Chapter Forty-Seven

In the depths of the rear mountain, a heavy stillness hung over everything.

The several tall men at the edge of the hot spring stood like wooden posts, motionless, their faces all marked with undisguisable shock.

Xu Ziyang sat on the ground, his heart slamming like a war drum pounded with full force — the sound deafening, as though it would leap out of his chest in the next second.

He had not been seeing things. The mask really was Chu Rong's, and the person in the pool had been Chu Rong.

Beneath that demon-like mask had been a face like that — no wonder, back in the secret realm, when he had wanted to find a medical cultivator to look at Chu Rong's face, Chu Rong had refused.

Xu Ziyang's distinctly-knuckled fingers clenched. His knuckles went pale, the veins on the back of his hand standing out.

Pei Zhan's gilded pupils contracted sharply. His ears rang, his mind went entirely blank, and for a moment it seemed as though he couldn't hear any sound at all.

The person just now had been… Chu Rong?

But — hadn't Cen Yan said, when he'd brought Chu Rong back to the sect, that Chu Rong had been disfigured in a great fire?

So Chu Rong's face had never been destroyed at all.

Pei Zhan's chest heaved violently, pulling at the wound in his chest. A faint metallic taste rose to his mouth, yet he seemed entirely unaware — his mind churning, every limb trembling.

He had prepared the dragon-scale jade pendant — and rightly so. Chu Rong deserved to be locked inside an iron cage.

Pei Zhan swallowed once, forced himself to calm down. Even his voice came out with a faint tremor: "Cen Yan — you already knew, didn't you?"

Chu Rong was Cen Yan's fiancé. Before Pei Zhan had entered seclusion, he had often witnessed Chu Rong following Cen Yan around. There was no way Cen Yan could have failed to notice.

He Ting's three, having heard Cen Yan speak of Chu Rong in the main hall, thought much the same as Pei Zhan.

Nan Xingye breathed heavily. His gaze fell on Cen Yan with a weighted intensity, and from the corner of his jade-cold face, a thread of blood trailed down, making his handsome severity all the more stark.

Jing Heng's lashes were half-lowered, his long gaze resting on Cen Yan from a distance. His expression was dark and unreadable, and the eerie cold emanating from his person sent chills racing down one's spine.

He Ting drew a square silk handkerchief from his sleeve and wiped the blood from his fingers in an unhurried manner. He smiled a half-smile and looked sidelong at Cen Yan. His gaze was deep and fathomless: "Fellow Daoist Cen, does He not deserve an explanation?"

He could tell that the Immortal Venerate had just now been directing that display at the three — Cen Yan, Pei Zhan, and Xu Ziyang. The Gate of Heavenly Mechanisms dealt in business, and he didn't do losing deals. He hadn't come all this way just to be caught up in someone else's troubles for nothing.

Perhaps it would do to have Cen Yan hand Chu Rong over to him as compensation.

A mere mortal fiancé — and from the way Cen Yan had spoken of Chu Rong in the main hall, his attitude had been clearly one of distaste. Handing Chu Rong over would solve Cen Yan a headache, would it not?

He Ting's eyes darkened. His prominent throat bobbed up and down, a scorching heat surging through his entire body — even his fingertips buzzed and trembled with an excited tingling.

And besides — beauty like Chu Rong's rightfully belonged behind the gilded bars of the Gate of Heavenly Mechanisms' cage.

Under the burning scrutiny of all those gazes, Cen Yan's face went somewhat pale. His mind felt as though countless thunderclaps were detonating inside it, blasting his reason into scattered fragments.

Chu Rong's face wasn't disfigured?

No — impossible. If his face wasn't disfigured, why had Chu Rong been wearing that mask all along?

Could it be that Chu Rong had been deceiving him again?

The story of a manor fire, a face destroyed in the flames, a persistent condition too difficult to treat — all of it lies, all of it meant to win his trust and his sympathy, to exploit him as a way into the sect and to reap benefits?

Was that why Chu Rong had done so many evil things — killed three sect disciples — and planned all of it from the very beginning?

