“Cut the crap,” He Mu coldly interrupted from behind. “Who sent you to guard this land temple?”
Qianxiang gritted his teeth and burst out another handful of white threads from his hand, deflecting both of their sword blades.
Wenren Sheng’s expression shifted as he retreated a few steps along the ground, dodging Qianxiang’s attack.
Qianxiang sneered. “A question like that shouldn’t be coming from your mouth, should it?”
Wenren Sheng started to lose track of the situation. He did not know how Qianxiang knew Murong He, or how Murong He had tracked him to Fragrant Ze Mountain and killed him.
Moreover, judging by Qianxiang’s fatal wounds, Murong He must have hated him deeply to strike such a vicious blow.
Was there… some blood feud between them?
He Mu seemed unwilling to reveal his identity at this moment. His hand seals changed, and he once again directed the Golden Crow Sword to slice through the wind, clashing with Qianxiang.
This time, Wenren Sheng did not join the assault. He narrowed his eyes and examined Qianxiang’s body, his wolf ears perking up sharply.
Earlier, amid the chaos, he had unleashed two horizontal bursts of sword qi that grazed Qianxiang’s body, slicing off half his shoulder down to the bone.
Although Qianxiang seemed to feel no pain and moved freely, Wenren Sheng faintly spotted a strange mark on that exposed bone.
The mark appeared to have been branded onto the bone with a hot iron, shaped like half a butterfly and glowing with a fiery red light.
Wenren Sheng dodged a few attacks and sidled up to He Mu’s side. “What’s that mark on his shoulder?”
He Mu glanced over at his words, then asked, “In Cang Province, have you ever heard of the ‘Night Touring Gods’?”
“Night Touring Gods…”
Wenren Sheng pondered for a moment.
Duoxiren had once mentioned them to him. The “Night Touring Gods” was an assassination group that had emerged in the outskirts of Cangzhou City over the past two years, specifically targeting demon disciples from the various immortal sects.
Their appearance coincided perfectly with the exposure of the heavenly spiritual root—it was not hard to guess that this organization had been mobilized by the Heavenly Court to flush out Wenren Sheng’s whereabouts.
Wenren Sheng hesitated. “Did they do this to him? But he’s clearly dead. Why is he still affecting events in the mortal world?”
“Of course it wasn’t just him,” He Mu said. “I’ve spent more time in the jianghu than you, so I know a bit about the strange tales from the upper realms.”
“The Heavenly Court’s lords have an official under them named Siming. She controls the fates of all mortals below, but for some reason, she utterly despises demons. Years ago, she clashed with Wenqu Star over her demon form, and now she’s hounding demons in the mortal world.”
“After hearing that a new heavenly spiritual root had been born in a demon, she went mad dogging it, determined to drag that heavenly spiritual root out.”
He Mu could roughly guess what Siming wanted. The “Night Touring Gods” wantonly slaughtered demons in the mortal world, squeezing out their chances of ascension.
This not only forced Wenqu Star to hand over Wenren Sheng but also allowed Siming to expand her influence in the Heavenly Court, aiming to dominate the upper realms single-handedly one day.
These were things Wenren Sheng had never heard before. Although he had stayed by Wenqu Star’s side for two years, his master never spoke to him of Heavenly Court matters and only told him to stay safely in Cangzhou City without going anywhere.
He Mu glanced up at Qianxiang. “That mark is the unique brand of the Night Touring Gods. The fact that it’s etched into his bone means he’s already one of Siming’s dead men.”
Wenren Sheng nervously gripped his sword hilt. “So, he was staying here because of the heavenly spiritual root?”
Wenren Sheng had never told Murong He that he possessed the heavenly spiritual root.
He vaguely sensed that Qianxiang was after him, which might drag Murong He into danger alongside him.
Wenren Sheng disliked troubling others, especially since he was not that close to Murong He and did not want to put him at risk.
“Um, Brother…”
He licked his lips, hesitating as he said,
“I’m sorry, I hid some things from you. I—”
“Not now. I’ve hidden plenty from you too,” He Mu interrupted him. “This sword of yours hasn’t gained sentience yet, has it?”
“Yeah, not yet. Why?”
He Mu smiled. “Let me refine Qianxiang for you, turn him into a stepping stone for your ascension, and help temper your blade. How about it?”
“…Refine him?” Wenren Sheng looked at him in surprise. “How?”
He Mu turned sideways, and the Golden Crow Sword finally landed solidly in his palm, held at shoulder height.
“I have my methods, but there’s one thing you must do yourself.”
“You need to overcome the barrier in your heart and kill him with your own hands.”
As soon as he finished speaking, he surged forward with his sword stance first, clearing a path for Wenren Sheng.
Qianxiang had never stopped attacking from the start. He shrieked like a frenzied ghost, desperately trying to kill both He Mu and Wenren Sheng.
