He tried to speak, but the breath left him as soon as he opened his mouth. His body collapsed like paper, limp and useless, and the two black eyeballs rolled away into the muddy water like marbles.
Zhu Xiaoyou instinctively reached out to catch him. The human skin and robe were soft and slack, drifting down lightly into his arms.
Silence. So silent that the wind could be heard whistling through the empty skin.
“Lin Yin.”
The boy’s voice was low, his body as still and heavy as stone.
He set his sword aside and carefully checked again and again.
Was it really him? It was. The familiar face, the familiar clothes. Zhu Xiaoyou had known them for eight years. How could he be mistaken?
The sword tassel fluttered in the wind.
The youth who once loved his sword more than anything now seemed to forget it entirely, roughened hands stooping to pick the eyeballs from the ground.
Xi Tao was more shaken even than Zhu Xiaoyou. His hand, still clutching the Buddhist beads, lifted and fell again. His eyes were vacant, lost, with no one to ask: “How? Who was it? Or it’s the secret realm itself?”
“Xue Cuo!”
It was Xi Tao’s voice. He could hardly bear to say it: “Don’t look. Don’t go any further!”
He froze mid-sentence. Xue Cuo was bending down. His hands shook with fear, but his movements did not falter. He picked up the other eyeball and, dripping wet, stepped up to Zhu Xiaoyou and silently held it out to him.
Zhu Xiaoyou’s voice was hoarse, eyes shimmering with tears. “He’s dead, isn’t he?”
Xue Cuo: “Yes.”
Dead. Hollowed out. As though something had scooped him empty, leaving not a trace of flesh or blood.
Tears rolled down Zhu Xiaoyou’s face. His chest heaved, his back rising and falling in torment, grief surging from his eyes in an unstoppable flood.
“The last word Lin Yin said was ‘run’. Why did he want me to run?”
No one could answer him, just as no one knew why Lin Yin had been reduced to an empty shell.
Was it an evil cultivator?
Or does the trial’s secret realm itself kill?
Xi Tao closed his eyes for a moment, but his brow was tightly knotted. He had heard stories of disciples occasionally vanishing in the secret realm.
But he himself had been here before, and save for the stone dragon he had never encountered anything strange. He ran through all the possibilities, dismissing them one by one, until only a stark conclusion remained. He clenched his fist; the Buddhist beads pressed so hard into his palm they hurt.
But he refused to think it. Could a disciple of the Immortal Sect truly commit such cruelty? That was not what he had been taught, not the Dao he believed in.
He said quietly: “Could an evil cultivator have slipped inside?”
Rain fell steadily, chill and wet.
At last Xue Cuo grew still. His dark eyes, usually bright and lively as the sun, now were dimmed, leaving only the dull glow of dying embers.
His little hands still smelled faintly of blood. The soft fingers trembled with spasms he could not control. He had thought it through sooner than Xi Tao, and in a hushed voice he asked: “Xi Tao-gege, how could an evil cultivator have entered? And if they could, and managed to kill, how could they hope to escape again? If there are monsters in here that feed on human flesh, why have we never met them?”
Xi Tao opened his mouth, but for a moment he had no words of rebuttal.
Zhu Xiaoyou stripped off his robe and wrapped Lin Yin within it.
Soft footsteps approached from behind. Xi Tao’s voice came, pained yet even, the voice of fairness. It was hard to imagine what kind of shock the boy was enduring. He said: “You… do you remember what that disciple said, when we met them? Could it… could it have something to do with them?”
Zhu Xiaoyou rose at last, strapping his friend to his back.
Xue Cuo drew the green Snow Sword and offered it to him.
There was no trace of a smile on Zhu Xiaoyou’s face. “You two…this is where we part.”
Xi Tao moved to follow. “Where are you going?”
Zhu Xiaoyou suddenly slashed, driving Xi Tao back several paces. “Where I go is none of your concern. What I do is none of your concern.”
Xue Cuo seized his sleeve. He understood. He knew. A killing demanded a life in return.
But who was the killer? Where was the murderer? How many were there? They knew nothing. Xue Cuo’s tears were a child’s tears: when children face horrors like this, they do not stop to think whether what they want is possible.
“I know what you mean to do!” he cried. “I can’t let you go alone!”
Zhu Xiaoyou replied, “You cannot stop me.”
Calmly, with unwavering resolve, he prised Xue Cuo’s fingers free one by one. His eyes brimmed with fury, promising bloodshed to come.
Xi Tao blocked his way, his gaze no longer cold. He pressed Zhu Xiaoyou’s shoulders. “If you lose your head now, you will never bear the consequences! You don’t even know who the murderer is, how will you find him? Zhu Xiaoyou, calm yourself. We’ll go to Fang Longxi-shishu, let the sect deal with it!”
Zhu Xiaoyou roared: “The sect? The sect is nothing but the lapdog of the great clans. Can’t you see it?”
“‘Leave no survivors’. Those were their words.”
“You think this is the first time? Not likely.”
He laughed harshly, tilting his head back, teeth grinding, lips tasting of blood. His tone was mocking, yet his words cut like knives.
“Treated like dogs, we cannot live. Even as cultivators, we’re still treated like dogs. Let them kill us at will? Then how is the Great Dao any different from the mortal world?”
