Chapter 4: Blood of the Heart, Part 4

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The sunlight poured in abundantly, and Ling Chen Li avoided the glare, as if under its illumination, sin would be revealed.

Normally, he never lingered in bed, always rising immediately upon waking to wash and make the most of every second attending classes and training. But this time, he stubbornly stayed in bed, reluctant to rise.

The stirring in his lower abdomen, even a naïve child would feel the cold dampness there, perhaps even cry out in surprise. Yet Ling Chen Li seemed oblivious. A flush gradually spread across his sharp features, his teeth clenched tightly, as if resisting some temptation.

Temptation.

The lure to fall into depravity.

He actually harbored such... filthy thoughts toward the very master he should revere as a benefactor. It seemed the cultivation masters were right after all—he truly was a corrupt mortal.

Ling Chen Li thought with a mixture of pleasure and guilt. Though awake, the lingering intoxicating sensation from the dream refused to fade. The cold, aloof, proud gaze of Leng Fang Xie, who last looked upon him, brought a whipping-like thrill just recalling it.

Amidst this chaotic, hazy fantasy, he felt that place stir once more.

“...”

Finally, he had to rise and face reality.

Since learning some simple spells, Ling Chen Li rarely bothered to wash his clothes manually—that was a waste of time. But now, having skipped the most important morning class, he painstakingly washed the bedding inch by inch with his hands. The grimy water squeezed out between his fingers flowed like murky substance, mirroring his near-unrestrained mood.

...

After the incident involving two outer disciples, the Law Enforcement Hall swiftly apprehended several inner disciples as well. Regardless of their backgrounds or sect affiliations, the ringleaders were executed, and their followers had their spiritual roots destroyed and were exiled to the dome to mine ore.

Such rapid action silenced any objections, and those powerful figures with secret ties to the perpetrators turned a blind eye.

Many then recalled Leng Fang Xie’s unexpectedly harsh and severe conduct, which belied his outward appearance, and understood how highly the renowned Dao Lord valued that outer disciple. Despite inner resentment, the malicious schemes against Ling Chen Li were gradually abandoned.

Leng Fang Xie was fairly satisfied with this outcome. He had originally planned to personally eliminate those scum, but was forcefully stopped by arriving law enforcement cultivators who promised no mercy would be shown otherwise. Reluctantly, he relented—partly to spare Ling Chen Li, who would eventually walk the inner sect path, from making enemies; partly because their shared master on Sword Peak had yet to appear.

With these concerns eased, he no longer needed to constantly watch over Ling Chen Li as before. That fortunate disciple’s talent was exceptional; no famous teacher was required, and cultivation was as natural to him as eating and drinking. If not for fearing that he might perish in the outer sect, Leng Fang Xie would not waste so much time answering his peculiar, childish questions.

He himself also needed to cultivate.

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Though already on the verge of reaching the Nascent Soul breakthrough, poised to enter what the mortal world calls the “demigod” realm, Leng Fang Xie always felt a subtle barrier obstructing him. Yet he was not vexed; on the contrary, he delighted in overcoming such obstacles, finding more joy in surmounting great hurdles than in any amusement.

He loved the sensation of ascent. In his past life, he had been a top assassin, academy chief, bakery manager, and more. Aside from occasionally having to follow the world’s plotline, most of the time he delved deeply into his pursuits, often reaching the pinnacle before missions concluded. Sometimes, when facing hostile male leads, he had to ease up to end the storyline.

Before the system malfunctioned, it joked that it was a “Chosen One” system. Leng Fang Xie liked that phrase; he enjoyed being a favored son of heaven, formidable in any field, commanding respect.

As a cultivator, he naturally aspired to reach the Great Perfection stage of Union Formation. Even without the threat of Fu Heng, it was only a matter of time.

Focusing his mind on the sword’s image, he gradually felt his spirit weakening and awareness fading, then slowly withdrew. The barrier thinned further; he believed it would not be long before he entered Nascent Soul.

Thinking of Fu Heng atop the peak where heaven meets earth, Leng Fang Xie mused that time waits for no one—the sooner, the better.

As usual, he queried the system, receiving a garbled response. Rising, he prepared to seek out a swordsmith.

Sword cultivators must cultivate both body and sword. Sometimes a famous sword matters more than one’s cultivation level. It is common for mediocre cultivators wielding a soul-attuned renowned sword to slay enemies above their rank. Throughout history, sword cultivators have never ceased their pursuit of the perfect blade.

