely!

“Who’s there?!”

Given this brief moment of respite, the two arguing men realized someone was spying from outside the window. Before Xuan Su could react, they leapt out through the doors and windows, respectively.

The corridor was narrow, and Xuan Su’s evasive step had placed him exactly between the doors and the windows, blocking his path forward and backward. By the moonlight, he saw they were two men, one tall and one short, both dressed as monks and wielding Buddhist monk’s knives. The blades were stained with blood.

With no way forward and no path of retreat, watching the cold gleam of the approaching blades as the two men closed in from the front and back, and hearing the person inside still thrashing about like a headless fly—the iron chains constantly striking the walls with dull thuds—Xuan Su’s eyes turned cold, and he drew his bronze flute.

The next second, the two knives struck simultaneously from front and back, one aiming for his throat, the other chopping at the back of his knees, leaving him no room to dodge high or low. It was the exact routine of the “Mandarin Duck Blades.” In this critical moment, Xuan Su twisted his wrist, using the bronze flute to firmly deflect one blade, while simultaneously raising and twisting his foot to stomp the other blade directly under his sole, pinning it immovably.

Having blocked the attacks, Xuan Su neither pressed his advantage nor retreated. Instead, he reached into his robes, pulled out a fire starter, quickly popped the cap, brought it to his lips, and blew a spark to life.

A flame the size of a bean would normally be entirely inconspicuous, but at this moment, it stung the eyes like the tail of a venomous scorpion. The tall, thin monk in front of him was startled and reached out to swat the flame out, but Xuan Su had already pressed the fire starter against a prayer flag hanging by the wall.

The prayer flag had been hanging for a long time; it was dry, yellowed, and highly flammable. Aided by the wind, it instantly ignited into a surging snake of fire, glaringly conspicuous against the dark stone pagoda.

The commotion inside the room paused. Then, a head with disheveled hair lunged violently at the window, letting out a hoarse, tearing roar. This person possessed profound internal energy; gathering his breath to roar sent the sound carrying far into the night sky.

The two men fighting Xuan Su were both startled. Seizing the opportunity, Xuan Su ripped the burning prayer flag down and threw it over the tall, thin monk’s head. As the opponent instinctively stepped back, he didn’t realize it was a feint. Xuan Su spun his body, whipping the prayer flag back around to squarely wrap the head of the short man behind him!

As the flames licked his flesh, the man let out an agonizing scream. His entire head was engulfed in the burning flag, and when he reached up to pull it off, the tongues of fire seared his palms. Remaining completely unmoved, Xuan Su raised his leg and delivered a vicious kick to the man’s chest. The man instantly spat a mouthful of fresh blood, stumbled backward until he crashed into the railing, and, unable to stop his momentum, flipped over and plummeted down!

A heavy thud echoed as flesh and bone smashed into the ground. Without looking back, Xuan Su used the flute to parry the knife attacking from behind, following up with a brutal elbow strike to his opponent’s chest. Hearing the man stumble back three steps, he finally turned around.

Blood had splattered onto his left cheek earlier, the drops seeping into the intricate carvings of his silver mask, making it look as though blood-red veins were spreading across his face—bewitching yet terrifying. Raising his sleeve to wipe away the blood, Xuan Su spun the bronze flute between his fingers. All his usual gentleness and courtesy vanished without a trace in this moment. He demanded coldly, “Who are you, and what are you doing here? Answer truthfully, or speak lies and leave your life behind.”

In just three or four exchanges, one of the two was already dead. Though terrified, the tall, thin man was not one to cower or retreat. Refusing to answer, he raised his knife and charged again.

However, a chain proved faster than him!

A pitch-black iron chain slithered from behind like a venomous snake, tightly strangling the tall, thin man’s throat. Before he could even struggle, the chain was violently yanked back, lifting the grown man completely off the ground. A crisp crack echoed from his neck, and he was hurled off the pagoda.

Another heavy thud followed. Xuan Su didn’t lean over the railing to look down; instead, he took a step back.

The lunatic with disheveled hair had already climbed out of the window.

He stood roughly twenty feet in front of Xuan Su, wearing filthy prison clothes, his hair a tangled mess like tumbleweed. Two iron chains clamped his wrists, the long ends dragging on the ground with an ear-piercing screech.

He lifted his head, his hair sliding to one side to reveal half of a terrifying face. It was marred by years-old burn scars, the flesh knotted and pitted, so gruesome one couldn’t bear to look directly at it. At first glance, one might think they had seen a ghost.

His heart leaping in fright, Xuan Su couldn’t help but chant, “Taiyi Heavenly Venerable,” while stealing a glance at the man’s feet. He had a shadow.

This was indeed a human, but a human far more hideous than a ghost.

Even though this was his first time seeing him, Xuan Su immediately guessed who he was—the Right Protector of the Burial Soul Palace, Zhao Qing.

Xuan Su knew very little about him. Aside from the moniker “Blood Yama” and the Huangshan Sect bloodbath, he was almost completely in the dark. It was Ye Fusheng who had recently shared some intelligence with him—for instance, that Zhao Qing relied on his mother, Zhao Bing’e, to secure the position of Right Protector, and that the man was a lunatic.

An absolute, undeniable lunatic.

