Chapter 5: The Sword Venerable

Huaichen was still mourning the rare Spirit Flower. “Sword Venerable Ning,” he said quietly.

Yi Xuefeng froze for a moment, then said, almost disbelievingly, “Ning Yu?”

Huaichen nodded. “The very same.”

Yi Xuefeng was stunned a while longer—before a trace of a smile finally, belatedly bloomed across that gorgeous face.

Yi Xuefeng’s features were so exquisite they bordered on androgynous. He had always loved to smile, yet somehow, even with his lips curved and eyes bent with mirth, that smile gave off a false, icy distance—as if the smile had been painted on, unsettling to look at for too long.

But now, the smile on his face was feather-light, the long tails of his eyes gently hooked, and his glassy eyes seemed suddenly scattered with sparks—then erupted into a wildfire that swept the plains.

In a single instant, the painted branch of a false flower became a beguiling sprite.

Huaichen, without realizing it, went a little dazed.

Yi Xuefeng, upon hearing that name, instinctively bolted for the door—but before he could get out, he turned and came back.

Huaichen was baffled. “Little Immortal Lord, aren’t you going?”

Yi Xuefeng raised a hand and pulled loose his hastily wound hair, mumbling, “I’ll go in a moment.”

Seeing that he apparently meant to change clothes before receiving the honored guest, Huaichen thought nothing of it, bowed, and went out to wait.

A short while later, the door creaked open and Yi Xuefeng stepped slowly out.

Huaichen glanced up absentmindedly—and his face immediately turned green.

Yi Xuefeng had unearthed, from who knew where, an outfit stitched from top to bottom with dazzling gold thread: phoenixes spreading their wings, a hundred flowers in full bloom, opulence beyond measure. A row of enormous pearls studded the lapel, and his carelessly bound hair had been swept up and secured without a single stray strand beneath a jade crown, fully displaying the cinnabar curling mark at his brow.

The living, breathing image of a fool-rich, empty-headed young lord.

Yi Xuefeng blinked. “Well? What do you think?”

Huaichen appeared to be suffering a toothache. After a long internal struggle, he managed with great difficulty, “Very… very nice.”

Judging by the face alone—it was very nice indeed.

Yi Xuefeng was relieved.

The man had been beautiful since childhood. The only problem was that his eyes were just a little blind.

The eyes-blind Yi Xuefeng noticed none of Huaichen’s complicated expression. Outwardly calm as still water, inwardly he was giddy, transmitting to Qieyun in a rush.

“I didn’t mishear, right? He really said Ning Yu? Well, of course—apart from my Senior Martial Brother, who in the Three Realms could deserve the title of Sword Venerable?”

Qieyun: “Y-yes, I suppose…”

“What kind of face will he make when he learns I’m still alive, I wonder?”

Qieyun: “Hmm…”

“Son, what do you think of my clothes? Why was Huaichen looking at me so strangely just now?”

Qieyun: “…”

And suddenly, Qieyun remembered exactly where its own chattering, prattling nature had come from—even before falling into Devilhood, Yi Xuefeng had been a flighty thing who could rabbit on for an entire day just hunting down one person.

Seeing the joy on his master’s face about to brim over, Qieyun hesitated a long while before venturing, “But, Father, doesn’t something strike you as strange? A hundred years ago, Ning Yu’s cultivation was already counted among the very best of the Three Realms. Even your grandmaster said he would surely ascend within ten years. But now a hundred years have passed—even that young upstart Lord Linfan has ascended. So why is he still lingering in the mortal realm?”

Yi Xuefeng said, “I don’t understand a word you’re saying.”

Qieyun: “…”

It’s over. This man’s brain has stopped working entirely—it’s stuffed full of that damned Ning Yu.

Qieyun said, “Anyway, I have a bad feeling about this.”

Yi Xuefeng said, “I can’t hear you.”

Qieyun: “…”

From childhood to now, Yi Xuefeng’s brush-offs had never amounted to more than a handful: either “I don’t understand” or “I can’t hear you.” Several hundred years had passed, and this bratty little streak still hadn’t changed.

Deaf to everything, Yi Xuefeng followed Huaichen toward the front courtyard, feet barely touching the ground, chattering nonstop with Qieyun the entire way—the very picture of uncharacteristic behavior.

Since falling into Devilhood, Qieyun had never heard Yi Xuefeng this happy, this talkative. Seeing the laughter brimming in his eyes, it tactfully refrained from pouring any more cold water.

Yi Xuefeng drifted along in a daze—until rain began to fall from the sky again, and those cold drops landing on his face finally brought him half-awake.

Back then, after Yi Xuefeng fell into Devilhood, despite holding an exalted seat, in the eyes of the Savage Wilds’ Devil Cultivators he was nothing more than an ornamental vase—all show, nice to look at, and nothing more.

The righteous scorned him, and his fellow Devil Cultivators never treated him as one of their own.

And moreover…

Ever since his rebirth, Yi Xuefeng had been unconsciously avoiding one extremely important question.

