Chapter 73

At the peak of Mount Kunlun, Shaoyou gazed at the dark, brooding sky and frowned.

“The Heavenly emperor has declared war on the Demon Palace. Your divination foretold a tide of blood, chaos sweeping across the Eight Wilderness—it must begin today.”

Wojiang stood behind him.

“All is fated. This was always a whirlpool of hidden undercurrents—what is meant to happen will happen. All we can do is watch and wait, ensuring Kunlun does not stir these troubled waters.”

Shaoyou said, “In the Eight Wilderness, no one can escape unscathed. Whether Feng Fuming wins or loses, he will never allow the other three immortal realms to sit idly by.”

Wojiang asked, “If he demands Kunlun send troops, Young Master, what shall we do?”

Shaoyou remained silent.

Wojiang’s heart was heavy.

If Feng Fuming won, he would press his advantage, slaughtering demons across the Eight Wilderness with even greater fervor.

If he lost, the demons would retaliate—their innate bloodlust would be unleashed.

And if the demons gained the upper hand, would their leader show mercy to the other immortal clans?

In either scenario, Feng Fuming would never tolerate the other realms remaining neutral.

Kongsang was in a better position now—they had a new spiritual vein and were no longer under Feng Fuming’s thumb.

Chishui Chong, though appearing unassuming, was far from simple.

Changliu, by all indications, had already sided with Feng Fuming.

That left Kunlun in the most precarious position.

Their spiritual vein was nearly depleted.

Shaoyou had been working day and night, converting his own spiritual energy into springs to replenish it, but against the terrifying rate of depletion, his efforts were but a drop in the bucket.

Seeing Shaoyou’s pale face, Wojiang urged, “Young Master, rest for a while. You’ve exhausted yourself these past days.”

Shaoyou asked, “How is You Mountain?”

At the mention of it, Wojiang bristled. “That day, when I delivered the dragon’s blood to You Mountain, that brat Zhan Xueyang was utterly disrespectful! He took the goods and shooed me out without even offering a cup of tea. And his words were dripping with sarcasm!”

Shaoyou smiled faintly.

“That’s just his temperament. Don’t take it to heart.”

“Young Master is too kind,” Wojiang grumbled.

Shaoyou shook his head.

“You don’t understand. Anyone imprisoned in the same place for millennia would struggle to remain pleasant.”

The fact that Zhan Xueyang was still willing to heal others was a miracle in itself.

Wojiang had only been trying to lighten Shaoyou’s mood. Since returning from the Hidden Dragon Valley, Shaoyou had been weary—not just from tending to the spiritual vein, but also weighed down by sorrow.

That day, when Wojiang visited him, Shaoyou, utterly exhausted, murmured, “Master… I promised her I’d return and explain everything…”

He didn’t elaborate, and Wojiang didn’t press.

It was likely some matter of youthful romance.

But Shaoyou would never get the chance to return—Kunlun could not spare him now.

“Leave me, Master. I need to be alone for a while.”

Wojiang obeyed, but before departing, he glanced back at Shaoyou’s solitary figure and sighed softly.

He had cast a divination—the signs indicated that Chishui Liushuang had already left You Mountain.

Yet she had not come to see Shaoyou.

Shaoyou was no fool; his divination skills were no weaker than Wojiang’s.

If he cared for that girl, he would have divined her fate.

Yet, knowing the truth, Shaoyou acted as if nothing had happened, not allowing himself to show even a hint of sorrow.

Burdened with the weight of an entire realm, his personal feelings seemed insignificant.

Shaoyou had always performed his duties flawlessly—but precisely because he did so too well, Wojiang couldn’t help but ache for the boy he had watched grow up.

When would he ever live as freely and recklessly as other immortals?

When the battle report reached Kongsang, Chishui Chong remained expressionless.

“You’re saying Feng Fuming’s immortal troops were defeated?”

The messenger bowed.

“Indeed, Realm Lord. But it was a narrow victory—the demons suffered heavy losses. The mountain is now littered with their corpses, and their leader was gravely wounded, carried back on a stretcher.”

If the immortals had lost ten thousand soldiers, the demons had lost at least twenty or thirty thousand.

