Chapter Sixty-Three

By the time the group arrived at Wangxian Peak, the Spirit Canal had just come to a smooth stop overhead in the sky.

Recalling the terrifying pressure he had faced when welcoming Ning Yuan out of seclusion not long ago, Jìn Tuò drew a quiet, deep breath and hurriedly bent in a bow, respectful and meticulous: "We welcome the Immortal Venerable's return to the sect!"

The elders followed in unison, bowing in perfect alignment: "We welcome the Immortal Venerable's return to the sect!"

However, contrary to all expectation, the overwhelming, terrifying pressure that everyone had anticipated did not manifest by even a fraction — as if it had been deliberately and completely contained, without a single trace leaking out.

This…?

Jìn Tuò's expression filled with bewilderment. He lifted his head slightly and looked toward the spirit ship.

A man of sharp, strikingly handsome features — white robes brighter than snow — stepped out of the Spirit Canal as easily as walking on flat ground. His solid arms held someone tightly against his chest, the lines of his muscles clearly visible.

That person wore flowing, graceful deep crimson gauze robes. Their figure was supple and tall. Jade-coloured, crystalline fingertips clutched a small corner of the man's robes in front — their well-defined knuckles pulled taut, as though unable to decide whether to pull the man closer or push him away.

Jet-black hair fell and streamed in every direction, vaguely revealing half of a face that was devastatingly beautiful as white jade. At the tail of the eye, a flush of red like rouge was vivid and eye-catching beyond all measure.

One glance alone was enough to make the throat involuntarily go dry — and the desire to draw nearer was impossible to contain.

Jìn Tuò couldn't help sucking in a sharp breath. The assembled elders' eyes went glassy as well, and they stood there, stunned, as Wangxian Peak fell into a strange silence.

The man's aggressive aura enveloped him again completely. Chú Róng still felt deeply uncomfortable, his whole body tense, wanting to push the man away — but thinking of himself as a mere mortal, unable to get off the spirit ship on his own, he had no choice but to suppress the impulse.

Feeling that someone seemed to be looking at him, Chú Róng's long, dense lashes trembled faintly. He instinctively started to turn his head to look — and the man's glacially cold voice reached him first: "Don't look around."

Ning Yuan raised his eyes slightly, and his gaze — composed and impassive — swept down over Jìn Tuò and the others, his sharply outlined face radiating a suffocating, commanding pressure.

That imperious, inviolable tone was a world apart from how he had been during the days on the spirit ship.

"Immortal Venerable, please quell your anger!" Jìn Tuò and the others' faces changed slightly. A bone-deep chill crept up their spines, and they trembled as they lowered their heads.

Who was this person?

The Immortal Venerable wouldn't even allow them a second look?

Jìn Tuò was shaken to his core, and a storm of enormous turbulence churned inside him without ceasing.

Ning Yuan paid no attention to the shifting expressions of the group. Holding Chú Róng, he landed smoothly on the ground. The spirit ship suspended in mid-air let out a great rumbling crack, and at a visible pace it shrank — smaller, smaller still — transformed into a streak of light, and flew into Ning Yuan's long sleeve, disappearing without a trace.

Danger resolved.

Chú Róng parted his deeply red lips slightly and let out a breath. He released the fingers that had been clutching the man's robe, and pointed downward, indicating that Ning Yuan should let him stand.

"Wangxian Peak has a Spirit-Gathering Array laid all around it. The spiritual energy is exceptionally dense. You won't be able to withstand it." Ning Yuan looked down and said, his expression not changing.

In the original text, it was indeed mentioned that Qīngxū Sect had multiple Spirit-Gathering Arrays laid within it — though the specific side effects on mortals had not been described in detail.

His life, or his freedom?

Chú Róng had no choice. He pressed his red lips together with some reluctance, and continued to hold himself stiffly in the man's arms.

A faint ripple surfaced in the depths of Ning Yuan's fathomless eyes. The barely perceptible curve at the corner of his lips deepened slightly. He held Chú Róng and walked toward the palace. As they passed by Jìn Tuò and the others, his head turned slightly to the side, and his gaze — laden with palpable force — paused on Grand Elder Yún Sōng: "You. Follow me in."

Yún Sōng was a medical cultivator who had practiced for over four hundred years, his medical skills at the absolute pinnacle of the cultivation world. However, he never left his mountain retreat, and refused to treat disciples outside of Qīngxū Sect — which was why few among the Hundred Immortal Sects knew of him. His reputation was nowhere near as widespread as Jīng Héng's.

Yún Sōng pressed his head even lower in a bow and respectfully accepted the order: "Yes."

Ning Yuan withdrew his gaze coldly. Holding Chú Róng, he entered the palace. The palace was enormous — built as if from crystal. The floors inside were paved with white jade carved into the shapes of lotus blossoms, the petals vivid and intricate, the stamens realistic down to the finest detail.

