The window was half-open, and a dim lamp flickered in the room, its light casting a soft glow on the young man’s face, smoothing the sharp edges of his features.
Mo Zhu sat with his eyes closed, deep in meditation—a state where a cultivator’s consciousness often drifts into chaos.
His consciousness was a tranquil pool of water, unlike Yu Zhiling’s blossoming spring. A heart chilled by solitude reflected even in the stillness of his mind.
In the depths of the pool, the young man sat cross-legged, enveloped in a faint golden aura, his dark robes floating atop the water’s surface.
The golden light grew from a dim flicker to a steady glow—this cultivation manual was nearly complete.
It was one of the manuals Yu Zhiling had gifted him, different from the ones Mo Zhu had practiced before. This one required absolute clarity of mind, free from all distractions. Thus, Mo Zhu had shut off all his senses, sealing his consciousness entirely within the depths of his mind.
Suddenly, ripples disturbed the stillness of the pool. Mo Zhu opened his eyes—the once-motionless water now stirred, its gentle waves causing his dark robes to sway.
His guard rose immediately. The manual was one step away from mastery; he couldn’t afford to break his meditative state now.
But…
Something was wrong with his consciousness.
With a flick of his sleeve, Mo Zhu summoned the surrounding water into a sharp gust of wind—this was his mind, and the pool was his dormant spiritual energy. Here, he was the sovereign.
The gust halted before an invisible barrier.
The watery curtain trembled, then gradually dispersed.
Mo Zhu saw the face reflected in the ripples. His breath caught, throat dry.
“…Shifu?”
Drizzling autumn rain fell, veiling the Listening Spring Cliff in a faint mist.
Yu Zhiling lay sprawled over a small table in the pavilion, her arms pillowed on an untouched bamboo scroll. Distant thunder roared, one strike after another, yet even such deafening noise failed to wake her.
Her green robes, embroidered with colorful ribbons, fluttered wildly in the wind.
A figure approached from the corridor, holding an umbrella. He looked much younger now, his expression cold but not yet hardened into the stern composure of decades later.
Yan Shanqing spotted the sleeping figure on the table and chuckled, stepping into the pavilion to knock lightly on her head.
“Yu Xiaowu, how can you still be asleep at a time like this?”
Yu Zhiling jolted awake. “Ah—has Shifu finished transcending the tribulation?”
Yan Shanqing rolled his eyes. “There’s still one last lightning strike.”
Rubbing her jaw, Yu Zhiling winced—the bamboo scroll’s pattern had left an imprint on her skin from sleeping too long. Yan Shanqing couldn’t help but laugh, ruffling her hair.
“Hopeless as ever. All you do is sleep. I bet you haven’t written a single word of the cultivation manual Shifu assigned you.”
Yu Zhiling pouted. “Why do I need to be anything more? I have Shifu and all of you.”
She tilted her head, grinning. “Eldest Brother, I’ve decided I won’t establish my own sect. You and the others can take care of me forever.”
Yan Shanqing flicked her forehead again. “You really have no shame. Shifu will ascend soon, and the Immortal Alliance needs a new leader. That position is yours.”
Yu Zhiling flopped back onto the scroll, groaning. “Then just kill me now. I, Yu Zhiling, will never be an Immortal Sovereign.”
Yan Shanqing smirked, moving around the table to sit beside her.
“Scoot over.”
Yu Zhiling wriggled aside, making space. Master and disciple sat side by side, watching the storm clouds gather over the distant mountain.
Yan Shanqing murmured, “Shifu has reached the peak of tribulation transcendence. She’ll ascend within a century.”
Yu Zhiling raised a hand. “I’ll bet five hundred spirit stones—fifty years at most.”
Yan Shanqing shot her a look.
Despite their master undergoing a life-and-death trial, neither showed the slightest worry. To them, she was invincible—a mere lightning tribulation meant nothing.
The final bolt struck a quarter-hour later.
Half the mountaintop was sheared away, the downpour unable to mask the billowing dust. Yu Zhiling, who had been drowsing again, suddenly sat upright, her eyes bright as she turned toward the commotion.
Yan Shanqing said, “Shifu has succeeded.”
Yu Zhiling nodded eagerly. “Mhm! We’re having a celebration feast tonight! I’m going down the mountain for wine!”
“All you think about is food.”