He had died on New Moon Day in the righteous path’s Devil-Slaying Array. And of those who knew of his youthful grave injury—that on New Moon Day he must not rashly use his Spiritual Power—apart from his Shizun, who had been in Secluded Cultivation for decades, only one person knew: Ning Yu.

Back then, Yi Xuefeng had been trapped in that array like a helpless mortal, his Spiritual Power siphoned away drop by drop as he slowly died. However deep his despair, he had refused to believe Ning Yu was the one who betrayed him.

If his death truly had something to do with Ning Yu…

At that single thought, cold flooded through his entire body, and he didn’t dare think further.

All those years, Yi Xuefeng thought, if he had wanted to kill me, he had countless opportunities to strike. Given his nature, he would never stoop to something so beneath contempt.

With that thought, he gradually calmed.

In any case, one day he would return to the Savage Wilds and get to the bottom of his own death. Suspecting this person and that here was useless.

The Cold Huai River saw rain for more than half of every year. Huaichen, practiced, opened the umbrella to shield Yi Xuefeng from the drops.

Whether out of instinctive fawning or instinctive fear, the umbrella in Huaichen’s hands kept drifting toward Yi Xuefeng’s side, leaving most of his own body in the rain—before long, he was shivering.

Yi Xuefeng came back to himself and frowned. He reached out, gripped the umbrella’s handle, and nudged it gently back toward Huaichen.

Huaichen stared at him in astonishment.

“Careful, or you’ll catch cold,” Yi Xuefeng said.

Huaichen gazed at him blankly for a long while—then the tips of his ears suddenly flushed red, and for some reason, the rims of his eyes went slightly pink as well.

Yi Xuefeng said to Qieyun, “Disaster. He’s about to be frightened into tears again. Am I truly so terrifying?”

Qieyun, ever helpful, offered, “Father, have you forgotten? Back when you fell into Devilhood and went to the Immortal Grand Assembly alone, beating every fresh-faced young cub there one by one—they all looked at you exactly like this.”

A mixture of fear and wounded grievance.

Yi Xuefeng: “…”

Yi Xuefeng frowned in rebuttal. “That was called sparring.”

Qieyun said, “Oh, please. You were just holding a grudge because back then they said a toad lusting after swan’s meat—you weren’t worthy of Sword Venerable Ning.”

Yi Xuefeng was silent for a moment before saying, “Well, who told them to compare my Senior Martial Brother to swan meat? Beating them was going easy.”

Qieyun: “…”

THAT’S what you took offense at!?

As a youth, Yi Xuefeng’s temperament had been thoroughly docile, and though not particularly vindictive, he had never once tolerated anyone saying a single word against Ning Yu since childhood. Because of this, he’d clashed with the Returning Swan Mountain disciples more times than he could count.

Qieyun went silent, playing the perfect mute.

Deprived of Qieyun’s chatter, Yi Xuefeng hesitated a long while before asking Huaichen, “Did anyone else come from Returning Swan Mountain?”

Huaichen wiped his eyes and answered obediently, “The Green Forest Lord of Returning Swan Mountain arrived yesterday.”

“Oh,” said Yi Xuefeng. “Then has lodging been arranged for Sword Venerable Ning?”

“Everything has been seen to. The Little Immortal Lord needn’t trouble himself.”

“Oh,” said Yi Xuefeng.

He was being strange the whole way, and Huaichen stole several puzzled glances at him.

The hand Yi Xuefeng had resting on his forearm kept unconsciously rubbing and kneading a small piece of fabric, his brow faintly knotted—as though he were nervous.

Huaichen paused, then belatedly understood. The Little Immortal Lord might be exalted in status, but he was still only a youth—so proud and aloof that he rarely interacted with anyone. Being suddenly sent to receive the Devil Cultivator Sovereign whom the whole Three Realms dreaded to even approach would naturally make anyone tense.

With that thought, Huaichen’s fear of Yi Xuefeng diminished considerably.

Huaichen led Yi Xuefeng down a corridor lined with countless Golden Bells on both sides. As they neared the reception hall, he ventured carefully, “Little Immortal Lord, Sword Venerable Ning may be a Devil Cultivator of the Savage Wilds, but rumor has it he was close with Lord Linfan. Surely he won’t make things too difficult for you…”

So please stop wringing my sleeve. You’re going to crush the fabric into wrinkles.

Yi Xuefeng nodded absently.

Seeing that even the name of Lord Linfan drew little reaction from him, Huaichen secretly let out a breath of relief, his temples already beaded with cold sweat.

A few more steps—and then Yi Xuefeng, who had shown no reaction all this while, abruptly stopped dead.

Huaichen, oblivious, kept walking. The edge of the umbrella caught square against Yi Xuefeng’s head, dragging him two stumbling steps forward.

Huaichen jumped in fright, straining onto his toes to lift the umbrella higher, and said in a shaking voice, “A-are you all right, Little Immortal Lord?”

As if he hadn’t noticed the umbrella at all, Yi Xuefeng was staring at him, small face drained white, lips moving faintly—without a single sound.

Huaichen froze in terror, thinking he was about to be made to answer for it.

Soon enough, Yi Xuefeng recovered his voice. He murmured, “What did you just say?”

