Chapter 76

Azure clouds like mist encircled the mountains, wrapping them in their embrace.

Shen Yu was held in his arms and heard his childlike reply. Amusement curved his brows and eyes as he disdainfully patted the youth’s head and responded, “Yes, can you let go? This Master still wants to taste the snow pear soup you made yourself.”

Although he knew the “yes” from Shen Yu’s mouth did not carry the deeper meaning he desired, Wen Liuhe still felt delighted to hear it.

That delight soon brimmed with sweetness. Wen Liuhe now focused single-mindedly on how to win over his Master.

Though he yearned to seize him by force outright, he could not beat Shen Yu at present.

Fine then—moderation in all things. Better to boil the frog in warm water, nice and slow.

Wen Liuhe released the person in his arms and led him to the stone table in the courtyard. “Then wait here. I’ll go check the kitchen.”

With that, Wen Liuhe turned reluctantly and headed toward the kitchen.

Shen Yu propped his chin on his hand as he sat beside the stone table. His long lashes drooped, casting a shadow across his pale eyes.

He gazed thoughtfully at the youth’s hurried back as he dashed to the kitchen, a strange feeling stirring in his heart. The boy was being far too clingy lately.

Wen Liuhe rummaged through the kitchen, rolled up his sleeves to reveal a section of arm hinting at his emerging adult physique.

In high spirits, Wen Liuhe dipped his fingers in water to wash the snow pears clean. He formed a hand seal, directing his lifebound sword to peel and core them before slicing into small chunks. Meanwhile, he soaked the silver ear fungus in clear water until soft, then tore the tough stems into tiny florets.

After bustling about, Wen Liuhe emerged from the kitchen carrying the snow pear soup. He saw a group of people in white Discipline Hall robes standing solemnly in the courtyard. An elder with frosted temples lowered his brows gravely as he conferred with Shen Yu.

Surprise flickered across Shen Yu’s face at first, then he let out a light chuckle, as if he’d heard an amusing joke.

The man’s gaze shifted, landing on Wen Liuhe at the kitchen door. He called softly, “Liuhe, come here.”

Wen Liuhe’s heart tightened. He carried the snow pear soup into the courtyard and set it on the stone table. His eyes slid over Elder White-Brow’s face as he frowned and asked Shen Yu, “Master, what’s this?”

Shen Yu lifted his gaze and glanced at him. “The Discipline Hall has summoned us to the Farewell Master Pavilion.”

Wen Liuhe sneered inwardly. Truly, any cat or dog dared disturb his time with his Master. Regret showed on his face, however, as he pursed his lips and asked Shen Yu, “Then what about this snow pear soup?”

Shen Yu’s lips curved in a smile. “It’s not like it can’t be made again.”

“Let’s go. It’s not a big deal—we’ll be back soon.”

The Changliu Mountains sprawled like a slumbering giant dragon, winding and crouching across the earth. Thin clouds drifted like white silk, the peaks’ outlines faintly visible within. Piercing white light filtered through the cloud gaps, falling upon the main peak of Taichu Vastness.

In the Farewell Master Pavilion, amid shafts of rosy dawn light, the peak masters of Taichu gathered. Clad in rainbow-hued immortal robes with hems fluttering, their expressions varied amid occasional murmurs.

They arrived by flying boat. Shen Yu brought Wen Liuhe down from the clouds into the pavilion, noting that Gu Changqing and Xu Buchan were already there.

The pair had just returned from the Sword Trial Assembly with their disciples when they were summoned. They were just as baffled, but the Farewell Master Pavilion was never a pleasant place to visit.

Since the matter concerned Wen Liuhe, a vague sense of foreboding stirred in their hearts.

Once everyone had arrived, the Discipline Hall Elder led them inside.

Qi Feibai stood in the grand hall, chin raised. He swept a cold glance over Wen Liuhe and snorted from his nose. “That day, this disciple witnessed Wen Liuhe commit indecent acts aboard the cloud boat. Here, I accuse Question Sword Peak disciple Wen Liuhe of an illicit affair with his Master, defying all ethics. Fellow uncles and elders, please render judgment and expel him from the sect.”

With that, Qi Feibai produced a handkerchief embroidered in gold and silver thread with flowing clouds and immortal cranes—the exact mark of Question Sword Peak’s peak master.

The hall fell utterly silent at his words. Everyone frowned and turned toward the accused.

