Chapter Fifty-Five

The transparent barrier rippled like the surface of water.

Against the half-lit, half-dark morning sky, a young man stepped unhurriedly out from within Wusong Lodge. His figure was tall and slender, his face devastatingly beautiful — even the mocking smile on his lips was enough to beguile one's soul.

As he drew nearer, a faint, drifting fragrance of orchids spread through the air. Everyone couldn't help but flare their nostrils and breathe it in deeply, the expressions on their faces growing more and more dazed.

Hè Tíng's fingers curled inward, his fists clenching tighter and tighter. His dark, calculating eyes locked onto the young man's figure, and at the very depths of those eyes surged a tide of something that sent chills through anyone who glimpsed it.

He had lived a cultivator's long life and had seen no shortage of beautiful people — yet none of them could compare to even a fraction of this young man's radiance.

A beauty like this truly ought to be shut inside a gilded cage, kept captive upon a bed to be savoured at all hours.

Jīng Héng's cold, hollow eyes stared fixedly at the young man, like a hunter locking onto its prey.

Nán Xíngyě, whose bearing was glacially sharp, had the man's reflection caught in his black pupils, and the complex expression on his handsome face froze once again.

Péi Zhàn's breath snagged. Seeing Chú Róng's true face again, he still couldn't look away.

In the three or more years Chú Róng had been in the sect, Péi Zhàn had spent a year and a half of it in closed cultivation, but even so, he had not noticed anything out of the ordinary. Had he known earlier that Chú Róng looked like this, he would have long since locked Chú Róng away inside the Dragon Scale Jade Pendant — there would have been none of this messy, impossible situation now.

Yún Tán's long fingers, which had been toying with his sandalwood prayer beads, came to an abrupt halt. His knuckles curled inward as his fingers tightened involuntarily. The expression on his transcendent face — which usually wore neither sorrow nor joy, like the face of the Buddha — showed visible, unmistakable turbulence for the first time.

His breath grew uncontrollably disordered. He squeezed his eyes shut as though fleeing from some terrible flood, murmuring lowly and repeatedly under his breath: "Amitabha Buddha."

Yet he did not notice at all that the hand toying with the prayer beads had sped up chaotically, utterly devoid of its former steady rhythm.

Watching the gazes from all directions converging on the young man, Ning Yuan's bottomless black eyes, unfathomable as a deep pool, grew subtly darker. His tall, imposing figure shifted to the side, fully blocking the young man from view. He lowered his gaze to look at the person before him, his voice cold and flat: "Why did you come out?"

Chú Róng glanced sideways at Yunzhi, who was scrambling to catch up from behind in a panic, his long, dense lashes trembling. He cast Ning Yuan a sidelong look, his eyes shimmering with warmth: "Too noisy."

These people had made such a racket that even he, who was not deaf, could not have missed it — but it was precisely because he had heard, that Chú Róng now knew this great crowd had come to condemn and arrest him.

Chú Róng was a little taken aback. In the original story, there had been no such scene.

In the original text, the original host had committed many misdeeds within the Hundred Immortal Sects while operating under Cen Yan's name. But in the original plot, after the original host confessed in the main hall and was imprisoned on Yunjǐ Peak, none of those deeds were ever exposed — not until his death.

When he had unexpectedly transmigrated into this novel and changed the original host's fate, the evil deeds the original host had done should have been severed and contained within Qingyang Heavenly Sect — they should not have spread outward. So where had these people learned of what the original host had done?

The lashes framing Chú Róng's eyes dipped low, and a thread of thoughtful contemplation flickered across his gaze. But regardless — he was not a man who would simply sit and wait to be dealt with. Now that these people had forced their way to his doorstep, what reason did he have to let them do as they pleased with him?

Chú Róng knew perfectly well that given the original host's reputation in Qingyang Heavenly Sect, there was no way anyone in the sect would stand up for him.

As for Ning Yuan… Chú Róng had spent over twenty years navigating the world alone in the modern era. He understood human nature all too well — and the human heart was fickle. He could not be certain: once Ning Yuan learned of the deeds the original host had done, would he turn against him?

In particular, the original text had described Ning Yuan in such sparse detail that Chú Róng found it nearly impossible to infer his character from the few fragmentary lines — let alone figure out how to win him over.

Having turned the situation over in his mind, the picture was clear: if he did not step forward and fight his corner with reason, there was a very good chance he would end up in the hands of these people, to be slaughtered as they saw fit.

And Chú Róng very much disliked the feeling of being at someone else's mercy.

With the soul-shattering beauty now blocked from view, the minds of the crowd began to gradually return to them. Líng Quán, with his powerfully built body bent nearly in half, struggled to prop up his upper body. His coarse, rough-hewn face was flushed red from the blood surging up inside him, and his tiger-like eyes fixed straight onto the young man now hidden behind Ning Yuan: "Who are you?"

