Chapter 40: Chapter Forty: The Human Awakening of Killing Intent

The southern realm is wondrous and strange, an old capital of three dynasties.

Even before the founding of the Rong state, two previous states had already established their capitals here; moreover, perhaps because the Rong state’s founding emperor received merchant support during his uprising, he had always been relatively lenient toward merchants.

Even though Yuanjing was the imperial capital, no curfew was enforced.

The night market remained open until the third watch ended, then reopened at the fifth watch—places of revelry never ceased day or night.

Flower markets were adorned with colorful banners, lanterns hung everywhere.

Amid this crush of bodies, Tong Jizhen was flanked front and back by a group of Garrison Commanders and Deputy Generals clearing a path; even in the bustling marketplace, no one dared approach, leaving him a narrow three-foot gap of space.

“Will the Protector return to his mansion tonight, or go to Chunhua Tower? I hear that this Ji girl has sent the General no few letters these past days—Brother still has no scruples about pleasures, eh?”

To Tong Jizhen’s left, a young Official of Military Equipment, knife at his waist, teased him; the others echoed with laughter.

“Still mocking me? I wish I could punch you all to death!”

Tong Jizhen was tall and rugged, around thirty, his eyes brimming with lethal menace; yet he did not anger at his subordinates’ jests, only laughed and scolded.

“But… Ji Yu has been acting strangely. He usually comes to beg for silver—why has he become so eager lately?”

Tong Jizhen pondered a moment, suspicion stirring, but lust overrode all else—he waved his hand.

“I’ll spend tonight at Chunhua Tower. Leave two men behind; the rest return to your homes. Don’t accompany me. Oh—and inform the Grand General of my whereabouts. Don’t overlook it!”

At this, Tong Jizhen grew serious: “We are about to undertake great matters. Nothing inside or out may be neglected. Watch your men closely—don’t let the Emperor stir trouble.”

“The Grand General is a figure like a god, a high-level Qi cultivator. What use are ordinary soldiers, no matter how many? Can they even shoot arrows into the sky?”

Someone dismissed it: “Protector, you worry too much. The Grand General is heaven itself. With him, the Rong state’s situation is ours.”

“That may sound reasonable, but listen closely—it’s pure nonsense.”

Tong Jizhen gave the speaker a light kick. “Get lost! Remember what I said—and inform the Grand General of my whereabouts. Do you hear me?”

The officers all answered in unison, then dispersed. Tong Jizhen, accompanied only by two personal guards, arrived at Chunhua Tower.

Before him stretched rows of dazzling, multicolored lanterns, illuminating the scene brilliantly.

Dozens of handsome men were circulating to serve wine; when Tong Jizhen entered, the madam hurried forward to greet him—but he knew the place too well to care, and marched straight through several corridors with his two guards to a neat little pavilion.

This two-story timber pavilion had a reception hall on the first floor, flanked by beautiful flowers; the second floor was for lodging, its doors and window frames painted vermilion with red lacquer, and a yellow lantern, unlit, hung before the veranda.

Tong Jizhen looked up and saw Ji Yu waving at him from the second floor—his eyes brightened, and he rushed up the stairs three steps at a time, embracing him tightly.

“You two go have fun. Don’t bother with me!”

Tong Jizhen kicked open the door, embraced Ji Yu, turned to smile at the two guards below, and as Ji Yu carefully closed the door behind them, his passion surged—he hoisted Ji Ning onto his shoulder, dashed past the screen, and headed straight for the bed.

When he passed the golden-embroidered landscape screen, Tong Jizhen froze.

Inside the bedroom.

There was another person!

He stood calmly a few steps away, idly playing with a strand of green light, his gaze as still as a deep well, looking at Tong Jizhen as if at a dead man.

“Damn!”

Tong Jizhen’s heart lurched—he opened his mouth to shout—but the green strand shot through the air like lightning, faster than a falling star!

He barely managed to summon a inkstone—but before he could raise it to his face, the green light pierced his left eye, passed clean through his skull, and erupted out the back, spraying red and white.

It looped again, pierced his right eye, and halted before Chen Hang.

This strike lasted no longer than a hare’s leap or a hawk’s dive; the inkstone, deprived of its master’s vital breath, lost its aura and clattered to the ground.

Both were at the third level of Qi cultivation, but Chen Hang’s vital breath was more than ten times stronger—when he unleashed his talisman weapon fully, killing Tong Jizhen was like slaughtering a dog.

