Chapter Fifty-Four

The sky at the horizon hovered between dark and light, the faint glow of dawn filtering through the window and mingling with the flickering candlelight inside, adding another layer of hazy softness to the room.

A young man dressed in deep crimson gauze robes sat at the edge of the bed, his black hair smooth as silk, cascading and trailing around him, a few loose strands gliding down the side of his fair, slender neck.

His skin was translucent and luminous, almost translucent. His long, dense lashes drooped low, trembling like butterfly wings with each breath, casting curved shadows beneath his eyes. His nose bridge was high and straight, and his lips were light in colour, pale as water.

A sash of the same colour wound in crossing layers around his waist, tracing the arc of his slender figure, half-hidden beneath the outer robe. The flowing hem of his sleeves fell gracefully downward, and a few fingers white as jade rested loosely along the edge of the bed.

Hearing a sound, the man turned his head slightly and looked toward the doorway. His face was devastatingly beautiful, almost otherworldly, and the faint flush of red at the corners of his eyes made it seem as though he could steal away one's very soul.

Yunzhi's eyes went blank. He forgot to breathe. Beneath his coarse cloth garments, the heart inside his sturdy chest pounded wildly and without pause, his blood rushing and boiling through his entire body, slamming back and forth through his limbs, making him burn all over.

"Whatever you do, don't what?" Chú Róng's long lashes fanned once, and he asked in puzzlement, his voice nothing like the hoarse, unpleasant sound it made when he wore his mask — the tail of his words was lingering and soft, a shallow question like a feather, tickling at the tips of one's heart.

Yunzhi's heartbeat grew even more violent. The rough palms of his calloused hands had broken into a sweat, and his sturdy body stood motionless in the doorway like a thick wooden post.

Chú Róng took no notice of Yunzhi's unusual state and parted his pale lips again to ask: "Has something happened outside?"

Ning Yuan had said yesterday that before daybreak, Lian Ci would give an answer.

Could it be that Lian Ci had arrived?

Yunzhi's throat bobbed. His eyes gazed at him in a daze, and whatever Chú Róng had said, he had not taken in a single word.

Chú Róng waited for a while, and when no response came, his beautiful brows furrowed slightly. He raised his voice a little: "Yunzhi?"

Yunzhi managed with great effort to drag back some of his senses. His dark face had gone thoroughly red. Flustered, he lowered his head, his hands grasping uselessly at the air, unsure where to put them: "This servant did not know the immortal lord was here, and had no intention of giving offence — please, please forgive this servant."

As he spoke, Yunzhi bent in a bow and moved to withdraw, but after two steps he stopped.

Wait, something wasn't right.

Yesterday when he had come to deliver the meal, apart from the immortal lord outside, the only other person in Wusong Lodge had been the young master. When had this immortal lord entered the residence?

Yunzhi stepped back, and in quiet astonishment asked: "How does the immortal lord know this servant's name?"

Yunzhi had been at Wusong Lodge for over four months — they saw each other every single day. How was it that he suddenly couldn't recognise — Chú Róng raised his jade-pale fingers and touched his face, and belatedly realised he wasn't wearing his mask.

"It's me." Chú Róng had never shown his face to Yunzhi, so it was no wonder Yunzhi didn't recognise him. "Chú Róng."

Yunzhi's pupils trembled. He sucked in a sharp breath, his mouth quivering, words stumbling out: "M-M-M — Master?"

The person in front of him — was Young Master Chú?!

But wasn't the young master's face disfigured? That was why he always concealed his appearance behind a mask whenever he was seen. Over the past three or so years, quite a few people in the sect had used this to attack the young master, saying the young master was delusional and unworthy of Senior Brother Cen.

Chú Róng's pale lips parted slightly, and inwardly he let out a long sigh. Just how horrifying must the original host's face have been, to have frightened Yunzhi into this state?

Still, now that his true appearance had been seen, Chú Róng did not intend to conceal it anymore. After all, he would only be at Qingyang Heavenly Sect for a short while longer before he left.

Besides, he was just a cannon-fodder gong — in the original story, he had so little screen time that who would bother paying attention to his face?

Chú Róng didn't much care about his appearance to begin with, and he didn't dwell on Yunzhi's reaction. He asked again: "Did someone come from outside?"

