Chapter 74: Gao Yang

Xing Zhi’s heart clenched, not from instinctive fear, but because she was still thinking—her mind had already made its first judgment—he’s here!

Bastard Xu Wei Zhou, not even a warning!

Xing Zhi formed a hand seal and spun around; [Water Autumn Lotus] lashed backward to bind, while faint white ribbons appeared in the courtyard—thin as gauze, sharp as ice.

Also drawn from the “Autumn Water” section of the [Autumn Water Jade Dragon Scripture]: [Autumn Water Cold Mist].

These two techniques—one controlling, one attacking—were perfectly coordinated, their affinities perfectly aligned; the key was that the cultivator could release both effortlessly in the midst of sudden shock.

Anyone who saw this would no longer scoff at the saying in Immortal Platform: “Even with countless duties, Xing Shi will enter the Mystic Gate before thirty.”

Yet though [Water Autumn Lotus] was as resilient as spider silk, what it faced now was no insect of similar size, but an eagle-owl.

Countless threads shattered without resistance; when Xing Zhi turned back, the towering, monstrous form had already filled her vision.

She drew her short sword, but a white shadow moved faster and rushed forward.

It was like a white rainbow shooting from the door—the door panel slammed against the wall with a clang.

Xing Zhi’s vision blurred; white qi instantly swept away the oppressive black mass, the lingering sword aura clearing everything—including the autumn lotus and cold mist.

When Xing Zhi’s gaze caught the two again, Ming Qitian stood in the courtyard, looking down; beneath her feet, a humanoid monster was pinned to the ground by the Shattered Heart Jade Nail, and fragments of qi, like scattered feathers and wisps of cloud, slowly faded.

Only then did the wind-tossed sleeves and strands of Xing Zhi’s hair settle.

‘So… so strong!’

Last night in the forest, Xing Zhi had only watched from afar; this was the first time she saw her wield a sword.

Cultivation had always been a tool to Xing Zhi; she never treated techniques as a lifelong pursuit, let alone had any passion for martial dao. But now, she truly regretted turning back too slowly—she had missed the full sight of that sword strike.

Yet when her gaze shifted to the dragon-transformed body, a thought rose in her mind.

‘But… how could the Immortal Lord be so weak?’

She walked over and bent down to examine it.

Not the Immortal Lord.

The Immortal Lord now wielded the Qiongqi’s body; even if He could alter His appearance, this was merely a powerful Frost Ghost… though unusually powerful.

Was this one of His “spies” scattered through the city? A fish that slipped past the Black Chi’s detection? Then why hadn’t the Black Chi…

A guess rose from within her heart, slamming into Xing Zhi’s mind—the woman suddenly froze, as if struck by lightning.

Her entire body stiffened and trembled; her eyes fixed on the writhing, howling monster below, tears burst forth.

No wonder it was so powerful.

Ming Qitian moved slightly; her heart plunged into emptiness, and she screamed: ‘No!!’

Ming Qitian had never intended to kill it; now she glanced at her wrist, tightly gripped, and asked softly: ‘Is this… Zhu Gaoyang?’

That name shattered Xing Zhi’s last defense; the strength she’d carried all day, burdened by this terrible news, collapsed under the weight of this raw, brutal reality.

When “Zhu Gaoyang is dead” ceased to be a hollow phrase from others’ lips and became this cruel scene, she realized she wasn’t as strong as she believed.

Xing Zhi felt her legs give out; she grabbed the branch of a nearby pear tree to steady herself: ‘Can… can you… not kill him yet? Maybe…’

Xing Zhi choked on her words; she never imagined her voice could sound so weak.

There was no “maybe.”

Having long dealt with artifacts, she knew with certainty: such destruction, at this scale, offered no chance of repair.

Because this wasn’t “restoration”—it was recreation. Even reversal of time.

And brain erosion? That was the ultimate, irrevocable loss.

When those whose minds had been deeply corrupted came to her for help, she had coldly told them countless times: “Give up.” Now, faced with her own, she couldn’t utter a word.

No hope remains. Leaving him here only brings chaos to everyone.

‘Then…’ she struggled to speak.

‘Alright.’ She heard Ming Qitian’s cool, calm voice, and turned in shock.

‘I never intended to kill him,’ Ming Qitian said. ‘The Jade says his Mind Realm still exists.’

Xing Zhi’s eyes widened in disbelief.

If his Mind Realm still exists, his consciousness remains. After cleansing and repairing it, Zhu Gaoyang might still awaken!

She stared at the still-twisting, grotesque body—she could find not a trace of the man he once was.

‘Then… what do we do?’ This question felt familiar to Xing Zhi—only she’d always heard it from others’ lips, never spoken it herself.

But now her mind was a tangle of chaos.

‘Give me a sword. Any sword will do,’ Ming Qitian said. ‘I can temporarily bind him here.’

Someone immediately brought a sword. Ming Qitian laid it across her palm, slowly channeling qi into the blade, then lowered it, driving the sword through Zhu Gaoyang’s body and into the ground to the hilt.

The qi within instantly seized control of the monstrous form; it shuddered, then stilled—only faint tremors remained.

‘Good. Do not pull out this sword.’

Xing Zhi nodded quickly.

She struggled to contain the storm of emotions, to sort through her tangled thoughts.

According to the Black Chi, Zhu Gaoyang had also come seeking that thing—and he’d headed straight for the county office, or rather, straight for Ming Qitian.

The earlier doubts now leaned toward “yes.” Was the Immortal Lord truly seeking Ming Qitian?

At that moment, Chang Zhiyuan entered the back courtyard with two others. Xing Zhi looked up, ready to explain, but he waved gently and stepped into the room Ming Qitian had just left.

‘Old Yue,’ Chang Zhiyuan walked to the old man’s side, bent low, and whispered, ‘I’ve prepared a carriage at the gate. This place is dangerous now—please step aside for a while.’

‘Isn’t this already the safest place in Fenghuai?’ the old man rasped.

‘It was… but now, all of Fenghuai is unsafe,’ Chang Zhiyuan said with a bitter smile. ‘Xiao Ye is Fenghuai’s hero. You’re his elder. I want to do everything I can to keep you safe.’

He continued: ‘Xiao Ye went to North Bridge Head. Take him with you on your way—it’s useless leaving him here.’

This might be one of the few private wishes Chang Zhiyuan had ever shown in over a decade of service—he truly loved that bright, resilient boy; seeing him felt like spring sunlight warming his aged body.

Yet the old man in the wheelchair shook his head: ‘Thank you, but no. Let Xiao Ye decide when he returns.’