Chapter 75#

Master Sang, Please Accept My Condolences#

Sang Chiyu didn’t know how he left the Jiang residence; he walked onto the street like a zombie. It was already broad daylight; vendors had set up their stalls, and shops were opening one after another. The world was so noisy, yet he walked alone, silent as a wisp of a ghost. Finally, he stopped, realizing he had unconsciously returned to Su Ruhui’s home.

He was like a lingering spirit, circling around, always unable to leave Su Ruhui’s side.

Standing outside the door for a long while, he gently pushed open the gate, passed through the courtyard, and entered Su Ruhui’s small room. The bright white daylight streamed through the latticed window, illuminating the cold kang. The bedding was covered in white cat fur, as were the pillows; it was impossible to wash clean.

An endless heartache slowly enveloped his entire body. Every movement felt like a knife scraping against his bones, making it impossible to breathe. He recalled the Black Street night market a few days ago, Su Ruhui’s smile as bright as the morning sun, his eyes sparkling like stars. Su Ruhui had embraced him and told him he loved him. He wished time could stop at that moment, never flowing forward.

He couldn’t blame Su Ruhui; after all, Su Ruhui was also a victim. The culprit was Jiang Xueya. They had been close friends for decades, and Su Ruhui held her in the highest regard. How could he guard against her schemes? Moreover, Sang Chiyu couldn’t understand why Jiang Xueya would act this way. She had always been upright and open; even if she disapproved of his relationship with Su Ruhui, she should have spoken frankly and offered kind advice.

Perhaps he should have just left, but he couldn’t move his feet. After more than ten years of missed opportunities, and Su Ruhui’s long years of waiting, how could he let Su Ruhui bear the pain caused by Jiang Xueya alone? Perhaps he should forgive Su Ruhui. The customs of the forty-eight prefectures of Dajing were open-minded; young men and women would take lovers into their rooms at fourteen or fifteen. Many couples were together in name only, each pursuing their own pleasures. Since Su Ruhui’s mistake was unintentional, why should he be so harsh? But the scene of Su Ruhui embracing someone else in bed was seared into his mind, a lump in his throat; he couldn’t help but care.

He pushed open the window and sat alone in the snowy wind, waiting for the grief and anger in his heart to subside slightly. The cold wind calmed him somewhat. He took out his compass to contact Su Ruhui.

Su Ruhui did not respond.

Not awake yet? He frowned and left a message for Su Ruhui, “Su Ruhui, deal with Jiang Xueya and that courtesan. Return the courtyard to Jiang Xueya. We’ll pack our bags today and return to Black Street.”

That was it. As long as Su Ruhui broke ties with Jiang Xueya, he would not pursue the matter further. He went to the kitchen to prepare a pot of honey water, simmered it over a low fire, then brought it back to the room to cool, preparing it for Su Ruhui to sober up. After finishing, he sat by the window, staring blankly at the heavy snow. After a long while, Su Ruhui still had no message. He turned his head to look at the compass on the table.

The sun was high; Su Ruhui should be awake. Why hadn’t he replied yet? He began to hesitate. Jiang Xueya and Su Ruhui were like siblings, so perhaps forcing Su Ruhui to cut ties with her was asking too much. Su Ruhui had always valued relationships; he certainly couldn’t easily abandon decades of friendship. Sang Chiyu suppressed the vexation in his heart and continued to wait. The compass remained silent, and the courtyard gate was not pushed open.

He opened the compass again, paused, and said, “Come back first. Let’s talk.”

He could accept Su Ruhui visiting Jiang Xueya during festivals. This was the last concession he could make.

His mind was in turmoil; he had to do something to calm the sorrowful tide in his heart. He washed the dirty dishes in the kitchen and arranged them one by one into the cabinet. Then he returned to the room to tidy clothes, putting the previously cut undergarments back into the wardrobe and rolling up the socks to place them in the multi-treasure shelf. Finally, he went to organize the bed, meticulously cleaning the white cat fur from the bedding.

Wait, cat fur. His hand suddenly paused.

The Su Ruhui in the Jiang residence’s small building had no cat fur on him.

This wasn’t right. He shed fur profusely. Whether it was Su Ruhui’s nightclothes, official robes, everyday jackets, or the linen bag he carried, all were covered in his cat fur. Frequent washing and changing were useless; as soon as the clothes were clean, a single hug would cover the robes in fur again. Su Ruhui had been bothered by this for a long time, yet he couldn’t help but be close to him. That fellow had always been incredibly lazy, so he simply ignored the cat fur.