Leng Fang Xie’s sword was forged by Fu Heng himself, from materials that even the strongest beings could not obtain. Now, with a hungry disciple and a male lead of extraordinary destiny and fortune, he naturally had to plan ahead for his sword.

In the storyline, the male lead’s true sword would only be refined after reaching Nascent Soul, as only a sword personally forged by the cultivator suits him best. Until then, he used whatever was at hand, sometimes even casually breaking off a branch to serve as a makeshift sword.

Though that sounded carefree, Leng Fang Xie found it shameful. As his disciple, lacking a proper sword seemed a failure on his part as a master.

Ling Chen Li’s spiritual power seemed normal but was actually peculiar and unlike others, requiring unique materials for forging. Leng Fang Xie had already collected them on the way to find him; everything was ready except for a qualified swordsmith.

Just as he prepared to leave, he noticed a plump bird about the size of a palm perched on a nearby branch. The bird was stout, with long, splendid tail feathers and large, bright black eyes fixed on Leng Fang Xie. Yet it lacked any lively intelligence, exuding instead a chilling aura of lifelessness.

His steps halted.

The bird was actually a creation of his master, Fu Heng. When Leng Fang Xie was young and alone, the bird often stood guard on the eaves and branches. Back when their relationship was good, he had named it “Bean Cake” for its tender yellow feathers. Now, he no longer wished to see it, for its appearance meant Fu Heng wished to see him.

Moreover, Leng Fang Xie increasingly felt that Bean Cake’s gaze was colder and sharper than any lifeless thing, as if Fu Heng was watching him through the bird’s eyes, his sight omnipresent, enveloping him.

Reluctantly, Leng Fang Xie followed Bean Cake to the summit of Sword Peak, to the Floating Cloud Flying Palace.

Fu Heng waited before the hall, wearing his eternally pristine white robes, holding a half-finished jade carving, head bowed in meticulous carving. Mist like flowing clouds surged in, feeding into the jade. To Leng Fang Xie’s eyes, only a vague outline was discernible, with most details obscured like mountains shrouded in fog.

“You’ve been away from the sect for a hundred years. During your travels I’ve heard much about you, but outsiders’ words are often unreliable. I want to hear from you—have you met a few close friends? Seen any remarkable landscapes? Faced life-or-death moments? Gained new insights?” Fu Heng questioned like a normal master, his tone gentle and expression calm. Yet from the moment he raised his head, his gaze locked tightly on Leng Fang Xie.

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A chill crept over Leng Fang Xie’s heart. He thought: You keep your divine awareness on me day and night; whatever I experience, you probably know better than I do.

Outwardly, he answered each question obediently, like a compliant disciple.

He spoke at length, intending to leave once finished, but sensed a creeping coldness drawing near.

Then, Fu Heng suddenly asked, “Are you still angry?”

He referred to Leng Fang Xie’s stubborn departure from the sect in anger long ago. Yet both knew it was not mere anger but an attempt to escape. To the sect, it was probably seen as a petty quarrel between master and disciple, never imagining the relationship had twisted to such a degree.

Fu Heng harbored forbidden thoughts toward him, and though Leng Fang Xie did not wish to kill or maim Fu Heng, he resolved that once his cultivation surpassed Fu Heng’s, he would imprison him.

Leng Fang Xie raised an eyebrow, replying obediently, “How could I be angry with my master?”

It was all false pretense.

“Is that so?” Fu Heng’s eyes, narrow and phoenix-shaped, black and white sharply defined, were usually gentle and smiling, but when expressionless, revealed a coldness. He stared intently at Leng Fang Xie—or rather, beyond his back.

The shadow of a heart demon enveloped the upright sword cultivator, presenting an embracing posture, its face twisted with wickedness as it glanced sideways at Leng Fang Xie. His most beloved was oblivious, gazing coldly at him as if they were mortal enemies. Little did he know he was already entangled by filthy things, and when he tilted his head slightly, he nearly pressed lips to lips with the heart demon.

...Clearly a gesture of offering a kiss.

Now, even Leng Fang Xie’s dull senses should detect something amiss. Frowning slightly, he intended to leave, but before taking a step, he felt Fu Heng’s divine awareness suddenly expand, surging to envelop him completely.

His master sighed softly, “You’ve been away too long; I don’t know what you’ve come into contact with. Even if you resent me, a master must help you see to it.”

“You...!”

Leng Fang Xie’s eyes widened slightly, barely uttering a word before being overwhelmed by a torrent of possession.