While scouting the Du’e Cave earlier, Ye Fusheng and Chu Xiwei had made contact and exchanged information. Chu Xiwei learned about the situation at Wuxiang Temple, while Ye Fusheng inquired about Zhao Qing. According to clues investigated by the Hundred Ghosts Sect, Zhao Qing’s biological father was unknown, and his mother was Zhao Bing’e, the Left Protector of the Burial Soul Palace and sister to the previous Palace Master, Helian Chen. Logically, he should have had a boundless future, but unfortunately, he was insane.

It was said he survived a fire in his youth that destroyed half his face. Later, while practicing martial arts with his uncle, Helian Chen, something went wrong, damaging his brain and leading to madness. At first, he simply didn’t recognize people, but later he began suffering from explosive, manic episodes. Paradoxically, his martial arts grew increasingly formidable, to the point where very few in Mizong Ridge could subdue him.

The Burial Soul Palace kept such a lunatic around partly out of respect for Zhao Bing’e, and partly to use him as a mad dog for burning, killing, and looting. Unfortunately, Zhao Bing’e loved her son more than her own life. Eight years ago, when Zhao Qing first entered the Jianghu and caused the Huangshan Sect incident, she personally brought him back to Mizong Ridge. She nurtured him and oversaw his martial arts training but forbade him from ever leaving Mizong Ridge again, terrified that this lunatic would stir up more trouble and lose his life.

As Ye Fusheng deduced, Zhao Qing normally lived in deep seclusion. For him to fall into Wuxiang Temple’s hands now meant he was likely a bait deployed by someone calculating. Furthermore, since the Burial Soul Palace had already seized control of the martial arts assembly, their prolonged failure to send anyone to rescue Zhao Qing meant they were either using him for fishing or had entirely discarded him as a pawn.

Regardless of which guess was correct, it only proved one thing: a rift had formed between Zhao Bing’e and Helian Yu.

Xuan Su was merely inexperienced, not stupid. Seeing Zhao Qing now and recalling the conversation of those two men earlier, he guessed they had been secretly sent by Zhao Bing’e to rescue her own son. They simply hadn’t expected that imprisonment had driven Zhao Qing completely mad. Unable to distinguish friend from foe, not only did he fail to escape with them, he ended up leaving his rescuers permanently behind.

The question was, where were Duanheng and Sejian? Did the bloody stench in the room belong to them?

Anxious, Xuan Su wished he could rush in and check, but Zhao Qing refused to give him the chance.

A sharp gale swept forward. Xuan Su raised his flute to block, colliding solidly with the iron chain. Failing his initial strike, Zhao Qing shook his hands, launching both chains simultaneously. These pitch-black weapons tore through the air like flood dragons dancing in raging waves, crisscrossing impenetrably.

With one weapon long measuring over ten feet and the other short measuring only a foot, Xuan Su immediately found himself at a disadvantage. To make matters worse, this lunatic Zhao Qing was unlike the completely mindless human sacrifices; his attacks were paced perfectly, his advances and retreats measured, yet every strike was lethal and incomparably ruthless. Caught off guard, Xuan Su was whipped on the shoulder, his skin and flesh instantly torn open.

Seeing the blood, Zhao Qing’s ferocity surged. His left chain chopped down toward Xuan Su’s head, while his right chain swept horizontally toward his chest. If either struck true, even if his brain wasn’t splattered, his ribs would definitely shatter.

If Xuan Su retreated, he could likely escape. But if he retreated, what would happen when this lunatic escaped?

Gritting his teeth, Xuan Su didn’t retreat; instead, he advanced. Sliding his hands to grip both ends of the bronze flute, a sharp clatter rang out as the flute split in two, revealing a thin sword drawn from within!

This bronze flute was not a musical instrument. When he was sixteen and first learned to control his internal breath, Duanya had personally opened the sword pavilion and chosen this weapon for him, naming it “Wuwei” (Inaction).

The Wuwei sword was no longer than a foot, and rather than a thin blade, it resembled a sword-piercer. Its entire body was shaped like an awl, covered in dark patterns and blood grooves. It was said to be an ancient relic, once an assassin’s blade, later acquired by a benevolent man who hid it within a flute, concealing its edge and refusing to unsheathe it unless absolutely necessary.

Wuwei did not mean idle inaction; it meant that a gentleman must know what he ought to do, and also what he ought not to do.

Xuan Su was twenty-eight this year, yet the Wuwei sword had been drawn no more than three times, never having tasted a single drop of blood. But unsheathing it now meant he was pushed to the absolute brink—once drawn, the sword would not return empty.

Spinning his body, the iron chain swept across his chest, the impact sending a dull ache through his lungs. However, the Wuwei sword slid directly along the chain, and in the blink of an eye, Xuan Su closed the distance to Zhao Qing!

Just as he was about to trade an injury for a life, with Wuwei on the verge of piercing Zhao Qing’s throat, the latter suddenly dropped the chain. His left hand formed a palm blade, his thumb and ring finger abruptly hooking inward, flipping over to exploit the opening!

The Wuwei sword passed precisely through the gap formed by his fingers in that hair’s-breadth moment. Zhao Qing tilted his head to dodge the sword tip, while his left hand slid down, his index and middle fingers dropping instantly to firmly lock onto the sword hilt.

Xuan Su’s eyes widened in shock. In that single moment of distraction, Zhao Qing’s freed right hand clawed toward his face, his two fingers hooked like talons, touching his eyelids in an instant!

The next second, bright crimson sprayed out, and Xuan Su’s vision dissolved into a blur of bloody red…