Chapter Sixty-Seven

Aboard the Spirit Canal.

The orchid fragrance in the main hall had not yet dispersed. Ning Yuan bent down and set the person in his arms onto the couch.

The soft, thick texture pressed up from beneath him. Chú Róng's long lashes trembled faintly. His muddled mind cleared somewhat. When he saw the man above him, every nerve in his body instantly drew taut.

Chú Róng was truly a little afraid now. In the original text, though Ning Yuan had never shown his face and had no scenes to speak of, from the brief words others said about him it was not difficult to see that he was supposed to be an aloof, powerful being — one who had severed all the six senses and their associated desires.

How could the man before him be completely different from the one in the original text?

Chú Róng raised his soft hands and pushed Ning Yuan away. He slipped quickly off the jade couch. His peripheral vision swept the surroundings, and recognising where he was, the vivid flush on his cheeks took on a trace of surprise: "Are we going to the mortal realm?"

Ning Yuan didn't deny it. His tall frame settled on the edge of the couch, watching the alarmed figure of Chú Róng's back, the aura around him formidably commanding: "Approximately one day until the mortal realm."

Chú Róng knew this. In the original text the mortal realm and the cultivation world were not far apart — otherwise, when Cen Yan had been ambushed and nearly killed in the cultivation world, how could he possibly have dragged his gravely wounded body all the way to the mortal realm farm where the original host lived?

What surprised Chú Róng was that Ning Yuan moved with more efficiency than he had expected.

Still — the Puppet Gu in his body truly could not be allowed to drag on.

What Chú Róng prized most was his own life. And the existence of the offspring gu was like a bomb buried inside his body, which could blow him to pieces at any moment without warning.

This feeling of having one's life suspended in someone else's hands — Chú Róng disliked it greatly.

—

The next day.

The night was deep and dark. The Spirit Canal flew forward, entering the high skies above the mortal realm.

Beneath the ink-black sky, looking down from the spirit ship, ancient-style manor buildings stood row upon row — not very different from the sets Chú Róng had seen in period dramas.

Chú Róng cast a casual glance around, then fixed his gaze on the vast, magnificent imperial capital of Shèngjīng in the distance. And below Shèngjīng was the Marquis of Anguo's estate.

In the original text, the original host died at Qingyang Heavenly Sect and never returned to the mortal realm until the end. The people of the estate probably didn't even know the original host had died.

Chú Róng stood at the prow of the spirit ship and gazed toward where the estate lay, his long, dense lashes slightly lowered, a shifting play of light and shadow flowing through his eyes.

The Soul-Capturing Bell hanging at his waist emitted a soft luminescence, and the formation array within it formed an invisible protective barrier around his person. The fierce gale blowing across the prow of the ship did not touch him by even a hair.

Ning Yuan turned slightly, his tall, upright frame interposing itself casually between Chú Róng and his line of sight. He extended his large palm and took hold of Chú Róng's pale white wrist.

The familiar, aggressive scent washed over him. Chú Róng's faraway thoughts snapped back at once. His jade-pale fingertips curled inside his sleeve. He instinctively tried to pull his hand free — then the moving Spirit Canal came to a sudden stop.

Ning Yuan lowered his eyes slightly. His cold, flat voice took on a mild rasp: "We shouldn't get too close. It will alert them."

If the person who had planted the gu truly was in the estate, the mother gu should also be inside it. The mother gu and offspring gu were linked in heart and mind — the closer they drew to the estate, the stronger the resonance between the two gu worms would become.

If the one who planted the gu sensed their presence and moved first, it would be dangerous for Chú Róng.

Chú Róng's mind turned quickly, and he understood the man's meaning at once. He gave a light nod. His smooth black hair swayed like flowing water: "What do you plan to do?"

There were cultivators inside the estate, and he was a mere mortal who couldn't approach. As for the specific method of eliminating the mother gu, he would follow Ning Yuan's direction entirely. He would not make trouble, he would not hold anyone back, and he had no desire to become a burden.

