SS CH113

Duanqing arrived here only half a day earlier than Xuan Su.

That day, after seeing off Ye Fusheng’s group, he had intended to enter closed-door meditation to adjust his internal breath, but encountered Zhao Bing’e forcing her way up the mountain. With Daoist Duanqing’s straightforward and crude methods, his original intention was to simply defeat her and kick her out of the mountain gates—out of sight, out of mind. However, when Zhao Bing’e stated her purpose for coming, Duanqing knew he could not stand idly by.

The Burial Soul Palace had taken control of Wuxiang Temple, using Zhao Qing as bait and the martial arts assembly as a trap to lure the world’s heroes into an urn. Such a massive undertaking could not be pulled off even if the Burial Soul Palace exhausted all its resources; there definitely had to be an even more powerful force supporting them from behind.

Zhao Bing’e told him that the Prince of Li, Chu Yuan, was going to rebel.

To Duanqing, the people and matters in his eyes and heart were exceedingly simple; right and wrong, black and white were clearly defined, and any further conflicts of interest had nothing to do with him. If this were merely a Jianghu slaughter, he would rather sit on the mountain and cultivate his Dao than interfere.

However, since ancient times, there are no unbroken eggs beneath an overturned nest. When the flames of war ignite, the common people suffer; when the Jianghu falls into chaos, ethics and morality collapse.

No matter how cold his face and heart were, Duanqing ultimately still possessed a bottom line.

He could view life, death, love, and hate indifferently, but he could not treat human lives like worthless grass.

Zhao Bing’e needed powerful allies to help her unfold her layout. This so-called power required not only formidable martial strength capable of rivaling Helian Yu but also a faction capable of standing against the Burial Soul Palace. The former, Duanqing could provide; the latter required seeking out someone else.

Currently, the major sects were like a plate of loose sand, their minds preoccupied with fighting for fame and profit at the martial arts assembly. Approaching them would only result in the losses outweighing the gains. After weighing the options, Duanqing handed the affairs of the Taishang Palace over to his Shijie, Nun Duanhui, who cultivated in silence year-round, and then took Zhao Bing’e to Netherworld Valley.

The deep foundation accumulated by the Hundred Ghosts Sect only revealed the tip of the iceberg in the Jianghu. Even though Duanqing and Shen Wuduan were close friends, he rarely asked about the sect’s private affairs. The only thing he could be certain of was… the only single faction capable of facing off against the Burial Soul Palace right now was the Hundred Ghosts Sect.

When they were invited into the Ningmo Wing and saw Shen Wuduan and Chu Xiwei appear, Duanqing knew they would agree to the matter.

Because Shen Wuduan walked half a step behind Chu Xiwei.

Elders go first—this is respect for seniority and reverence for status. When Shen Wuduan willingly stood behind Chu Xiwei, it signified that the Hundred Ghosts Sect had truly begun to change masters.

Shen Wuduan had single-handedly created the Hundred Ghosts Sect’s dense, interconnected intelligence net, allowing the lonely souls and wild ghosts within to reside peacefully underground. Chu Xiwei, on the other hand, would use thunderous methods and a sharp blade to cut through the tangled mess, leading a group of ghosts and demons from hell back to the mortal realm.

Looking at Chu Xiwei, the taut string in Duanqing’s heart slowly relaxed.

Zhao Bing’e openly explained the situation, and Chu Xiwei took the opportunity to lay out plans. From beginning to end, Duanqing and Shen Wuduan watched in silence, until they finalized the matters and reached an agreement.

Shen Wuduan asked him softly, “Have you finally decided?”

Duanqing moved the teacup lid aside and took a sip of the boiling hot tea. His face revealed absolutely no unusual expression, as if he had merely taken a sip of tasteless cold water.

He set down the teacup and said to Shen Wuduan, “Enough.”

What else Shen Wuduan said afterward, Duanqing could no longer remember clearly. Getting older made it easy to forget many things, including the many deeds he had done and the many people he had met. By now, with the seas turning into mulberry fields and human affairs lying in ruins, all he remembered were two or three figures in his heart and the same scenery before his eyes.

Chu Xiwei needed to stay for two more days to mobilize the Hundred Ghosts Sect’s deployments, while Zhao Bing’e had received a transfer order from Helian Yu and could wait no longer. Thus, Duanqing went ahead with her to Wenchang Mountain.

Traveling under the stars and moon, galloping on horseback—for a moment, it felt like the reckless, unrestrained days of his youth. Unfortunately, the person on horseback was no longer an ink-splashed, picturesque youth, but an old acquaintance covered in frost and evening twilight.

It wasn’t until this morning that they arrived at Wenchang Mountain. Zhao Bing’e lured away Bu Xueyao, and Duanqing seized the opportunity to enter the Du’e Cave.

