Chapter 25#

The Sound of the Wind#

The Qingque Sect was silent as a graveyard, its gates tightly shut.

Moonlight crept silently across the broad, blue-stone avenue, flanked by towering walls that cast prison-like shadows.

Two patrolling disciples emerged from a street corner, lanterns in hand, hands resting on their swords. In the darkness, a rustling sound like falling leaves arose. One, with keen ears, immediately called out softly, “Who’s there?”

The lantern swayed gently in his hand.

His companion grew alert as well, extending his spiritual sense—but detected no living thing. “Did you mishear?”

“Maybe,” the first disciple said, holding his breath. After a moment, he added, “It must be the wind.”

The two continued on, unable to resist whispering:

“What exactly is happening in the inner sect? Wasn’t it supposed to be a happy occasion?”

“Shh, keep your voice down.”

The voice dropped even lower, tinged with doubt: “Now joy has turned to tragedy. How will this end?”

“Who knows.”

“And the rumors… are they true? Could the young master really have…”

“Don’t you dare speak such nonsense. If you’re caught, it’ll cost us our lives.” The disciple cut him off. “Let’s finish our patrol and report back. We’d best stay out of the affairs of these high and mighty people.”

Before he could finish, his eyes rolled back, and he thudded to the ground.

His companion shuddered in fright but saw nothing—only the endless stretch of whitewashed walls and the spreading darkness. He stood frozen for a second, then suddenly sensed a freezing shadow behind him. An icy chill shot through his heart, his teeth chattering. It felt as if his neck were being gripped, his mouth sewn shut by some prohibition. No scream escaped. His face turned pale, and the lantern slipped from his hand, rolling forward several times.

He turned halfway, then heard footsteps ahead.

With a snap of his head, he saw the lantern picked up by a hand as pale as moonlight. The figure wore a golden-and-silver embroidered red robe that gleamed in the night. His slender waist was cinched tight by a black belt, and a smile played on his lips. In his hand was a long bow radiating a golden glow.

The disciple’s eyes went wide—he recognized Feng Xianyu.

Feng Xianyu looked down at them with amusement, then raised his head, an innocent expression on his face, completely unburdened. “Senior Brother, you scared one into a faint.”

Standing behind the patrol disciple, radiating cold energy without a word, was none other than Zhuo Yu—the one who had frightened the man half to death.

Zhuo Yu shot him a glance, said nothing, and stepped forward to stand behind Feng Xianyu.

Feng Xianyu shrugged it off, grinning at the Qingque disciple. “You know, sometimes a person’s lips should be a little looser. If you’d just spoken up earlier, we wouldn’t have had to scare you.”

The disciple was terrified, trying to speak but only managing vague, muffled sounds.

“Want to talk?” Feng Xianyu coaxed. “I can ask my good senior brother here to lift the silencing spell. But on one condition: I ask, you answer. Got it?”

He drawled lazily, the cold blade at the end of his golden bow pressing ever so casually against the disciple’s neck.

Sweat soaked his temples. The disciple was so frightened tears nearly spilled, and he nodded frantically like a chick pecking rice.

Feng Xianyu laughed. The next second, the disciple found his mouth could open and immediately begged, “Young Master Feng, I’m just a nobody. I know nothing. Please, spare me.”

“Don’t worry. The things I ask, you’ll definitely know.” Feng Xianyu’s lips curled. “I’m on good terms with your young master. I wouldn’t make things hard for his disciples.”

“But…” The disciple shrank his shoulders. “The young master has fallen into qi deviation!”

Feng Xianyu hadn’t expected that answer. His brow furrowed, and he asked coldly, “What happened?”

It turned out that today was the bonding ceremony of Kong Xiaoyun—a member of the Kong clan—and his dao partner, Ni Lu, held at the Peach Blossom Hall with friends and family invited far and wide.

What should have been a joyous occasion had instead ended in blood and carnage.

Meanwhile, at the Peach Blossom Hall.

The sounds of flutes and drums from the day still echoed in his ears. Kong Yan sat with one leg bent in the middle of the ruined hall, surrounded by countless corpses and pools of congealed blood. Red silk lay scattered messily. He leaned wearily on his Liuguang Sword, trying to recall where things had started to go wrong that day.

Was it the inexplicable shiver he’d felt upon waking? Because the sun had risen later than usual?