The two sat shoulder to shoulder, watching the rain drip from the eaves. Their gazes lingered on the mist-shrouded end of the corridor—Yu Xiaowu and Fuchun resided on Listening Spring Cliff, while the other disciples had their own dwellings.
A quarter-hour later, a figure in blue emerged from the corridor.
Clad in white robes draped with a pale blue gauze, her sleeves billowing with each step, she walked through the rain, her garments slightly singed by lightning but still immaculate.
Fuchun lifted her gaze to the two in the pavilion.
Yan Shanqing stood and bowed respectfully. “Shifu.”
Yu Xiaowu cheered, “Shifu!”
But Fuchun’s eyes were red-rimmed, her expression distant. Normally, she would have greeted them with a smile.
Now, she stood silently in the rain, a barrier shielding her from the downpour.
Yan Shanqing frowned. “Shifu, come inside.”
Yu Zhiling tilted her head. “Shifu?”
Fuchun parted her lips, her face pale. She forced a weak smile. “Shanqing… Xiaowu.”
She stepped into the pavilion, and Yu Zhiling rushed forward, throwing herself into her arms.
“Shifu, since you’ve succeeded, let’s feast tonight! I want roast duck and pastries from Changming Tower, and wine!”
Fuchun stroked her hair, her hand trembling violently where Yu Zhiling couldn’t see.
Yan Shanqing sensed something amiss.
“Shifu?”
Holding Yu Zhiling close, Fuchun said, “Shanqing, leave us. I need to speak with Xiaowu alone.”
Yan Shanqing wasn’t one to pry. His gaze darkened as it lingered on Fuchun and the oblivious Yu Zhiling in her arms, but he nodded silently.
“Understood. This disciple takes his leave.”
Only Yu Zhiling and Fuchun remained on Listening Spring Cliff.
Fuchun’s body was cold. Yu Zhiling pulled back, channeling her own warm spiritual energy into her master’s hand.
“Shifu, do you want to bathe? Should I prepare the hot spring?”
But Fuchun stopped her. Taking Yu Zhiling’s wrist, she drew a small cut and extracted a drop of blood. With a swift hand seal, she cast the blood into a spell formation.
A lotus flower slowly rose from the center of the lake.
Yu Zhiling blinked. “What’s this?”
Fuchun answered, “Your Long Autumn Lotus.”
“…What is that?”
“Your life’s tribulation.” Fuchun turned to her, repeating slowly, “Your destined calamity, Xiaowu. Your death.”
Yu Zhiling froze. “What?”
The concept of a "fate calamity" is too mystical—only those who have transcended tribulations might glimpse another's destiny, foreseeing what may yet come to pass.
Fuchun's eyes gradually reddened as she choked out, "Xiaowu, during my tribulation just now, amidst the heavenly lightning, I saw your fate."
Yu Zhiling's throat tightened. "Mine?"
"Yours. Your death calamity," Fuchun said.
Yu Zhiling pressed her lips together, forcing a carefree smile to comfort her tearful master. "Ah, why cry? Those visions aren’t always accurate. Your disciple is terrifyingly strong—I’ve already reached the Great Ascension Realm. Who knows? In another century, I might ascend and live as long as the heavens!"
But Fuchun replied, "The Long Autumn Lotus remains. That proves what I saw is your true calamity."
Yu Zhiling’s feigned optimism faltered. She lowered her head slightly. "Then tell me, Master… how do I die?"
"Your heart-mind collapses. You shatter your own soul."
"Suicide?"
"Yes. You take your own life." Fuchun’s voice, usually steady, rose sharply as she gripped Yu Zhiling’s wrist. "You cultivate the Path of Clarity! How could your heart-mind collapse? Xiaowu, my Xiaowu…"
She pulled Yu Zhiling into a crushing embrace, her suppressed emotions breaking free. To her, it was unthinkable—a disciple of the Path of Clarity, falling to such despair.
Yu Zhiling stood frozen, her gaze lingering on the lotus floating on the pond. Hearing her master’s muffled sobs, she forced another smile.
"Don’t cry. What you saw is absurd. Do I look like someone who’d kill myself?"
She patted Fuchun’s back gently. "Yu Xiaowu is talented, beautiful, blessed with the greatest master in Zhongzhou and the finest senior brothers and sisters. What troubles could I possibly have? How could my heart-mind collapse?"
"Master, I entered the Path of Clarity at three. While others took days to master heart-cultivation techniques, I learned them in two. You’ve always said I was born for this path—my heart is clear and unshakable. So what you saw… it can’t happen."