In truth, this wasn’t his first time here. In his youth, he had come here with his Shixiong to discuss Daoism and chat with Sekong. But now, Duanya had turned to rotting earth, and Sekong was also nearing the end of his life.

The moment Duanqing entered the hidden chamber, he saw these crazed people, along with Sekong sitting cross-legged in the rock cave, playing the zither.

Seeing the crazed, numb state of these people, his usually placid heart felt as if a sharp rock had been smashed into it, ruthlessly piercing the still water, taking root in the riverbed, lodging in his throat like a fishbone.

Duanqing had seen situations like this before. Specifically, thirteen years ago, on the journey carrying Gu Qifang away from Mizong Ridge, such crazed and bloody scenes were not uncommon.

These were human sacrifices driven into madness by the Burial Soul Palace’s drugs.

Anger flashed through his chest, but only for an instant.

He had long lost the right to joy and anger; any amount of righteous indignation or grief vanished in a flash, instantly disappearing without a trace.

His fingers rested on the jade flute, but before Duanqing could act, he heard Sekong speak: “It is Daoist Duanqing, is it not?”

Duanqing vaulted into the rock cave, sat cross-legged beside Sekong, and said, “Their hearts are already dead; living, they are but walking corpses. Why not grant them release?”

Sekong shook his head. “The body is not dead, the soul is not extinguished. Why cannot the heart live?”

Duanqing looked down and saw that Sekong was still plucking the zither strings. The calluses on his fingertips had been sliced open, revealing fine, dense streaks of blood. It was impossible to know just how long he had been playing.

However, as the melody of Asking the Water continued, the crazed human sacrifices slowly calmed down. They stood or sat numbly, their bodies occasionally twitching, a flash of struggle in their eyes.

“The dose of the drug they were given is not large; it’s just that the effects come fiercely. It hasn’t reached the point of being incurable.” Sekong spoke softly, his tone unable to hide his exhaustion. “I infused my internal energy into the zither music, using Asking the Water to soothe their minds, reducing the drug’s influence on them.”

Sweeping his gaze, Duanqing carefully observed their condition. Indeed, it was different from what he had seen at Mizong Ridge all those years ago; a sliver of clarity remained.

Those poisoned by the madness drug would attack others and kill each other. Because their qi and blood rioted, sealing their acupoints could not stop them; under normal circumstances, only killing them could make them stop.

This time, because the dosage was reduced, there was still hope for salvation.

He looked at Sekong. The old monk’s eyes were already blind, the eyelids sunken in, looking somewhat terrifying. Moreover, because he had been continuously exerting his internal energy over the past few days, he appeared increasingly emaciated.

“Buddhist compassion—so they deliberately reduced the dosage to leave these people a sliver of survival, ensuring you would willingly remain trapped here, while simultaneously draining your internal energy, making it difficult for you to break out even if you tried.” Duanqing lowered his eyelids. “A prison drawn on the ground is stronger than copper walls and iron pillars. The person calculating against you truly understands you.”

Sekong replied, “Seeing death without saving, encountering calamity without aiding—that is not our way.”

“You have the heart to cross calamities, but Wuxiang Temple has already become a place of calamity. If you save these forty-odd people, you must sacrifice the thousands within the temple?” Duanqing’s question was delivered completely flatly, as if merely stating a plain fact, yet it was precisely this that struck the soul most powerfully.

“Sacrificing the small for the great, taking the many and abandoning the few—this is indeed the perspective of the greater good since ancient times. However…” Sekong said in a low voice, “When Mount Tai presses down on one’s head and the crisis is imminent, who truly desires to be the one sacrificed?”

Pausing for a moment, Sekong continued, “Since the founding of the dynasty, Wuxiang Temple has grown increasingly powerful. Today, many monks harbor insincere hearts, indulging in worldly affairs, discontent with Buddhist verses, their eyes blinded by the fame and wealth of the red dust, not realizing that wine, lust, wealth, and anger are all poison. This great calamity may not necessarily not be a trial; only by passing through the raging fire can one achieve nirvana.”

Duanqing said, “What if they fail to achieve nirvana and are instead reduced to ash in the calamity? What then?”

Sekong shook his head, chanted the Buddha’s name, and said, “Success, failure, flourishing, and withering all have their predetermined fate. Treat it with an ordinary heart, and comply with the will of heaven.”

Duanqing remained silent.

He didn’t speak, but Sekong sighed. “Forgetting emotions and severing desires—I originally thought you had already seen through it all.”

Duanqing shook his head. “I have merely seen enough.”

He fell silent. Fortunately, this rock cave was not small, barely enough to shelter him. Duanqing closed his eyes, calming his mind and adjusting his breath amidst the gentle melody of Asking the Water, until the stone doors opened again and Xuan Su burst in.