But he distinctly remembered that the Su Ruhui he had just seen had no cat fur on him. The linen bag, jacket, and deerskin boots strewn about in the Jiang residence’s small building also had no cat fur.

Why?

There was only one explanation: those things did not belong to Su Ruhui.

Jiang Xueya plotting against Su Ruhui and sowing discord between Su Ruhui and him was one thing, but why would she replace Su Ruhui’s personal belongings? Sang Chiyu looked back at the compass on the table. The honey water had grown cold, and Su Ruhui still hadn’t replied.

Something was wrong; everything was wrong.

A heavy feeling settled in Sang Chiyu’s heart. He opened the compass and contacted Anan.

“Master Sang?”

“How is Shen Tu?” Sang Chiyu asked in a deep voice.

“Still sleeping, he’s been asleep since last night, that lazy dog.” Anan said, “Hey, lazy dog, wake up, the sun’s already high!—Eh,” Anan paused mid-sentence, becoming flustered, “Ma-Master Sang, he seems to be dead.”

Sang Chiyu’s pupils constricted, his heart shaking violently.

He remembered Su Ruhui saying that once Shen Tu wore that mysterious collar, if Su Ruhui died, Shen Tu would also die.

“I’m sorry, Master Sang, I saw him lying there and thought he was asleep. I promise, no one touched him, and there are no wounds on his body. Wait—” Anan’s voice turned surprised, “He seems to be alive again, but he’s only exhaling, not inhaling. Master Sang, should I find a doctor to treat him?”

Sang Chiyu clutched the compass tightly, his fingertips turning white.

Layers of coldness rose from the depths of his heart like frost, spreading through his chest cavity. The pale Su Ruhui from the Jiang residence’s small building reappeared before his eyes. He remembered calling Su Ruhui, and Su Ruhui not responding. His memories flowed backward, and he felt as if he was once again in that dimly lit room, slowly pulling back the crimson bed curtains. Jiang Xueya stood by the screen, watching him intently, her fingers resting on the hilt of her dagger. The seductive man on the bed’s eyelids twitched, clearly feigning sleep. The atmosphere was like a taut string, a chilling killing intent hidden within the morning snow.

He had been so consumed by anger and grief that he hadn’t noticed these suspicious anomalies. There were four people in the room, yet only three breaths.

He suddenly realized that the Su Ruhui on the bed was a cold corpse.

Only now did he understand what he had missed. Su Ruhui had been murdered; Jiang Xueya had harmed him. Sang Chiyu’s heart felt as if it had been squeezed, bleeding profusely. He grabbed his withered moon blade, stood up, his hand trembling from gripping the scabbard.

Shen Tu was still alive, so Su Ruhui still had a chance. He forced himself to calm down, took out a Formless Gate talisman, and returned to the front of the Jiang residence. The gatekeepers, seeing him suddenly appear, panicked and came forward to ask, “Why has Master Sang returned?”

He ignored them, drew his blade, and rushed into the residence, following his morning memories, breaking into the small building where Su Ruhui had stayed. Kicking open the door, the room was empty, the bed neatly made as if new. Behind him, hurried footsteps approached; the residence guards had already received word and rushed over, preparing to fight him. Sang Chiyu reversed his grip on the blade, holding it against a young servant’s neck.

“Where is Su Ruhui?” His gaze was as cold and sharp as frost.

The guards roared and charged forward. His blade was as swift as lightning, its gleam like rolling snow. In an instant, severed limbs lay everywhere, no one left alive. Sang Chiyu stood bathed in blood, like an Asura demon. He pressed the tip of his blade against the servant’s heart, enunciating each word: “Answer!”

The servant’s legs turned to jelly, and he forced a smile, “Master Su left early. Didn’t you two meet?”

“Lies.” Sang Chiyu had no time to deal with him. He pulled out a dagger and nailed the servant’s hand to the door panel. Blood immediately gushed out, and the servant’s face twisted in agony, wailing miserably. Sang Chiyu asked again, “Where is Su Ruhui?”

The servant cried out, “I don’t know, sir! I truly don’t know!”

The Pure Land still restricted Sang Chiyu’s mystic arts; he couldn’t read minds. Sang Chiyu’s heart plunged into an abyss. He knew that the longer he delayed, the more danger Su Ruhui was in.

“Where is Jiang Xueya?” he asked again.

The servant stammered, “The Lady has already gone to court.”