Ning Yuan's eyes hardened with glacial cold. He cast a sidelong look at the person who had just passed before him, as though looking at something already dead. But Puppet Gu was exceedingly good at concealing itself — even though he was already near the mother gu, his spiritual sense still couldn't detect its presence.

Ning Yuan reined in the killing intent in his heart. He turned back to look at the person in his arms. His usually expressionless voice carried a trace of worry: "Can you hold on?"

"I — I can." Chú Róng closed his eyes slightly. His long, fine lashes cast a row of shadows beneath his eyes. He could bear this pain.

Ning Yuan pressed a light kiss to his forehead in an expression of care, then lifted Chú Róng into his arms and followed after Zhù Guānwēi.

Ning Yuan had laid down a restriction seal in advance. The sound of his conversation with Chú Róng had not carried out at all. Zhù Guānwēi and her group were entirely unaware. They entered the main hall of the estate.

Zhù Guānwēi sat in the seat of honour. The eyes behind her veiled hat swept over the white-haired steward in the hall. Her fingertip tapped lightly on the surface of the tea table — tap, tap, tap — producing a faint sound in the deathly-still main hall, with a rhythm that felt almost like applied pressure.

After a long while, Zhù Guānwēi spoke slowly. Her voice was as aged as her skin — rough, hoarse, and grating on the ears, extremely unpleasant: "When did it happen?"

A flash of surprise crossed Chú Róng's eyes. Women in ancient times married young. The original host was barely past twenty. By that reckoning, the mistress of the estate shouldn't be very old at all. Why was her voice like this?

The steward's face went deathly pale. He collapsed to his knees with a thud, trembling all over: "In reply to Madam — it, it was at the Mao hour. The moment you left for the palace, the Mar — the Marquis regained consciousness."

The attitude of mingled reverence and fear was as though Zhù Guānwēi were the true head of the estate.

Zhù Guānwēi's tapping hand stopped. She stood up and walked outside.

The Marquis?

The original host's father?

The Marquis had no affection for the original host either. He was one of the other possible suspects for planting the gu.

Chú Róng endured the pain and tugged lightly at Ning Yuan's robe again. Ning Yuan took his meaning without a word. He held Chú Róng and followed Zhù Guānwēi again.

Leaving the main hall, Zhù Guānwēi led a few attendants through the inner courtyard, arriving before a small and quiet side courtyard. The courtyard was bare and open, with only a single pear tree inside — as the time for pear blossoms had not yet come, the branches were bare.

Zhù Guānwēi raised her hand slightly. The attendants who had been following understood without being told. They stopped and did not advance further.

Zhù Guānwēi smoothed her robes, then walked quickly into the courtyard. Her steps held a measure of urgency — like a young woman hurrying to meet the man she loved.

Creak——

The room's door was pushed open from both sides. From within, a wave of putrid, rancid stench rolled out and hit them in the face, thick enough to cause nausea.

Chú Róng furrowed his brows. Before he had even had time to hold his breath, a thread of spiritual energy floated up to his nostrils and swept the stench away completely.

Chú Róng paused briefly. Pale-faced, he tilted his head back and looked up at the man holding him.

Ning Yuan lowered his gaze, his eyes moving over Chú Róng's face, watching his colour: "Can you still smell it?"

"Not any more." Chú Róng gave a faint, weakened response and turned back to look at Zhù Guānwēi.

She seemed not to notice the foul smell in the air at all. She entered the room with delight, rushed to the side of the bed, and threw herself at it: "Xuányáng gēgē, you've finally woken up! I've missed you so much — do you know how many years I've been waiting for you?"

Lying flat on the bed was a person whose eyes were blank and hollow — like a puppet with only an empty shell. From the style of his clothing, he appeared to be a man.

The man's frame was tall, but extremely thin — nearly nothing but skin and bone. His skin was pale, and his cheeks were sunken. Yet even through all of this, the outstandingly fine lines of his face could still be discerned. His long hair was scattered open in a dishevelled mess. The skin of his wrists was mottled with blue and purple — marks that did not look like bruises from blows, but rather as if they had grown from within the body itself.