Pulling back, Yu Zhiling met Fuchun’s eyes with unwavering resolve.
"I, Yu Zhiling—Yu Xiaowu—swear to you: I will never, ever take my own life."
"I may die in battle, slaying evil, or pursuing the Dao. But I will never die by my own hand."
A tear slipped down Fuchun’s cheek as she closed her eyes. Suddenly, she turned and retrieved over a hundred heart-cultivation manuals.
"Xiaowu, from now on, you will study one manual each day. Can you do this?"
Recognizing her master’s unease, Yu Zhiling nodded firmly. "Yes. I can."
She took a manual, sat cross-legged, and began cultivating under Fuchun’s watchful gaze—a transparent attempt to reassure her.
Still unsettled, Fuchun glanced at the blank bamboo scroll on the table. Her lips pressed into a thin line as she picked up a brush and began inscribing characters onto it.
Twenty-three years passed.
Yu Zhiling studied one manual daily, her heart-mind growing steadier, her mastery of the Path of Clarity deepening.
Fuchun often sat in the lakeside pavilion, staring at the blooming Long Autumn Lotus, willing its petals to close.
She had her disciple study every heart-cultivation technique in Zhongzhou. And then, she wrote one herself—a unique manual, crafted over twenty-three years.
This was the work of a sage on the verge of immortality, drawing upon eight centuries of wisdom and her exhaustive research into heart-cultivation. She hoped this one text would fortify Yu Zhiling’s heart-mind like unyielding stone.
On the day she finished, Yu Zhiling was away, hunting evil spirits.
Fuchun left the completed manual behind and departed for Mount Sanwei, answering the Immortal Alliance’s summons.
She never returned.
Later, a hollow-eyed Yu Zhiling came back to a silent Spring Listening Cliff. In the lakeside pavilion, she found the manual.
Her knees hit the floor. Forehead pressed to the ground, she trembled and wailed.
The Long Autumn Lotus, once closed, slowly bloomed again.
Decades slipped by.
In the present, a forgetful Yu Zhiling rummaged through Spring Listening Cliff’s collection of manuals and thrust them at her disciple.
"Mo Zhu, study these. Master them all. Strive to be the greatest overachiever!"
The manual Fuchun left for Yu Xiaowu—the one the unstable Zhuo Yu Immortal Lord could no longer practice—remained unopened for decades. Now, it was handed off to Mo Zhu as just another text.
The water-screen of memory shattered. The past dissolved.
Mo Zhu’s breath came ragged. He was still within his own consciousness.
All things hold spirit. Who could have guessed? A manual, kept beside a tribulation-transcending expert for twenty-three years, imbued with the near-saintly Fuchun’s devotion, had become a sacred artifact—and birthed an artifact spirit.
In mere moments, Mo Zhu had lived through decades of the spirit’s memories.
Fuchun and Yu Zhiling often sat together in the lakeside pavilion—one writing, the other meditating.
Mo Zhu’s back bent as his breath hitched. A sob escaped him.
More than the eerie prophecy, what shook him was Fuchun’s terror that Yu Zhiling would suicide—hence the relentless training, the twenty-three years spent crafting that manual.
How could Yu Zhiling ever kill herself?
She was always so bright, so resilient, her heart vast enough to weather any storm. She loved life fiercely.
Unless…
Unless it wasn’t Yu Xiaowu, but Zhuo Yu—the cold, brittle Immortal Lord whose heart-mind had frayed.
Yan Shanqing once said Yu Zhiling’s heart-mind had wavered seventy years prior. She could no longer practice heart-cultivation; her cultivation not only stagnated but regressed. That version of her… might do anything.
Mo Zhu couldn’t meditate. His spirit withdrew from his consciousness. His self-imposed barriers shattered.
When his eyes opened, he twisted aside and vomited blood, collapsing from the bed.
Kneeling on the floor, he coughed violently. Beside him lay the manual—Fuchun’s manual.
Fuchun had thought Yu Zhiling’s calamity passed when the Long Autumn Lotus closed.
The lotus blooms—the calamity looms.
The lotus withers—the calamity nears.
The lotus closes—the calamity is overcome.
But Fuchun went to Mount Sanwei. Dying, she called for Yu Zhiling—and had her disciple shatter her soul.
When Yu Zhiling returned to Spring Listening Cliff, she knelt in the pavilion and wept until her voice broke.