He made a decisive move, turning to leave the residence, when a soft voice called out to him.

“Please wait, young master.” At the end of the corridor, a handsome man bowed to him. Sang Chiyu recognized him; he was the one who had been in Su Ruhui’s arms that morning. He spoke softly, “Su Ruhui is in the Kunlun mass grave. He was still faintly breathing when they buried him. If you go look for him now, young master, you might still be in time. Any later, I fear the bitter cold will be too much for him to bear.”

Sang Chiyu frowned. These people seemed very afraid of him seeking out Jiang Xueya.

He said coldly, “How do I know if you’re lying? I might as well go find your master.”

The man indeed panicked and said, “Young master’s swordsmanship is exquisite, and his mystic arts are extraordinary. How dare I deceive you? The mass grave, you know where it is, right? The place where many demons are buried. I will lift the ‘Pure Land’ and give you a Formless Gate talisman. How about I accompany you?”

He presented the talisman, and at the same time, the “Pure Land” lifted. Sang Chiyu felt the invisible restraint instantly disappear.

Mystic Art: Mind Reading, silently activated.

Su Ruhui’s pale, lifeless face appeared before Sang Chiyu’s eyes. Sang Chiyu saw the gruesome, gaping wound on his neck. At that moment, Sang Chiyu’s heart stopped beating. All sounds seemed to mute, and his chest was torn by excruciating pain.

Calm down. He desperately concentrated, reading the man’s thoughts. Soon, he heard Jiang Xueya’s instructions in the man’s mind—

“Quietly… bury him in Kunlun.”

He wasn’t lying. Sang Chiyu flashed before him, seized his arm, opened a gate, and brought him to Kunlun Mountain.

The wind and snow lashed at him, cutting at Sang Chiyu’s face like cruel blades. The mass grave was piled high with the bones and remains of demons. It was deep winter, and the bodies decomposed slowly, frozen solid. Many corpses were frozen together by the ice and snow. There were too many bodies. The Mystic Sect had been clearing out demons hidden in the snowy mountains for days, and all the bodies were thrown into this ravine. The thick snow covered the traces of the Jiang family servants burying the bodies, making it impossible to discern where Su Ruhui was buried.

“Where is he buried?” Sang Chiyu asked.

The man smiled leisurely, “Holy Son, the blood of the demon race flows in your veins. One day, you will return to your mother tribe.”

“Where is Su Ruhui?” Sang Chiyu gripped his neck.

“I don’t know either,” the man bit through the poison sac between his teeth. “The servant who buried Su Ruhui has already been killed by me. No one in the world knows which corner of this mass grave he is in. Holy Son, you can search slowly.”

Blood flowed from his lips, dripping onto Sang Chiyu’s pale hand. His eyes lost their light, becoming dull like glass beads. He was delaying Sang Chiyu, afraid that Sang Chiyu would seek revenge on Jiang Xueya. But Sang Chiyu had no time to ponder the demon’s tricks. He dropped the body and stumbled, crawling into the mountain of corpses, digging through them one by one. One person was too slow. He called for the monks and thugs from the mine. The Formless Gate could only be maintained for a few breaths, so not many people could be sent. The two Formless Gate mystics from the Great Compassion Hall and Bliss Pavilion exhausted their spiritual energy, only managing to send thirty people to help.

Sang Chiyu dared not ask about Shen Tu’s condition; he was afraid to hear the news of Shen Tu’s death. If Shen Tu died, it meant Su Ruhui was dead, and he couldn’t bear to think about it. He dug through the snow like a madman, his fingernails breaking, blood freezing in the cracks of his fingers. He felt no cold, no pain. Su Ruhui’s pale-as-paper face and the terrifying wound on his neck kept flashing in his mind. Su Ruhui was buried alone in the snow; how cold he must be, how much pain he must be in.

He looked at face after face; none were Su Ruhui, none at all. Sang Chiyu looked around helplessly, calling his name, “Su Ruhui! Where are you? Answer me!”

“Boss Su!” The thugs also shouted, their calls rising and falling.

No one answered. In the mountains, there was only the sound of wind and snow, cold and desolate.

After digging for a full hour, people gradually stopped to rest. In such cold weather, and buried in the snow for so long, there was basically no hope of survival. Some advised Sang Chiyu to give up, but Sang Chiyu ignored them. The uppermost layer of corpses was dug away by Sang Chiyu, revealing older, decaying bodies beneath. The stark white bones were exposed to the wind and snow, their hollow eye sockets seemingly mocking Sang Chiyu’s helplessness.

