Chapter 429: The Most Vicious Method—Gentleness

That warm sensation existed for only one breath.

It was brief, like an illusion.

But Shi Hou's whole body was responding to it.

The crimson Jīnsè guāngdiǎn on his chest pulsed more vigorously than ever before, thump after thump, as if returning someone's summons.

Shi Hou pressed his palm against his own chest.

Something inside came alive.

It was not some great Principle, nor any divine Primordial Source.

It was something more primitive, more brutal.

It was the feeling of being "remembered" by someone.

The person sitting behind the broken table.

That cup of tea that had never been hot.

He was waiting.

He didn't know how long he had waited.

But he was still waiting.

Shi Hou clenched his fist, his knuckles cracking.

He no longer shed tears, nor did he tremble.

He just stared dead at the pulsating light point on his chest, his eyes growing sore from the stare, without blinking.

The darkness moved.

It wasn't a slow flow, but a violent vibration.

It was as if something that had been running for ages was suddenly interrupted in its rhythm.

That voice returned.

But the tone had changed.

The previous gentleness was gone.

The previous patience was also gone.

In its place was a thin, uncontainable irritation.

"What are you clinging to?"

The voice squeezed in from all directions, as if someone had choked it and forced it out.

"A loser who can't even protect himself?"

"He is trapped in a Prison deeper than yours."

"Forever unable to turn over."

"What if you find him?"

"Can you save him?"

Shi Hou remained silent.

He wasn't moved by the words.

He simply didn't want to deal with this thing any longer.

Reason with it?

Talk crap.

He lowered his head, staring at his chest.

The light point was pulsing.

Weak, but steady.

One beat.

One beat.

Another beat.

Like a song.

A song he had heard but couldn't recall the name of.

The rhythm was slow, ancient, ancient enough to seem as if it existed before this world took shape.

Shi Hou's mouth curved into a slight arc.

It wasn't a smile.

It was a defiant "You say yours, I don't listen" arrogance.

The voice no longer sounded.

It gave up explaining.

Or rather, it switched tactics.

The darkness began to reshape.

It wasn't the abrupt, jarring insertion of before.

It was gradual, bit by bit, like ink diffusing in clear water.

Lines emerged from the void.

First, a wall.

A gray‑white, mottled mud wall.

Then a table.

Old.

The wooden surface's grain turned yellow and black, and the tabletop was speckled with many circular water stains, all marks left by cup bases.

A chair.

The backrest was crooked, the chair legs uneven, and one leg was a short segment shorter than the other three.

Under the short leg was something padded.

Shi Hou strained his eyes to look, but could not see clearly.

The object was too small, pressed by the chair leg, only a tiny speck of gray edge showing.

Then—

A cup of tea appeared on the table.

A celadon cup.

The rim had a small chip.

The tea was icy cold, its surface covered with a hazy gray film, obviously left untouched for an unknown length of time.

Shi Hou's pupils contracted sharply.

He had seen it.

He had seen fragments of this scene.

The broken table, cold tea, the scent of old scrolls.

But this time it was not a fragment.

This time it was whole.

He could see a painting on the wall.

Landscape.

The colors were so faded they seemed about to vanish from the paper, as if it had hung for millennia without ever being taken down.

He could see a row of bookshelves against the wall.

The wooden shelves were packed with Bamboo Slips and ancient scrolls, all blanketed by a thick layer of dust.

No one had turned them.

They hadn't been turned for a very, very long time.

Shi Hou's foot moved forward involuntarily.

He stepped into the Study.

There was no door.

He entered the light and shadow directly from darkness.

Inside there was no one.

It was empty.

Shi Hou reached out for the cup of tea.

His fingertips passed through.

He couldn't touch it.

His heart tightened, he grew anxious.

He turned to grab a Bamboo Slip from the shelf—passed through.

He tried to pat the tabletop—passed through.

He tried to lift the broken chair—still passed through.