Or even earlier—like the night before, when he’d accidentally cut his finger on a page while reading through a cultivation manual?

Kong Yan couldn’t figure it out. He only remembered that the sky had been faintly cool, the morning light somewhat dim.

He had felt an inexplicable unease by the window and called for the steward to inquire, but everything was reported as normal.

“It won’t rain, Young Master. Rest assured.”

“Miss Ni has already risen; she’s washing up now.”

“Master Xiaoyun is also up. He had half a cup of fruit wine to steady his nerves.”

Kong Yan frowned at that. “Keep an eye on him. Don’t let him drink too much.”

The steward acknowledged the order and withdrew. By then, the visiting guests were gradually stirring, making their way along the broad Golden Spear Street toward the Peach Blossom Hall. In another hour, the palanquins carrying Ni Lu and Kong Xiaoyun would depart from their respective residences and arrive at the hall.

At that time, the new daoist couple would there perform the rites of heaven and earth and formally become dao partners.

Time moved steadily forward. All the preliminary procedures had been arranged, yet for some reason, a shadow still hung over Kong Yan’s heart.

He meditated for a while, then donned his ornate young master’s robe, straightened his appearance before the bronze mirror, carefully tied his hair, and smoothed his lapels.

The mirror reflected Kong Yan’s young, handsome face. He studied himself for a moment, then suddenly raised a hand to touch his chin, cheekbones, and nose. “Young Master, it’s time,” the steward called softly from outside the door.

Kong Yan gripped the Liuguang Sword tightly, pressed a reassuring hand to his chest, and said, “I know.”

As soon as he entered the hall, many people quieted and bowed respectfully to him. At the deepest part of the hall stood his father, Kong Ji, the head of the Kong clan, who was speaking with Kong Xiaoyun’s parents. Hearing the commotion, he shifted his gaze.

Kong Ji had high brow bones and a stern expression, exuding authority without anger.

Everyone in the Qingque Sect knew that the clan head was not satisfied with his only son.

When Kong Yan was young, he would be woken up to train with less than three hours of sleep. Sometimes, too drowsy to stand, he would be ordered to stand in icy water, freezing red in the bitter winter. But perhaps by luck, he never fell ill.

Kong Yan was well aware of this. In front of Feng Xianyu, he could relax and be informal, showing his true nature. But before his father, years of conditioning had made him docile, obedient, and subservient.

He made his way through the crowd to stand before Kong Ji, lowering his head. “Father.”

“Why so late?” Kong Ji frowned.

Kong Yan’s expression remained natural. “I was checking the arrangements. I apologize for keeping you waiting, Father.”

“Rest assured, Sect Leader,” someone from another sect nearby said to ease the atmosphere. “Young Master Kong is accomplished despite his youth, with outstanding bearing and extraordinary talent. Entering the Dongxu and Dasheng realms is within reach. The Sect Leader is truly blessed!”

A chorus of agreement followed, all praising Kong Yan’s bright future and the promising future of the Qingque Sect.

Kong Yan merely gave a faint smile. Kong Ji showed no reaction, ignoring the flattery as he turned to continue talking with others. Kong Yan wasn’t surprised; he calmly clasped his hands and withdrew.

After entertaining the guests for a while and exchanging pleasantries, it wasn’t long before a young child came running in from afar, clapping joyfully. “Master Xiaoyun has arrived!”

Before the words faded, another cry came: “Miss Ni has arrived!”

At that, everyone fell into an involuntary silence. Kong Yan stood at the entrance of the Peach Blossom Hall, gazing into the distance, as two palanquins approached side by side along the Golden Spear Street, stopping outside the hall. Before long, two figures in bright red wedding garments stepped out.

The sky above remained overcast, like an uncleaned inkstone.

Kong Xiaoyun and Ni Lu did not pause after alighting; they immediately began climbing the steps, one by one, their steps unusually steady.

Kong Yan wore the Liuguang Sword at his waist and looked back at the bustling crowd inside the Peach Blossom Hall—everyone beaming with joy. His father Kong Ji’s face was half-hidden by the shadow of the hall. The sounds of laughter and conversation seemed muffled by an invisible barrier. The gloomy sky pressed down on the mountains; red banners fluttered in the wind. The bridal couple drew closer and closer, amid the din of gongs and drums and the harmonious strains of zithers and flutes. Among the musicians, someone struck an ancient chime—each note causing the air to resonate.

