ATAVID CH73

The wind and snow blanketed his brow. Wei Xun raised his hand, his fingertips brushing over the wet, un-dried blood at the corner of his lips before pressing lightly against his chest. It was frighteningly empty there, as if a piece had been ruthlessly gouged out, every beat carrying a dull, heavy ache.

Standing not far away with his sword in hand, Lan Yuanzhou looked at Wei Xun, who appeared completely deranged. An inexplicable chill crept into his heart.

Yet, hatred ultimately conquered that trace of fear. In the distance, the demonic army had already entered the fray, and his master… unexpectedly stood on the side opposing the Immortal Alliance.

Lan Yuanzhou gritted his teeth, pushing the spiritual energy throughout his body to its absolute limit. Lifting his sword, he charged furiously toward Wei Xun.

Though he did not understand why Wei Xun had suddenly broken character and ceased to move—kneeling in the snow like a man whose heart had completely died—it did not stop him from recognizing this as a flawless, once-in-a-lifetime opportunity to utterly slay the demon.

As long as Wei Xun died, his master would surely be liberated, never again to suffer imprisonment and torment at the demon’s hands.

A torrent of sharp sword intent pierced through the air, descending straight for Wei Xun’s crown. Yet, the moment it came within three feet of his body, it instantly froze.

The youth’s face was deathly pale. Slowly, he stood up, his black robes whipping wildly in the raging wind. The demonic energy that had previously scattered in chaotic disarray suddenly surged back, expanding exponentially.

With him as the epicenter, an endless expanse of darkness rolled out like a tsunami in all directions, swallowing every oncoming sword intent. The entire battlefield felt as though it had been paused by an invisible, giant hand.

Lan Yuanzhou’s entire body stiffened. Every limb and meridian felt bound tight by invisible chains; he could not move in the slightest, nor could he even circulate his spiritual energy. Locked in place, he could only watch blankly as that black-robed figure walked toward him step by step, carrying a raw, world-destroying malice.

Taixu froze where he stood. Staring at the exploding, tangible demonic energy enveloping Wei Xun, his pupils shrank violently. It took him a long while to suppress his shock, murmuring under his breath, “The Body Integration Realm… Not even a hundred years old, yet he has stepped into the Body Integration Realm?”

Yet, within the depths of Wei Xun’s eyes, there was not a single shred of joy from breaking through his realm. There was only a dead, hollow void, and even the malice radiating from him was wrapped in an unresolvable, deep sorrow.

The Soul-Separating Jade remained in his cloak. Its warm body rested against his chest, yet it could not warm a single trace of his internal ice. The supreme treasure he had risked everything to steal, the body he had meticulously reforged for Jiang Qunyu—in the end, there was not even a soul left to place within it.

But clearly, tonight, he was supposed to tell Jiang Qunyu that he had reforged a body for him.

Clearly, tonight, he was supposed to hold a warm, breathing Jiang Qunyu.

Under Lan Yuanzhou’s gaze of absolute terror, Wei Xun slowly walked up to him.

He lowered his eyes, his gaze landing on the long sword that had pierced through Jiang Qunyu’s soul body. His thin lips twitched slightly into a chilling, bone-deep smile. Word by word, his voice rasped as if laced with ice: “It was you who killed him. You all should accompany him to the grave.”

Kill them… Kill them… Once they are dead, I can return to Jade Capital Tower and wait for Jiang Qunyu to come back.

In the next second, the Shihun sword in his palm suddenly let out a violent, screeching wail. It shattered inch by inch in mid-air, transforming into tens of thousands of dark, flowing lights that swept across the entire battlefield like a torrential downpour.

Those Immortal Alliance cultivators did not even have the chance to let out a scream, let alone react. Their eyes widened as they crashed straight to the ground, completely devoid of breath.

Within a mere breath, the battlefield that had just been filled with deafening battle cries was now strewn with corpses. Blood flowed alongside the accumulating snow, staining Cloud Palace City a shocking, violent red.

“No, this is wrong!” Lan Yuanzhou’s face was as white as paper, his eyes filled with collapse and utter disbelief. He stared fixedly at Wei Xun, Su Fuyao’s words flashing frantically through his mind—Su Fuyao had said he was the destined protagonist, and that Wei Xun was fated to die beneath his blade.

“This isn’t real! Did you use some kind of evil art?! You were supposed to die by my hand, why aren’t you dead?!”

Yes, why isn’t he dead?

Wei Xun suddenly let out a light laugh, madness gradually coloring his voice. Shihun manifested back into his hand, its silver bells jingling in the freezing wind. Beside the silver bells, the sword tassel that Jiang Qunyu had personally tied onto it swayed gently.

Wei Xun gripped the hilt tightly, his knuckles turning white as the dull ache in his chest spread densely, nearly tearing him apart.