The human sacrifices startled awake from their confusion, madly attacking the intruder. Duanqing opened his eyes, watching Xuan Su’s every movement and shifting expression.

In just a few short days of not seeing him, Xuan Su had grown significantly compared to his time on the mountain. His movements had gained flexibility, his gaze had become resolute, and although his reaction in battle was still somewhat flustered, he was able to adapt and improvise while maintaining his core principles.

Duanqing felt a rare sense of gratification, but he also knew they couldn’t delay any longer.

Raising the jade flute to his lips, he gathered his internal energy and blew a thunderous note, inserting it flawlessly into the zither melody in a split second, forcefully crushing their minds and shocking their souls.

This single note from the flute condensed half of his internal energy, forcefully triggering a resonance of qi and blood within these people’s bodies. They wouldn’t be able to climb back up for quite a while.

Xuan Su was severely startled.

He never expected Duanqing to appear here. A bellyful of words caught in his throat, and he couldn’t squeeze out a single syllable. Duanqing, however, had no time to waste words with him; in just a few sentences, he inquired about the current situation at Wuxiang Temple and prepared to send him away.

Clutching the bronze flute, Xuan Su uncharacteristically shook his head like a rattle-drum: “Martial Uncle, Master, this place is dangerous and we cannot stay long. Let’s leave quickly before Bu Xueyao returns.”

Duanqing said, “You staying here is of no help. Leave.”

“But…”

Duanqing’s expression was faint. “Failing to act decisively only leads to chaos. Rather than wasting time here, it is better to return to Wuxiang Temple, monitor the situation, and act according to circumstances.”

Sekong also smiled slightly. “When saving people, one must save them to the end; how can there be a principle of giving up halfway? Xuan Su, you may go. Take good care of yourself.”

Xuan Su wanted to argue further, but his gaze fell on the human sacrifices knocked flat by the flute’s sound below, and he swallowed his words.

The hand gripping the bronze flute was already sweating, and seeing that some people below were already recovering, he knew they could delay no longer.

He only hated that while his heart harbored intent, his strength fell short.

A lump formed in Xuan Su’s throat, but he merely offered a formal bow, gritted his teeth, flipped down, stepped through the utter mess on the floor, pushed open the stone doors, and slipped out.

Only after the stone doors closed again did Sekong smile and say, “Compared to Daoist Duanya, you are quite strict with him.”

“When Shixiong was here, he was still young; today, he has grown older.” Duanqing said faintly. “A person cannot remain the same for a hundred days as they were on the first. Only through growth can one go far.”

Hearing this, Sekong pressed his hand lightly over the zither strings. “You ultimately do not accept fate.”

Duanqing slowly curled the corners of his mouth.

Since he entered the realm of forgetting emotions, joy, anger, sorrow, and happiness no longer touched his brows or eyes, and smiles ceased to exist altogether. Now, forcing this slight curve of the lips inevitably looked somewhat stiff.

Yet, it was as if a thousand-fathom ice peak slowly cracked open a fissure, letting cold water pour out, gradually warming in the wind.

“There is nothing in this world that remains unchanging. Therefore, for cultivators like us, hearing the Dao in the morning and dying in the evening is sufficient. But…” Duanqing raised his eyes. “People born between heaven and earth are exactly like ants facing the mountains and seas—all are insignificant. It is only because the heart holds onto attachments that one’s strength remains unceasing.”

Why speak of fate being predetermined by heaven? It is only a matter of questioning one’s own heart.

“As long as you know your limits, that is best.” Sekong let out a long sigh of relief. Since Duanqing entered this place, his heartstrings had been involuntarily tense, but now the dust had finally settled.

Duanqing suddenly asked, “Before I spoke, how did you know it was me who entered?”

Sekong’s fingers stroked the body of the zither, and he smiled. “Hearing the clouds part and the storm rage, who in the world does not recognize you¹?”

Before his voice faded, with a click, the Xuanxin zither actually separated a layer from the bottom.

This zither was inherently thicker and wider than ordinary ones. Now that the mechanism was pressed, it was revealed that the base had been processed later to add an extra layer, hollowed out inside to conceal a sword.

A three-foot longsword, wrapped layer by layer in cloth covered in scriptures, its original appearance indistinguishable.

Sekong set down the Xuanxin zither, picked up this layer acting as a sword box, and pushed it toward Duanqing.

His voice remained very light, but it carried a faint smile of immense relief: “Daoist Duanya’s dying request was his wish that I could continue using Asking the Water to wash away this sword’s fierce nature on his behalf. Today, it can finally be returned to its rightful owner.”

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1. Adapted from Gao Shi’s Farewell to Dong Da: “Do not worry about having no confidants on the road ahead; who in the world does not recognize you?” ↩︎