SS CH114

The Du’e Cave was truly not a place suited for conversation.

After formulating a plan, Chu Xiwei considered that Bu Xueyao would likely return soon. Establishing an emergency contact method with Ye Fusheng, they prepared to leave this place of trouble.

Worried about Xuan Su, Ye Fusheng decided to take a detour toward the hidden chamber. Wearing a sour expression, Chu Xiwei didn’t say a word, merely transforming into a shadow that followed closely behind, like a tail that couldn’t be shaken off.

Ye Fusheng didn’t actually want to shake him off. While keeping an eye on their surroundings, he mentally organized the words he wanted to say. Alas, thousands of words tangled together like a messy knot of hemp; in this fleeting moment, he couldn’t sort them out no matter how hard he tried.

He knew deeply that many things became more troublesome the longer they were delayed. Even if this wasn’t the time for romantic sentiments, he needed to give Chu Xiwei a reassurance pill so the man could calm his mind and focus on the task at hand without being hindered by lingering worries. Yet, despite thinking clearly and being adept at casual banter and teasing on normal days, this was no lighthearted joke—this was delivering the answer of a lifetime for two people, and he dared not treat it lightly under any circumstances.

Before he could figure out what to say, a sharp gust of wind swept past him. Ye Fusheng planted a hand against the cave wall to dodge aside, simultaneously pulling Chu Xiwei along, his hand already resting on the hilt of the Jinghong blade, ready to draw and strike back.

Fortunately, the newcomer was not an enemy.

By the dim firelight in the cave, Xuan Su caught a glimpse of Ye Fusheng and Chu Xiwei behind him. Although he didn’t know who the latter was, a glance at their clasped hands assured him they were friends, not foes. Wasting no words, he simply said, “Let’s go!”

Ye Fusheng sized him up. Compared to himself, Xuan Su looked utterly wretched—covered in dirt, his robes torn in several places and stained with mottled blood, looking as if he had just taken a stroll through the underworld.

He didn’t rush to ask questions. Now that they had regrouped, leaving this place was the natural priority before planning anything else. Without speaking, the three simply adjusted their formation: Chu Xiwei took the vanguard, Ye Fusheng guarded the rear, giving Xuan Su a moment to catch his breath in the middle.

Used to operating in the dark, Chu Xiwei moved like a fish in water through the dim, winding caves. With the bold yet meticulous Ye Fusheng erasing their tracks from behind, the trio quickly bypassed the sentries and climbed back up the sheer cliff. Fortunately, they did not encounter Bu Xueyao.

Not daring to linger nearby, they used their qinggong in a single breath to sprint into the forest. Only when shielded by the night and the shadows of the trees did they slowly exhale in relief.

Three grown men perched in a large tree. Xuan Su leaned against the trunk to adjust his breath, while Chu Xiwei and Ye Fusheng occupied branches on the left and right. The former focused on their surroundings, while the latter lowered his eyes, lost in thought.

It wasn’t until Xuan Su exhaled a breath of stale air and regained some color in his face that he accepted Ye Fusheng’s offered hand to stand up. He asked, “Thank you. I haven’t yet asked this person’s…”

Chu Xiwei glanced at Xuan Su’s hand resting on Ye Fusheng’s arm and reverted to his usual coldness toward outsiders: “Chu Xiwei.”

Xuan Su shuddered inexplicably. He pulled his Daoist robes tighter, feeling that perhaps he had neglected his martial arts practice recently, as his internal energy seemed insufficient to ward off the cold.

Ye Fusheng, however, saw right through Chu Xiwei’s glare. Muttering “jealous jar” inwardly, he couldn’t help but laugh and asked Xuan Su, “Did you see the Western Buddha?”

“Zen Master Sekong is indeed in that hidden chamber.” Seeing that Ye Fusheng didn’t hide anything from Chu Xiwei, Xuan Su mentally speculated about the man’s identity while recounting what he had witnessed.

His impression of those crazed people was profound; he felt a living hell could be no worse than this. As he spoke, his fingers traced the claw marks on his sleeves, his expression darkening with hostility, his tone inevitably filled with righteous indignation.