Was this the original host's father?

Chú Róng examined him carefully and found no resemblance whatsoever to the original host's face. Perhaps the original host had taken after his mother?

Wait!

In the original text, the Marquis of Anguo was surnamed Zhū, wasn't he?

Something flashed through his mind, and before Chú Róng could grasp it, Zhū Xuányáng's dark eyes slowly shifted and landed on the person weeping beside his bed.

The next moment, the man's pupils contracted sharply. His breathing went ragged. His thin chest heaved violently.

He stared wide-eyed and fixedly at Zhù Guānwēi, his mouth hanging wide open. Saliva trailed from the corner of his lips, and he let out strange, guttural sounds. The fingers hanging at the side of the bed also twitched rapidly. A section of gaunt wrist was exposed, crossed by a wound scar so deep it showed bone.

It looked like the extreme of terror, and the extreme of hatred, both at once.

Zhù Guānwēi was this close to Zhū Xuányáng — how could she fail to notice his expression?

The tender declarations of love in the room came to an abrupt halt. She slowly raised her head. A scornful laugh emerged from behind her veiled hat, and it sounded particularly sharp in the empty room: "What? You want to kill me?"

Zhū Xuányáng's mouth opened and closed. He made a few more strange sounds, as if in reply to her words.

"What a pity — you can't." The mistress savoured the man's wretched state with great attention. Her rough, hoarse voice grew softer and softer — tender, like a lover's whisper — yet the words she said made goosebumps break out across Chú Róng from head to toe: "Have you forgotten? I've already cut the tendons in your hands and feet, ripped out your tongue, and put poison inside your body. There is no one in this world who can save you except me."

Zhū Xuányáng's eyes flew wide with terror. His mouth fell open even wider. It was empty inside — the tongue, cut off almost to the root, had only a short, stubby remnant left, trembling and moving with his gaping mouth like a piece of living, animated flesh.

Madwoman!

Zhù Guānwēi was a madwoman!

No — Jiāng Huò!

The fear and horror on Zhū Xuányáng's face eased slightly. A flash of wild joy bloomed across it. Right — he still had Huò'er. Huò'er was skilled in medicine. She could definitely save him!

"Is the Marquis thinking of Jiāng Huò, that lowly maidservant?" Zhù Guānwēi saw through the man's thoughts in an instant. The mockery in her laughter grew even more pronounced.

Zhū Xuányáng stared sharply at Zhù Guānwēi. Then he heard her say, in an unhurried, measured tone, like a snake flicking its forked tongue: "The Marquis has been in a stupor for so many years — truly growing more and more muddled. Did that wretched servant not die of illness in the estate long ago? When she was at death's door, clinging to the last breath of life, her son Chú Róng forced his way into the main courtyard, wanting to beg you to send the estate's physician to save her. And you refused him without a trace of mercy."

Chú Róng?

Jiāng Huò might have been of humble origins as a medic's daughter, barely worth acknowledging — but she had given him a son. Had he not granted the child the Zhū surname and named him Héng Yù? The eldest illegitimate son of the Marquis's estate — how did he come to have the surname Chú?

Zhū Xuányáng gasped for breath in great gulps, staring with fierce hatred at Zhù Guānwēi. The saliva trailing from the corner of his mouth flowed even more freely. Poisonous woman!

"Why is the Marquis so angry? He can only blame the boy for having a lowly mother and lowly blood in his veins, unfit to bear the name of the estate." The veiled hat concealed Zhù Guānwēi's face, making her expression impossible to read. But when she spoke, her tone always carried a self-perceived sense of being above everyone else, relentlessly domineering: "I had him acknowledge a stable hand as his father, and take the stable hand's surname, and still I left him his life. He ought to be grateful to me."

Boom — something exploded inside Chú Róng's mind.

—

At the same time.

In the main hall, the steward was still kneeling on the ground, not daring to move.

"Steward Li." A servant hurried in with a bow, leaned close to the steward's ear, and said in a low voice: "There is a cultivator outside the estate, surname Cen, asking to see a Young Master Chú."

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