He was wrong. Sang Chiyu’s heart was filled with sorrow. Why could he never protect Su Ruhui? Why did he always let Su Ruhui die alone in the cold winter?

After digging through more than a hundred bodies, Sang Chiyu’s blood-soaked hand finally touched a hard coffin lid. He trembled all over, frantically digging away the snow and earth. The monks and thugs heard the commotion and quickly came to help. The coffin lid was pried open, and Sang Chiyu saw Su Ruhui inside. Su Ruhui was like a pale paper doll, his face devoid of color, his eyes tightly closed. Beside him lay a communication compass, and in his palm, he clutched three spiritual stones. Sang Chiyu trembled as he picked him up, brushing away the snowflakes from his eyelashes.

His body was so cold, like a person made of ice and snow. Sang Chiyu couldn’t hear his breathing, nor feel his heartbeat. For a moment, the world seemed empty; the wind and snow fell into the desolate mortal realm, and also into Sang Chiyu’s heart.

“Su Ruhui.” He embraced Su Ruhui’s cold body, trying to warm him with his own body heat.

Perhaps the essence of the world was a sea of suffering. He had once grasped a small boat that carried him away from the surging waves, but now the boat was shattered, and he was sinking again. He gazed at Su Ruhui’s face; he truly looked asleep, his features peaceful and serene.

“Su Ruhui, wake up.” He called out repeatedly.

It was futile. Su Ruhui’s eyes remained closed, his lips pale, with no response.

Anan stepped forward and said hoarsely, “Master Sang, Boss Su has passed away. You mustn’t make any more mistakes. Please take care of yourself.”

“That’s right,” the thugs said, “Master Sang, please accept our condolences.”

Sang Chiyu held Su Ruhui, still as a statue.

Anan said, “The most urgent task is to find the murderer of Boss Su and avenge him. Please pull yourself together!”

Everyone gently advised him, yet dared not move him. Sang Chiyu was like a stone, fixed in place, holding Su Ruhui and refusing to let go. He did not weep or rage; his sorrow was silent and still, like the soundless wind and snow, burying himself. After a long while, the silent man finally looked up, cradling Su Ruhui’s paper-pale face. Flakes of snow rested on Su Ruhui’s eyelashes, forming a shallow layer. He gently wiped away the snowflakes for Su Ruhui, tucked Su Ruhui’s hair behind his ear, and straightened his clothes. Then he tore a strip of cloth from his own garment to bind the gruesome wound on Su Ruhui’s throat.

He would seek revenge, kill that shameless betrayer. Then he would turn into a kitten, curl up in Su Ruhui’s arms, and rest with him. His soul would run hard, chasing Su Ruhui’s footsteps through the dark night, and from then on, they would never be separated.

Su Ruhui, wait for me.

His palm slid over Su Ruhui’s nape, and he suddenly felt three rough hollows. Sang Chiyu froze, his peripheral vision catching sight of the three spiritual stones in Su Ruhui’s palm.

Sang Chiyu suddenly remembered that Su Ruhui’s body was a Super Grade-One Flesh Puppet, which required spiritual stones to operate.

Sang Chiyu didn’t understand Super Grade-One Flesh Puppets, nor could he know why Su Ruhui would remove the spiritual stones from his own body. But the only certainty was that Su Ruhui would never do anything meaningless at the brink of death.

An incredible conjecture slowly formed in his mind. Yes, he remembered that the Bliss Pavilion had an underground ice cellar used to store flesh puppets that had not yet been activated by spiritual stones. Low temperatures would harm living beings, inhibiting breathing and heartbeat, but if a flesh puppet stopped operating on its own, it could withstand low temperatures. If this was true for Grade-One Flesh Puppets, would a Super Grade-One Flesh Puppet be any different?

Sang Chiyu helped Su Ruhui sit up, picked up the spiritual stones from his palm, and inserted them into the grooves on his nape. With the three spiritual stones in place, blue spiritual energy flowed into the puppet’s artificial meridians. A faint, firefly-like glow permeated beneath Su Ruhui’s pale skin. The glow vanished in an instant, and Su Ruhui’s eyelashes fluttered gently like butterfly wings.

As if ten thousand years had passed, a barely audible, hoarse whisper sounded in his ear:

“Yu-er… don’t cry…”

Sang Chiyu held him tightly, tears falling like rain.