He Mu did not aim straight for his life, fighting in an extremely conservative manner.
Normally, He Mu would not use such a drawn-out, tedious style—he could usually take a life within five moves.
But to accommodate Wenren Sheng, he tried his best to give the kid enough space to unleash his full power, helping him cross this mental hurdle, break through his realm, and comprehend his own dao heart.
Wenren Sheng stood frozen in place, the sword in his hand trembling slightly.
“Overcome…”
What hurdle did he still have left in his heart?
For some reason, after hearing He Mu’s words, as he gazed at Qianxiang’s mangled body, the image of Wenren Jing dying in his arms suddenly flashed through his mind again.
Murong He wanted to refine him, make him part of his weapon, turn him into a stepping stone for him to tread upon.
But he seemed to lack the courage for that.
In the two years since the clan leader’s death, Wenren Sheng had been trapped in the nightmare of that rainy night. Though things had improved somewhat in the past few months, he had at most grown numb to it, avoiding the thoughts without ever truly moving past them.
Wenren Sheng’s heart pounded in panic. The sword in his hand felt heavier and heavier, almost too much to lift.
He looked down and saw his palm coated in thick blood at some point. His breathing grew rapid as he frantically tried to wipe it clean before catching up to He Mu.
But he could not wipe it off, could not clean it away—like a gushing spring, blood bubbled out endlessly, soon pooling on the ground.
“Calm down,” Wenren Sheng’s breath trembled. “Don’t… don’t be afraid…”
He swallowed hard and took several deep breaths, but it did nothing.
He could not pick up the sword.
In the distance, Qianxiang seemed even stronger than before. His white threads turned into thousands of blades raining down, the attacks growing more frequent.
Yet his form was becoming less and less human-like. His face was almost entirely ruined, and the stitched skin from their prolonged fight split open inch by inch.
He Mu flipped onto the Buddhist platform, swinging his sword left and right to deflect two white blades. He hurriedly glanced back at Wenren Sheng.
He looked terrified, as if haunted by some nightmare, his slender frame trembling faintly.
He was the same as before—whenever something upset him, he liked to cling to him. That appearance was truly heartbreakingly pitiful.
But right now, He Mu had no way to help him directly, just like back when he fused the heavenly spiritual root. Comprehending the dao heart could only be done by oneself.
He thought for a moment, then shook two copper coins from his sleeve. He secretly formed a hand seal and tossed them toward Qianxiang.
The two coins spun twice in midair before clinking onto the ground with a “ding.”
Immediately, two vast plumes of white mist erupted from the coin holes, instantly wrapping Qianxiang’s body in white.
He Mu wiped some sweat from his brow. “Not seeing that disgusting face should make it a bit easier…”
Wenren Sheng heard the commotion, and his pupils focused slightly.
With He Mu blocking Qianxiang’s mutilated flesh and blood, Wenren Sheng gradually felt like he could breathe again.
His mind was still foggy, stuffed with countless nightmares, and even the ground beneath his feet felt like unstable waves.
“Ha…”
He exhaled with difficulty.
He could not pick up the sword.
Why could he not lift the sword?
Was it fear, a reluctance to kill?
At ten years old, he had slain a sword cultivator in the Mahayana Realm. The dao heart he comprehended then was that a sword wielder must never retreat, so he was no coward afraid of killing.
Then why, when facing his kin-slaying enemy, could he not raise this sword? It felt weighted with a thousand jun, about to drag him into an endless nightmare.
Was it unwillingness to kill, or inability to kill?
“It’s not that…”
Wenren Sheng curled up in agony. He clutched his knees, gasping for air as the image of Wenren Jing in his final moments replayed endlessly in his mind.
Those unstaunchable wounds, the heartbeats growing weaker and weaker—the heavenly spiritual root had let him hear those dying sounds all too clearly, all too thoroughly. The memory remained vivid even now.
He clearly wanted to. He hated this fox demon to the bone. He had to avenge the clan that raised and loved him. How could he hold back this strike!
But what should he do…
He could not lift it, could not raise it—he was going mad…!
If the Mountain God were here, if the Mountain God were by his side, it would be fine. The Mountain God always cultivated with him, could guide him through his confusion, and would tell him what to do in moments like this. If he had not left, if he had not departed Fragrant Ze Mountain, if… if…
Wenren Sheng listened to the howling wind in his ears, his pupils contracting to slits.
His mind rode that wind back two years to that storm, returning to that frail, helpless self who had lost his closest kin.
But—
He gritted his teeth, and two trails of tears slid from his eyes.
There were no more “ifs.”
He had grown up. He could no longer rely on anyone.
As he arrived at this realization, a knife-like exhilaration surged in Wenren Sheng’s heart. Strength gradually returned to his palm, and spiritual power began to grow within his body.
He wiped his tears with the back of his hand and looked ahead again. Qianxiang was still locked in fierce combat with He Mu. This fox demon had not let him go yet, his reddened eyes glancing his way from time to time.
