Chapter 72: Chapter Seventy-Two, Episode Twenty

The air here is thick.

The stench of blood, rot, darkness, dampness, stifling heat, and lack of oxygen—Wu Chou had been submerged in this environment for who knew how long; occasionally recalling the cool, breezy air of the outside world, drawn into his nostrils, felt like a memory from another lifetime.

He still struggled to keep his mind clear, though this meant countless agonizing pains pressing heavily upon that single taut thread.

He could no longer tell which part of his body remained usable; the same area sent him seven or eight different kinds of pain at once. He no longer expected numbness to pain, but his mind’s acute ability to sense where injury occurred had indeed failed.

In the first three days, it was the Prince of Zhenbei who took action, his gaze filled with cruel delight. Wu Chou never imagined such a twisted expression could mar that stern, imposing face; looking at the complete array of instruments and the still-fresh bloodstains, the frequency of this chamber’s use clearly revealed the prince’s perverse tastes.

After three days, he left—by then, Wu Chou’s body was still shattered, unrecognizable as human.

The Prince of Zhenbei delighted in smashing a beautiful, perfect porcelain vase, then refused to bother with the shards.

But for Wu Chou, true suffering had only just begun: a master torturer would now take his master’s place, venting his unfinished rage upon this resilient body, testing his wild, fanciful ideas upon it.

His methods were far more meticulous, his understanding of pain far deeper; every tissue was pushed to its absolute limit before being utterly destroyed.

Just one day later, Wu Chou’s body began uncontrollably trembling the moment he saw him.

The days that followed stretched on endlessly, each one pushing his endurance to its limit, followed by an even more unbearable next day, until the torturer finally grew weary of this piece of rotting meat.

And this was the moment Wu Chou had been waiting for.

The Prince of Zhenbei had long forgotten him; the torturer believed him already broken—even if he occasionally regained consciousness, it mattered little, for he could no longer possibly resist.

Not to mention the Meridian Tree had been ripped out from the start; even if he somehow still possessed resistance, how had he endured all those screams, cries, and convulsions without using it?

Pure fantasy.

But Wu Chou had endured.

The Meridian Tree had indeed been removed at the start, but his eyes were not gouged out until the second day.

The so-called “Immortal-Gifted Pupil”—this left eye, though not used to store Qi, still retained a trace of it.

He carefully preserved this faint Qi, day and night; it was his key to the gate of life.

Until the moment he was taken down from the hook, treated like a piece of rotting meat.

A soft *plop*.

In the silent torture chamber, the torturer’s eyes bulged wide, as if seeing a slab of pork on the chopping block suddenly sprout a sharp spike, piercing the butcher’s throat.

Killing a man can take a month—or just a blink.

Wu Chou precisely controlled the last remnants of his Qi, wasting not a single drop, for he still needed it to sustain this body—bones and tendons ruined, utterly spent.

—In the past days, he had consumed no water or food for the first twenty days; afterward, he occasionally received scraps of swill.

Stepping over the corpse at his feet, Wu Chou, relying on memory, felt his way to the door.

When he was first dragged here, he had memorized every step of the path, preserving this memory as precious as his Qi.

Now, at last, he could retrieve it.

Outside the door—it was night.

Though his eyes could no longer perceive light, night held many other qualities; over the past dozen years, he had often walked alongside them.

The torture chamber lay in a remote corner; the escape route had been replayed in his mind thousands of times. This was the first time he walked it with his own feet, yet he knew it as intimately as his own breath.

Through the garden, over the rear wall and out of the city—this was the estate’s edge, requiring only passage through a refined little courtyard and a small, unnamed shed.

He would head for the shed first, for it must be the kitchen.

He needed food and water; climbing walls and escaping the city would demand precious Qi—he could not waste it sustaining his body.

He reached it, pushed the door—it was locked. He slipped through the window, groping blindly, until his hand brushed a warm earthen wall.

It was… the stove!

Wu Chou swiftly sniffed and felt, shoved the soft, gelatinous substance from the pot into his mouth, and swallowed it slowly, enduring the searing pain as the rot scraped his ruined mouth.

Entering here was the right decision, though it consumed both time and Qi—two equally precious resources.

But here, he found not only water and food, but also time—because the stove wall was still warm, meaning night had only just fallen.

Wu Chou sat for a moment, feeling warmth return to his body for the first time in ages, then squeezed back out through the window.

Moving forward, through thickets, he walked like a beast, guided by memory.

Here was the rock garden—his hand touched jagged stone, just as he remembered.

Here should be the flower beds—yes, fragrance had already reached his nose.

The sound of water—he had reached the spring pool.

Ahead should be the small pavilion; circle around, watch for the steps.

One hundred and fifty paces—he should have reached the little courtyard.

He didn’t know who lived here; he’d better detour.

Suddenly he froze—a light-bodied figure was kicked out of the courtyard, rolling twice before landing on the ground.

Wu Chou stood motionless in the shadow of the trees, merging with the night.

Then came another set of rapid footsteps—followed by a shrill female voice: “Worthless thing! How dare your pig’s hands, always washing chamber pots, touch my hairpin?!”

The woman on the ground let out a choked “Ugh,” then fell silent.

Wu Chou could not see, but he recognized that sound well—it was a heavy foot stomped squarely on the stomach.

“You think this hairpin is beautiful? Do you want to try wearing it?! You filthy slut, you want to touch it? Here—touch it! Touch it!”

The sound of a sharp object piercing flesh—the hairpin.

Then hurried footsteps fled, accompanied by soothing words: “Miss, Miss, calm down—oh, why dirty your hands on this pig?”

The piercing stopped.

The girl stood up, panting, shrieking: “Kill her! Feed her to the dogs!”

“Yes, yes! Feed her to the dogs! Feed her to the pigs! Don’t let this filth ruin your health!” As he spoke, he kicked the fallen girl in the face.

Wu Chou hesitated for less than a second.

He reached up and plucked a leaf from a tree.

Only after making this decision did he realize he was still, vividly, alive.

For the past dozens of days—through the darkness of the torture chamber and since his escape—he had been nothing but a machine driven by survival.

Now, the Qi he had guarded day and night flowed out without restraint; Wu Chou became a ghost woven into the wind.

One leaf severed the throats of two people. The girl reached up, touched her neck, and felt blood gushing onto her hand; she raised it, her bright eyes filled with lingering terror.

Wu Chou watched the mistress and her servant fall before him.

Only half his Qi remained—he could still scale the courtyard wall, but not enough to reach beyond the city.

Wu Chou heard the tortured girl slowly rising from the ground; now that her mistress was dead, she would surely not be spared—but she would not have lived anyway.

He had not done this to save her.

Wu Chou slowly collapsed to the ground, and suddenly understood: escaping, returning decades later to inflict the same torment upon his enemies—that is revenge. But to throw away the chance of life now, to repeat the very act that had reduced him to this—this is victory.

—You thought the torment of dozens of nights had utterly destroyed me, but it changed not a single drop of me.