SS CH106

Xuan Su was woken up by a walnut striking him.

When Ye Fusheng had left the room, although Xuan Su had been meditating and circulating his qi, he was not entirely oblivious to his surroundings. He simply chose not to follow out of respect. He hadn’t expected that after an hour or so, he would receive such a return gift.

The walnut had been flicked in through the crack of the window. The tree branches outside had already stopped swaying, showing that the person’s qinggong was so high it was like a passing breeze. Glancing at the soundly sleeping Xie Li, Xuan Su picked up the walnut and cracked it open. Inside was hidden a slip of paper: Bring Elder Duanheng and hurry to the Liu River south of the city. There are clues regarding the Wuxiang Temple.

He didn’t recognize the handwriting, but he saw a single leaf tucked inside the walnut shell.

His mind set, Xuan Su slipped out of the room like a shadow in the dark night. He walked soundlessly down the corridor, and without knocking, flicked two fingers against the door seam, popping open Duanheng’s door.

Turning to block an incoming palm strike, Xuan Su pressed a finger to his lips in a “shh” gesture. Seeing Duanheng frown and withdraw his attack, Xuan Su quickly handed over the note and the leaf.

“Deliberately mystifying things…” Duanheng scoffed lightly, but he still unfolded the note, read it, and furrowed his brow.

Xuan Su’s qinggong was not weak, and Duanheng’s movement techniques were equally good. The two leapt out the window, using the cover of the tree canopy to head south.

The Liu River was located in the southern outskirts of the city. Lined with numerous willow trees, the area boasted lush vegetation and a babbling stream. Naturally, it was also crawling with snakes, insects, rats, and ants, making it largely devoid of human presence.

But tonight, it was destined to be lively.

Ye Fusheng leaned against a willow tree, arms crossed, eyes closed in a feigned doze. At his feet lay a slumped lump of meat.

It didn’t look like a human capable of walking upright, but rather a pile of rotting mud.

He had dragged this monk all the way here from the Mingzhu Gambling House. First, he used his own high-quality medicine to treat the man’s wounds, and even transferred a stream of pure internal energy to protect his heart meridians, before finally beginning his interrogation.

Perhaps because his smile was gentle and his movements mild, making him look like a compassionate Bodhisattva, this fake monk—who had once licked blood from the edge of a blade—naturally didn’t take him seriously and spouted complete nonsense.

Only after the barrage of drivel ended did Ye Fusheng make his move.

He still wore a smile on his face, but his gaze was like window paper pierced by the tip of a blade—tearing away the hypocrisy and pretense to reveal a cold, harsh edge. The corners of his pale lips hooked up into a lethal curve, as if he were about to reap a life in the very next second.

If this was truly a Bodhisattva, it was a ghost Bodhisattva with a kind face and a frozen heart.

Ye Fusheng said, “You have a prajna flower tattoo on your body. It looks like it has been carved into your flesh for at least five years. From your rotting skin straight down to your heart, you lack any trace of humanity.”

As he spoke, he tapped a finger against the man’s shoulder. The devastating force of Jinglei surged forward, causing the meridians to feel as if fire and lightning were detonating inside them. The monk almost screamed in agony, but a rock was instantly jammed into his mouth, nearly shattering his teeth.

As the meridians in the man’s left arm snapped inch by inch, Ye Fusheng removed the bloodstained rock and smiled. “I am in a bad mood today and severely lacking in patience. I especially despise the dogs of the Burial Soul Palace. I am only willing to listen to human words that I want to hear. Think carefully before you speak, Master.”

As the Emperor’s shadow guards, the Lueying spent years conducting secret espionage, interrogations, and other shadowy affairs. Regardless of whether the methods were orthodox or underhanded, Ye Fusheng knew them all like the back of his hand. Even without the myriad torture implements of the inner palace, he could make a person beg for death while being denied life.