Still, their sacrifice had secured the land around the Demon Palace.

Bai Yuxiao, seated below, narrowed his eyes.

“Then why not seize this chance to take Yan Chaosheng’s life?”

His hatred burned.

If he had known back then that this lowly demon would one day kill his brother, he would have destroyed Yan Chaosheng’s cultivation and slaughtered him without hesitation.

“Yuxiao, do not act rashly,” Chishui Chong said.

“I know you wish to avenge Zhuixu, but the Demon Palace is no longer what it once was—it is now a den of formidable foes. Your parents cannot bear to lose another son.”

Bai Yuxiao met his gaze.

“Is the Realm Lord truly concerned for me? Or is it that, with the Heavenly emperor dead and Kongsang now possessing a new spirit vein, you wish to let the demons and the Feng clan weaken each other… so you can reap the rewards?”

Before he could finish, Patriarch Bai snapped, “Yuxiao!”

The patriarch hastily bowed to Chishui Chong.

“Realm Lord, my son is young and reckless, still grieving Zhuixu’s demise. Please, in light of the Bai clan’s loyalty to Kongsang, forgive his impertinence.”

Chishui Chong waved a hand.

“No matter. Youth is prone to folly.”

Bai Yuxiao smirked mockingly, about to retort, but his father dragged him out.

“Father, can’t you see? The Realm Lord has no intention of avenging Elder Brother. His heart is consumed by power—he even dares to covet the Heavenly Emperor’s throne!”

With its new spiritual vein, Kongsang was no longer far inferior to the Feng clan.

If Feng Fuming suffered heavy losses against the demons, Chishui Chong might indeed seize the opportunity.

Changliu remained noncommittal, Kunlun was struggling to survive, and Liushuang had risked her life to bring back the spiritual vein—Kongsang was no longer what it once was.

Chishui Chong had every reason to let ambition take hold.

Patriarch Bai was far shrewder than his son, but what could he do? He closed his eyes.

“In the end, we are still subjects of Kongsang.”

For better or worse, Bai Zhuixu’s sacrifice had been for Kongsang’s future.

Forcing the Realm Lord to declare war on the demons would bring no benefit.

If Kongsang suffered too many losses, who knew what Feng Fuming might do?

Bai Yuxiao turned and stormed off.

“Yuxiao!”

Patriarch Bai couldn’t stop him and sighed heavily.

His younger son was hot-blooded, far more radical than his elder brother.

Yet as Zhuixu’s father, he, too, wished he could openly rage at the injustice of his son’s death.

At a fork in the road outside Mi Chu’s palace, Bai Yuxiao paused.

He glanced in its direction, then pressed his lips together and walked away.

Once, he had truly wished to marry Mi Chu, to give her the finest things in the world.

In the past, Kongsang had been lively—his elder brother was still alive, Chishui Liushuang was around, and his days were filled with amusement.

He had been the unruly second son of the Bai clan, and Mi Chu had doted on him.

Yet in just a year, everything had changed.

A paper crane fluttered in and landed on his shoulder.

Startled, Bai Yuxiao cupped it in his palm, watching as it dissolved into golden words.

He held his breath.

“Elder Brother… could he truly still be alive?”

Had Chishui Liushuang not lied to him? But how could she, alone, avenge Zhuixu?

One after another, golden cranes flew into Kongsang.

Bai Yuxiao watched, his eyes stinging for a moment.

Some flew to Madam Zi’s palace; others, to Fu Liu.

She had recently plunged into the Weak Water and was now trapped in the Demon Palace.

Was she well? Was anyone mistreating her?

In her youth, she had been foolish, yet now she had grown faster than anyone.

Somehow, Kongsang’s future now rested on her shoulders.

The demon mountain reeked of blood.

Of the demons who had fought the celestial army, less than a third returned.

The earth of the Demon Palace was soaked crimson, and without enough medicine, many could only lie on their cots, groaning in pain.

Few of those who returned were whole—some missing arms, others legs, some with hollow, empty eye sockets.

Yet they laughed.

Wild, triumphant laughter.