On the lake, the Long Autumn Lotus—once closed—slowly bloomed again.
Her fate calamity had returned.
And so, she would spend her entire life walking the path of calamity.
"Why?!"
Mo Zhu suddenly slammed the cultivation manual onto the ground.
The bamboo scroll clattered against the floor as he roared in a low voice, "You knew Shizun had a death tribulation—why were you so cruel as to make her shatter your soul with her own hands?!"
"Wasn’t it better to just be Yu Xiaowu? Why did you burden her with such a responsibility before your death, forcing her to become Zhuo Yu, the Jade-Cleansing Immortal?"
Mo Zhu knew everything. He had seen what Yu Xiaowu was like, and now, recalling the Zhuo Yu he had glimpsed in his childhood, he finally understood the meaning of "things remain, but people change."
A faint resentment welled up in him—resentment toward Fuchun for being so merciless to Yu Xiaowu.
The bamboo scroll lay silently on the ground, unmoving, as if mocking him.
Mo Zhu stared at it for a long time before closing his eyes again, as if all strength had left him.
Deep down, he knew why Fuchun had done it.
The Longqiu Lotus had closed, and Fuchun believed Yu Zhiling’s life calamity had passed. But the moment the demon seed was planted in Fuchun, her fate was sealed—the only one who could kill her was Yu Zhiling.
Yan Shanqing, Ning Hengwu, Xiang Wuxue, and Mei Qiongge—none of them would have shattered her soul. They would have hidden her instead. But could the four of them really conceal a demonic cultivator at the peak of the Tribulation Transcendence realm?
If Fuchun, now a demonic cultivator, had escaped, countless lives in the Central Plains would have been lost.
And as fate would have it, Yu Zhiling was out exterminating evil spirits at the time. Compared to Yan Shanqing and the others, Yu Xiaowu was the closest to Mount Sanwei. She was the kindest, the most obedient—even if it pained her, she would follow her master’s final wish. She was the most suitable to shatter Fuchun’s soul.
At the time, she was also the only one strong enough to guard the Central Plains after Fuchun. That was why Fuchun entrusted her with the responsibility, hoping she would continue to protect the land.
But Fuchun never imagined that her decision in death would reignite Yu Zhiling’s long-passed life calamity.
Mo Zhu’s breathing was heavy, his mind filled with the memories he had just witnessed in the sea of consciousness.
Could he say Fuchun was wrong?
The world was unpredictable. Who could foresee what would happen? How could Fuchun have known Yu Zhiling’s life calamity would return?
Mo Zhu opened his eyes, his heart pounding violently. He stared out at the thick darkness beyond the window, the words that had shattered him echoing relentlessly in his ears.
—Her heart shattered, and she destroyed her own soul.
She took her own life.
How could she?
Mo Zhu stood, picked up the scroll, and strode outside.
The sky was still dark. He didn’t want to disturb Yu Zhiling’s rest.
But… he desperately needed to see her, to confirm she was still here, still safe.
Yet when he reached her courtyard, the gate was wide open.
Yu Zhiling was already gone.
Yu Zhiling had been to the back mountain countless times. A little further up was where Mo Zhu cultivated—deep within the dense forest.
In the past, Yu Zhiling would never have dared to venture out at night. But now, luminous pearls lined the path, left by Mo Zhu to light her way.
At the mountainside stood a thick-trunked orange blossom tree, seemingly planted many years ago. Somehow, she just knew—Zhuo Yu had buried something beneath it.
The tree was centuries old, planted by Yu Xiaowu as a child. Fuchun had held her small hands as they planted it together.
Over the years, the ancient tree had grown massive, its trunk so wide it would take two people to encircle it. Now, in the height of summer, its blossoms were in full bloom.
Yu Zhiling stood beneath it, gazing up at the towering tree.
This tree had been planted by Fuchun and Yu Xiaowu. Ever since arriving in this world, Yu Zhiling had heard stories about it. Every time she passed it, she would quicken her steps, feeling as though she had stolen something that belonged to Yu Xiaowu.
After a moment of silence, Yu Zhiling stepped forward and unsheathed Zhuqing Sword—a divine artifact she was now using to dig.
Zhuqing didn’t protest. It hummed cheerfully, even moving on its own to dig faster.
As the soil was gradually unearthed, a corner of a sandalwood box emerged several feet down.