During the interrogation at Huanghua Town, he had held back out of consideration for Chu Xiwei, not wanting the younger man to witness such filthy things. He hadn’t expected that Chu Xiwei’s own methods were already no less ruthless than his own. The mere thought of it worsened Ye Fusheng’s mood even further. His fingers landed on the fake monk’s left knee, forming the gesture of “picking a flower.”

“What position do you hold in the Burial Soul Palace? What is your purpose in coming to Wuxiang Temple? And what is your status within the temple?”

Cold sweat poured down the fake monk’s forehead. His lips trembled, but he refused to utter a single syllable.

A mouth tighter than a clam shell—no wonder he had managed to stall Yingxiu for so long. After all, Yingxiu needed to hold back to extract intelligence and couldn’t compare to Ye Fusheng’s ruthless heart and venomous hands.

But even a thousand-year-old bastard turtle with a hard shell would have its soft meat exposed once the shell was smashed.

He normally lounged about like an easygoing older brother next door, but he had absolutely no mercy for these villains scheming in the dark.

The rock was shoved back into the man’s mouth. The hand on his knee pressed down and yanked up, violently dislocating the entire patella from the joint. Internal energy vibrated within it, and though the flesh remained intact, the kneecap was shattered to dust, leaving nothing to support it.

As the heart-wrenching, lung-tearing agony of pulverized bone washed over the man, Ye Fusheng pinched one of his palms and asked with a smile, “Is issuing the invitations to convene the martial arts assembly truly Abbot Sejian’s idea? How many hidden spies have you planted in the major sects? What exactly are you scheming with all this immense effort?”

The fake monk’s eyes bulged, glaring at him like a fish being scaled alive, and muttered, “Kill me…”

“Heh, does anyone who falls into your hands ever get such an easy release? We’re all just stink bugs struggling in the mud, so what kind of iron-boned hero are you pretending to be?” Ye Fusheng gave a violent yank, ripping off a blood-streaked fingernail. “If you speak, I will let you die swiftly; if you don’t, I will let you live in agony.”

By the time Xuan Su and Duanheng arrived, the interrogation had already concluded.

Every meridian in the fake monk’s body was severed, his martial arts were completely crippled, he suffered multiple bone fractures, and five fingernails had been torn from his right hand.

Ye Fusheng’s questioning relied heavily on technique and timing. He didn’t blindly rely on torture; instead, whenever the man’s mental defenses slipped, he threw out a question he already had an educated guess about to pry open the door. Then, through indirect probing of the fragmented answers, he pieced together all the minor details. By repeatedly questioning and observing for authenticity, he filtered out the mixed lies to extract the intelligence he needed.

Seeing Xuan Su and Duanheng arrive, he glanced at the man on the ground and recounted his intelligence-gathering trip to the Mingzhu Gambling House. He omitted the part about the Anyu, keeping it brief and concise while hitting all the key points.

Although the name Mingzhu Gambling House wasn’t well-known in the open, it held immense weight in the underworld—even the Taishang Palace had heard of it. While Duanheng would bicker with him over minor issues, he was never ambiguous when it came to major affairs. Confirming that Ye Fusheng’s words were true, he carefully examined the fake monk’s face and said, “I recognize this face. This is Henghe, Abbot Sejian’s eldest disciple and the current head of the West Hall of Wuxiang Temple. It is said he became a monk in his early childhood.”

Ye Fusheng raised an eyebrow, reached out to feel the fake monk’s face, and smiled. “The face is that face, but the person is not that person. Xiao Yangu, the White Tiger Hall Master of the Burial Soul Palace, is the most skilled in the art of disguise. Men, women, the elderly, the young—she can mimic any appearance effortlessly. Masks made from human skin are especially lifelike. This face must have been flayed alive by her and grafted onto this man’s face, making it utterly flawless.”

Xuan Su’s expression turned frigid. Newly emerged into the martial world, he was truly unaccustomed to such cruel and vicious methods, wishing he could raise his hand to end this man’s life and seek justice for the tragically murdered Henghe.