But under the heavy darkness of night, the focused Xuan Su failed to notice that Ye Fusheng’s face was slowly draining of color.

A dim mountain cave, crazed human sacrifices, trapped beasts fighting desperately… Even though he hadn’t entered the chamber with Xuan Su, these images instantly surfaced in his mind—vivid, clear, and starkly detailed.

It felt as if a years-old nightmare had suddenly returned. A chill shot from the soles of his feet straight to his skull, instantly freezing the hot blood in his limbs and bones. Only the hand gripping his saber felt as if it had been scalded by boiling heat. He couldn’t help but loosen his grip, his fingers still trembling.

A sharp, violent pain suddenly pierced his dantian, and the internal breath in his chest detonated. Ye Fusheng involuntarily took a step back. Standing on a tree branch, such a step back meant he was likely to fall flat on his back.

In a split second, a hand reached out and firmly caught his arm. Ye Fusheng’s back leaned against a solid chest. It wasn’t overly broad, but warmth seeped through the clothes, slowly suppressing the bone-deep chill.

Xuan Su hadn’t noticed, but Chu Xiwei had never taken his eyes off him for a single second. The moment Ye Fusheng’s expression changed, Chu Xiwei leapt over and landed beside him. Yet Ye Fusheng, who usually kept his eyes and ears on all directions, had completely failed to notice.

“What are you thinking about?” Chu Xiwei’s voice rang by his ear, tinged with displeasure. “If you were facing an enemy right now, you’d be dead a thousand times over.”

Startled by the sudden change, Xuan Su stopped talking before he could mention that Duanqing was also inside, and quickly looked over. He saw Ye Fusheng leaning against Chu Xiwei, cold sweat pouring down his forehead, his face pale and his lips white, his hands actually trembling.

Frowning, Xuan Su reached out to check Ye Fusheng’s pulse, but grasped empty air. He saw Chu Xiwei firmly holding Ye Fusheng’s hand, his gaze sweeping over like an eagle guarding its food.

Xuan Su rubbed his nose and explained, “This poor Daoist knows a little of the medical arts. Why don’t…”

Chu Xiwei had long learned of Xuan Su’s existence from Duanqing, naturally knowing he wasn’t lying. But having gripped Ye Fusheng’s wrist, he had already infused his internal energy to check his condition and knew it was the Youmeng poison acting up again.

Previously, Sun Minfeng had used the Ice Soul Pearl as medicine to forcefully snatch this man back from the King of Hell, but it only bought him three months. Now, two months had passed, and the men Chu Xiwei dispatched had practically scoured the entire world without finding a single clue about the “Blood of Extreme Cold.” Though he didn’t show it on his face, his heart was like an ant on a hot pan.

Youmeng was a blade suspended over both their heads. Watching the blade slowly descend while being unable to pull the man away from the edge made it feel like a fishbone stuck in his throat every time he thought of it.

He just didn’t know why Xuan Su’s words had triggered such a massive reaction in Ye Fusheng, even agitating the Youmeng poison.

Committing the matter to memory, Chu Xiwei placed a palm on Ye Fusheng’s back, transferring a stream of gentle internal energy to help him suppress his rioting internal breath. Only then did he say to Xuan Su, “He’s fine.”

Looking at Ye Fusheng’s face, Xuan Su thought he looked anything but fine, and couldn’t help but say, “But…”

The hand gripping Ye Fusheng’s arm slowly tightened, and Chu Xiwei enunciated every word: “I will not let anything happen to him.”

Though the words were directed at Xuan Su, Ye Fusheng could feel the intense anxiety in the slight tremor of his hand.

Chu Xiwei held him forcefully, wanting to rub the man into his very bones, yet fearing he would cause him pain, forcing him to halt his strength just as it was applied—transmitting his fear of gain and loss through his trembling.

Ye Fusheng wanted to say something, but alas, the taste of blood had surged up his throat, his vision was darkening, his ears were ringing, and he couldn’t utter a single word.