“I wanted to master my skills, return to the mortal world, and uphold justice for the beggars. But now… now I see the mortal world was already rotten to the core. And the root of it all is here!”
“Oh, nobles? Heaven’s favoured sons? The sect’s pure-blooded heirs? Nothing but filth. Snakes and rats in the same pot. I’ll find them. I’ll ask them one by one. And I’ll kill them one by one.”
He raised his sword, brushed Xi Tao aside with ease, and step by step vanished into the curtain of rain—towards the place where the dragon circled overhead.
Xue Cuo stared in a daze.
It was as if he had never truly seen the world before. He had always thought it was good enough.
That all children were born into quiet forests, beside still lakes, growing up slowly and peacefully.
But the human world was nothing like that. Lives vanished like running water, and no one spared a thought for the villagers who disappeared from their fields.
He thought it was the mortal world that was flawed.
But then what of the Immortal Realm, where he had been born and raised, where he had known nothing but kindness? No one had ever given him an answer.
“Xue Cuo.”
Xi Tao called his name.
Xue Cuo turned to him. Xi Tao’s face was pale, and he reached out a hand, as though to brush the rain from his face.
Xue Cuo turned his head aside and wiped it away himself. He lifted his chin and said, “Xi Tao, I’m going to take a look.”
Xi Tao’s cheeks were wet as well, rain clinging to his lashes and trembling there. “Zhu Xiaoyou doesn’t want to drag us down. But a swordsman follows his will. I’ve chosen this path, and I’ll see it through.”
Overhead, the stone dragon still roared.
Rain drummed densely against the earth, gathering in shallow puddles, where a sheet of delicate skin floated slowly on the surface.
High above, spiritual treasures that veiled their auras drifted in the sky, while Daoist cultivators sat together in discussion of alchemy.
“In alchemy, comprehension is everything,” said one youth, a glimmer of intelligence in his eyes.
“Only by grasping the ways in which herbs restrain and complement one another can one refine a Wendao pill of true quality.”
“Then how does one heighten comprehension?” pressed a young cultivator.
“You need a solid foundation, deep contemplation—and of course, medicinal pills,” another replied. “Only through repeated practice can you sharpen your insight.”
“And attention to detail,” said a third, lifting his head. “When refining an immortal pill, you must choose with care—what to keep, what to discard. Look here: this ingredient brims with qi and blood, pure in nature and potent in effect. Best to take it often, but only in small portions.”
A thin cultivator spoke softly: “I see. Thank you.”
“You’re not a familiar face. Your first time here?”
The thin cultivator rubbed his brow helplessly, though his eyes were gentle. “Eh. My didi insists on eating something I’ve made myself.”
The group nodded, smiling in realisation, praising the brothers’ harmony and affection.
After some time, they marvelled at how demanding alchemy truly was. Not only skill, but comprehension, precision, and care. Their voices brimmed with sighs and wonder.
Just then, a cultivator said, “The Spirit Treasure stirs… and there are still living beings within?”
The refined-looking one touched his nose. “I’m still lacking. Could I take it?”
The others chuckled. “No need to trouble yourself, Kou-shidi. We’ll wait here while you fetch it. Remember, you must enter the Spirit Treasure itself to gather; otherwise, the secret realm’s master may notice.”
“Ah, what of it? Even if he does, he won’t say a word.”
“Not so. That Mad Daoist offended the Sect Head, was punished, and cast down. Better be cautious.”
“Then take care, Kou-shidi. We’ll watch and cheer you on.”
Kou En flushed with embarrassment, clasped his hands, counted briefly on his fingers, then set off with his sword towards the southeast.
Within the Spirit Treasure’s range, the mists were gone, and so the rain fell only lightly, in a fine drizzle.
Halfway across, Kou En caught sight of a boy, bare-chested, a pack slung over his shoulder, a long sword of green snow-iron in his hand, the blade slightly speckled with rust.
The boy’s chest was scarred with the marks of beasts’ fangs. When he noticed Kou En, droplets fell from his chin, and he asked:
“What are you searching for?”
Kou En gauged the boy’s cultivation first. Late Foundation Building Stage. Impressive. His qi and blood were strong, his features still youthful.
Pleased, Kou En’s voice was warm. “Don’t be afraid. I’ll be quick. You won’t suffer.”
He drew his sword gently, intending to soothe him further. But the boy suddenly unsheathed his own blade and charged.
Kou En’s smile still lingered at his lips. He hadn’t even glimpsed the other’s sword clearly before—
“I feel a bit of pain.”
His hand flew to his neck, coming away red.
His first thought was: impossible. It shouldn’t hurt. A fast blade never hurts. His sword was slower, true, but how could he feel pain?
His protective treasure suddenly flared, bursting with pressure that flung the boy back.
Kou En’s throat burned with agony. He scrabbled blindly for medicine, too flustered to know what he was grabbing. A few scraps of skin, some herbs, until at last his fingers found a pill. He uncorked the bottle, swallowed it, and the wound on his neck knit closed at once.
This time he steadied himself. He would not allow the boy a painless death! He was in pain, and he had a temper too!
But then he saw: the boy had not fallen. He was still standing, gaze fixed coldly on the scraps of skin at Kou En’s feet.
And in his eyes burned something Kou En had never seen before, something that might be called despair and fury fused as one.
