Chapter 85 – The Cultivator’s Sword
Rain poured relentlessly from the heavens. Dark clouds clung to the peaks of the cliffside mountains, so oppressive they seemed to choke the breath from the air. The mule snorted steam under the torrential downpour, while Mo Liuyi stood frozen, staring blankly at a shattered half-mask. In his mind's eye, a cold, emotionless face emerged—a face always devoid of expression, yet absurdly fond of wearing a smiling mask. Every time Mo Liuyi saw him, he would laugh at his hypocrisy.
And yet, that impassive man never grew angry. He once said he couldn't smile, so he wore a mask to represent the joy he could not express.
Rain fell like pillars from the sky, soaking Mo Liuyi to the skin. He picked up the mask; the mud was washed away by the rain, leaving only the faint scent of blood lingering on it.
"Three more missions, and I'll be free. Then you shall be the world's greatest assassin.""When I retire, I'll brew countless jars of wine. If ever you crave a drink, come find me.""Assassins never know which mission might be their last, which body might rot in the wilderness. So, if you like someone, say it early. Whether they accept it or not, at least you'll have said it."
Gripping the mask tightly, memories flooded Mo Liuyi's mind—scenes of conversations between him and that cold-faced man. On the edge of a cliff, beneath moonlight, there would always be a slender, expressionless youth, resting his hand on a sword wrapped in cloth, gazing into the vast emptiness beyond. In his pupils flickered dreams and longing.
"Mo Mian… you're free now.""May you find peace."
Rainwater slid down Mo Liuyi's chin, converging into a silver thread. He tucked away the mask and turned his gaze toward the summit above, where thunder rumbled like drums.
A vision flashed before his eyes—blood-red mandala flowers and a figure in crimson, half her face veiled by a silver mask. In that instant, it was as if he saw her dissolve, like scarlet ink dropped into water—utterly shattered and dispersed.
A strange sense of fear and unease gripped his heart.
That cold-faced man had been right—if you care for someone, say it before it's too late.
Mo Liuyi swung himself onto the mule. With a flick of his bamboo whip, the beast neighed and surged forward, hooves pounding as it galloped toward the mountaintop, flinging mud in every direction.
North Luo, Lake-Heart Island.
Outside, storms raged, and bloodshed stained the wind. But here, the island was a secluded paradise—tranquil, serene. The lake breeze, infused with spiritual energy, rippled across the waters, stirring gentle waves. A lone fisherman cast his net from a solitary boat, and fat perch flailed within the woven trap.
Ni Yu, with her bottom raised comically, let out a series of puffs, yet her eyes shone with excitement. Alongside Jing Yue, she knelt before a black cauldron infused with Lu Fan's divine blessing, tossing herbs into the simmering pot.
Today, Ni Yu would refine a pill!
Nie Changqing hovered above the lake, hands clasped behind his back, guiding young Nie Shuang in his cultivation with each punch cast into the water.
Yi Yue sat cross-legged, still cultivating diligently, absorbing the essence of heaven and earth. She was hardworking, tireless.
Peace and harmony enveloped the island.
White Jade Capital, second floor terrace.
Lu Fan leaned against the railing, listening to the wind.
Before him, a strategic map of mountains and rivers had been half laid out on the table.
"Young Master, the wine is ready."
Ning Zhao, sleeves rolled up, offered a bronze cup of warmed plum wine.
Lu Fan took the cup. His eyes were as deep as the stars scattered across the heavens. Even though she had now reached the peak of the Qi Condensation Realm, Ning Zhao dared not meet his gaze directly.
For at this moment, his eyes seemed to contain the entirety of the world.
"How interesting. The Mo family has allied with the Northern Army to seize former Chicheng and march toward the imperial capital. And yet, the Tyrant leads eighty thousand elite West County cavalry to storm Mo's Mechanical City…"
Lu Fan sipped the wine, the corners of his lips curving slightly.
To him, the rise and fall of empires was trivial. What he truly cared for was the evolution of the world itself.
His mission was to cultivate true practitioners. Only with the emergence of formidable cultivators could the world ascend in its entirety.
Rather than the Northern Army's confrontation with the Great Zhou's elite, Lu Fan's interest was captured by the upcoming battle at East Lake's Mechanical City.
For he had noticed something even more intriguing…
Mo Liuyi was about to cross paths with the Tyrant.
Would this be the first true clash of cultivators?
From what he could see, Mo Liuyi's odds were not high.