“Take him back to Wuxiang Temple to rest first. Leave the rest to me.” Chu Xiwei finally let go, handed him over to Xuan Su, steeled his heart, and without waiting for Xuan Su to urge him to stay, shot off the branch like an arrow leaving a bowstring. After a few leaps, he was about to disappear from their sight.

Burning with anxiety, Chu Xiwei suddenly felt a sharp gust of wind piercing the air towards his back. Without turning his head, he simply reached out and used the “picking a flower” gesture to catch the incoming object. Looking closely, he saw it was a celadon hairpin.

A crane’s head holding a pearl, the celadon smooth and lustrous. His fingers brushed against an uneven spot on the hairpin body; tracing it carefully, he found a boldly and beautifully carved character: “Yao” (堯).

His fingers lingering on the carving, Chu Xiwei immediately turned his head. He saw Ye Fusheng still standing on the tree, supported by Xuan Su. Separated by a distance and the darkness of night, he couldn’t see the expression on the man’s face, nor could he hear if the other had whispered anything.

In truth, Ye Fusheng hadn’t said anything, nor could he.

The blood caught in his throat ached, and his chest and dantian felt as though they would explode. He feared that opening his mouth would result in an earth-shattering coughing fit that would alert the sentries and make Chu Xiwei leave with even more anxiety.

However, unable to just sit back and watch that frantic, anxious turn, Ye Fusheng thought for a moment, reached into his robes, pulled out the celadon hairpin he had hidden for over half a month, and tossed it over.

Thousands of words were all expressed without speaking.

Chu Xiwei didn’t even know how he made it back.

He was like a desperately poor child who had finally obtained a piece of candy—wanting to jump for joy, crush it, and eat it all at once, yet carefully holding it like a precious treasure, only daring to lick it slightly to taste the flavor. His heart itched incessantly as if scratched by monkey claws, yet the hand holding the celadon hairpin was incredibly steady—fearing it would break if he used a fraction too much force, or drop if he used a fraction too little.

By the time Chu Xiwei snapped out of his daze, he had already reached the foot of the mountain.

The entire Wenchang Mountain was planted with spies from the Burial Soul Palace. To avoid alerting the enemy, the Hundred Ghosts Sect could only camp in the ravine at the base of the mountain. Fortunately, although the environment here was treacherous, its concealment was unmatched, shielded by steep slopes and cliffs, and screened by deep ravines and fallen logs. As long as the people inside weren’t foolish enough to light bright fires or speak loudly, they wouldn’t expose themselves.

He carefully wrapped the celadon hairpin in a handkerchief, tucked it into his breast pocket, pushed aside the concealing vines, and entered the mountain cave. Inside, skilled craftsmen of the Hundred Ghosts Sect had worked through the nights to carve out a network of interconnected tunnels in just a few days. Guards were posted outside every cavern; even upon seeing him, they did not hasten to drop their guard.

Chu Xiwei asked, “Has there been any message from the Ghost Physician?”

A man replied hoarsely, “Reporting to the Sect Master: we just received a missive. The Ghost Physician is nearing Jialan City and will arrive here in one more day.”

“Tell him to spur his horse; he must arrive by noon tomorrow.” Chu Xiwei’s brow furrowed. “Did any sects leave the mountain today?”

“The Qingfeng Sect and the Qisha Sect departed—one in the morning, one in the evening.”

Chu Xiwei narrowed his eyes. “Send people to follow them, act according to circumstances, and watch for any tails.”

“Yes.”

The subordinate took the order and left. Chu Xiwei sat down on a large bluestone. Watching the flickering oil lamp on the cave wall, it only reflected his own lonely silhouette.

His fingers stroked the celadon hairpin through his clothes. Something so fragile it would shatter upon falling had now become his solace.

After an unknown amount of time, Chu Xiwei finally couldn’t sit still any longer. He gave a few orders, grabbed his knife, and left the cave. Descending the steep cliff, a few leaps later, he landed by the river below.

This valley had a deep ravine, and this location was at the downstream section of the river. The surrounding vegetation was lush, emanating a bleak, chilling aura.

Chu Xiwei vaulted onto a rock jutting out of the water. In this confined space, he unsheathed his knife and began practicing the Jinghong blade techniques.