Yu Zhiling tossed Zhuqing aside and began carefully brushing away the dirt with her hands, revealing an unadorned wooden box. The only marking was a single line of text:
—To my senior brothers and sisters.
Ten years had passed. Tomorrow would mark the tenth year.
After midnight tonight, Zhuo Yu’s seal would vanish.
Yu Zhiling watched as the inscription on the box faded.
She reached out, then hesitated. Should she open it?
This was Zhuo Yu’s message to Yan Shanqing and the others. Did she have the right?
Yu Zhiling wavered, crouching uncertainly, even considering burying it again.
But then, a voice came from behind her.
"Xiaowu, open it."
Yu Zhiling turned and saw someone clad in resplendent golden robes—the very person she had dreamed of earlier that night.
Mei Qiongge.
She looked travel-worn, as if she had rushed back without rest. Her gaze was filled with a complexity Yu Zhiling couldn’t decipher—heartache, sorrow, longing.
Yu Zhiling stood dumbly. "F-Fourth Sister."
Yan Shanqing had mentioned that Mei Qiongge had been trapped in the imperial city of the mortal realm, unable to leave. That was why she hadn’t seen her in over a month.
When Ying Mountain Sect faced disaster, Mei Qiongge had insisted on returning. But the Central Plains’ mortals lived far in the eastern borders, and the journey took many days.
Mei Qiongge’s lips trembled, but no sound came out.
For her, too, it had been ten years.
Footsteps sounded along the mountain path. Yu Zhiling looked up nervously, recognizing the approaching figures.
They must have known today was the tenth year. The thing they had waited a decade to open could finally be revealed.
Yan Shanqing and the others had come.
At the forefront was the sect leader himself, dressed in deep indigo robes, immaculate despite what must have been a sleepless night.
Yan Shanqing spoke first. "Xiaowu, you remember?"
Yu Zhiling forced a faint smile. "A little."
She almost wondered if the system had shown her that dream because it knew the ten-year mark was approaching.
Ning Hengwu glanced at the freshly dug hole beneath the orange blossom tree. "Xiaowu, open it. Whatever you left behind must be important."
Yu Zhiling met the gazes of the four of them, and suddenly, a strange certainty settled over her.
As if, somehow, she already knew what was inside.
But how? She wasn’t Zhuo Yu.
Yan Shanqing repeated, "Xiaowu, open it. You buried it—you should be the one to uncover it."
Yu Zhiling took a deep breath, steadying herself. "Alright."
She turned back, crouching again, her hands trembling the closer she got to the box.
It was almost as if…
As if she truly knew.
Yu Zhiling touched the latch. Zhuo Yu hadn’t locked it—it opened easily.
Then...
It was slowly unveiled.
A flood of fireflies surged from the wooden box, scattering across the ground like a woven net, enveloping the entire back mountain before spreading further downhill.
Yu Zhiling stood up, watching as the glow deepened and stretched—crossing the Listening Spring Cliff, reaching the main peaks where Yan Shanqing and Ning Hengwu resided... until it covered the entirety of Ying Mountain Sect.
A faint golden light seeped into the earth before suddenly bursting forth. A semicircular barrier formed above Ying Mountain Sect, its pure and formidable aura spreading through the surroundings.
The last weight in Yu Zhiling’s heart finally lifted.
As expected, the gift Zhuo Yu had left was a barrier capable of protecting Ying Mountain Sect for a thousand years.
The Infinite Boundary.
A high-level barrier like this required decades, even centuries, of a cultivator’s mental and spiritual energy to forge. It took time to craft and even longer to take root.
This barrier had taken ten years—just enough to spread across Ying Mountain Sect and embed itself deep into its land. Even a Transcendent Realm cultivator wouldn’t be able to shatter it alone.
When she opened the wooden box, she had unsealed the barrier’s confinement.
Yu Zhiling showed no expression, but she could hear the suppressed, trembling breaths behind her.
She knew why they were grieving. She also understood why Zhuo Yu’s cultivation had stagnated.
How could one advance in mental cultivation when they had spent years pouring their spiritual energy into forging a barrier?
A cultivator’s mental and spiritual energy was their most potent force. The protective formations of the Three Sects and Four Great Clans were all condensed from the combined efforts of their most powerful elders, reinforced yearly by new contributions.