Huaichen’s arms trembled with fright. “Huaichen deserves death—he shouldn’t have mentioned Lin… before the Little Immortal Lord—”

Before he could finish, Yi Xuefeng stepped forward and seized him, saying urgently, “Not that! What did you say Sword Venerable Ning was just now?”

Huaichen, tears welling in his eyes, took a long moment to work out what was being asked.

He stammered, “Sword Venerable Ning is… a Devil Cultivator of the Savage Wilds…”

Yi Xuefeng said, “I don’t understand. Say it again.”

“…” Huaichen could only repeat, “A Devil Cultivator. Of the Savage Wilds.”

Yi Xuefeng said, “A Savage Wilds what?”

Huaichen: “…”

“A… Devil… Cultivator.”

Yi Xuefeng: “…”

The two of them had reached the entrance of the reception waterside pavilion—one straining on tiptoe to hold the umbrella as high as it would go, the other dressed like a strutting peacock in full display, drawing endless curious stares from the disciples nearby.

Seeing the blankness all over Yi Xuefeng’s face, Huaichen froze for a long while before saying haltingly, “Little Immortal Lord, Sword Venerable Ning is just ahead, in the Falling Cloud Waterside Pavilion. You…”

Yi Xuefeng stood dazed for a long time before an “Oh” escaped him, as though waking from a dream, and he followed Huaichen toward the pavilion with his soul half departed from his body.

The Falling Cloud Waterside Pavilion sat amid an enormous lake. Raindrops struck the water’s surface with crisp little sounds, lulling one toward drowsiness.

Yi Xuefeng’s mind was a perfect blank. In a haze, he followed Huaichen into the pavilion—and before he could prepare himself in any way, he looked up and met, dead-on, a pair of the coldest, most indifferent scarlet Devil Eyes in existence.

Yi Xuefeng: “…”

Darkness swam before Yi Xuefeng’s eyes.

Three sides of the Falling Cloud Waterside Pavilion were hung with hollow-carved bamboo blinds. The damp wind swept in off the lake, stirring them gently upward.

The Sword Venerable Ning of legend—who had unified the Devil Cultivators of the Savage Wilds with an iron fist—sat in a cushioned chair in a black robe of hidden pattern, his frost-glacial face full of impatience.

Ning Yu had always been cold as frozen frost, his bearing terrifyingly formidable—in the old days at Returning Swan Mountain, apart from Yi Xuefeng, not a single soul had dared come near him.

Now, a hundred years on, his cultivation was higher still, and the Spiritual Power of a Devil Cultivator was by nature eerie and sinister. Now, merely by sitting there, his razor-edged aura induced an overwhelming urge to sink to one’s knees.

Song Jingsheng sat at a polite distance. Nothing she said drew so much as a reply from Ning Yu, and the atmosphere was excruciating.

He didn’t even look at her, his cold gaze drifting through the gaps in the pearl blinds to the distant lake with its rings of ripples, lost in whatever thoughts he held.

A cup of clear water sat at his hand, his well-defined fingers resting idly on the table.

Perhaps bored, those slender fingers curved and gave a light tap—and the water in the cup froze to ice in an instant, wisps of white mist and Chilling Intent rising from it. Then the fingertip tapped the table again, and the ice water flashed back to a rolling boil, bubbling with steam.

Throughout the entire pavilion, the only sound was the faint tap of his fingers against the table, while the cup of water froze, boiled, and froze again without cease…

Song Jingsheng watched him play with himself as if no one else existed, the corner of her mouth twitching, her smile nearly frozen onto her face.

Just then, Huaichen’s voice came from outside. Song Jingsheng started—and quietly, imperceptibly, released a breath of relief.

Moments later, Yi Xuefeng wandered in, soul adrift, eyes lowered, not daring so much as a glance toward Ning Yu.

The moment Song Jingsheng saw Yi Xuefeng’s retina-searing outfit, her face nearly turned green.

She shot him a look of bitter disappointment before forcing a smile and saying, “Sword Venerable Ning, this is Fuyu, Lord Linfan’s son.”

Ning Yu’s fingers paused, and he finally tilted his head, giving Yi Xuefeng one cold glance.

Yi Xuefeng’s head was still full of that single line from Ning Yu, a hundred years ago—”the Dao and the Devil Walk Different Paths”—and for a moment he had no idea how to react.

Seeing Ning Yu finally respond, Song Jingsheng let out a great breath of relief and said to Yi Xuefeng, smiling warmly, “Fuyu, Sword Venerable Ning and Lord Linfan were the closest of friends. When you were little, he even sent you gifts—the Longevity Jade in your room was a gift from the Sword Venerable. Come here quickly…”

Yi Xuefeng wanted absolutely nothing to do with walking over there. All he wanted was to turn and flee.

Song Jingsheng said, “…Call him Adoptive Father.”

Yi Xuefeng: “…”

Never mind. He no longer wanted to flee—he wanted to dash his head against a wall and be done with it.

Senior Martial Brother becomes Adoptive Father…

Not even a storybook would dare write something so shameless.