Chapter 67: Chapter Sixty-Seven: Asking Chou

Xu Wei’s face darkened with a flush of green as he lowered his voice: “What joke is Master Xing making? Even the Ming Jianzhu can’t be matched in strength—what skill do I have to outmaneuver her?”

“It’s not about whether you have the skill, Xu Biejia. You’ve served Tang for three years—has your mind still stayed on Kunlun’s Southern Peak?”

Pei Ye had never seen Xing Zhi so ruthless; he wondered if the Black-Sash Sorcerers of Immortal Platform held higher rank than a provincial Biejia. He glanced at the silent Chang Zhiyuan, pondering the question with his meager common sense.

“It’s because this task must fall to you and you alone. You’re a government official drawing a salary—when crisis strikes, you claim you lack the skill and refuse? Then who will step forward? County Magistrate Zhao? The several military officers? County Magistrate Chang? Or the soldiers? Should it be the thirty thousand people of Fenghuai?”

Xu Wei’s face grew even darker, tinged now with pallor, when suddenly his eyes lit up: “The Ming Jianzhu! She’s such a person—she could—”

Xu Wei realized his mistake mid-sentence, fell silent, and began twisting his teacup between his fingers.

Xing Zhi gave him a cold look and let out a sharp laugh: “I didn’t know the Kunlun Yanshi Palace had such audacity—or that your Xu family’s heads grew two extra brains—to dare ask the Jianjun’s only disciple to die for you, Xu Wei.”

This truly stung Xu Wei’s pride. The earlier words had been said, and he knew himself well—he’d come here to indulge and enjoy. If he truly sought advancement, would he have come to this remote province with such credentials?

His spine had long been poked numb by pleasures in the provincial capital; Xing Zhi’s words meant little. His earlier expression had merely been crushed by the grim situation.

But to have his sources of pride—his family, birth, sect, talent—so mocked truly stirred his anger. Yet he had no outlet: he’d spoken foolishly himself, and these things meant nothing before the Ming Jianzhu—they were nothing but mud.

Pei Ye watched the Xu official’s face and thought: he’ll never master Yun Tian Zhe Mu Shi Yu.

When “stripping away all” is required, the lighter and fewer the things stripped, the easier the success. He himself had been in ruin—no wonder Yueye had said, “At least now you might learn it.”

But the things Yueye had stripped away back then—weren’t they far more than what this Xu Biejia has lost?

Thinking of this, Pei Ye looked up at the sky and felt it was time for the old man to rise. He’d said all he needed to say; the rest was for those who ate meat to plan.

He rose and bowed to the three officials before taking his leave.

…

Carrying a basin of hot water from the boiler room, he passed through the courtyard and was startled by the crowd gathered beneath the pear tree. Local and provincial clerks huddled together, whispering in hushed tones—so quiet that Pei Ye wondered if he’d wandered into the wrong place.

He stared at them oddly, spotted a familiar face, and whispered: “What’s going on?”

“Shh—” The man didn’t turn his eyes, only raised one finger to his lips.

Pei Ye followed his gaze and saw an open side room: a figure in white robes leaned on the table, one hand turning pages, the other gently stroking a black cat.

“Ming—Qi—Tian—” the man mouthed silently.

“Oh…” Pei Ye understood.

He’d been too isolated these past years; even knowing the “Crane List’s third” was astonishing, he hadn’t truly felt the weight of the person’s renown.

The weight of the words: “I am Ming Qitian.”

“The last Crane List figure I saw was five years ago—Qi Wuming, the Twenty-Fourth Generation ‘Knife Demon’ of Bai Lu Palace, passing through our province. Back then, seeing him was impossible—who’d ever imagine that today, waking up, Ming Qitian would be right before us?”

“He was uglier.”

“But he was still a decent man—nothing like the title.”

“Titles are passed down—they’re not made to fit the person.”

“Ming Jianzhu is different,” murmured a provincial clerk. “Bai Lu Palace has long been deeply entangled in the world, their connections vast. Yunlang Mountain? No one’s heard of them linked to any faction. No one’s heard Ming Jianzhu close to anyone. My aunt in the Imperial Capital says the Ninth Prince asked Yan Feiqing to arrange a meeting—because it was rumored Ming Jianzhu once watched Yan Feiqing practice swordplay. They say Yan Feiqing turned pale when he received the invitation.”

“Hah, he didn’t want to talk about swordplay…”

“Shh—”

“Mainly, no connections, you see?” said an older man. “Yunlang Mountain—no one’s heard them tied to anyone. No one’s heard Ming Jianzhu close to anyone. My aunt in the Imperial Capital says the Ninth Prince asked Yan Feiqing to arrange the meeting—because it was rumored Ming Jianzhu once watched Yan Feiqing practice swordplay. They say Yan Feiqing turned pale when he received the invitation.”

“Hahahaha.”

Pei Ye found this amusing. He’d originally planned to seek out Ming Qitian and ask how to face the enemy—because in his simple view, no matter how much Xing Zhi and Xu Wei argued, only Ming Qitian could possibly stand against the Immortal Jun. Asking the person directly was the most direct path.

But now, with so many eyes watching, he felt too shy to approach—so he carried the basin to the old man’s room.

He heard a half-sentence behind him: “I wonder if Ming Jianzhu doesn’t even have a cup of tea on her table…”

Then came a rustling of people shifting uneasily.

…

Pei Ye entered the quiet little room. It was cleaner and more refined than his own home, the bed softer.

He nudged the old man on the bed. The old man opened his eyes.

“Back?” the old man rasped.

“Yeah. How have you been these past two days?”

“Ate well, slept well. Don’t want to go back.” The old man’s mood seemed good—perhaps because the boy had returned unharmed.

“When this is over, we’ll use our reward silver to buy a good house.” Pei Ye poured the hot water into the large tub. “Take a bath. It’s been days.”

The old man nodded, struggling to lift himself.

Pei Ye helped him up, then turned to fetch well water from the courtyard.

Back in the room, he helped the old man remove his nightgown, revealing more heart-shaking scars.

This was a body worn to its absolute limit. Even after seeing it many times, every time Pei Ye looked closely, every thought of it stirred an uncontrollable rage.

It wasn’t merely “serious injury.” These weren’t wounds from battle.

These were marks left by hooking and chaining limbs, by every tool and method devised to inflict maximum pain.

Every patch of skin, every bone, every tendon had been meticulously tortured—month after month, in utter darkness, amid the stench of his own feces and blood, living as neither man nor ghost—only then could such marks remain.

Pei Ye silently lifted the old man’s shockingly light body and lowered him slowly into the perfectly warm water. His fingers brushed the wrinkled, soft skin, gently washing.

“Why not tell me?” Pei Ye suddenly said.

“Tell you what?”

“Who did this.” After witnessing so many things beyond his understanding these past days, Pei Ye, though never leaving Fenghuai, felt the world had shrunk—many things were no longer out of reach.

“Tell me. One day, I’ll cut off his head.”

The old man leaned against the tub’s edge, his lips faintly curling.

“With you? How long would that take?” he rasped.