Chapter 79

Yue Muzhou met more people in the county office these days than in the entire previous year.

He naturally had no way of knowing their appearances, but the blind have their own methods of recognition—different people still left distinct impressions in his mind.

Of course, among the blind, he was among the most complete, for he had lost both eyes entirely.

On ordinary days, he had a small trick to sense light and dark: when the sun was at its fiercest, he covered his left eye with his left hand and his right eye with his right, held it for a while, then suddenly removed them, and could faintly feel something unusual.

But for the most part, he remained drowned in profound darkness.

In this darkness, the primary means of perception was hearing—though his hearing was not particularly good, it was sufficient.

Only when vision was utterly unusable and all his attention focused on sound did he realize how richly information was embedded in sound.

Beyond the dominant voices, there were footsteps, rustling fabrics, breathing, even finger-tapping, leg-shaking, swallowing, belching, flatulence—these were merely the sounds a single person made while sitting alone.

When more than two people gathered in the same space, the volume of auditory information began to multiply exponentially.

—Light fingernails tapping wood meant these people made him feel at ease; frequent heel-lifting signaled anxiety; though his face still smiled and chatted, the shifting weight of his feet betrayed impatience with his conversational partner…

Besides hearing, there was smell, touch, even intuition.

Combined, these perceptions gave each person a unique shadow in his mind.

The young boy who relied on him was tall and brisk, smelled clean—not like a slender scholar, but strong, with abundant body heat, each approach like a tiny sun.

The woman named Xing Zhi always spoke with clear pauses; her footsteps were half a beat faster than others’, her voice crisp, quick yet clear.

She was sharp and wise, placing herself and others in perfect positions, like a refreshing, clean, orderly breeze—the kind of person he greatly enjoyed dealing with.

Ming Qitian was very strong.

Every sound she emitted was calm and steady, perfectly harmonized with her entire demeanor; if an enemy sought weakness in her voice, it was impossible.

Setting aside this most obvious trait, if one spoke only of the impression of “a person,” she was profoundly quiet, profoundly clear. She was not short, her figure balanced; if she were also very beautiful and favored light-colored robes, her entire aura might resemble… Ying Suyu.

But Ying Suyu was duller, lacked such inner peace and steadfastness, and his emotions fluctuated easily—in martial cultivation, he was simply no match for this woman.

Chang Zhiyuan was an old man with loose footsteps, probably not short, his body sturdy, not hunched; as an ordinary person without cultivation, his small movements were remarkably few. His speech was gentle yet forceful, sometimes stern and severe—a rare person whose inner and outer selves were perfectly aligned.

At this moment, those loose footsteps drew near, and with a “clank,” something was set down, followed by the rustle of fabric and a sigh of relief.

The sigh descended from high to low—ah, he had just placed down a stool of some kind, and now sat upon it.

“Is it going to rain?” he rasped in greeting.

“Yes, the sky darkened all at once,” came the gentle, aged voice from his left ear. “Brother Yue, I’ve never had the chance to chat—forgive my boldness, are you… Little Pei’s…”

“Not brother—I’m much younger than you. I have no blood tie to Little Ye; we simply live together.”

A silence fell beside him. Yue Muzhou guessed he was staring in shock at his grotesque, hideous face—the withered palms, the thin, withered arms, every part appearing utterly aged.

But this appearance did not signify age—it signified the withering of life; age was merely the common cause of such withering in ordinary people.

“I am sixty-two. May I ask, young brother, how old are you…?”

“I am…” Yue Muzhou hesitated—it was a question long unasked. “Fifty, I believe.”

“...” The man beside him drew a heavy breath, then fell silent again.

He was searching for a new topic.

There was nothing, Yue Muzhou thought. They could continue.

“I just heard—over there, fighting has already broken out, but now there’s no sound again.” His voice grew uneasy. “I wonder if Fenghuai can survive this.”

“It’s hard,” Yue Muzhou said.

“Sigh…” The old man sighed deeply. “Too sudden. The escalation too violent. Just days ago, we thought one Eighth-Life cultivator could resolve everything. Then came Commander Jing, then a Grandmaster from the Divine Capital—surely foolproof. Yet suddenly, all were trapped.”

“From here, the incident’s scale leapt beyond all expectations. The entire Bowang Province lacked sufficient strength. Xu Biejia rushed here with men and sent a plea for aid to the Divine Capital.”

“But the letter sent last night arrived before noon today,” the old man sighed again. “Even if they’d come a day later… or half a day?”

The pear tree rustled, the wind grew stronger, something light landed on his hand. Yue Muzhou raised his trembling fingers, pinched it, felt it—long, peach-shaped leaf.

“Or even fifteen days later…” he murmured.

But then the rustling changed—something sharp, grating, crept into it.

Yue Muzhou tilted his head slightly, listening closely. He had not misheard: amid wind, rain, and swaying trees, a faint scraping sound—familiar, long absent—like metal and—

The sound suddenly shifted into a piercing, deafening tone. A stool kicked aside rang beside him—Chang Zhiyuan must have leapt to his feet.

—It was metal scraping against bone.

The sound came from beneath the pear tree.

Yue Muzhou knew that was where a monster had been pinned. Now, had the sword been pulled out?

Wasn’t someone guarding it?

Indeed, chaos erupted nearby—fierce combat, then swiftly, a howling wind and the crash of a body slamming into a side room—one side had been thrown out.

He felt the old man beside him grab his arm, trying to drag him away.

Of course, he could not pull him. And it was too late.

Heavy footsteps sounded before him. The monster was tall, its breath long, its body radiating cold.

The cold drew nearer, nearly touching his skin—Yue Muzhou felt his entire body saturated by it.

The breath brushed his face—equally chilling—then a slight sting in his abdomen, something pressed against it.

In response to this touch, something stirred within his dantian—he suddenly felt a… urge to devour.