He couldn't grasp anything.

It was as if he weren't there.

It was just a shadow.

A lingering afterimage left in a crack of time.

Shi Hou stood in the center of the Study, panting heavily, his two hands clenching and releasing, releasing and clenching.

Then his gaze fell on the tabletop.

Beside the tea cup.

A shallow scratch.

Shi Hou's breath paused for a beat.

He crouched down, bringing his face close.

The scratch was not deep, as if drawn casually with a fingertip.

But its shape was clear.

"Wu".

A single character.

Exactly the same as the one carved on the stone wall of Water Curtain Cave.

Shi Hou's gaze, like a madman, swept toward the bookshelf.

He couldn't discern the specific content of the pages, but he could see the shapes of the characters.

The handwriting was the same.

Equally sloppy, equally casual, yet bearing an unyielding vigor.

Written by the same person.

Shi Hou pressed his face against the tabletop.

He couldn't touch the character.

But he could feel it.

The thing seeping out from inside that scratch was a hundred times more real than any 'image' or 'sound'.

Not a lesson.

Not Principle.

It is longing.

It is someone who has waited an unknown number of years, wanting to say something, has lifted the pen countless times, and put it down countless times.

In the end, only one character remained.

Enlightenment.

One character substituted for thousands of words.

The stone monkey's nose felt sore.

Something welled up inside his eye sockets.

He strained to hold it back twice, but couldn't hold it.

Teardrops rolled down from his dry monkey face, hitting the ground without a sound.

He crouched in front of that broken table, arms wrapped around his head, his whole body curled into a ball, his shoulders shuddering.

He didn't know what that person was called.

He didn't know what they looked like.

He didn't know where they were imprisoned.

But he knew one thing.

That person was waiting for him.

They waited so long that the tea had turned into ice-cold water, yet they couldn't bring themselves to pour it out.

They waited so long that dust on the books piled up layer upon layer.

They waited so long that even the pictures on the walls were about to fade to blank paper.

They were still waiting.

"Cry."

The voice came again.

This time it was very soft.

So soft it was like a sigh.

But underneath lay a current of resolve.

Resolve of having won.

"After you finish crying, accept your fate."

"This obsession will only make you suffer more."

"You can't even remember his name."

"What do you have to go find him with?"

The stone monkey did not answer right away.

His shoulders were still trembling.

His tears hadn't dried yet.

But he lowered his hands from his head.

He roughly wiped his face with the back of his hand.

Snot and tears smeared his hand.

He stood up.

His legs were still a bit weak, but he managed to stand.

The corner of his mouth turned up.

It wasn't a bitter smile.

It was the kind of smile that makes people want to punch you, a roguish, smirking grin.

"Name…"

His voice still trembled, hoarse like sandpaper scraping metal.

"Not important."

He raised his hand and firmly patted his own chest.

Inside, a crimson-gold speck of light was jumping with growing strength.

Each beat stronger than the last.

Each beat brighter than the last.

"I don't need to remember him."

The stone monkey grinned, revealing a mouthful of teeth still streaked with Bloodshot.

"Because he——"

"remembers me."

The instant the words hit the ground,

the point of light in his chest exploded.

It was not extinguished.

It shifted from a dark red to a blazing crimson-gold.

As if that sentence had fully activated something.

The whole darkness quivered.

That voice disappeared.

It truly vanished.

It wasn't hibernation; its mouth was blocked.

The stone monkey stood in the void, his whole body bathed in the crimson‑gold light surging from his chest.

He was still that emaciated, frail stone monkey with no magical power at all.

But his eyes lit up.

Light spilled outward from within.

Then he heard a movement.

It didn't come from outside.

It came from inside his own body.

Between the flickering light points, a faint, delicate sound was interwoven.

It wasn't the voice of the Prison master.

It was another.

An aged, smiling, gentle voice that made his bones feel soft.

It was only four words.

"Come... sit."