He was of Golden Core cultivation — one glance told him the young man had no cultivation whatsoever and was nothing but an ordinary mortal. When had the affairs of the cultivation world been any business of a mere mortal's to comment on and interfere with?

Ning Yuan's eyes became glacially still. His wrist turned over, and a spiritual force of tremendous, trembling power was already gathering to strike at Líng Quán — when a jade-pale hand settled lightly on his arm. The fingers were well-defined, the fingertips brushed with a faint blush, carrying a faint coolness.

Ning Yuan's tall, solid frame stiffened subtly. The spiritual force in his palm dissolved, and along with it, the pressure blanketing Wusong Lodge's surroundings diminished by more than half.

The people from the Hundred Immortal Sects all let out long breaths of relief, the backs that had been hunched over gradually straightening once more.

Ning Yuan didn't look at any of them. He lowered his gaze to the jade-pale fingers resting on his arm, his throat imperceptibly bobbing. His line of sight moved slowly upward, inch by inch, settling on the close, fair face before him.

Chú Róng had paid no attention to Ning Yuan's gaze. He retracted his hand, stepped past Ning Yuan, moved two paces forward, and stopped before the restriction barrier. His luminous eyes swept one by one over the cultivators of the Hundred Immortal Sects who were gradually rising to their feet outside — and unexpectedly, among them he spotted a few somewhat familiar faces.

He remembered: during the time the aphrodisiac had taken effect, when he had been hovering in and out of consciousness by the hot springs pool at the back mountain, he had seemed to glimpse these few figures.

Each of them was remarkably handsome, standing out from the crowd the way a crane stands among chickens. Chú Róng observed them carefully for a moment, and quickly identified which sects they belonged to by the emblems on the robes of their accompanying disciples.

Tiānjī Sect, Yúnyǐn Valley, Qīngxū Sect — the male leads from outside Qingyang Heavenly Sect in the original story, all present.

Nán Xíngyě: the first male lead of the original text. His talent and comprehension were on par with Cen Yan's. He was the last to meet Cen Yan, yet the one who was most deeply kindred with him.

Hè Tíng: sect master of Tiānjī Sect. Later in the story, after the original host's death caused Cen Yan to be bound by the karma of the heavenly marriage contract and suffer damage to his cultivation, it was Hè Tíng who combed through every scrap of intelligence in his sect's archives to find a way to remedy the situation for Cen Yan.

Jīng Héng: the foremost healer in the cultivation world. Working from the remedy Hè Tíng found, he poured everything into treating Cen Yan. It was largely thanks to his efforts that Cen Yan was able to recover so completely in the later chapters — his contribution was irreplaceable.

Add to that the two already in Qingyang Heavenly Sect — Xú Zǐyáng and Péi Zhàn — and all the male leads of the original story were now assembled.

No wait.

Chú Róng's gaze swept past the few bald-headed monks standing among the crowd, and paused on the most striking of them — a man of transcendent, unworldly beauty at the front. Even Yún Tán, the male lead's closest confidant, had come.

Yún Tán was the Sacred Son of Dùfǎ Monastery. He cherished all living things and was boundlessly compassionate, his ideals perfectly aligned with Cen Yan's vision of saving the world. In the original text, Cen Yan had felt as though he had found a kindred spirit too late in Yún Tán, and regarded him as his one and only true confidant — a fact which had made more than a few of the male leads chew on more than a little dry jealousy over the years.

Looking across the entire work, Yún Tán was the only person who was even more upright and principled than Cen Yan. If things became uncontrollable in a moment, he might be able to drag Yún Tán into the situation on his side.

Chú Róng had rattled through his mental calculations at full speed. Only then did he bring his gaze back, look toward Líng Quán who had spoken, and let the curve of his lips become just a little more pronounced. He exhaled the words lightly, his tone easy: "Weren't you just clamouring about wanting to condemn me and vent your fury? Now that the very person is standing right in front of you — what's this, you can't even recognise me?"

Líng Quán fell into a daze again. When he came back to himself and understood the meaning of those words, he sucked in a sharp breath, his tiger-like eyes flying wide as copper bells, his volume shooting up: "You're Chú Róng?!!"

What?

This person was the Chú Róng who had done evil without end?!

The people from the Hundred Immortal Sects all froze at once. They looked toward Chú Róng with disbelief, and the moment their eyes touched his face, their minds involuntarily began to drift again.

Among the people of Qingyang Heavenly Sect in particular, mixed together with their disbelief was a sense of surreal absurdity — so it was true that Chú Róng hadn't been disfigured, and in fact he looked like…

Even Lian Ci and Hè Míng, with centuries of cultivation behind them and self-restraint far beyond ordinary people, couldn't stop their minds from wavering.

