Chapter 64: Qu Hun

Han Li traced the giant’s icy skin with his fingers, staring into his dull, vacant eyes, wondering what had befallen Zhang Tie.

Nine times out of ten, it was Master Mo colluding with Yu Zitong who had kidnapped Zhang Tie—once he’d made modest progress in the Elephant Armor Art—and fabricated his disappearance, fooling all of the Seven Mysteries Sect’s watchers. Then, secretly, they used some spell to strip Zhang Tie of his soul, transforming his body into this grotesque form, eerily resembling the perfected state of the Elephant Armor Art.

Han Li’s guess was remarkably accurate; the truth differed little.

Back then, Master Mo had suddenly conceived the idea of combining the Elephant Armor Art with Yu Zitong’s corpse-refining techniques to create a batch of obedient, fearsome undead warriors capable of dominating the mortal world. But within such a short time, he’d only managed to forge this one giant, whom he treasured as a priceless treasure, hiding him in a secret location beneath the mountain and bringing him back only on his last return.

Yet Yu Zitong had no interest whatsoever in such half-baked undead creatures—he even sneered at them. When he still possessed his physical body, he had countless methods to subdue these incomplete corpses; compared to true cultivators’ high-grade Iron Armor Corpses, their power was vastly inferior, useful only for intimidating mortals. Their sole advantage lay in their simplicity: easy materials, effortless refinement, accessible even to those with minimal magic power.

After a long while, Han Li suddenly retracted his hand from the giant’s face, shifting his uneasy gaze away from him, fixing his eyes on the broken stone door, lost in thought.

In that instant, he felt a chill in his heart—not from sorrow for Zhang Tie’s tragic fate, but from unease at his own coldness.

He had expected that upon learning his friend’s grim end, he would raise his head in fury, shouting aloud “Mo Juren!” and “Yu Zitong!” with hatred burning in his voice.

But in truth, beyond a faint sadness, he felt no great shock or anger—as if the one who had met this fate was not his former friend “Zhang Tie,” but a complete stranger.

Was it because he now understood that the Zhang Tie before him was merely a shell, not the man himself? Or had his heart grown utterly callous?

This selfish, detached behavior frightened even Han Li himself. Only now did he realize that, without noticing, he had become so alien.

Han Li finally snapped out of his daze, casting a complex glance at the giant, unsure how to address him.

Recalling Master Mo’s words—“soul lost,” “a walking corpse”—Han Li lifted his head and whispered softly to the sky:

“Brother Zhang, I suppose you’ve already been reborn. Your leftover body is useless now; let this younger brother borrow it. I will use it with great care—I hope you won’t blame me.”

After uttering these prayer-like words, Han Li felt a slight sense of reassurance, as if he had hypnotized himself, and then spoke to the giant again:

“Since you are the shell left behind by Brother Zhang, devoid of autonomous soul, I shall call you ‘Qu Hun.’ I hope you will lend me your strength in the days to come.”

Upon hearing Han Li’s words, the giant stood motionless, showing no reaction beyond his usual obedient expression—he truly possessed no independent consciousness, only capable of passively obeying commands.

“I’m talking to a soulless corpse like this? How foolish I am!” Han Li chuckled bitterly, shook his head, and walked lightly toward the stone hut.

“Qu Hun, follow me.”

Han Li had fully recovered from his gloom, his expression calm, as if nothing had happened. Indeed, he had become as cold and rational as he believed—no longer easily troubled by emotion.

This astonishing change—was it a curse or a blessing for Han Li, who was about to embark on the path of cultivation?

In the following time, Han Li busied himself for hours to handle all the aftermath properly.

He buried Master Mo’s corpse beneath a large tree, destroyed and discarded every remaining item in the stone hut, and even ordered Qu Hun to smash the entire structure into rubble, reducing it to unrecognizable ruins before finally stopping.

After all this turmoil, dusk had fallen; the sun had begun to set.

Han Li stood before the former stone hut—now a pile of broken rocks—and scanned the area thoroughly, finding no oversight, then nodded in satisfaction.

“Qu Hun, let’s go.”

“Tomorrow there’s still a mountain of tasks to handle. Too bad you have no soul and can’t speak—if only you could talk, I’d feel more at ease having someone to consult.”

Beneath the crimson glow of the setting sun, Han Li trudged along, his elongated shadow stretching behind him, muttering incessantly to the giant now named “Qu Hun,” as if he’d finally found a listener who would hear his confessions without complaint. At this moment, no trace of coldness or cruelty remained—he looked exactly like an ordinary neighborhood boy.

After settling Qu Hun, Han Li returned to his quarters. Inside, like a long-absent traveler, he touched the tables and chairs, glanced around, and murmured to himself:

“What a long day it’s been—it feels longer than the past ten years combined.”

Then, suddenly, he collapsed onto the bed and fell into a deep, silent sleep.

He was exhausted—spiritually and physically drained.

“Still, it’s good to be alive,” he thought, a faint smile on his lips, before slipping into sleep.

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