Suddenly, an inexplicable palpitation struck Kong Yan’s heart.

His ears were filled with the sound of his own increasingly rapid breathing. A large bead of sweat traced down his temple and fell onto his robe.

…

Kong Yan wiped his blood-smeared face and smiled bitterly as he shook his head. Now, with so many dead, how was this supposed to end? Was he going to be ruined, his reputation destroyed? Yu’er… had he come? Would he come?

At that moment, Feng Xianyu and Zhuo Yu were rapidly approaching the Changfeng Hall, moving stealthily while avoiding the patrols. According to the disciple they had questioned earlier, he didn’t know the specifics of what happened in the Peach Blossom Hall, only that halfway through the ceremony, the young master suddenly attacked, killing many and even wounding his own father.

Now, the Peach Blossom Hall was temporarily sealed by Kong Ji using a secret technique, while the severely injured Kong Ji and the other survivors were in the Changfeng Hall.

This was indeed a scandal. With Kong Ji unconscious, the other Kong elders had decided to initiate the mountain-sealing order.

Feng Xianyu was very familiar with the Qingque Sect. As he sped along, he said to Zhuo Yu, “Impossible. How could that bastard Kong Yan have beaten Uncle Kong?”

“Qi deviation,” Zhuo Yu said.

“If qi deviation could make someone that much stronger, I’d go get it myself.” As Feng Xianyu spoke, he heard footsteps. Accustomed to sneaky business, he was highly alert. He immediately turned and shoved Zhuo Yu into a narrow woodshed by the roadside. “Shh! Someone’s coming!”

Click!

The woodshed door closed.

In the blink of an eye, a small team walked over and happened to stop right by the woodshed. The light from their lanterns filtered through the gaps in the rickety door, illuminating Feng Xianyu and Zhuo Yu.

The woodshed was extremely small, already cluttered with junk. The only space to stand was right behind the door.

Feng Xianyu had no choice but to press himself entirely against Zhuo Yu, clearly hearing the pounding of Zhuo Yu’s heart—thump-thump, very distinct. He couldn’t help transmitting a message: “Senior Brother, your heart is beating really fast.”

Zhuo Yu glanced at him and said flatly, “Junior Brother, so is yours.”

Is that so?

Half-believing, Feng Xianyu curiously pressed his own wrist to count his pulse—one, two, three, four—before he could count much, he heard someone outside ask, “Hasn’t Senior Disciple Sun and Junior Disciple Liu returned yet?”

Feng Xianyu tensed up, realizing these were the two they had encountered earlier. After questioning, they had also knocked out another person and tied all three together, leaving them in a roadside house. While it wouldn’t be discovered immediately, if a full search was launched, it wouldn’t stay hidden.

“Reporting, Senior Brother, not yet,” someone answered.

“Which direction did they go?”

Feng Xianyu turned and peered through the crack in the door. Behind him, Zhuo Yu leaned in, placing his hands on the door frame, looking over Feng Xianyu’s shoulder. The position was a bit awkward, and Zhuo Yu’s breath tickled Feng Xianyu’s ear, making him fidget. He tried to rub his ear against his shoulder, but before he could, Zhuo Yu said hoarsely, “Don’t move.”

But Feng Xianyu only felt more itchy. He forced himself to stay still, whispering nervously, “What’s wrong?!”

Were they discovered?

“Let’s go,” Feng Xianyu planned. “I’ll shoot an arrow to lure them away—feint to the east, strike to the west.”

Zhuo Yu didn’t answer. His Adam’s apple bobbed once. Suddenly, his thumb flicked the hilt of his sword, and the Lingzhao Sword unsheathed with a hiss!

An overwhelming, formless sword intent swept outward from them—swift and fierce, giving the disciples no chance to react. It was simple and brutal, directly knocking them all unconscious.

Instantly, the ground outside the woodshed was littered with crumpled bodies.

Feng Xianyu’s jaw dropped. Then the ramshackle wooden door of the woodshed, unable to withstand the force, crashed down spectacularly.

“Boom!”

After the dust settled, Zhuo Yu coldly sheathed the Lingzhao Sword, not even bothering to give the fallen disciples a glance.

Feng Xianyu: “…”

“You’re amazing,” he said sincerely.

At last, they reached the only hall still lit. The plaque above bore the ancient seal script for “Changfeng.” The eaves pierced the sky; the palace was ethereal, and faint zither music seemed to circle the hall like a small bird.

