“Heh…”
Flames licked mercilessly over Shang Zhu’s body. There was nowhere to hide inside the pill furnace, and fresh kindling kept falling from above. His wonderful master and Bai Tiansheng had done this.
The pale violet in the white-haired youth’s eyes bled into scarlet. He glared upward with naked hatred. When Bai Tiansheng met that gaze, he stumbled several steps back.
The next instant, Shang Zhu vanished. A glowing red pill struck the furnace floor.
Not long afterward, another corpse was thrown inside. Shang Zhu recognized it at once.
It was his good master, He Yi’an.
—
Shang Zhu opened his eyes, expecting the weightlessness of a ghost cultivator and the gloom of the Nether Realm. Instead, he found himself in a room so familiar it hurt. A blurred figure beside the bed was grinding medicinal paste.
Shouldn’t I be a ghost cultivator? Where am I?
His raised arm was covered with wounds, dust, and tiny stones.
“You’re awake?” the man said. “Let me apply the medicine. You have injuries everywhere.”
Shang Zhu could never forget that gentle voice or the hypocritical face attached to it—not even in death. His wonderful master, He Yi’an.
What trap had he fallen into? Even his cultivation was gone.
He remained still and watched warily until He Yi’an pulled his arm closer.
“Thank you…but could I do it myself?” Shang Zhu looked up with wet, pitiful eyes, as though one refusal would make him cry.
He Yi’an reacted as if burned. His hand trembled, and the bowl passed immediately to Shang Zhu. “If you need anything, tell the disciple outside. I will return later.”
How righteous. How dignified.
Once the door closed, Shang Zhu tossed the bowl aside. His wounds mattered less than understanding why he had not entered the Nether Realm.
His clothes had been replaced with the standard inner robe of a Lingyun Sect disciple. What a clumsy performance. His master would never grind medicine or change his clothes. Treating him like a dog had been kindness enough.
Don’t worry, He Yi’an. I will repay the murder of my parents and the debt of refining me into a pill, one stroke at a time.
Red light flashed through his eyes.
The room and the view outside its window belonged unmistakably to Silent Reflection Peak, where he had lived for two years.
“Hey! His Excellency said you mustn’t be exposed to wind. Close the window!”
Shang Zhu lowered his voice timidly. “The room felt stuffy. I only wanted some air.”
“I’ll cast a spell for you.” A young man climbed through the window with shameless familiarity, muttered an incantation, and cooled the room.
“Thank you.”
Shang Zhu’s violet eyes shone. Mu Fan blushed and looked away.
Still as innocent as ever.
Shang Zhu coaxed him into talking, searching for a flaw in this supposed illusion. Instead, Mu Fan lamented how cruel fate had been to someone only sixteen.
“Mu Fan—you said I’m sixteen?”
“Of course. His Excellency found you in a village. Not a single living thing remained—not even the pigs or sheep. Luckily, he arrived in time to save you. He really is wonderful…”
Sixteen? Shang Zhu had entered Lingyun Sect at seventeen. No illusion-maker would leave such an obvious error.
“That was my home,” Shang Zhu said with a brittle smile. Not truly. “The neighbors treated me well.” They had not; only his parents had. “Did my parents die too?”
Why did it still hurt when he had endured this once already?
His face turned whiter than paper. Mu Fan panicked, remembering He Yi’an’s command to care for him, and exhausted every trick he knew before Shang Zhu finally appeared to fall asleep.
The moment Mu Fan left, Shang Zhu’s violet eyes opened.
He had returned to life.
No wonder the inheritance he had found in the secret realm was gone. Very well. He Yi’an. Bai Tiansheng. He would settle every account.
After outlining his revenge, weakness overcame him.
“Why did you fall asleep without using the medicine?”
Cool fingers touched his arm, easing the pain beneath the bitter smell of herbs. Shang Zhu seized He Yi’an’s wrist. The cruelty in his eyes instantly became suffering.
“It hurts,” he whispered.
“You cannot refuse medicine because it hurts. The wounds will never heal.” He Yi’an blew softly over the injury. “Be good, Shang Zhu.”
Shang Zhu allowed him to continue, drawing sharp breaths until He Yi’an’s movements became impossibly gentle.
Had He Yi’an also been reborn?
“Ah—it hurts!”
Shang Zhu jerked. A vase crashed to the floor. It was He Yi’an’s treasured spiritual artifact; in the previous life, a man had lost an arm merely for chipping it.
Shang Zhu’s eyes reddened. He clutched He Yi’an’s sleeve and trembled. “I’m sorry, Your Excellency. Punish me.”
Yet he did not move. Neither did He Yi’an.
Come on. Hit me. Curse me. Show me your real face.
He Yi’an only sighed and wiped away the tear Shang Zhu had forced out. “It is only a vase. If you liked it, I would have given it to you.”
“You don’t blame me?”
“How could a dead object matter more than a person? Treat this place as your home.”
Home. Shang Zhu had believed that once. He had never left it, because he died here.
“Thank you, Your Excellency.” He smiled shyly. Let me see what secret allows you to pretend so patiently, my beloved enemy.
He Yi’an left three medicinal pills for bedtime. Since he still needed all of Shang Zhu’s blood, he would not harm him before the proper day. Shang Zhu swallowed them without fear.
On He Yi’an’s bed, he remembered the evening his master had first taken in a homeless boy, named him his only disciple, and showered him with rare artifacts. That beautiful life had been a dream. Everyone had known Shang Zhu was only a tool—an unusually valuable one.
At least the furnace had forced them to tell the truth.
He needed strength. Swordsmanship was too slow. A forbidden blood art he once discovered could use blood as its medium to amplify cultivation.
What did taboo matter to a man who lived only for revenge?
Half asleep, Shang Zhu sensed someone beside him but could not open his eyes.
“Fortunately, I am not too late. It really is you.”
His sleep became a nightmare filled with He Yi’an’s old voice.
“I ordered your whole village killed!”
“Why was I kind? To raise you until eighteen and refine you into a pill!”
“You circled me every day. I was sick of you long ago!”
He. Yi. An.
A tear struck Shang Zhu’s hand. He closed his eyes hard. This would be the last.
“Why are you crying?” He Yi’an asked from beside the bed.
Shang Zhu hid his shock and smiled weakly. “It was only a nightmare.”
He knew how to inspire pity. Playing obedient was the first step; keeping an alluring distance was the second. He had learned that from Bai Tiansheng.
He still needed He Yi’an’s resources.
As expected, the man leaned close and caught each falling tear with a handkerchief.
“From now on, I will be your family.”
“Family? Thank you, Your Excellency.”
“I wish to take you as my disciple. What do you say?”
“Truly? If Your Excellency asks, of course I agree!”
He Yi’an’s pleased smile overlapped with the one from the previous life. Shang Zhu bowed his head, showing only his snow-white crown.
“Take a few days to recover. You may explore the peak. I must leave for a while.”
Shang Zhu beamed, eyes curving like crescent moons. “Yes. I’ll wait here for you.”
He Yi’an froze for some reason, stroked his hair, then vanished with an incantation.
Silence returned, worthy of Silent Reflection Peak.