Chapter 71: Chapter Seventy-One: The Copied Manuscript

In the county yamen, Xing Zhi stared at the objects before her: wooden beads, books… and Ming Qitian.

What could be deduced from these?

She recalled Hei Chi’s instructions: “He only needs to touch a certain number of related objects to lock onto the target directly; we must use our minds to infer—this may be slower than Him, but it might also be faster.”

The martial treatises seemed somehow connected to Ming Qitian, but Xing Zhi flipped through them and found no Yunlang Mountain martial arts.

This was normal; though the volume even listed “Qishu Juejing”—though it could not name them, merely boasting them as a category—because it was included among the legendary “Five Paths to Ascension” circulating in the martial world.

Yunlang Mountain disciples were few and reclusive; only those of considerable status could learn any details.

As she pondered, a new possibility struck her: could the thing the Immortal Lord wished to destroy be Ming Qitian himself?

Though she did not yet know the true level of Taiyi Zhenlong Xianjun, if Ming Qitian would one day threaten it, no one would doubt it.

She recalled her own question: “Can they only find related objects? Is it possible they could find the thing directly?”

“It is possible.” Hei Chi’s calm voice echoed in her ear.

…

“Wooden beads, books, and Ming Qitian.” The black cat whispered on her shoulder.

“What?” Pei Ye asked.

“Information received from the three hosts,” the cat said. “They each locked onto these three objects.”

“What connection do these three have?”

“Not between them,” the cat said. “They point toward the same thing on different levels. For example, the beads might mean the object is wooden, or spherical…”

“Hmm… a spherical martial art connected to Ming Qitian?”

“…Let’s gather more clues,” the cat sighed. “First, follow it—it turned, what’s that place?”

“Martial school.”

Pei Ye quickened his steps; the familiar courtyard appeared before him.

Inside, a clamor rose as children of all sizes cheered.

“Master Huang! Master Huang’s here! Sit properly!”

A clatter of metal, the children sat upright; an elderly man in martial garb, over fifty, tied his belt and stepped out slowly.

On the night of the county yamen’s storm, three masters were summoned and none returned.

Master Huang, old and injured, had once been the most idle master; now he was the pillar, teaching four classes a day.

“Who slacked off?” he barked.

“No one!”

“Zhao Feihu slacked off!”

“You’re lying!”

“He was shitting for two full quarters!”

“Zhao Feihu, do you have that much shit?” Master Huang said, expressionless.

The children burst into laughter; Zhao Feihu stood, face flushed, head bowed, silent.

“I’ll spare you this once—don’t do it again!” Master Huang declared sternly. “Sit down.”

Pei Ye had never seen this face before; clearly, with the other strict masters gone, he had to play this role.

Master Huang sat slowly and spoke softly: “Today we study Chapter Twenty of ‘The Hero’s Broken Bones.’”

Before the children could cheer, a figure entered the gate, wearing a straw hat that hid his face.

Master Huang frowned, leaning forward to peer; he faintly recognized the figure: “Is that… Zhengguang, brother? What’s the matter?”

But the man walked straight in, passed the students, brushed past Master Huang, and entered the room.

A flash of deep blue beneath the straw hat tightened Master Huang’s heart; he reached to grab the man—only to feel his wrist seized from behind.

Startled, Master Huang turned; a familiar yet strange adolescent face appeared behind him, a graceful black cat perched on his shoulder.

“L-Little Pei?!” Master Huang gasped.

Pei Ye nodded, pointed to the old farmer who had entered, and raised a finger: “Shh.”

The black cat leapt lightly from his shoulder and followed the old farmer inside.

Master Huang stared, bewildered; Pei Ye smiled: “Master Huang, county yamen business—won’t take long.”

Master Huang nodded slowly, half-understanding, and actually stopped worrying about the room; he took Pei Ye’s arm and addressed the children, all watching eagerly: “You don’t recognize him? He’s the most gifted student we ever had.”

The children’s expressions mirrored Master Huang’s own half-understanding.

Master Huang added: “This is Pei Ye.”

A burst of shouts erupted; the noise in the school exploded—the story of who killed the Seventh Life Realm killer had been told countless times by the returning boys.

Looking at these excited, admiring faces, Pei Ye felt a faint daze—the contradiction between his identities as Fengwei and Jitou.

He smiled and nodded: “When this is done, I’ll come back and train with you all.”

Master Huang said gravely: “Little Pei will go to the state to compete in Jin Qiu’s Martial Tournament next month—learn from him.”

At that moment, the black cat emerged carrying a stack of papers; Pei Ye reached out to take them—and saw, at first glance, Master Huang’s crookedly copied Chapter Twenty of ‘The Hero’s Broken Bones.’

“Master Huang, I have to take this,” Pei Ye held up the papers toward him.

Master Huang stepped forward, slapped his hand down, his broad frame blocking the children’s curious glances, and boomed: “A fist manual? What’s the big deal? We’ve all taught it—take it.”

Pei Ye laughed, bowed: “I’ll come back in a few days for your guidance, Master Huang.”

“Guide you? Get out of here.”

“Someone from the yamen will handle the matter inside,” Pei Ye said, smiling as he gripped Master Huang’s wrist and whispered a final warning, then turned, scooped up the cat, and leapt over the wall.

Master Huang stood stunned, then turned and walked inside.

Everything was as before—except the scroll beneath the pillow was gone.

‘Where’s Zhengguang?’

Suddenly, a black shape entered his lower vision; he looked down—a human-shaped pile of ash lay quietly on the floor, embers still smoldering.

…

Elsewhere, Pei Ye leapt over the wall, still haunted by the images of those dozen faces full of life gazing up at him—he patted the black cat and whispered: “Do you truly believe we must stop Him, even if we sacrifice the entire Bowang State?”

The black cat glanced at the boy’s bewildered face; its emerald eyes were calm, quiet, and resolute. It spoke softly: “Words cannot convince you, Pei Ye. You only need… to see Him once.”

“Didn’t I already see Him? He was inside my body.”

“No,” the cat shook its head, its tail brushing the boy’s neck. “But luckily, you’re unlucky enough—today, you might see him.”

“Then… I’d rather not,” Pei Ye muttered, opening the copied manual. “Where does this point?”

“Open it,” the cat sighed; that cold, familiar amusement returned. “Then use your little brain.”

“A spherical martial art connected to Ming Qitian, written in terrible handwriting,” Pei Ye said bluntly.