Feng Xianyu led Zhuo Yu onto the roof, boasting, “I have experience with this kind of thing. Steps have to be light. These tiles are just stacked, not fixed. Break one, and several might slide off, giving us away!”

As he spoke, he gently lifted one tile, signaling Zhuo Yu to come look.

Inside the Changfeng Hall, it was brightly lit. Kong Ji lay on a couch behind a screen, looking heavily injured—so much so that he seemed truly unconscious!

A young cultivator sat beside his couch, apparently tending to him, with his back to them. His features were unclear, but he seemed familiar.

There were many people in the hall, gathered in small groups—some from the Kong clan, some not, and several disciples. In a corner, a young music cultivator with flowing cloud patterns tattooed behind his brows was playing a zither. The zither music they heard must have come from him.

“Oh?” Feng Xianyu said in surprise. “There are people from the Misty Palace here too.”

The music cultivator was playing a calming, soothing tune that suited the current situation.

Zhuo Yu remained silent for a long while, then said, “Who is that person? Have you forgotten?”

“Who?” Feng Xianyu didn’t catch on.

A faint, almost pitying smile appeared at the corner of Zhuo Yu’s mouth. He curled his fingers into a small ball of energy and flicked it precisely, hitting the back of the cultivator by the bedside. The man flinched and immediately turned his head, meeting the two faces peeking through the hole in the tiles.

“…Ye, something!” Feng Xianyu was quite surprised. “What’s he doing here?”

Zhuo Yu didn’t say a word, but Feng Xianyu saw a glint of joy in “Ye Something’s” eyes. The man almost stood up. Feng Xianyu quickly waved his hands frantically and pointed outward. “Ye Something” understood and gave a slight nod.

The tile was replaced.

Ye Shu—for that was his name—withdrew his gaze, looked around, and after confirming no one had noticed, bent down to smooth Kong Ji’s spiritual veins again, then tucked in his blanket and stood up as if nothing had happened.

“Daoist Ye!” a Kong family member asked suspiciously. “Where are you going?”

Ye Shu said, “It’s too stuffy. I’m going out for some air. Just outside the door.”

“Well…” The man hesitated.

Ye Shu said impatiently, “You’ve already issued the mountain-sealing order. Are you afraid I’ll run? I’m just a physician—can’t lift a hand or shoulder a burden. A waste, no need to worry.”

With that, he gave a cold snort and swept out.

Ye Shu left the hall and turned into a small side chamber.

Then, with a creak, the window opened. Feng Xianyu climbed in, flashing a familiar smile. “Brother Ye, what a coincidence.”

Ye Shu, however, said, “Why are you here?”

“I just came out of seclusion to play with Kong Yan. Didn’t expect a mountain-sealing order.” Feng Xianyu concealed the matter of Kong Yan’s three-finger bloody imprint.

Zhuo Yu had been standing outside the window, not entering. Feng Xianyu noticed him casting a cold glance at Ye Shu, and Ye Shu also seemed unwilling to acknowledge Zhuo Yu. These two had no prior interaction—so why did they seem to have a grudge?

He was still puzzled when he heard Ye Shu explain: “Kong Xiaoyun’s dao partner, Junior Sister Ni Lu, was originally from the Xuanji Mountain. She descended from the mountain early and has been wandering alone.”

—Feng Xianyu suddenly understood: she was from her maiden home.

“I heard… Kong Yan had a qi deviation?” Feng Xianyu asked cautiously. “Many died? Is Uncle Kong truly severely injured?”

“Very severe.” Ye Shu didn’t ask how Feng Xianyu had broken through the mountain-sealing order. “I’ve practiced many years; I know my own skill. Raising the dead or regenerating flesh is beyond me, but I have good eyesight. The clan head is critically injured—it has affected his golden core. Even if it was a qi deviation, how long has Young Master Kong been at the golden core stage? How could he have injured a Nascent Soul cultivator like the clan head so severely? I doubt he’ll wake up anytime soon. He’ll have to heal on his own.”

Feng Xianyu frowned deeply. “What exactly happened?”

“What I saw was this: after the heaven-and-earth worship was completed, Young Master Kong went to help the couple up. That’s when he discovered—” Ye Shu took a deep breath, his voice heavy, “Those two had no breath or heartbeat. They were already dead.”