"How did Young Master know?" The words had barely left Yunzhi's mouth before his eyes landed on Chú Róng's face again, and his face flushed a few shades redder. He hastily dropped his gaze, not daring to look at him again.

Chú Róng's long lashes trembled faintly. He half-lowered his eyes, concealing the flash of light that passed through their depths, and the hem of his white boots under his robes lifted as he rose from the bed and walked outside.

As they brushed past each other, the subtle drifting fragrance of orchids floated up to Yunzhi's nose. He came to his senses and hurriedly reached out to grab Chú Róng's arm to stop him from going out.

Afraid the sweat on his palms might dirty Chú Róng's clothes, Yunzhi quickly pulled his hand back, quickly rubbing it on his own hem a few times, then took several large steps to get in front of Chú Róng, spread his arms wide, blocked his path, and said anxiously: "Young Master, you cannot go out."

"Why not?" Chú Róng tilted his head slightly, and a few more wisps of orchid fragrance drifted from his person.

Yunzhi's face instantly went red all the way to the tips of his ears, and from his ears down to his neck. He stammered, unable to get his words out properly: "There are a lot of people out there, and every single one of them looks fierce and menacing — what if, what if Young Master is accidentally caught up in it…"

Those people looked ill-intentioned at a glance. The young master was of mortal flesh and blood — how could he withstand the attacks of cultivators? The young master was his benefactor. He absolutely could not let the young master suffer even the slightest harm.

A lot of people?

Shouldn't it be only Lian Ci?

Chú Róng's heart gave a lurch. Something felt off — the way things were unfolding seemed to have deviated somewhat from what he had imagined.

Chú Róng raised his head, his gaze passing over Yunzhi and fixing on the direction of the main gate where the light was still dim and uncertain. Over the long distance between them, he could faintly make out the sounds of clamour.

—

Outside Wusong Lodge, the cultivators from across the Hundred Immortal Sects had landed one by one at the main gate, standing in a dense, vast crowd.

Duan Lěng pointed at the grand, tranquil manor and turned to Cen Yan: "Chú Róng is in there?"

The people from the various sects also looked over at Cen Yan. Cen Yan's refined face was taut, his complexion still slightly pale, his eyes seeming to hold ice, colder and more forbidding than they had ever been: "That's right. However, on all four sides there are—"

Before he could finish, Duan Lěng raised his spiritual sword and charged directly toward Wusong Lodge. The moment he drew close to the main gate, an invisible force of tremendous spiritual pressure swept over him.

Duan Lěng had been unprepared. His chest took a heavy hit and he was flung violently backward, crashing to the ground!

Duan Lěng's face turned greenish. He opened his mouth and vomited out a mouthful of blood.

What in the world had that been, to repel a cultivator of his Golden Core stage with a single strike?

Duan Lěng casually wiped the blood from the corner of his mouth, clutched his chest, staggered upright, and looked toward the main gate. He saw that a water-membrane-like barrier encased the entirety of Wusong Lodge. The barrier shimmered faintly in and out of visibility, and a heart-stopping pressure emanated from it.

What was that?

Duan Lěng's pupils contracted sharply. An icy chill crept unbidden up his spine: "A restriction seal?!"

Judging by the force of this restriction seal, the person who had laid it was no minor figure. The people from the various sects exchanged glances with one another, and each could see the astonishment in the other's eyes.

The gentle smile on Hè Tíng's handsome face faded slightly. Worthy of Immortal Venerable Ning Yuan — even a single restriction seal carried this much power.

Hè Tíng tightened his fist — but before he could say anything, an overwhelming pressure descended from the sky. His broad back bent involuntarily, and his knees slowly sank down to the ground.

Thud——

The sound of bodies hitting the ground rang out in succession. The cultivators of the Hundred Immortal Sects, who had been standing upright just a moment before, fell to their knees in unison. Those with weaker cultivation bases even had their entire bodies prostrated flat, completely unable to move.

This familiar, enormous pressure… Nán Xíngyě forcefully suppressed the surge of blood in his chest, and with great difficulty tilted his head upward — and sure enough, at the main gate stood a towering, oppressive figure.