“You should’ve seen it—I swung my blade, and that immortal brat’s eyes nearly popped out! His head hit the dirt, still staring in disbelief! Never thought he’d die by a lowly demon’s hand, did he?”

“Same here! Felt damn good. We suffered, but they were the ones who fled!”

“First time we’ve faced the celestial army and lived to tell the tale. The Mountain Lord was right—the Eight Wilderness will see demons rise!”

“So the immortals aren’t so terrifying after all. Beat them hard enough, and they’ll run like rats!”

Their wounds did nothing to dampen their spirits.

Even the women and elders left behind smiled.

Many had lost husbands and sons, but this victory meant their descendants would no longer live like cattle, slaughtered without dignity.

Their suffering would end.

Yet some worried: “What of the Mountain Lord? He was badly wounded.”

At this, the mood sobered.

Yan Chaosheng had led the charge—without him, none would have dared raise a blade against the immortals.

The man they spoke of, Yan Chaosheng, lay in his palace, bandages wrapped around his chest where an immortal weapon had struck.

Congxia eagerly brought him medicine, offering to feed him.

“Leave it. I’ll drink it myself.”

Congxia pouted.

“Let me help you!”

She’d fought hard for this chance.

Yan Chaosheng was unmoved.

“Out.”

Injured, his aura was darker than ever, thick with the stench of blood and slaughter.

Congxia, intimidated, dared not disobey and set the bowl down.

Her gaze followed his—a small couch now stood in the hall, empty.

The faint scent of sandalwood lingered, mingled with a woman’s fragrance.

Congxia understood.

Chishui Liushuang was gone.

Before leaving, Congxia couldn’t resist twisting the knife: “Mountain Lord, don’t waste your thoughts on her. The moment danger came, she fled faster than anyone. After all you’ve done for her, even I find it heartless.”

Yan Chaosheng ignored her.

The medicine cooled, untouched.

He shouldn’t have been wounded—at least, not so severely.

Feng Fuming hadn’t come himself, and none on the battlefield should have been a threat.

But the immortal commander had been sharp-eyed, spotting the weakness where his core was damaged.

He and his elites had targeted that spot relentlessly.

Without his heart-scale, a demon’s heart was as vulnerable as a baby’s.

What should have been his strongest point was now his fatal flaw.

His half-destroyed core had yet to heal, leaving him wounded.

Qingluan, protecting his retreat, had half a wing hacked off.

Now, outside the hall, it whimpered softly, too well-behaved to cry out loudly.

Late that night, rain fell over the Demon Palace, washing away the blood.

Someone hurried in, closing a vermilion umbrella before soothing Qingluan.

Her skirts pooled on the stone floor as green light flowed from her hands.

Qingluan, comforted, blinked tearfully at her.

Liu shuang patted its feathers and stepped inside.

The sandalwood had burned out, leaving the hall cold and bare.

A bowl of medicine sat untouched, long cold.

The man on the bed breathed unevenly—he was awake.

She sat beside him, waiting to see how long he’d pretend to “wake slowly.”

Finally, Yan Chaosheng opened his eyes.

“You didn’t leave?”

Liu shuang smiled, shaking her head.

“I did. Then I came back.”

Her fingertips glowed green as healing energy enveloped him.

He lay still, nothing like the fearsome demon who’d snarled at Congxia.

Once his wounds were healed, she handed him a storage pouch.

“Aren’t you going to ask where I went?”

Yan Chaosheng sat up, silent.

He hadn’t expected her return—where she’d been didn’t matter.

But she urged him to open the pouch.

Inside were stacks of the rarest spiritual medicines—exactly what he needed most.

His breath hitched.

He looked up, meeting her bright, expectant gaze.

“You traded all your artifacts for these?”

Liu shuang considered, then admitted, “Not all. I kept the vermilion umbrella.”

She couldn’t part with that.

His face remained blank.

Then, without warning, an arm yanked her forward.

She crashed into a chest reeking of blood.

Rain pattered outside.

His embrace was icy, his grip crushing.

Liu shuang wheezed.

“Even if you’re grateful, you don’t have to strangle me.”

Yan Chaosheng said nothing, tightening his hold.

She whispered, “If I changed my mind now… could I still leave?”

His answer was firm.

“No.”