They suddenly understood why Ning Yuan would shield Chú Róng. A beauty like this — utterly unparalleled in the world — was something no one could resist. No wonder even the Immortal Venerable would sink into obsession over a beautiful face and act so recklessly.

To say nothing of disciples with weaker resolve — they immediately began acting very oddly, their breathing growing rough and their throats working as they swallowed loud, audible gulps.

"So Chú Róng really looks like this?" a disciple couldn't help but murmur.

Cen Yan pressed his lips together tightly and said nothing. He stared at Chú Róng within the barrier, and the light specks in his mind's eye blazed with radiance, so intense that the rims of his eyes began to tinge with a faint purple glow.

On his flank, Yún Tán's hand paused mid-bead once more — and after a short moment, resumed its motion, his lips moving in low prayer.

"So it was you who caused Fēngqīng Sect to fracture and fall apart!" Líng Quán ground his teeth, every muscle in his body swelling with tension, fists clenched until they crackled: "Two factions clashing — how many men died? Chú Róng, give back the lives of my sect's disciples!"

"And my Chánghé Sect!" Duan Lěng's injuries were severe — he could barely keep himself on his feet. His dark, sunken eyes bore into Chú Róng, and the fury inside his chest erupted outward in a torrent, surging straight to the crown of his skull: "You caused two of my sect's disciples to be gravely injured and left unconscious. Does that not warrant death in reparation?"

……

Chú Róng stood before the main gate. In the face of the accusations and condemnations pouring in from all sides, he maintained his composure throughout. In the original text, the original host's scenes ended at Yunjǐ Peak, and the things the original host had done to the Hundred Immortal Sects had been described in only the most cursory, passing strokes.

Fēngqīng Sect, Chánghé Sect — the original text hadn't mentioned either of them once.

But that was no obstacle to Chú Róng flatly denying it all and turning it back on them: "Ha. Aren't you all giving me rather too much credit? I, Chú, am nothing but an ordinary mortal. In front of cultivators, I can't even withstand a single strike. Where would I get the ability to bring this much harm upon so many cultivators? If anything, it's all of you — failing to distinguish right from wrong, using your power to bully those weaker, ganging up in numbers against one — so eagerly trying to dump all this filth on one lone mortal. Could it be you're looking for a scapegoat to cover up some motive you'd rather keep hidden? You are cultivators, yet you use your superior cultivation to defame and slander a mortal as you please, treating a mortal like a soft target to be squeezed. If word of this were to reach the mortal realm, I wonder what credibility the cultivation world would have left."

A scapegoat?

A hidden motive?

The credibility of the cultivation world?

One speech, and he had slapped three hats onto the heads of the crowd — and directly cast mortals and the cultivation world in opposition. In the end, exactly who was dumping filth on whom?

Duan Lěng's chest heaved violently with fury, his face on the verge of going crooked with rage: "Don't talk nonsense! Does everyone share your disregard for human life?"

That might be true of the original host — but he was a fine, upright young man of the twenty-first century and had never once done anything unlawful.

Chú Róng let out a scornful laugh. The reddened corner of his eyes tilted at an oblique angle, bewitching as a demon, and he was just about to fire back —

Hè Tíng stepped forward to the restriction barrier, his smile warm and full. His eyes, keen with concealed calculation, were set into a face of soft, handsome features. He met Chú Róng's gaze through the water-membrane-like screen, his tone mild — yet every word was relentlessly pressing: "Young Master Chú has quite a way with words — truly eye-opening. However, we have not come without basis. What we have are true and concrete pieces of evidence."

Hè Tíng tilted his head, shooting a look to his accompanying disciple. The disciple understood without a word being said and respectfully presented the detailed evidence that had been gathered.

Hè Tíng kept the smile on his face and held the evidence up in front of Chú Róng: "Why doesn't Young Master Chú take a look and see whether there's a single point that has wronged you?"

Those words sounded awfully familiar.

Worthy of being a male lead — even the words they used when condemning him were exactly the same.

Still, Chú Róng's brow furrowed slightly. He had just been wondering how the original host's deeds had come to light — and now it seemed Tiānjī Sect had been stirring things along.

What standing did Tiānjī Sect hold in the cultivation world — as a reader, Chú Róng knew it better than anyone. There was almost nothing in the Three Realms that Tiānjī Sect couldn't unearth. The evidence in Hè Tíng's hands, Chú Róng knew without even looking, would be genuine.

But so what?

Four months ago, the evidence Cen Yan had dug up had been just as real — and hadn't he overturned all of it anyway?