On the inner side of the palace doors stood a jade couch twenty feet long, its four sides carved in openwork with complex, auspicious cloud patterns.

Ning Yuan bent and set Chú Róng down on the couch. His deep crimson hem fell like a camellia flower dropping its petals. Instantly, wisp after wisp of orchid fragrance spread through the hall.

Ning Yuan's gaze darkened slightly. His voice, which had been cold as ice just a moment before, dropped at once to something low and hoarse: "The Grand Elder is skilled in medicine. Let him look at your lingering condition."

The Grand Elder, head still lowered, nearly had his eyes fly out of his head. He felt a chill crawl across his scalp in horror. The — the Immortal Venerable was actually speaking so humbly to this person?!

The next moment, a soft, drawn-out "alright" entered Yún Sōng's ears. The tail of the word held some hesitation — but it was still there, like a hook, making one's chest go involuntarily numb.

The original host's illness was something Chú Róng had never intended to ignore. He had originally planned to find a skilled physician once he returned to the mortal realm to take a look.

Now that there was a medical cultivator on hand who could examine him, he would be a fool to refuse — after all, however skilled a mortal healer might be, they could not match a medical cultivator from the world of cultivation.

Chú Róng turned his head. His luminous eyes looked toward Yún Sōng, who stood in the centre of the hall, and gave a slight nod in greeting: "Thank you for the trouble."

Yún Sōng raised his head. In an instant, his eyes were plunged into a blaze of devastating beauty, and he couldn't help but hold his breath, his eyes going hazy and unfocused.

Having cultivated for several hundred years, he had never seen a person of such otherworldly beauty. Yún Sōng's heart — silent for hundreds of years — beat wildly and uncontrollably. Unable to stop himself, he took two steps forward.

Whoosh——

A precise strike of spiritual force hit the ground just beside the foot Yún Sōng had stepped forward. Ning Yuan spread one large, well-defined hand across in front of the person on the couch, completely blocking Chú Róng's face from view — and cutting off every angle of his sight.

With one hand half-raised in the air, he glanced coldly at Yún Sōng without a word — yet the overwhelming, terrifying aura still radiating from him froze anyone in their bones.

Yún Sōng's face went deathly pale. He immediately dared not move a single inch. Even breathing became a thing he did not dare.

"Immortal — Immortal Venerable, mercy!" Yún Sōng strained to suppress the fear rising instinctively from the very depths of him. His body shook beyond his control. Both legs trembled so violently it was difficult just to stand.

"Mind your eyes." Ning Yuan's face was entirely devoid of expression. His eyes were steeped in cold shadow, freezing anyone who met them to the marrow.

Yún Sōng's lips turned white. Even his teeth clattered: "Yes."

"Come here." Ning Yuan lowered his hand and looped it around Chú Róng's slender waist, sitting down beside him on the couch. He opened his wide palm and raised it, supporting one snow-white section of Chú Róng's wrist.

Yún Sōng lowered his head and walked toward the jade couch with trembling steps.

Chú Róng hadn't seen what had happened. The sword-callused fingertips pressed against his skin, and his body stiffened instinctively. He reflexively started to struggle — but seeing Yún Sōng arrive at the edge of the couch, he guessed what the other man was going to do. He forced himself to tolerate his discomfort and kept still.

Not daring to look anywhere he shouldn't, Yún Sōng kept his gaze carefully lowered as he bent at the waist and extended one hand, resting it on the pulse at Chú Róng's wrist. The smooth, lustrous texture he touched there made his heart give another involuntary lurch.

Ning Yuan glanced sideways at Yún Sōng. The terrifying aura had not yet dissipated, enough to make anyone fall silent as cicadas in cold weather.

Yún Sōng's hand trembled faintly. He immediately gathered his focus, drawing his breath in and concentrating fully as he took the pulse: "What condition are you experiencing, Young Master? Where does it come from?"

Chú Róng's lips barely moved — he had not yet had time to say a word — when Ning Yuan spoke, recounting his illness and the origin of his condition word for word, every detail matching Chú Róng's symptoms exactly.

How did Ning Yuan remember this so clearly?

Chú Róng raised his head and looked at the man with faint surprise. His raven-wing lashes fluttered, the flush of red at his eye corners moving enough to entrance.

Ning Yuan's breath caught slightly. The large hand holding Chú Róng's waist tightened a little. His handsome face descended, as if unable to help itself, as though to kiss his eyes.

Chú Róng turned his head to the side and dodged quickly, directing his gaze toward Yún Sōng who was taking his pulse.

It had been over four hundred years since Yún Sōng had formed his core, and his appearance had settled at the likeness of a man in his mortal forties. Tall and upright, his complexion leaning toward a wheaten tone, his features handsome — not a match for Ning Yuan, but the aura of depth that the years had distilled into him gave him a charm all his own.