Shen Yu flicked his sleeve and took a seat. The lifelike immortal cranes on his robe matched the handkerchief’s pattern perfectly. Though a smile lingered on the man’s lips, his eyes turned icy, like twin pools of still, deep water devoid of emotion.

Shen Yu let out a cold sneer. “Absurd.”

The sound carried invisible pressure. Qi Feibai’s face paled as he clenched the handkerchief fiercely.

The moment Wen Liuhe spotted the handkerchief, his expression darkened. He plunged a hand into the folds of his robe—empty.

Gloom settled over his features as he recalled the incident. That day, after pushing the cloud boat at full speed back to Taichu, he had let his guard down. It must have happened then.

Wen Liuhe cursed inwardly and glared coldly at Qi Feibai across the hall.

Shen Yu frowned, sensing something off about Wen Liuhe. He had no idea how his handkerchief had ended up in Qi Feibai’s hands, but the accusations were ridiculous and baseless—likely lingering resentment from their clash at the Sword Field.

Shen Yu reached out and patted the back of Wen Liuhe’s hand, soothing him in a deep voice. “We have a clear conscience.”

Wen Liuhe’s tongue pressed hard against his teeth. His heart raced at an unprecedented speed, blood surging to his brain along with the eerie demonic qi, nearly robbing him of thought.

During the time his feelings had driven him from Shen Yu’s side—in the clamor of the mortal world, in the dead of night, watching lovers from afar—Wen Liuhe had pondered much while clutching his sword.

About the demonic qi in his body. About his Dao heart. About his emotions.

Wen Liuhe had never been one for long-term plans; he lived step by step, following his heart. That changed upon entering the sect—upon realizing where his affections truly lay.

He had wanted to proceed cautiously, but from the moment he understood love, events conspired to force a choice upon him.

All choices stemmed from feeling emotion. Was this the love tribulation of the Emotionless Dao?

Wen Liuhe clenched his fists, veins bulging on the backs of his hands. He deeply regretted not slitting Qi Feibai’s throat back at the Sword Field and killing the bastard then and there.

Unaware of his disciple’s turmoil, Shen Yu lifted his ink-black lashes and fixed Qi Feibai with a stare. “A single handkerchief proves nothing. Nephew, don’t spread baseless rumors.”

“Of course, one handkerchief proves little.” A cold glint flashed in Qi Feibai’s eyes as he produced a colorful projection stone. “But what about this recording projection stone?”

Qi Feibai stared straight at Shen Yu. “Uncle, shall I activate it for you? Let all those present see the filthy intentions your cherished disciple harbors toward you?”

Wen Liuhe’s face changed.

Shen Yu narrowed his eyes and turned to Wen Liuhe. The youth met his gaze steadily, unflinching—like the wolf cub he had raised in his youth.

Shen Yu frowned as an ominous premonition stirred in his heart.

Qi Feibai watched them intently and raised the projection stone to activate it.

Shen Yu’s palm clamped down hard, seizing Wen Liuhe’s hand mid-seal.

But in that instant, a sharp sword light streaked out.

The sword’s cry pierced the air.

A broken sword evaded the divine sense probes of every powerhouse present. It shot forth with a clang, slamming the colorful stone into the ground.

The stone shattered like a spiderweb.

Qi Feibai staggered back several steps from the broken sword’s terrifying force. Its razor edge sliced his palm open, flesh tearing as blood poured out, staining his hand red.

Qi Feibai clutched his wound, his face twisting savagely as he glared at Wen Liuhe and burst into manic laughter. “If you have a clear conscience, then what was that? The Discipline Hall Elders will judge. Taichu will not harbor a monster like you!”

Everyone frowned and turned toward Wen Liuhe.

Murmurs and stares converged from all sides, like a bizarre deep mire dragging Wen Liuhe toward the brink.

It began with that inexplicable forced entry into this damned immortal sect. Three months locked away in winter. The vicious lashes scarring his back. The fragile balance of the dual qi within him shattered once more.

His throat burned with scorching heat.

Then, a warm hand settled on the back of his own.

Shen Yu’s hand.

Wen Liuhe jerked his head up. His gaze raked like a blade across Shen Yu’s exposed neck above the snowy collar, tracing upward—inches at a time—to his jaw, full lips, straight nose, rippling eyes.

Their gazes locked.

If Taichu could not tolerate such thoughts, then he would sever them himself. Simple as that.

Enlightenment dawned on Wen Liuhe. He smiled at Shen Yu. “But Master, what if I don’t have a clear conscience?”