No.

Cen Yan thought back — four months ago, he had witnessed Chu Rong in the aftermath of one of his attacks. That hadn't looked like an act.

But if Chu Rong truly had been deceiving him from the very start, then staging an attack for Cen Yan to witness was a trivial matter.

What, in the end, was true? What was false?

Cen Yan clenched his fists, his expression strained. His thoughts seemed to plunge into a tangled knot, impossible to unravel. At the center of his sea of consciousness, a spot of light flickered on and off — dazzling bright.

The purple mist coiled atop that spot of light writhed and squirmed, greedily devouring the light. What had originally been a single crack in that spot of light now split rapidly open into another, broad and jagged crack.

It snaked and spread unevenly — in an instant cutting clean through the spot of light, like a great centipede clinging to it, ugly and unsettling.

"I don't know." Cen Yan's voice came out strained, its volume spiking abruptly. A faint ring of pale purple bloomed at the edges of his eyes, then vanished without a trace in an instant: "I don't know anything!"

His shout snapped everyone at the pool's edge back to reality. Xu Ziyang suddenly thought of something, and his face drained of color in an instant.

Chu Rong still had the Spring Entanglement in his body!

Chu Rong had been under the drug for this long — to dispel its effects, there were two options: either someone with powerful enough spiritual energy could force the drug out of him, or… he could release the drug's potency through intimacy with someone.

Xu Ziyang's heart lurched violently. He forcibly pushed that second possibility down, shot to his feet from the ground, and charged straight out, his voice rasping and hoarse, with a barely-perceptible tremor running through it: "It won't happen."

Immortal Venerate Ning Yuan was at the Great Vehicle stage — forcing the drug's effects out would be effortless for him. There was absolutely no way he would choose the other option.

Xu Ziyang clenched both fists, the darkness in his eyes absolute. He came out from the rear mountain and followed the path all the way back to Wusong Residence.

Wusong Residence's main gate stood wide open. All was silent within. Xu Ziyang reined in the agitation in his heart and strode inside — the moment his left foot crossed the threshold, a great burst of spiritual energy slammed into him head-on.

Xu Ziyang was caught entirely off guard, blown backward by the full force of it. Blood surged in his chest, and he spat out another large mouthful.

He looked up to find a transparent barrier like a membrane of water, seamlessly encasing all of Wusong Residence. The powerful oppressive force emanating faintly from the barrier made one's scalp crawl.

This was… a restriction?!

All of Wusong Residence had been sealed under someone's restriction — no one could get in. And if the only goal were to force out the drug's effects, there would be no need to set a restriction. What the people inside were doing was, without needing to be said, self-evident.

Xu Ziyang's fists locked tight, his nails biting into his palms. He clenched his jaw until his teeth ground. He had endured for a full day and a night — and in the end, had done nothing but prepare the ground for someone else to harvest.

Everything had been planned out so perfectly, and if Yun Zhi hadn't suddenly appeared to get in the way…

Three years ago, when his master had passed from this world, Xu Ziyang had been powerless to do anything — and for the first time, had tasted the flavor of regret.

This was the second time.

If he had known that two such interferences would appear out of nowhere and overturn all his calculations, in the very moment he'd caught Chu Rong, Xu Ziyang would have hidden him somewhere known to no one, and claimed him completely.

Inside Wusong Residence.

Within the tightly-shut room, the faint scent of orchids permeated the air — several times more intense than it had been before.

Chu Rong lay face-up on the bed, his ink-black hair spread loose and scattered beneath him, like a pool of blooming black lotuses. His dense lashes trembled in disarray, his shining eyes a field of watery light, the tails of them flushed crimson. Sweat gathered at his nose, and his vivid red lips were parted, exhaling rapid, ragged breaths that set the blood racing.

His collar was thrown open in disarray, baring a wide expanse of pale skin. One large, long-knuckled hand braced firmly under his slender waist, lifting the lower half of his body up high.

Chu Rong's consciousness floated and sank in turns, as though cast into a mist-shrouded forest where all sense of direction had been wholly lost. On instinct he raised one pale-jade hand and reached downward, trying to grab onto something — and caught only a handful of cool, smooth hair.