The man's brow ridge was sharp as a blade. On his precisely sculpted face, his straight nose bridge was as if carved by a master craftsman. He was like a deity descended into the mortal world, his entire being radiating an inviolable, sovereign dignity.

Who else could it be but Ning Yuan?

"Im—Immortal Venerable?" The faces of the Hundred Immortal Sects' cultivators changed drastically. Deep fear showed in their eyes. Why was the Immortal Venerable here?

Only a few of the men who knew the truth kept their faces still and said nothing.

Ning Yuan's gaze swept slowly downward, his eyes like a thousand-year sheet of glacial ice, passing over every face outside Wusong Lodge. His flat, cold voice sent tremors through their very livers: "What have you come here to do?"

The crowd shrank their necks and fell silent as cicadas in winter. Though they had arrived with aggressive momentum and righteous conviction, when faced with Ning Yuan, not a single word could be wrung out of them.

It was Hè Tíng who coughed twice, forcibly held himself upright against the pressure, and was the first to speak: "We do not mean to disturb the Immortal Venerable. It is only that we have a matter we cannot but see to inside Wusong Lodge."

Prompted by Hè Tíng's words, Líng Quán quickly came back to his senses. He threw his voice wide open, and his booming sound carried throughout Wusong Lodge: "Indeed. Líng is by no means here to cause trouble — only to apprehend Chú Róng. Chú Róng covertly instigated the schism of Fēngqīng Sect, resulting in heavy casualties among the sect's disciples. This account must be settled!"

Duan Lěng swallowed down the blood in his throat and spoke up loudly as well: "And there is also my Chánghé Sect! Chú Róng leaked the whereabouts of our sect's disciples, leading to the theft of our sect's cultivation resources and leaving two disciples gravely injured, still unconscious. If this vendetta is left unrevenged, the people of Chánghé Sect will know no peace! I humbly ask the Immortal Venerable to be magnanimous and allow Duan to enter and apprehend Chú Róng — Chánghé Sect will be eternally grateful!"

With two people taking the lead, the other sects that had come together grew bolder and one by one raised their voices, openly declaring their grievances against Chú Róng.

Immortal Venerable Ning Yuan was an existence revered by all cultivators in the world of cultivation. He had always been impartial and unbiased. With the litany of crimes Chú Róng had committed — sins beyond counting — there was no way the Immortal Venerable would tolerate it.

Perhaps Chú Róng's fate would end up even more wretched than they had imagined.

The last person was carried away by excitement as they thought this, as though they had truly seen before their eyes the scene of Chú Róng being cut to pieces — a complete and satisfying vengeance. As they spoke, their voice was impassioned and their eyes gleamed with elation.

They were entirely unaware that the pressure bearing down above their heads had grown heavier and heavier, and that the atmosphere around them had imperceptibly tightened, as though even the very air had frozen solid.

Only when that person's face flushed a burning red and breathing became difficult, when even speaking grew laboured, did they belatedly sense that something was wrong. They turned a dazed look toward the man standing before the main gate.

Ning Yuan's towering figure stood beneath the covered walkway at the main gate. The half-lit, half-shadowed daylight fell across his handsome face, making it impossible to read his expression, yet for no discernible reason, the sight of him sent one's heart hammering in one's chest.

The last person's brow gave a heavy throb. The voice in their mouth involuntarily grew smaller, until it trailed off into complete silence.

"Are you finished?" Ning Yuan's gaze shifted sideways, casting a cold, downward glance, and he tossed out those few words like shards of ice.

The last person trembled all over, startled and terrified, not daring to let out even a single breath.

This attitude from the Immortal Venerable — something wasn't right, was it?

The people of the Hundred Immortal Sects watched that person's ashen face, and at last began to sense that something was off. No matter how they looked at it, the Immortal Venerable did not seem to be standing on their side — rather, it looked as if he was… shielding Chú Róng?

The moment that thought flashed through their minds, a light laugh tinged with mockery drifted into everyone's ears, the tail of it curling upward with a hook-like lilt, parching one's throat and drying one's tongue.

Everyone instinctively turned their heads toward the source of the sound.

The next moment, every single person's breath caught. Their hearts pounded wildly. Their eyes went blank. They stood stock-still, unmoving, as though someone had cast an immobilisation spell on them.