Even after a century of trials and tempests, Shen Yu couldn’t suppress a twitch at his lips. “…”

Joy lit Qi Feibai’s face. “Scum like this—why not expel him from the sect? What’s the point of keeping him in Taichu?”

Wen Liuhe shot to his feet, summoning his lifebound sword. Before the crowd, he pressed the blade to Qi Feibai’s throat, his terrifying killing intent bearing down.

Qi Feibai never expected such audacity. Caught off guard, he met Wen Liuhe’s eyes—crimson as a beast’s, shrouded in devouring malice. Not human eyes. Demonic. Devilish.

Chill raced up Qi Feibai’s spine. He stumbled back in terror, twisting his ankle and falling. Wen Liuhe sneered, thrust the broken sword between Qi Feibai’s legs, and snatched back the handkerchief.

Qi Feibai stammered, “Demon… you reek of demonic qi…”

The faint words rang clear to every powerful cultivator present.

Events unfolded too swiftly, in mere instants. Divine senses swept toward Wen Liuhe. With his dual qi imbalanced, the truth the broken sword had concealed began to reveal its anomalies.

“His Dao heart is aberrant!”

The Discipline Hall Elder’s face twisted. He drew his sword, his subordinates closing in.

Shen Yu’s expression shifted. He leaped forward, white robes billowing. The Evil-Exorcising Sword flew from his sword bone into his grasp.

The ink-haired immortal in white robes blocked before Wen Liuhe, sword in hand. His smile vanished; robes and hair whipped wildly in the gale.

If the Discipline Hall took him away, the outcome was predictable. Innocent or not, he’d be flayed.

Shen Yu rebuked coldly, “Nonsense.”

“The Ruthless Dao Heart differs inherently from others. Emotional stirrings cause anomalies—how dare you link it to demonic qi?”

Wen Liuhe whirled around, staring fixedly at the man before him. No one knew better than he: he would leave Taichu eventually. He did not belong here.

But this man belonged to him.

With things at this pass, he was still too weak. Yet once strong enough, he would seize him back, lock him away, hide him forever. All who dared question? Slaughtered.

Wen Liuhe thought: Right now, one “nonsense” from you is enough.

One word from you suffices.

One word from you outweighs a thousand from the rest.

Decisiveness called for action. Wen Liuhe swung his sword, severing the Master Bell from his waist sash. The youth ignored paths ahead or behind—he seized only the now.

Wen Liuhe flashed Shen Yu a bright, dashing smile. “Master, just wait for me to come propose marriage.”

Shen Yu pursed his lips, brows furrowed as he watched him intently.

Wen Liuhe swallowed the bloody sweetness rising in his throat, demonic qi churning within. He swept his gaze around—hostile eyes everywhere. His own darkened; his immortal-demon dual cultivation could not stay hidden forever. Escape was paramount.

Broken swords hummed, buzzing without end.

Sensing his intent, the lifebound sword flashed into brilliant light and streaked into his sword bone.

Demonic qi suddenly swirled around the youth. Shen Yu’s grip tightened on his sword, disbelief flickering in his eyes.

Shock gripped the crowd. Suspicion before was now irrefutable fact.

A gust of wind blew, and the wayward disciple dissolved into swirling red qi, vanishing.

Gu Changqing frowned and stepped to Shen Yu’s side, cradling Wen Liuhe’s Taichu Soul Lamp.

The lamp flame wavered. At the edge where green met the wick, red mist coiled—the hallmark of demonic corruption.

Shen Yu extended a finger. The eerie red qi greedily wound onto his fingertip, instantly searing the tender pad.

The small burn on his bud-like fingertip looked ghastly.

Yet it told him plainly: the disciple he had nurtured for years had betrayed the sect—fallen to the demonic path at some unknown time.

Chill pierced Shen Yu’s heart again and again. His sword-gripping knuckles whitened, faint blue veins bulging on the back of his pale hand.

He had trusted Wen Liuhe time and again, guided him to the righteous path—only for this?

Absurdly, he had just defended the wretch.

Gu Changqing sighed inwardly. Wen Liuhe’s condition wasn’t something that had formed overnight. After three months of experiential training down the mountain, he surprisingly hadn’t noticed any clues at all. In the end, he, as the martial uncle, bore some responsibility for this lapse.

Gu Changqing pursed his lips and asked Shen Yu, “Junior Brother, what do you plan to do?”

“What else can we do?”

A laugh rumbled from Shen Yu’s throat. His expression was as calm as still water, his long lashes drawing a cold arc at the corners of his eyes, his voice icy.

“Kill.”