The hair was long, its texture somewhat coarse, brushing continuously against his skin and making his body tremble involuntarily, beyond his control.

Chu Rong pressed his eyelids shut. His whole body's bones went rigid. He couldn't stop himself from tilting his sweat-sheened neck back, his jade-knuckled fingers going taut — instinctively pressing down on the man's head with effort.

The man's clothing was intact. His features were striking and angular. Even deliberately reining in every trace of his oppressive force, the power emanating from his bearing remained formidable and arresting — enough to strike dread into the heart.

Sensing the pressure from above, the man's tall, upright frame paused, and his head very cooperatively lowered.

Exhale—

After a moment, Chu Rong's supple body relaxed. His hand slid down from the man's head and fell against the bed. The silk cord bound at his waist hung slack, and his waist settled back into the man's broad, large palm.

His long, feathery lashes trembled, and his eyes opened slowly. The corners of his eyes were wet and red, his eye sockets brimming with tears. But looking closely, his pupils were still unfocused, not yet brought to a point.

He was still caught in the grip of the Spring Entanglement's effects — consciousness had not yet returned.

Between the folds of the bed, the orchid fragrance grew denser by several degrees.

Ning Yuan's every breath was filled with the heavy orchid fragrance of the person on the bed. It made him run hot all over. He tilted his head up slightly, the sharp lines of his profile catching the light and shadow of the room. The exposed length of his neck gleamed with a faint sheen of sweat, the prominent line of his throat moving as he swallowed once more everything that had gathered in his mouth.

He lowered his eyes to the person before him — a complexion cold-pale as marble, lips deepened in color, stained with a layer of glistening, bewitching moisture.

As a measure of the drug's effects was released, the backlash pain in Chu Rong's lower abdomen gradually began to fade — replaced by an unendurable heat that climbed and climbed.

Beneath his skin, creamy as congealed fat, a faint rouge began to show through. The pallor of his cheeks slowly warmed into a blush — vivid as morning clouds lit by dawn.

Chu Rong had been under the drug too long, and it had merged too deeply into his body. Of course one or two times was not enough to fully relieve it.

Ning Yuan gazed at Chu Rong. The icy, frozen composure that was always on his face was gone — the depths of his brow and eyes were tinged with a shade of dark weight.

"Rong Rong." The man's voice was extraordinarily pleasant, carrying a trace of something faintly hoarse: "Bear with it a little longer. You'll be all right soon."

Chu Rong's eyes were half-open, full of bewilderment and confusion. Hearing what seemed to be someone quietly comforting him, his wet lashes blinked once. He tilted his head slightly in a daze and looked toward the man — several strands of pitch-black hair fell against his cheek, making his entire person like a luminous pearl casting out its own glow, as though it might draw away one's very soul.

That single glance alone was enough to touch the softest place in the heart and make one unable to help but feel tenderness.

Ning Yuan's large hand controlling Chu Rong's waist tightened. His sharp brow furrowed with barely-suppressed feeling, and he lowered his head once more.

Chu Rong's pale, hanging fingers rose unconsciously again, seizing the man's cold, long hair. Pressing down on the man's head. Each knuckle clear and distinct — white as jade — and the crescent-moon wounds scoring his palm rubbed to a flush of crimson against the man's hair.

Dusk.

The light surrounding Wusong Residence gradually dimmed. Cen Yan's group came out of the rear mountain and passed by Wusong Residence — from a distance, they spotted a tall figure standing at the main gate.

A refined, handsome face, devoid of any smile, staring fixedly at the interior of Wusong Residence. His ten fingers were locked tight, his nails buried deep in his flesh, blood dripping from between his fingers and falling drop by drop to the ground.

A faint smell of blood drifted through the air. Cen Yan was mildly startled: "Senior Brother?"

Xu Ziyang turned his head. The dim light from all around cast a patch of shadow over his face, and the red threads veining his eyes had spread to cover almost the entirety of his irises.