Lu Fan drank leisurely, deeply entertained.
The battle between the ancient Qi cultivator Jiang Chao and the Tyrant within the Immortal Palace of Wolong Ridge had counted, in a way, as a clash of cultivators. But to Lu Fan, that fight had been devoid of suspense—scripted from beginning to end by his design.
Watching the cultivators he personally nurtured collide in real combat—now that was worth watching.
"Hm?"
Lu Fan raised a brow, took another sip of wine.
The scene before his eyes shifted, spanning a hundred miles, leaping from the battlefield of Mechanical City to Drunken Dragon City.
There, something unexpected was about to unfold.
"Sister Ning, more wine. Your Young Master is very busy."
Lu Fan waved his bronze cup, smiling.
"Yes, Young Master."
Ning Zhao's expression remained gentle, her white robes fluttering as she poured the warm wine into his cup. The rich aroma of plum filled the air.
Drunken Dragon City.
A once peaceful farmhouse now lay in shambles.
Bai Qingniao clutched little Fengyi, hiding in the chicken coop, eyes wide with terror.
The mysterious, straw-hatted Yin-Yang sorcerers had shaken her to the core.
She was just an ordinary village girl who raised chickens and brewed soups for guests. Had she not recently encountered "immortal fate," she might have fainted dead away by now.
And now, the familiar old woman of the household had transformed into a voluptuous, bewitching beauty, shattering Bai Qingniao's worldview.
Even more terrifying…
That woman had killed.
Within the courtyard, Chilian's red hair streamed wildly as she flung a short blade into a Yin-Yang sorcerer's chest.
Another sorcerer began to weave a spell, only to be slammed to the ground by Chilian's leap. From the high slit of her dress, she drew a hidden dagger and, without expression, drove it into his throat.
Once. Twice. Thirteen times.
Only when the sorcerer lay dead, eyes wide in unwilling death, did she finally stop.
Blood stained Chilian's stunning face. She rose, retrieved her demonic blade from the other's chest, and slit his throat in one fluid motion.
In the chicken coop, Bai Qingniao was stunned.
Watching Chilian, blood-soaked and awe-inspiring, her eyes lit up.
So… so cool!
Chilian stared at her, momentarily dazed.
"No wonder you are the descendant of the White General who once buried 300,000 Rong soldiers alive. That courage isn't something ordinary people possess."
She smiled. Jiang Li had ordered her to protect Bai Qingniao, and she had fulfilled that duty.
Suddenly, Chilian stiffened.
She turned sharply.
From outside the farmhouse, footsteps approached—unhurried, unapologetic.
An invisible stream stirred the wind.
"Who's there?!" Chilian called out sharply.
Bai Qingniao clutched Fengyi tighter, eyes wide.
"As expected, the Patriarch guessed right. There's no way Jiang Li would leave a weakness exposed."
A lazy, indifferent voice floated through the breeze.
A slender, graceful figure emerged. One sleeve hung empty in the wind.
"Mo family… Mo Shougui!"
Chilian's pupils shrank.
Mo Shougui's face was calm and gentle. He glanced at Chilian, then shifted his gaze to Bai Qingniao.
"Tsk, tsk… The descendant of the Bai clan, who once massacred 300,000 with a single command, reduced to a common village girl. Jiang Li really has hidden you well…"
He chuckled.
Bai Qingniao froze.
Chilian raised her blood-drenched blade.
"Even without the poison in your blood, defeating you would still take but a single strike."
Mo Shougui sneered.
His lone arm rose.
A thread of spiritual energy drawn from the secret realm of Wolong Ridge surged with his qi and blood. It exploded forth, slamming into Chilian with force so great that her pupils dilated, and blood spewed from her lips as she was thrown to the ground beside Bai Qingniao.
Her red hair splayed out behind her. A festering black wound marred her thigh—the poison from earlier had begun to take effect.
Pale-faced, Chilian struggled to rise but was overwhelmed by weakness.
Bai Qingniao's face turned ghostly white.
As Mo Shougui approached, she stood protectively before Chilian, defiant.
Mo Shougui's gaze grew strange.
"The Patriarch told me not to kill you. Just to take you away."
"But personally… I think your severed head delivered to Chicheng would be far more poetic. Jiang Li would lose his mind, and the Great Zhou would collapse like a landslide."
His empty sleeve fluttered.
A sword appeared in his hand, his eyes widening with fanatical madness.
No more words. No mercy.