Chú Róng did not feel the slightest twinge of guilt. Bearing the gazes trained on him from every direction, openly or covertly, he stepped forward one more step. Yet before he could say anything, he heard Hè Tíng smile and add: "Young Master Chú need not waste his breath. Qingyang Heavenly Sect has already handed you over to be dealt with by the Hundred Immortal Sects."

Hè Tíng gave a low laugh. His deep voice was like the murmur of a demon in the dark: "Ah, and your betrothed also agreed."

Who agreed??

The fingers hidden inside Chú Róng's sleeve clenched abruptly. He turned his head toward the direction where the Qingyang Heavenly Sect party stood, and his gaze turned colder bit by bit.

On what authority did Qingyang Heavenly Sect presume to make his decisions for him and dispose of him as they liked?

Qingyang Heavenly Sect had the nerve?

And Cen Yan had the nerve?

Chú Róng was so angry his whole body trembled. The orchid fragrance from his person drifted out in wisp after wisp, making Hè Tíng feel intoxicated.

Hè Tíng's voice shifted involuntarily, his throat working in an involuntary swallow. He looked back at Cen Yan, and his tone changed abruptly, his voice hoarse and dry: "I hear that Friend Cen and Chú Róng have formed a Heavenly Dao marriage contract. The Hundred Immortal Sects are also a reasonable people — one should bear the consequences of one's own actions. Friend Cen acted righteously even at the expense of his close ties; he ought not to be implicated without cause. Let us do it like this: before having Chú Róng confess his crimes, with the Hundred Immortal Sects as witness, we will void the Heavenly Dao marriage contract."

Upon hearing this, the people of the Hundred Immortal Sects found it perfectly reasonable and raised no objection.

Only — could a Heavenly Dao contract truly be voided by a single word? And as long as the marriage contract remained in effect for even a day, could they truly not lay hands on Chú Róng that day?

As though reading what everyone was thinking, Hè Tíng smiled and continued: "Tiānjī Sect has a network of intelligence spanning the Three Realms. Why not temporarily detain Chú Róng at Tiānjī Sect, and once a method to dissolve the marriage contract has been found, hand Chú Róng over to you all for your disposal — how does that sound?"

Péi Zhàn's brow gave a twitch. With Tiānjī Sect's capabilities, they might genuinely be able to find a way to dissolve the contract. And in Tiānjī Sect, everything had a price — which would make it far easier for him to get Chú Róng back when the time came.

Nán Xíngyě also knew Tiānjī Sect's rules. His profound gaze darkened, and his thoughts began to stir against his will. Qīngxū Sect never lacked for resources, and as its next successor, he had even more than most — more than enough to exchange for a mortal. He could buy a manor outside of Qīngxū's territory, keep Chú Róng there, and it would even allow him to keep clear of the Immortal Venerable.

Jīng Héng went without saying — in the cultivation world, who didn't give him a measure of courtesy? If he wanted a person, he hardly had to lift a finger before someone would deliver them to his door. And without the binding of a Heavenly Dao marriage contract, it would spare him no small amount of trouble.

Yún Tán's finger, which had been slipping the sandalwood beads along their thread, came to a sudden stop. His knuckles gripped the bead tight. Those eyes, still as an ancient well, opened. Ripples spread through the water of the well, one after another, and would not settle for a long while.

With Tiānjī Sect's rules common knowledge across the cultivation world, some among the Hundred Immortal Sects who bore no particular grudge against Chú Róng also began to show a shift in their eyes — bold and sticky gazes that crept and clung to Chú Róng's face, still gleaming white even in the faint morning light.

Outside Wusong Lodge, a certain unspeakable undercurrent spread silently among the crowd.

Cen Yan was oblivious to all of it. The light specks in his mind's eye were swallowed whole by the purple mist, and the purple tinge lingering at the rims of his eyes faded with them. He parted his lips slightly, and said with cold flatness: "There is no need to go to Tiānjī Sect. Chú Róng and I have already dissolved—"

Before he could finish, a towering figure stepped in front of Chú Róng, cutting off everyone's line of sight. The pressure blanketing the skies above Wusong Lodge suddenly intensified violently.

The faces of the Hundred Immortal Sects' people contorted at once. They felt as though every limb of their bodies had turned to lead. Their knees could no longer support them and bent sharply, slamming hard into the ground!

Thud——!

Waves of fierce pain spread up from both knees. Everyone let out groans of agony in unison. Before long, the people of the Hundred Immortal Sects before Wusong Lodge's gate had collapsed into a vast, kneeling sea of people.

Ning Yuan lowered his gaze, looking down at Lian Ci from above, and for the first time in three hundred years, killing intent surfaced openly before others: "Lian Ci — is this the answer you give me?"

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