Averting his eyes to calm the anger in his chest, Xuan Su asked, “Looking at Fusheng’s demeanor, it seems you already have a plan.”

He was younger than Ye Fusheng but had joined his sect earlier, technically earning the title of Shixiong. Yet Ye Fusheng’s conduct and worldly experience were so seasoned that Xuan Su couldn’t bring himself to call him “Shidi.” Instead, he simply used his name, treating him as an equal.

“Yunshu overestimates me,” Ye Fusheng shook his head, pointing at the fake monk. “This man is a member of the Tianzhu unit among the Five Poison Guards of the Burial Soul Palace, specializing in infiltration and espionage under the command of Vermilion Bird Hall Master Bu Xueyao. He was ordered to replace Henghe, infiltrate Wuxiang Temple, operate right under Abbot Sejian’s nose, secretly swap out the temple’s personnel, and smuggle the assassination-focused ‘Baizu’ unit inside.”

Duanheng’s expression drastically changed. “With such massive movements, did absolutely no one in the temple notice?”

“Wuxiang Temple has a massive population, and they began plotting this early last year, secretly substituting people every few days in a slow, undetectable manner… Furthermore, Abbot Sejian is being controlled, and the Western Buddha has been in closed-door meditation for years. As long as it was covered up well, the news was naturally suppressed.” Ye Fusheng closed his eyes briefly. “Moreover, in this operation, the Burial Soul Palace is merely an accomplice. There is a mastermind.”

Xuan Su was stunned. “A mastermind?”

“Before the heavens rain, the wind must first rise in the north.” Ye Fusheng spoke cryptically, but Duanheng understood immediately.

Pressing a hand on Xuan Su’s arm, a sharp glint flashed through Duanheng’s somewhat cloudy, aged eyes. “Chu Yuan actually dares?”

“We are already at the crest of the storm; the difference between success and failure is as vast as clouds and mud. What does daring or not daring matter?” Ye Fusheng said. “This man came here to rendezvous with Chu Yuan’s hidden guards, but the situation leaked because he was targeted by local underworld snakes. However, because of this unforeseen complication, both Chu Yuan and Helian Yu will likely catch wind of it, and their subsequent arrangements will naturally be adjusted. The plan extracted from his mouth should be considered useless now.”

Xuan Su’s brow furrowed tightly. “Since that is the case, we should announce this matter to our martial arts peers as soon as possible to guard against the Burial Soul Palace’s trap!”

Duanheng shook his head. “People of all trades and backgrounds from the four seas and five lakes—how easy do you think it is to notify them all in a short time? If we inadvertently alert the enemy, it might drive the vicious beast into a frenzy, and the consequences would be unimaginable.”

“Many sect disciples have already entered Wenchang Mountain. While we still have time to run away right now, if we want to pull them out, we have no choice but to play the fool, delve deep into the tiger’s den, find an opportunity to contact the managers of the various sects, secretly weed out the hidden spies, and devise a way to meet and scheme with Abbot Sejian and Zen Master Sekong.” Ye Fusheng lifted his eyes. “However, villains operating in the dark usually prefer a two-pronged approach for safety… such as setting a trap ahead, and then cutting off the retreat path behind.”

With the martial arts assembly convened, half of the elite forces from the various sects had been deployed, leaving their home bases in a state of internal emptiness.

Xuan Su’s face paled dramatically. Duanheng’s eyes went cold as he said, “I will use our secret channels to send this intelligence and this man back to the Taishang Palace, asking Duanqing-shixiong to find a way to secretly inform those left behind at the various sects to guard their gates and prepare a retreat route.”

Ye Fusheng breathed a soft sigh of relief.

As an elder, Duanheng naturally couldn’t leave the inn for too long. Hoisting up the fake monk, he hurried back the way they came, clearly intending to make the arrangements overnight.

This left only Xuan Su standing beside Ye Fusheng. The young Daoist’s gaze was lowered, his expression faint, looking somewhat melancholic.