Those who walked the Path of Clarity could burn their spiritual energy to unleash attacks far beyond their own realm. With a will as unshakable as stone, Ying Mountain Sect’s current protective formation had been left behind by Fuchun the Immortal in her youth, reinforced yearly by Yan Shanqing and the others.
But now, this barrier—an immortal-grade protective formation, stronger than what Fuchun had left behind centuries ago—would last Ying Mountain Sect a thousand years, long enough for Yan Shanqing and the others to ascend.
Zhuo Yu must have spent decades crafting this barrier, burying it beneath the orange blossom tree before she left, letting it silently merge with every inch of Ying Mountain Sect’s soil over the past ten years.
Yu Zhiling lowered her head, a dull ache in her chest.
Zhuo Yu had arranged everything—even entrusting Mo Zhu, who wasn’t even her disciple yet—yet left no path for herself.
Yu Zhiling thought Zhuo Yu was an idiot.
She also knew how devastated Yan Shanqing and the others were. She couldn’t comfort them—she was hurting too, her heart sour and tight, as if she were reliving the moment her heart had failed in her past life.
Yu Zhiling stared blankly as the glow faded from the mountain, the barrier now fully merged with Ying Mountain Sect.
[Ding. Main quest triggered. Host must alter Ying Mountain Sect’s massacre ending. Quest completion rewards 1,000 virtue points. Current progress: 50%. Reward: +500 virtue points. Current virtue points: 2,950. Keep up the good work.]
Five hundred virtue points. Yu Zhiling felt nothing.
The system hadn’t issued a quest in so long—just a few minor tasks when she first arrived in this world before falling completely silent, as if all she had to do was guide the male lead’s cultivation.
Yu Zhiling murmured, “Ying Mountain Sect’s ending?”
In the original story, Ying Mountain Sect was slaughtered. Yan Shanqing and the others all died, leaving only Mo Zhu, who fled and spent years hunting down the villainous master before finally killing them in the Slaughter Realm.
Then it struck her.
She had activated Zhuo Yu’s barrier, making Ying Mountain Sect’s defenses the strongest in the Central Plains. The system had rewarded her five hundred virtue points—meaning that simply unlocking the Infinite Boundary had completed half the quest.
The Infinite Boundary was meant to ward off invaders.
Someone embraced her—Mei Qiongge, the closest to her.
The princess wept without restraint, clutching her as she sobbed, “Xiaowu, Xiaowu, why are you so stupid? We’re family. Why did you bear it all alone?”
Yu Zhiling smiled bitterly.
She didn’t know why Zhuo Yu had done it—why she had gone to the Slaughter Realm alone to die, why she had spent decades secretly forging a protective barrier with her spiritual energy, why she had arranged everything except her own survival.
Held by Mei Qiongge, she saw Yan Shanqing and Xiang Wuxue with reddened eyes, saw Ning Hengwu covering her mouth as she wept, and beyond them—a figure in black at the mountain’s edge.
Mo Zhu stood quietly on the forest path, a book in hand, the glow of the lanterns above softening the sharp lines of his face.
Tonight, through the system’s words, Yu Zhiling had pieced together a chilling realization.
If unlocking the Infinite Boundary had only completed half the quest… what was the other half?
Ying Mountain Sect’s barrier was already the strongest in the Central Plains. Zhuo Yu had poured decades of her spiritual energy into it. Even that couldn’t prevent the sect’s annihilation?
She looked at Mo Zhu—at his tightly pressed lips, his slightly reddened eyes, the pain and helplessness in his gaze, the way he seemed to want nothing more than to hold her.
She remembered his promise.
"Master, I would never raise a hand against Ying Mountain Sect. I don’t hate them."
How had the original novel described that ending again?
["Rain poured down as Mo Zhu walked away from Ying Mountain Sect, sword in hand. He descended the stone steps, blood washing over his pristine robes, while behind him—the sect lay in ruins, corpses strewn across the ground."]
After leaving, Mo Zhu had spent years hunting down the villainous master, swearing to kill them.
But where in that passage did it say Mo Zhu was the one who slaughtered them? Could he, alone, have wiped out the entire sect?
It was all just assumption.
Yu Zhiling’s throat tightened. She couldn’t comfort Yan Shanqing and the others—she could only stare at Mo Zhu, her instincts screaming that he would never do such a thing.
He was, at his core, a good person. Yan Shanqing and Ying Mountain Sect had treated him well.
But if Mo Zhu hadn’t slaughtered Ying Mountain Sect…
Then who had?