As the pulse picture beneath his fingertips grew increasingly clear, Yún Sōng's expression grew increasingly grave. His brows pulled together tighter and tighter.

Inside the palace, the atmosphere grew more and more taut.

Chú Róng's heart kept sinking lower and lower. An unnamed dread seized his nerves, and even his breathing unknowingly tightened.

Even Ning Yuan's expression had grown colder and more severe by a degree. Both sharp eyes fixed intently on Yún Sōng: "Well?"

Yún Sōng wouldn't dare conceal anything from Ning Yuan. He drew back his fingers and thought for a long moment, then asked with grave seriousness: "Young Master is a mortal, is that correct?"

As a cultivator, Yún Sōng's senses were keen. A single glance had told him that Chú Róng had not a trace of spiritual energy about him. After taking the pulse, he could feel the blocked state of the pulse itself — this was clearly a person with not a scrap of cultivation.

"Yes." Chú Róng answered truthfully. But what did his illness have to do with him being a mortal?

"Has Young Master ever come to the cultivation world before?" Yún Sōng asked: "Or been in contact with cultivators?"

"Three-plus years ago he saved Cen Yan, and then returned to the sect with him. He left only a few days ago." Ning Yuan answered for him.

Cen Yan?

That name sounded very familiar.

But Yún Sōng didn't give it further thought, and shook his head: "Not three years ago — at least ten years prior."

Ten years prior?

The original host had been nothing more than a discarded child of the Marquis of Anguo's household. At age ten or so, he had been driven out to a farmstead in the countryside and left to fend for himself. He had had no opportunity to come in contact with cultivators, let alone travel to the cultivation world.

"No." Chú Róng shook his head. The orchid fragrance in his hair drifted in faint wisps.

Yún Sōng took an imperceptible breath of it, his eyes going dazed again for a moment, yet his voice continued in an unhurried, methodical rhythm: "That makes it stranger still. If Young Master has neither been to the cultivation world before nor had contact with cultivators, how is it that there is a Puppet Gu unique to the immortal sects inside his body?"

Puppet Gu?

Chú Róng quickly reviewed the entire text in his mind — only to find that from beginning to end, it had never been mentioned once.

The unease in Chú Róng's heart grew stronger. He curled his jade-white fingertips and clutched a corner of the man's sleeve, striving to maintain his composure. He asked: "What is Puppet Gu?"

Ning Yuan's jaw tensed. His eyes sharpened like blades. The dark, hidden shadows at the bottom of his gaze deepened. He drew his arm around Chú Róng's waist and pulled him tightly into his embrace. One large hand covered the luminous jade back of Chú Róng's hand, wrapping around his slender fingers.

Chú Róng's heart was a jangling mess of anxiety, and he barely noticed the man's movements. He heard the man's voice in his ear: "Puppet Gu is a species of gu worm unique to medical cultivators within the immortal sects. As the name suggests, a person who has been infected becomes an unknowing, puppet-like creature, manipulated by others."

Puppet Gu came in two forms: the mother gu and the offspring gu. The mother gu was the dominant one, the offspring gu the subordinate. The mother gu could manipulate the offspring gu at will, and a person infected with the offspring gu, unless they died, would be subject to the mother gu's control no matter how far away they were from it.

The reason it was unique to the immortal sects was twofold. First, Puppet Gu was very difficult to cultivate, requiring enormous resources — resources that mortal healers and gu-masters simply couldn't afford. Second, after the gu worm was implanted, the owner of the mother gu was required to nourish the offspring gu with their own heart's blood every single day for ten years before it recognised its master, with many precious medicinal ingredients required to supplement the process.

All of the above made the conditions for cultivating Puppet Gu so demanding that many were deterred at the outset. In the past century, as cultivation resources in the world of cultivation had grown scarce, even among medical cultivators there were very few who still raised Puppet Gu.

But once Puppet Gu was successfully cultivated, its uses were tempting enough to make the effort worthwhile.

First: Puppet Gu was extremely concealed. Even a Grand Supreme Immortal might not necessarily detect its presence.

Second: the mother gu could control the offspring gu's host remotely — to kill, to set fires… and even at the appropriate moment, to commit suicide, destroying all evidence.

If the offspring gu was placed within an enemy, the toxin it released could cause the enemy unending agony, without leaving any handle to be grasped.

The reason Yún Sōng had been able to discover the Puppet Gu inside Chú Róng was that he himself happened to be raising a pair of Puppet Gu which were nearing maturity. He had been monitoring them carefully all this time, which made him more sensitive to it than he would otherwise have been.

Had the Immortal Venerable brought Chú Róng back to the sect even slightly later, he might not have caught it this quickly.

The colour drained from Chú Róng's face. This — wasn't this exactly what happened when he had an episode?!

作者有話說:

久等～