Since neither could sleep anyway, Ye Fusheng asked as he led him back, “Feeling uneasy after hearing about such sinister schemes?”

Xuan Su nodded. “Before I descended the mountain, Martial Uncle Duanqing told me, ‘The red dust is one hundred and eight thousand miles wide, and every step is a wound in the Jianghu.’ He told me not to drop my guard or act recklessly on my ideals… Back then, I thought the Jianghu was simply a dangerous place.”

“The flash of swords and shadows of blades, love, hatred, gratitude, and grudges—it is naturally dangerous.” Ye Fusheng smiled. “Yet the epiphyllum blooms in the dark of night, and the ultimate swan song is sung at the end of the road. So many legends of this world are composed amidst nine deaths and one life. Beauties like flowers, a picturesque empire; a laugh to dismiss gratitude and grudges, a jug of unfiltered wine… The danger of the Jianghu lies in the human heart, but the beauty of the Jianghu lies in human connection.”

Xuan Su looked at him. “But no matter how beautiful the Jianghu is, after walking through storms of blood and gore, do you not grow weary of it?”

“Of course I grow weary, but where in life is there not a Jianghu?” Ye Fusheng’s hand stroked the hilt of his blade. “Once, my master also sealed her blade, retired from the martial world, and built a hut to call home, but ultimately, she too died in the Jianghu.”

Xuan Su frowned.

“They say the Jianghu is a thirty-foot red stage, singing act after act of sorrow, joy, parting, and reunion, ending only when the song finishes and the crowd scatters.” Ye Fusheng looked at him. “But I feel the Jianghu is simply a road—twisting and turning, rising and falling, walking together through wind and rain.”

This road was winding and tortuous, overgrown with both fresh flowers and thorns. It featured broad avenues where people advanced shoulder to shoulder, and solitary paths walked entirely alone. Sometimes, high mountains and flowing waters bred heroic aspirations, while at other times, deep ravines and low valleys left one hesitating in uncertainty. Many people failed to reach the end—either giving up halfway, straying onto the wrong path, or remaining forever at some mountain pass curve.

Everyone had their own mindset and destiny. Advancing or retreating was beyond reproach, but as long as a person lived another day, they had to keep walking.

“Carrying so many things while walking the path of the Jianghu—aren’t you tired?” Understanding the hidden meaning in his words, Xuan Su couldn’t help but ask.

“Of course I’m tired,” Ye Fusheng smiled. “But if I truly put down everything on my back, I would feel as light as nothingness. It is better to bear these burdens and continue walking, lest a gust of wind blow me to the ends of the earth, leaving me rootless and unanchored.”

It didn’t matter whether one was weary or fond of it; born between heaven and earth, a person must bear their burdens and travel far.

Whether heavier than Mount Tai or lighter than a feather, there were gratitudes, grudges, rights, and wrongs, great righteous causes, and small tender affections.

Outsiders might have countless varying opinions on all these matters, but only the individual understood their own heart clearly, willing to carry it all across thousands of mountains and ten thousand rivers, cutting through the thorns and brambles.

They say home is where the heart finds peace, but in truth, every steady step taken forward is already the journey home.

Pillowing his hands behind his head and chewing on a grass stem, Ye Fusheng hummed a small tune as he walked down the night road—

“The road of the red dust stretches endlessly, floating and sinking with the crashing waves.
The youth laments the hero’s aging, and sighs again as beauty fades in the evening glow.
Heroic ambitions seek to pierce the heavens, while three thousand strands of sorrow entangle the heart.
Ask not how many debts of gratitude or vengeance remain; chivalrous bones and a tender heart are borne upon both shoulders.
The wine is perfect, the wind is free, the overturning of clouds and rain dismissed with a laugh.
Watered by the word ‘love’, roaring with the spirit of loyalty, offering courage and heart to the sweep of a single sword!
When the song ends, on the ten-thousand-fathom distant road,
Who will share life and death with me, letting the wind and rain howl as they may…”