Chapter Four

Everyone before the hall watched as Chu Rong departed, and not a single person moved to stop him.

Chu Rong had no attention to spare for any of them either. The pain from his dislocated shoulder came in throbbing waves, impossible to ignore.

He pressed his bloodied fingers against his shoulder, probed around a few times to locate the joint, then with a firm twist to the left and right—

Crack!

A crisp sound of bones grinding rang out, and the dislocated joint snapped back into place. The pain subsided considerably.

The lips beneath Chu Rong's mask, drained of color, parted slightly. He exhaled a quiet breath, and continued walking, step by step, toward the residence of the novel's protagonist, Cen Yan.

Chu Rong had a strong spatial imagination and quickly found the right place based on the written descriptions — Misty Pine Residence.

Misty Pine Residence was an antique-style mansion, similar in layout to a courtyard compound found in the Forbidden City — vast and serene in scale, with white clouds drifting around it, as though it had risen into the clouds themselves.

The original owner had a marriage contract with Cen Yan, and after entering the Heavenly Sect, had lived together with him, their rooms side by side, separated only by a single wall.

Chu Rong pushed open the door and stepped inside. Unexpectedly, the original owner's room was very clean. The style matched the tranquility of the courtyard outside. The window was half open, and on the windowsill sat two pots of swaying purple orchids, lovely to behold.

In the air, a faint, rich fragrance of orchids drifted gently.

Chu Rong took a deep breath. The composure he had been forcing throughout suddenly collapsed, and a belated wave of terror crept up his nerves, leaving his limbs feeling weak.

Chu Rong gripped the door frame, intending to go sit at the writing desk by the window — but a ferocious surge of pain suddenly swept through him, as though an invisible blade were slowly, deliberately twisting back and forth between his bones. The agony made his vision flash black, his sight blurring in an instant.

Great beads of sweat broke out densely across his skin. Chu Rong's chest heaved violently as he gasped in pain, his body trembling uncontrollably.

Chu Rong collapsed dazedly onto the floor, limbs curling in, both palms pressed hard against his abdomen.

Pain.

Pain, pain, pain.

The pain was like a pair of invisible hands, slowly tightening, tightening, tightening from deep within his organs — until Chu Rong was nearly driven to unconsciousness.

Chu Rong forced his eyes open and looked toward the doorway, trying to find someone to call for help. But the pain inside his body surged like the tide, wave after crashing wave, giving him not a single moment to breathe, leaving him unable to produce even a single sound.

Chu Rong bit down hard on his lip. His teeth sank deep into the reddened flesh, piercing the outermost layer of skin, blood welling from his lip — and that was the only thing that kept him from passing out.

After what felt like an eternity, Chu Rong finally felt the pain in his body beginning to slowly recede. He gasped for breath in great heaves, the blood from his lip seeping between his teeth and staining them red. His mouth was full of the iron taste of blood. Every last ounce of strength had drained from him. His clothes were in disarray, the collar soaked through with blood that had run down from his neck wound, leaving mottled red streaks across the fabric. His hair, his neck, his back — all were drenched in sweat, as though he had just been pulled out of the water.

He had survived.

A surge of wild joy at having escaped death with his life welled up in his heart. Chu Rong closed his eyes, his thick, long lashes wet with sweat, clumped into strands, the reddened corners of his eyes half-hidden in the shadow of the mask.

Enduring the residual pain in his bones, Chu Rong swayed and staggered to his feet. He had expended far too much energy, and lurched forward two steps before he finally managed to steady himself.

Chu Rong turned his head and looked around. Everything his eyes could reach — the sandalwood couch, the dark brown tea table, the faintly smoking incense burner — all of it was worlds apart from the duplex apartment he had lived in.

Chu Rong confirmed once more that he had truly transmigrated into a book.

His emotions were a tangled mess, and he didn't know what expression to make. His parents had both died in an accident when he was seven. He had worked his way through school, relying on scholarships and grants to complete his university education, and after graduation had successfully entered a prestigious company.

Not long ago, the company had landed a major contract, and as long as it was successfully completed, he stood a very real chance of getting a promotion and a raise.

But who could have known that in the blink of an eye, all of that would simply be gone.

Chu Rong lowered his lashes, suppressing the churning emotions within him, and made his way step by step toward the wooden couch.

The couch was padded with cotton batting and had a reasonably soft feel to it. Chu Rong sat on its edge, leaning his body sideways against the couch railing. Out of habit, he raised his hand to wipe the sweat from his neck — but his fingers inadvertently touched something hard.

Chu Rong's movement paused slightly. His memory was excellent, and "Tianxiao Records" was the longest piece of writing he had ever read — he remembered a great deal of the original text's descriptions with perfect clarity.

Recalling that the original text had mentioned the original owner's appearance being so ugly that he had no choice but to wear a mask at all times, Chu Rong spread his pale, distinct-knuckled fingers and passed them over his face — and sure enough, his fingertips felt the surface of a mask, uneven and raised in texture.

Chu Rong couldn't see what the mask looked like, but from the texture he could feel, it was probably not a pleasant sight.

Chu Rong pressed his index and middle fingers against either side of the mask and applied slight force — but the mask didn't come off.

Chu Rong furrowed his brows in puzzlement and pressed harder. The mask still didn't budge.

In the original text, all the way through to the original owner's death, there had been no description of him ever removing the mask. Could it be that the mask couldn't be taken off?