Chen Hang gently shook the green bamboo needle, cleansing its filth, and gazed at the fallen corpse, thinking silently:

“The gap between Qi cultivators is even greater than I thought. But how did ‘Tai Shi Yuan Zhen’ end up in my predecessor’s father’s hands? There must be something amiss…”

He reached out, took Tong Jizhen’s Qiankun bag, and without even glancing inside, stowed it away.

At that moment, a violent retching sound came from beside him.

“What’s wrong?”

Chen Hang looked at Tu Shan Zhuang, who had taken Ji Yu’s form, and asked: “Is this your first time seeing someone killed?”

“It’s my first time… a man touched my ass…”

Tu Shan Zhuang retched again: “That bastard’s hands were filthy—damn it! When he hoisted me onto his shoulder, he kept groping my ass—ugh…”

Chen Hang handed him a cup of clear tea; Tu Shan Zhuang took it awkwardly to rinse his mouth, and after a long while, recovered.

“Master, I don’t understand—if you have such power, why go through all this trouble? Why drag me into this, forcing me to sell my body…?”

Tu Shan Zhuang, still shaken, touched his buttocks: “Why not just storm in and kill the Tong family outright? Why be so cautious?”

“If Tong Gaolu were merely an ordinary seventh-level Qi cultivator, I might have done just that. But he also practices an external art of flesh refinement, and his level far surpasses that of Yangshan Daoist—I must be careful.”

Chen Hang, unusually verbose, said calmly:

“Moreover, from questioning Tong Yi, I learned Tong Gaolu’s body is impervious to lightning and fire, unbreakable by blades or spears. How can one recklessly attack such a foe? At least, I need allies.”

Tu Shan Zhuang stared blankly, though he didn’t understand, his face twisted in distress.

“Tu Shan friend, strip Tong Jizhen’s clothes and dress as him. For the next few days, work with Tu Shan Zhuang to cover my tracks.”

At these words, Tu Shan Ge hurried out from a side door.

He saw Tong Jizhen’s gruesome death—both eyes gouged out—and jumped back in shock; then, seeing Tu Shan Zhuang retching, he couldn’t help grinning.

“Master, what if the imperial family refuses to ally?”

Tu Shan Ge feigned a pat on Tu Shan Zhuang’s shoulder and asked: “Then what do we do?”

“Fools are not worth strategizing with. Let him perish with his clan—I’m going to the palace first.”

Chen Hang said nothing more, pulled out a mask and placed it over his face, wrapped his body in vital breath, then transformed into a shadowy, formless light that shot skyward, invisible and intangible.

…

Not half a cup of tea later.

Chen Hang saw below him a vast expanse of imperial palaces. He casually chose a grand, ornate hall with green-tiled eaves and descended his light from the air.

Around the hall, palace maids and eunuchs moved back and forth—but with Chen Hang’s current spiritual sense, these mortals could not detect him.

He walked into the hall as if no one were there; all he saw was the opulence of royalty—walls inlaid with countless bright lamps and candles, their radiance brighter than daylight.

After passing several halls, he heard faintly from a warm chamber ahead: the splash of water, women’s laughter, and the faint scent of incense.

He realized he had intruded, turned to leave.

But as he turned, he saw a young palace maid, her hair in twin buns, wearing a pale yellow gauze robe, running toward him with a flower basket, calling out excitedly:

“Empress, Empress, look—”

Her voice faded, then dropped entirely.

The maid stood frozen, basket in hand, staring blankly ten paces away.

There stood a man in plain white robes, his face covered by a plain bamboo-and-wood mask; from the mask’s openings, two dark, deep eyes stared back—cold and clear, as if dipped in snowwater.

Seeing her stunned, he raised a finger to his lips, signaling silence.

The maid’s face flushed inexplicably, and she nodded, as if possessed.

“No… wait…”

Then her eyes darted, and she shook her head fiercely.

She opened her mouth to scream.

Her neck suddenly ached—and she collapsed, limp.

“Was that A’er just now? I’m about to change and bathe—go see what that girl is up to.”

A soft, melodious female voice sounded.

Several maids emerged from the warm chamber, and upon seeing Chen Hang, they gasped in shock—he merely swept his sleeve, using his vital breath to knock them all unconscious.

At this point, even the most foolish would sense something was wrong.

The Empress hesitated, draped a brocade robe over herself, and slowly stepped out of the warm chamber.

Her gaze fell upon a man in white robes, standing with his back to her, tall and elegant.

“My apologies.”

His voice was calm and even:

“With outsiders present, Your Majesty should not hurry to change clothes.”