Chapter 15#

Chapter 15: Illusion#

Dense layers of restrictions, like overlapping silver silk nets, shrouded the entire mountaintop.

At the peak was the newly excavated cave dwelling of Zhuo Yu, its flying eaves carrying rainbows, magnificent and spacious, with a green-rusted copper bell hanging from the eaves. The moment Zhuo Yu approached, it rang on its own without moving—a clear, crisp “clang”—which was carried by the autumn wind out of the Qingdu Mountain realm, lingering far and wide.

A young man in red robes sat in the shadows, back facing him, and said with a grin, “Senior Brother, you’re back.”

Zhuo Yu stood motionless at the doorway; even his breathing was inaudible inside the chamber.

Through layers of curtains, the young man had long black hair flowing loose, robes like coral, eyes like lacquered dots, a languid posture, and a tone that was intimate, as if genuinely pleased: “When I heard the bell ring, I knew Senior Brother was back.”

Before Zhuo Yu could speak, he propped his chin up, turned back with a curved smile, and said affectionately, “Did you bring me wine from Taoye Ferry?”

As he moved, a pure white jade bangle slid down to the young man’s forearm, almost blending with his skin at first glance. Zhuo Yu forced his gaze away from the bangle, which was so large it rattled around the wrist, and remained silent. After an unknown length of time, he took out two jars of wine from his qiankun pouch and placed them side by side on the low table in the hall.

The young man happily sprang to his feet, joy brimming from the corners of his eyes and brows. He poured himself a bowl, sniffed the rich aroma, but only held it without drinking.

Zhuo Yu’s Adam’s apple bobbed. “Since you’re not drinking, why buy it?”

“Can’t I just admire it? Did you hear the songs the children sang at the ferry? Were they nice or not?” Feng Xianyu’s craving made it feel like a worm was crawling in his stomach. Suddenly remembering something, he looked up at Zhuo Yu with a charming grin and said deliberately, “Senior Brother knows I can’t hold my liquor—why make me drink?”

Zhuo Yu’s jaw tightened abruptly.

Feng Xianyu pretended not to notice, tilting his head mischievously. “If I get drunk to the point of death, what does Senior Brother plan to do with me?”

Zhuo Yu’s frozen expression was unreadable, his voice deep. “I won’t let you go.”

“Who said I wanted to go?” Feng Xianyu shrugged dismissively, put down the bowl, and lazily stretched. “There’s food and drink here, and my good Senior Brother to keep me company. No enemies can get in—it’s clean and peaceful. There’s no better place.”

Zhuo Yu said nothing, his brow slowly knitting together.

“I heard someone outside calling my name. Are those my adorable junior brothers and sisters?” Feng Xianyu paused. A flicker of confusion passed through his beautiful eyes, too fast for even him to catch, but he continued, “Seems I didn’t hit too hard.”

Before he finished speaking, Zhuo Yu suddenly stood, turned without a word, and walked away.

Feng Xianyu was stunned, staring blankly at Zhuo Yu’s retreating back.

His heart involuntarily trembled slightly, but he shook his head to brush it off, smiled to himself, and subconsciously tried to form a hand seal. However, the jade bangle glowed brightly like a dam, forcibly blocking his meridians.

That day, the vast waves of the Sea of Resentment had been split open by a single sword stroke from Zhuo Yu. The sword intent of the Spirit Marsh Sword swept across the entire ocean.

The Dao-mark of the bond between cultivators on the swordsman’s neck gleamed. In his hand was this jade bangle inscribed with countless spirit runes. Behind him was his bonded partner, panting in disarray.

Feng Xianyu stared at the bangle for a long while, sighed in defeat, and gave up. His eyelids half-lowered, his face utterly devoid of smiles, making him look strangely similar to Zhuo Yu. Finally, he wiped his face, resumed his usual cheerful expression, dipped a chopstick in some wine to taste, then undressed, climbed onto the bed, and soon fell into a deep sleep under the influence of the alcohol.

Feng Xianyu didn’t know that after he fell asleep, Zhuo Yu came back. At that time, the copper bell on the eaves didn’t move an inch, making no sound. Zhuo Yu stood outside the half-closed door for most of the night, the cold, lonely moonlight pouring over his seemingly frozen spine.

Not until sunrise did the mountain-protecting formation suddenly rumble loudly.

A disciple on guard hurriedly flew over on his sword. From afar, he saw the senior brother in the hazy morning light standing like a statue—his shoulders, robe corners, and brows all wet with dew and frost—yet he seemed like a sword just pulled from icy water.

At the entrance of the cave dwelling stood an ancient tree as thick as a bowl. A cold wind blew, sending leaves falling. As they were about to land on his shoulder, they were silently shredded into pieces by some invisible force.

Seeing this, the disciple instinctively halted outside the restrictions, belatedly realizing the killing sword intent surrounding Zhuo Yu. A chill ran down his spine.

Finally, hearing the commotion, Zhuo Yu’s indifferent eyes shifted, glancing down at the disciple.

The disciple quickly lowered his head and bowed. “Senior Brother, the people from the six major sects have come again. They demand that we hand over Feng… the younger senior brother.”