The Duanshui Blade was much thicker and heavier than the Jinghong blade, suited for wide, sweeping, and overwhelmingly heavy, ruthless moves. However, supported by the Qilu Jing, Chu Xiwei paid it no mind; even wielding a thick knife, his moves remained swift and agile.

It felt as though he had returned to many years ago, when Gu Xiao taught him martial arts on the training grounds. The youth had taught by word and example with rare patience, but unfortunately, the child had listened drowsily, only swallowing the information whole without grasping the essence.

Until today.

The knife moved with his hand; his body moved with the saber.

Swimming Dragon exiting the sea, advancing courageously;

Jinglei splitting the heavens, wind and rain like a tide;

Baihong piercing the sun, intending to reach the clouds;

Picking flowers to weave around fingers, using softness to overcome hardness;

Autumn water rippling horizontally, floating and sinking with the crashing waves…

The sixteen forms of the Jinghong blade technique—he had practiced them thousands of times, but only now did he truly understand.

Once it was the startled swan reflecting its image¹—aside from the fleeting movement and blade edge, there were also the rapidly vanishing combat opportunities and flaws.

Ye Fusheng had said that the human heart was far more ruthless than the edge of a blade.

Shen Wuduan had said that one wrong move loses the entire board.

The path of martial arts was not just the mastery of power and speed, but also the control of the battle situation and the manipulation of exploitable opportunities. Just as in his last battle with Helian Yu, his worst defeat wasn’t in martial arts, but in scheming.

Chu Xiwei could cast aside life and death, but he still didn’t know how to play with human hearts; honest in martial arts, he lost in strategy.

Helian Yu could see through reality and falsehood, seizing opportunities through scheming, killing without even staining his hands with blood.

Just as Ruan Feiyu had said, “To know oneself and the enemy, nothing beats putting oneself in their shoes.” Although Chu Xiwei disdained being someone like Helian Yu, he still had to understand it.

The more he practiced, the clearer his mind became. Unknowingly, over half the night had passed. As Chu Xiwei executed the final move, the blade edge rotating past his eyes, his heart was settled. Just as he prepared to sheathe his knife, he suddenly sensed something wrong.

A person and a sword appeared beside him without any warning. The sword tip’s trajectory was bizarre and fast, arriving at the side of his neck in the blink of an eye.

The Duanshui Blade forcefully blocked across his neck. The phantom-like sword tip tapped against the blade’s edge; as internal energy pulsed, he used the momentum to sweep the attacker away. Focusing his eyes, his breath hitched.

Following the force of his sweep, the person retreated. The cloud-patterned satin boots tapped lightly on the water’s surface three times, yet the ripples only expanded two or three rings before quietly ceasing as the person landed steadily on another rock.

Judging by the figure, it was a tall, lean man. A snow-white hooded cloak covered his head completely, not revealing a single strand of hair. Beneath it was a plain white, cloud-patterned robe with narrow sleeves. He held a three-foot ancient sword, its hilt carved with flowing clouds, its blade as dazzlingly bright as a pool of ice water reflecting the full moon.

At this time, the morning light was just breaking—the exact moment day and night alternated. Chu Xiwei looked at his face. The newcomer wore a familiar cloud-patterned silver mask. Under the bleak sky, he looked almost like a cold-faced Rakshasa. Not a single trace of his features could be seen, only a pair of eyes exposed through the holes—as cold as ice, with a murderous intent as deep as the sea.

He stood a little over twenty feet away from Chu Xiwei, motionless, as solitary and cold as a stone statue, yet a murderous intent seeped from his very bones.

“…Helian Yu?”

Chu Xiwei’s gaze sank. His fingers tightened, holding his knife horizontally in front of him.

With no time to think further, the very next moment, knife and sword clashed with a sharp clang, and brows and eyes flared with chilling murderous intent!

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1. Note: Originates from Lu You’s Two Poems at Shen Garden. The original line reads: “Under the heartbreaking bridge, the spring waves are green; once it was the startled swan reflecting its image.” The original meaning expresses sorrow over the changing of people and things over time. This meaning is not used in the text; only the literal meaning of the sentence is derived. ↩︎