Chapter 53

“Xi Wuqiu stormed in, and the prince’s mansion indeed had several experts; Xi Wuqiu fought alone against many, enduring a grueling battle to subdue them and finally found Gao Muzhen—but the scholar had already been tortured to death. Xi Wuqiu lifted Gao Muzhen just as the Prince of Zhenbei returned from outside.” Zhu Gaoyang whispered, “The Prince of Zhenbei ordered him to put down Gao Muzhen and promised to forgive him, but Xi Wuqiu glanced at him and, right before his eyes, sliced Gao Muzhen to death with each stroke of his sword.”

“...And then?”

“Then, the Prince of Zhenbei was utterly enraged. Of course, Xi Wuqiu—who had not yet broken through—was no match for him. He was captured and subjected to inhuman torture.” Zhu Gaoyang chuckled softly, “That’s the story up to Chapter Nineteen.”

“...”

“You didn’t read Chapter Twenty, did you? You’re leaving me hanging.”

Pei Ye fell silent. He had intended to encourage him, but never expected the story to end like this.

"But... there's still Chapter Twenty, isn't there?" Pei Ye said weakly.

A faint glimmer flashed in the sky; a white jade sword talisman descended and hovered before them. Both paused slightly, then Pei Ye reached out and plucked it down.

Zhu Gaoyang raised his bloody hand and infused a trace of weak true qi; a cool, clear voice emerged: “I’ll arrive before sunrise. If your position changes, notify me immediately.”

The two fell silent for a moment, then exchanged a helpless smile.

Ming Qitian’s arrival was good news—but before sunrise, they had little chance of holding out.

Zhu Gaoyang let his head slump back onto Pei Ye’s shoulder and mumbled, “Her voice is so lovely.”

Pei Ye glanced at him: “Hold on until noon tomorrow, and you’ll see her in person.”

Zhu Gaoyang laughed loudly, then coughed weakly again.

They stopped speaking. Pei Ye pushed forward at full speed, and gradually, the daylight dimmed.

Under the repair of the dragon blood, Zhu Gaoyang’s complexion had actually improved somewhat, and his true qi had partially recovered—but organizing another ambush like the one at noon was now impossible.

According to calculations, at this time, the Candle World Cult should be catching up again.

Pei Ye called inwardly to the Black Chi: “Where are you?”

“No more than half an hour.” During this time, the Black Chi had clearly been chasing behind, running nonstop.

If they could mount the Black Chi, they wouldn’t need to fear pursuit for a while.

Pei Ye had just taken a deep breath when a rustling sound came from the nearby woods. He turned his head—and a blade’s glow was already before his eyes!

Behind the blade’s glow was a black robe, wings spread like an owl’s.

The purple-robed man hadn’t caught up yet; the black-robed man should have been slower—how could he suddenly appear ahead?

Though momentarily puzzled, the speed, the force—it was unmistakably similar to Wu Zaigu’s!

This was clearly the strongest enemy he could face; one misstep meant death—and yet Pei Ye felt a strange sense of familiarity.

After killing Wu Zaigu, Pei Ye had thought the harvest had come. Even if some loose ends remained, someone taller had already risen from the provincial capital, from the Divine Capital—no need for him to worry anymore.

But that was merely the prologue to true danger. Those taller figures had indeed risen to tower over the heavens—but the sky was still slowly collapsing.

After Jing Ziwang came Zhu Gaoyang; now Zhu Gaoyang was nearly dead, and tomorrow another Ming Qitian would come.

This matter had always concerned his life and death, yet he had always been nothing more than an ant waiting beneath the pillar holding up the sky, for fate to descend.

Will this conspiracy be halted at Ming Qitian? If Ming Qitian cannot stop it, who will take her place?

Pei Ye did not know, and could not decide. He could only struggle within the whirlwind, striving for a better outcome.

And even this chance to struggle—he rarely had it.

Now, at last, he had one.

Zhu Gaoyang’s sword had already been thrust forward. This blade was slightly longer than Pei Ye’s own, its feel and appearance elevated by several grades. At the pommel, a line of vermilion script was engraved: Jia-Xia, Xizhao Furnace, Caution.

Pei Ye gripped the hilt and drew the sword from its sheath.

The blade’s divine light was inwardly restrained—not like a mirror, but like autumn water. Its material was supple, almost unmetallic. Unlike Pei Ye’s own sword, which radiated an unmistakable, chilling cold the moment drawn.

Every sword rated “Jia” was forged with the heart and soul of a master swordsmith from the Eastern Sea Sword Furnace. They would carefully inquire about the wielder’s lifelong study of sword arts, personal experiences, preferred combat styles—all kept in strict confidence.

Then they would spend days and nights designing the blueprint, meticulously selecting materials, forging with absolute precision. When the sword was complete, they would engrave its rank, the furnace, and their own name upon it.

For swordsmen, such a blade bore a profound personal imprint—its fate was often to accompany its wielder through life and be buried with him.

On one hand, those worthy of wielding a “Jia”-ranked sword rarely let its reputation fade; they gave it a glorious “life.” On the other, those who pursued the Dao of the Sword would never accept a blade designed entirely for another—even if it came from father or master.

But for killing on the spot, it was more than sufficient.

Pei Ye flicked his wrist, and a dozen deep blue flame blossoms erupted. He still didn't know what purpose the flames served, but at least they could confuse the enemy's vision.

One sword shot forth through the blossoms, its edge reflecting the blue flames as it sliced into the attacker’s throat.

The black-robed man felt only a blur before darkness—and then a cold pain in his neck.

The black-robed men in the mountains clearly did not know how Wu Zaigu had died, nor had they imagined a youth could wield such a sword.

To be honest, even if Pei Ye had used Cloud-Sky Obscuring Feather Loss back then, even with Qun Shou and the Little Jiao Heart’s enhancement, he might not have threatened a fully healthy Qi-Sheng or Ba-Sheng cultivator.

But now, his dragon blood was full, his physical foundation no longer inferior to theirs—and the sword’s potential was further unleashed.

He withdrew the blade; it bore no blood, still smooth as new.

“These must be the ones the Candle World Cult sent to hunt me,” Zhu Gaoyang whispered.

If so, there were likely more than one.

This black-robed man had clearly advanced ahead; the others must be close behind.

Pei Ye was about to flee immediately when sudden, long-absent pain flared in his abdomen. Several tentacles surged forth, binding the still-breathing black-robed man and dissolving him into a blue paste, sucking him entirely in.

Even after countless times telling himself it was “it” eating, not him—this scene still made Pei Ye feel nauseous.

But he had no time to dwell on such emotions, for he clearly felt a faint stirring within the light cocoon in his belly as the body was absorbed.

Hatching accelerated.

And with that stirring, Pei Ye instinctively trembled.

No reason, no cause, impossible to suppress—it was a deep, primal dread from within his body, for the thing beginning to awaken inside his abdomen.

Pei Ye forced himself to endure the sensation, turned, and kept running.