Zhuo Yu remained silent. He reached out and grasped empty air—a silver spirit sword materialized, firmly held in his palm. The swordsman glanced back at the door, then stepped down the long staircase, walking alone toward the mountain gate crowded with cultivators from other sects.

—A large bead of sweat fell to the ground.

Feng Xianyu jolted awake. His chin was lifted by a cold hand.

Zhuo Yu observed Feng Xianyu’s expression for a moment, then lowered his head, pursed his lips, and meticulously wiped the blood from his own wound off Feng Xianyu’s hand with a clean sleeve.

Seeing this, Feng Xianyu stared blankly at Zhuo Yu’s features. He suddenly wanted to say something, but at that moment, a worried roar rang out from afar: “Yu’er!! Are you still alive!!!”

It was Kong Yan’s voice!

Feng Xianyu snapped to attention and quickly pulled his hand back from Zhuo Yu.

Zhuo Yu’s hand hung in midair for a long time before he lowered it, still expressionless. He watched from a distance as the flashy young master of the Blue Sparrow Sect, Kong Yan, lunged at Feng Xianyu, turning him around and around to check for injuries, his brows full of worry as he babbled incessantly.

Feng Xianyu looked resigned; his mouth movements suggested he was saying he was fine.

Kong Yan hadn’t come alone. He’d brought many inner and outer disciples of the Blue Sparrow Sect, crowding the ground shoulder to shoulder.

“Why are you here?” Feng Xianyu asked, fondly studying his friend’s young, spirited face, still untouched by hardship.

In his past life, the Blue Sparrow Sect had also been besieged by demons, with heavy casualties. Most of the Kong clan had died in battle. The young master Kong Yan had fought at the front, suffered severe injuries, and though he survived, he became a simpleton, leaving the Blue Sparrow Sect in name only.

Kong Yan confirmed Feng Xianyu wasn’t hurt, then breathed a sigh of relief. “Didn’t I tell you to send me a message when you got back? I waited and waited, and when I asked Uncle Feng, I found out you’d never gone home. So I hurried over following the clues, but it looks like I was still late.”

Feng Xianyu: “It’s not too late. I’m perfectly fine. It’s just that Zhuo Yu got hurt.”

“Zhuo Yu got hurt?” Kong Yan was startled. “What exactly did you run into this time?”

He subconsciously glanced at Zhuo Yu. Though his eyes weren’t great, he could still see that the other’s white robes were stained a large red. His handsome face was tightly drawn. Whether it was because of the injury, even in the blur, his expression seemed a bit frightening.

“See that?” Feng Xianyu lifted his chin, indicating A Yue, who was staring blankly on the grass. “A demon cultivator at the Nascent Soul stage.”

“What?!!!” Kong Yan snapped back to reality, his voice suddenly rising as if facing a great enemy. “Men!! Form the formation!!!”

Kong Yan immediately drew his Glowing Sword, pulled Feng Xianyu behind him, and squinted nervously at A Yue. After staring for a while with his half-blind eyes, he cupped his hand around his mouth and leaned in, looking serious. “What is that girl doing holding a rotting corpse? Has she lost her mind?”

“That is—”

Feng Xianyu was about to explain in detail, but his peripheral vision caught something. His pupils shrank to pinpricks, and he shouted to the Blue Sparrow Sect disciples: “Don’t get near her!”

“What’s wrong?”

Kong Yan was alarmed. He looked closely and saw a circle of black shadows appear around the demon cultivator. Then the grass vanished.

The black grew heavier, as if a mouth of the earth had suddenly opened, rapidly forming a pool of stagnant, deathly black water like a swamp. Everyone smelled the foul, rotten stench of that black water. A Yue, holding the rotting corpse, didn’t even lift her head and quickly sank into the deadly black water.

In a flash, a white sword qi shot through the air, and simultaneously, a golden spirit arrow whistled off its string.

It was Zhuo Yu and Feng Xianyu!

But A Yue and the corpse had completely vanished, and even the black water was gone. The spot returned to ordinary grass, as if nothing had happened. The tips of the grass were shorn off by the sword qi, and the spirit arrow was lodged in the soil.

That black water came and went so eerily and suddenly that no one reacted in time. After a long moment, Kong Yan, still stunned, asked his fifth question since arriving: “What the hell is going on?!”

The raised patterns on the Qiqi Bow pressed against Feng Xianyu’s palm, the pain forcing him to grip harder until his knuckles turned white.

Feng Xianyu could barely control the slight, instinctive trembling of his hand. He clenched his teeth and wanted to say:

“Have you ever heard of the current Demon Lord, Qisha?”

Once again, Feng Xianyu woke from a nightmare, his face pale as paper, his eyelashes damp. In the dream, he killed anyone who stood in his way, slaughtered buddhas who opposed him, and the entire dream was dyed blood-red.

Once again, in the inexplicably appearing black water on the ground, Feng Xianyu saw the twisted, hideous demonic face of the Demon Lord.

His sharp, malicious laughter pierced Feng Xianyu’s brain like needles, a haunting whisper:

“Just give up, Feng Xianyu.”

“You’ve already lost.”

…

“Still refusing to admit defeat, Feng Xianyu?”

“Life and death are nothing but an illusion. What difference do they make?”