This was his enemy. For the sake of the late clan leader, he had to kill him.
Wenren Sheng flicked two fingers over his sword, slicing his fingertip and infusing a massive amount of spiritual power into the blade.
The powerful spiritual power exploded outward in waves, shattering Qianxiang’s white blades one after another. In an instant, the air around Wenren Sheng froze into frost, even coating his eyelashes in a thin layer of white snow.
He focused his mind and finally raised his sword, charging toward Qianxiang.
He Mu had been watching Wenren Sheng the whole time. Seeing that he seemed to have resolved his inner turmoil on his own, he let out a breath of relief.
Just now, he had been ready to disregard his status and hand over the Color Kill sword behind him to Wenren Sheng first.
With his spiritual power restored, Wenren Sheng finally unlocked the seal on his heavenly spiritual root. A chill gleamed in his eyes as his sword moves came out lightning-fast. In mere seconds, he closed in on Qianxiang again.
Qianxiang could also sense the change in Wenren Sheng. His moves grew more chaotic as he shouted in a panic, “You—heavenly spiritual root… it’s you again. Why aren’t you dead yet!”
“I’m still alive.”
Wenren Sheng stared at him intently, his tone calmer than ever before.
“Two years ago on Fragrant Ze Mountain, you couldn’t kill me.”
“Nine years ago at the Return to One Sword Sect, you couldn’t kill me. Eighteen years ago by my mother’s side, you still couldn’t kill me.”
“Today, I will kill you myself.”
Because of this heavenly spiritual root, he had been hounded by this fox demon since birth, hunted time and again—even in the Underworld, it had not let up.
All because of the Heavenly Court’s delusions of domination, the happy days in Wenren Sheng’s short life could be counted on one hand. He could not possibly forgive without any resentment.
Today was the day to end it all.
Wenren Sheng gripped the hilt with five fingers, his palm overflowing with spiritual power that seeped out continuously. A point of white light condensed at his sword tip, spreading along the edge until the entire blade was tempered into the color of ice and snow.
He had decided—this sword would henceforth be called “Heavenly Heart.”
Wenren Sheng kicked off the ground and leaped up, pulling Heavenly Heart back to his shoulder as he locked his gaze on Qianxiang’s neck.
Then, the white mist enveloping Qianxiang suddenly dispersed.
Qianxiang stared at Wenren Sheng in horror, just like in that rainy night two years ago when he beheld the sword struck by the sixteen-year-old boy out of pure hatred.
In that instant, the scene before Wenren Sheng transformed into hundreds of blue butterflies fluttering toward him.
Wenren Sheng’s breath hitched, and the speed of his descending blade slowed dramatically.
“Shengsheng,” a voice came from beside his ear. “Well done!”
“Wenren Sheng.”
Another voice.
“Have you heard your dao heart?”
His dao heart.
The dao heart he comprehended from those agonizing memories—what was it?
It was the loneliness of having no one to turn to, the happiness gained and lost, the bone-deep growth. After all that, what he comprehended was—
The Blue Butterfly brushed past his ear, the sound of its wings fluttering incredibly clear, like the throb of a heartbeat.
When he came back to his senses, Qianxiang’s head thudded to the ground.
His eyes remained unclosed, the mark of the Night Touring Gods still lingered on the bones, but his soul was completely severed. It lingered in place for two seconds before turning into wisps of flying ash and disappearing.
Not a drop of blood stained the Heavenly Heart.
At the tip of the sword’s blade, a point of firelight sizzled before quickly extinguishing. Finally, it left behind a beautiful, slender blue butterfly mark.
“Its Illusion Arts incantation has been engraved onto your sword,” He Mu said, his eyes brightening as he leaped down from the beam. “From now on, you can use this Illusion Arts too. This is a good thing.”
Just now, he had crouched on the beam and seen everything clearly. Wenren Sheng’s sword strike was extremely clean, without any hesitation—clearly the state achieved after man and sword became one.
After this, the sword was no longer any ordinary item. Instead, it became a divine weapon on par with the Golden Crow, Azure-White Jade, and even Color Kill.
If he was lucky, he might even comprehend a dao heart.
He Mu was delighted in his heart. He brushed the snowflakes off his shoulder and walked up to Wenren Sheng, beaming at him.
“Truly impressive. As expected of Wenqu Star’s—”
Before he finished speaking, the newborn divine weapon approached He Mu’s neck with a chilling killing intent.
He Mu’s pupils contracted slightly, and he held back the rest of his words.
The Wenren Sheng before him raised his eyes. His gaze was icy cold, covered in a layer of thin frost. This was probably the first time He Mu had seen him look at him with such eyes.
Devoid of emotion, colder than the cold winds of the Nine-Nines Cold Days.
“You,”
Wenren Sheng slowly parted his lips,
“who exactly are you?”