He thought, Yes, shouldn’t the one who died be me? Why does Jiang Qunyu have to block the sword for me every single time?

Doesn’t he hate me the most?

Even if he forgot the affection between us, isn’t there still hatred? Why would Jiang Qunyu still save him, choosing the price of a scattered soul just so he could live?

What on earth was Jiang Qunyu thinking?

He always claimed to be his inner demon, yet over all these years, he had never once harbored the thought of seizing his body. Instead, he had thrown himself in front of him time and time again, dying for him over and over.

The seventh time, clocking out.

Wei Xun repeated those words over and over in his mind, his eyes filled with bewilderment and agony. What was “clocking out”? Was it liberation? Was it leaving, never to return?

Would Jiang Qunyu truly never come back?

He could not stop himself from thinking about these ephemeral questions. His thoughts tangled into a chaotic mess, and his entire mental state teetered on the brink of total collapse.

The demonic energy around him churned and coiled frantically, pitch-black as it pressed heavily down from mid-air, threatening to sweep away the entire battlefield with a destructive, apocalyptic force. Only a paranoid madness remained in his eyes; he wanted to drag all of them to hell with him.

The terror in Lan Yuanzhou’s heart grew exponentially. The Wei Xun before him was no longer someone who could be measured by the standards of an ordinary Demon Venerable. Eerie, pitch-black lines crawled across half his face, winding like vines—a grotesque and terrifying mark that existed only on the malicious ghosts of the Nine Underworlds.

What kind of monster has Wei Xun become?

Even up to the moment the Shihun sword pierced through his chest, Lan Yuanzhou could not figure it out.

He wasn’t supposed to die. Su Fuyao had clearly told him that he was the Son of Heaven, the chosen one of destiny. He was supposed to become Dao companions with his master, Shen Peiqiu, and ascend to the Nine Heavens together, receiving the reverence of ten thousand immortals.

Lan Yuanzhou’s consciousness grew more and more scattered as intense pain flooded his body.

Wei Xun knelt down at some point, his fingertips condensing pitch-black demonic energy as he drove Soul-Nailing Spikes into his soul body one by one. With every single spike that fell, a pain akin to a scattering soul intensified, causing his body to convulse. He could not even form a complete sound to scream.

It hurts, it hurts, it hurts…

Through the haze, Lan Yuanzhou suddenly felt a clear, crisp aura descend around him, like pine and cypress.

It’s Master…

“Master… Master…” Lan Yuanzhou’s lips moved weakly.

His master would save him, right? Just like countless times in the past, shielding him from danger.

However, Shen Peiqiu merely cast a cold, detached glance over his dying form before shifting his gaze to Wei Xun. He spoke coldly to dissuade him, “Your尊 (Venerable One), when I made a deal with you previously, you promised that if I gave you my heart’s blood, you would assist me in re-cultivating, and after choosing a new Dao, I could re-establish the Immortal Alliance.”

As Shen Peiqiu spoke, he also recalled the winter of the forty-second year of Xiping. Back then, no matter how careful he had been, his identity as a Spirit Deer was ultimately leaked.

The regular, sanctimonious cultivators of the immortal sects were entirely consumed by greed. They used every underhanded method to poison and drug him, desiring nothing more than to destroy his cultivation and turn him into a helpless cauldron to be manipulated, forced to survive by relying on the sects.

On that day, he saw right through the hypocritical facade of the immortal sects.

His Dao heart had never been forcibly destroyed by outsiders. It was he himself who, for the very first time, wavered on the grand Dao he had guarded for so many years.

Why should I risk my life to protect such a vile, cold-blooded cultivation world?

Amidst the day-after-day doubts and disappointments, his Dao shattered completely.

The day Lan Yuanzhou went to see Su Fuyao was the exact same day Shen Peiqiu watched his own Dao heart collapse and crumble inch by inch. He had sat blankly on the cot in his tent, letting the spiritual energy within his consciousness scatter and fade into a dead silence, his mind entirely hollow.

Then, the tent curtain had suddenly moved without any wind, and Wei Xun appeared silently in the shadows like a ghost. In a flat tone, he laid out his conditions—

No matter what kind of heavenly treasures he desired, he could obtain them to help him rebuild his grand Dao and even return to his peak. There was only one price: on the day he stepped into the Mahayana Realm, he had to offer his heart’s blood as a gift.

Shen Peiqiu hadn’t thought about it for long before agreeing.

If he remained in the so-called righteous cultivation world, those cultivators would never let the matter drop. Let alone cultivation resources, he would likely be imprisoned and humiliated instantly, living a life worse than death.

A transaction was struck then and there.

Following that, Wei Xun raised his hand, and a ghostly blue demonic fire burned the tent to ashes, giving the cultivation world an ending where “Shen Peiqiu had perished.”

Over the long years that followed, Shen Peiqiu once questioned what the point of cultivation even was, until one day, beneath an apricot tree, he picked up an inconspicuous, mundane picture book from the mortal world.

Inside were many illustrations drawn in a style Shen Peiqiu had never seen before. The artist’s technique was unrefined—some pages only had a few sparse lines—yet they held incredible spirit. Those little figures wore the robes of the cultivation world, and one figure was drawn slightly more delicately than the others, though not by much. The rest of the figures followed behind that one, shouting “Eldest Senior Brother, Eldest Senior Brother.”

It was merely a crude picture book, yet he flipped through it over and over again.

It was also from that moment on that he ultimately chose the Path of the Common People, wanting to personally reshape a cultivation world as warm, clear, and bright as the one in the picture book, rather than the current one filled with unchecked desires and hypocritical coldness. The cultivation world did not look like a cultivation world; instead, it resembled another demon realm.

“And so?” Wei Xun’s eyes were entirely detached as his gaze swept over him, his tone devoid of any emotion.

Shen Peiqiu. Right, this was the person Jiang Qunyu always assumed he fancied. Why was Jiang Qunyu so certain?

Shen Peiqiu’s brow furrowed slightly, his tone lowering, “You have killed too many cultivators. If you keep killing, the five realms will fall into absolute chaos. When widespread devastation occurs, no one will be able to clean up the aftermath.”

As if he had heard a hilarious joke, Wei Xun’s thin lips curled into cold derision, “What does that have to do with me?”

Having spoken, he ignored Shen Peiqiu entirely. Lifting Shihun, he walked step by step toward the cultivators whose faces were as pale as ash, trembling in terror. They wanted to flee, but they were confined by layers of demonic energy, unable to move a single step, forced to watch death approach.

Behind Wei Xun, ghostly blue demonic fires erupted without warning, licking at the blood-stained snow on the ground. Faint light swirled along the blade of Shihun, and blood dripped down from the tip one drop at a time onto the snow, blooming into striking red plum blossoms.

Taixu worried that Wei Xun would shoulder too much negative karma and tried to persuade him as well, but Wei Xun seemed completely unable to listen anymore. Seeing this, he desisted and finally let out a heavy sigh.

Both Shen Peiqiu and Taixu believed that beneath Cloud Palace City today, blood would flow like a river and not a single blade of grass would remain. Yet for some unknown reason, at the very last second, Wei Xun slowly lowered his eyes. His grip on the hilt loosened, and he turned to walk away.

His black robes fluttered loudly in the wind and snow. The youth’s face was as white as the snow itself, the ghostly markings on half his face striking and sinister.

Halfway through his steps, his figure suddenly staggered violently. A sweet metallic taste surged in his throat, and he coughed up a mouthful of blood. His vision went black, and he collapsed straight into the snow, losing consciousness.

Seeing this, the remaining cultivators grew restless. However, the moment they raised their heads, they met the icy glares of Taixu and Shen Peiqiu. That tiny bit of intent instantly vanished into ash, and they could only withdraw despondently, not daring to step forward again.

The endless darkness dissolved, and the crimson scythe vanished along with the dissipation of its master. Shihun lay carelessly on the ground, its silver bells and sword tassel stained with blood as the white snow fell silently.

As Wei Xun’s consciousness grew blurred, countless voices seemed to echo by his ear.

Xie Chuan seemed to have run over. He was still young, and even though he had rolled and crawled through the demon realm for decades, witnessing countless treacherous battlefields, he had never seen Wei Xun in such a weak, haggard state—save for the last time his master had rushed back early to Cloud Palace City. His eyes welled with heat, and he couldn’t stop his tears from falling, choking out calls over and over: “Master! Master!”

Wei Xun did not speak.

He had no strength left at all, finding it a struggle even to open his eyes. He merely curled his body slightly, shrinking into the patch of snow where Jiang Qunyu had finaly dissipated, remaining completely still.

He thought in a daze that if Jiang Qunyu were here and saw Xie Chuan crying like this, he would definitely furrow his brows and tell Xie Chuan with a face full of disgust to stop crying because it looked too ugly.

But Jiang Qunyu was no longer here, and there would never again be anyone who, while grumbling and cursing, would carry him on their back for days and nights when he fainted.

“Jiang Qunyu…”

“Jiang Qunyu.” Wei Xun whispered softly.

Xie Chuan was frantic, hurriedly leaning in close to carefully discern his master’s incoherent murmurs. Finally, amidst the dead silence, he heard it clearly.

Wei Xun repeated it over and over, his voice so quiet it was nearly swallowed by the wind and snow. He said: “Jade… Capital… Tower…”

He will be at Jade Capital Tower, waiting for Jiang Qunyu to come back.

He was the one who said it; he wouldn’t leave him behind.

What was promised must count. He ought to come back.