Mo Zhu waited until Yu Zhiling fell asleep before returning to his own courtyard.
He sat cross-legged on the bed, his gaze lowered, listening to the autumn wind rustling through the leaves outside. As a Flying Serpent, his hearing was exceptionally sharp. In the past, such sounds had never bothered him, but now, for some reason, they unsettled him.
Mo Zhu closed his eyes, forcing himself to calm down as he began meditating to cultivate his inner energy.
He could clearly sense his rapid progress—so fast it was almost unnatural. Just as Fu Zhao had speculated, it was likely he had already undergone this cultivation before, his soul tempered through tribulation lightning again and again.
Golden light shimmered faintly around him as his robes fluttered. Ripples spread across the surface of his consciousness until he fully immersed himself in deep meditation.
Some memories of the past were finally returning to him.
"Junior Brother Mo."
Mo Zhu paused before responding in a low voice, "Hm."
He spoke little, and the disciples traveling with him knew his temperament well, so they never took offense.
An older disciple stepped forward, offering him a flatbread. "The villagers gave this to us. It's still warm. You're badly injured—eating will help you recover."
Without looking up, Mo Zhu continued wrapping bandages around his waist, his expression cold. "No need. I'm not hungry."
The disciple crouched beside him, eyeing the wounds on his face and bare torso. Scars from blades crisscrossed his skin, and a fresh stab wound marred his left side, barely healed before another gash appeared on the right.
Scratching his head, the disciple hesitated before speaking again. "Your injuries are too severe. Sect Leader Yan sent word—if you're willing to return, Elder Xiang could guide your cultivation..."
Mo Zhu remained silent, his lips pale as he finished dressing his wounds and pulled on his robes.
"Immortal Lord Zhuoyu has been in seclusion for three years now. You left Yingshan Sect at thirteen and haven’t returned since. Maybe... maybe it's time to go back?"
Mo Zhu stood, picked up his sword, Yuhan, and walked away without a word.
The disciple sighed heavily, exchanging a helpless glance with another. There was no persuading Mo Zhu.
Bloodfiends were rampant—vicious, murderous demons that traveled in hordes. A single sighting meant hundreds lurked nearby.
Mo Zhu had spent half a month cleansing eleven villages, ruining multiple sets of robes, eating nothing, and never resting.
This hunt had been an impromptu act of justice during their journey south. The villagers had no spirit stones to offer as reward, so they prepared their best meals and lodgings instead.
When the summons from Yingshan Sect arrived, it was the Mid-Autumn Festival. Mo Zhu had been meditating in a tree when an elderly woman called him down, leading him into her home for a humble but filling meal.
Seated in the thatched hut, he sat rigidly upright, staring at the simple vegetable soup in silence.
The old woman hobbled in, clutching a mooncake wrapped in silk. "Traded two eggs for this. Don’t mind its plainness."
Mo Zhu replied quietly, "Thank you."
He had only sought a quiet place to cultivate but ended up outside her home, where she insisted on feeding him.
The bitter wild greens and tofu soup lacked meat, but Mo Zhu was never picky. He ate methodically, finishing every bite without complaint.
The mooncake, he split in half, leaving the other portion for her.
When he left, he declined her offer to stay, citing unfinished demon-slaying.
Outside, he watched the candlelight in her home flicker out, remembering how she spoke of her son, gone to the mortal world to pursue scholarly honors, with no promise of return.
Mo Zhu buried a pouch of coins beneath her farming tools—she would find it when she next tilled the soil.
Walking the dark mountain path alone, surrounded by the chorus of frogs and cicadas, he realized how seldom he spoke these days. Sometimes, he wondered if he still could.
Then, the jade token at his waist glowed.
He answered.
Silence stretched between them. Mo Zhu waited, patient, standing by the river where his reflection shimmered on the water’s surface.
Finally, a hoarse voice spoke.
"Mo Zhu, return to Yingshan Sect."
Yan Shanqing had sent messengers before but never spoken to him directly—perhaps fearing offense, leaving the choice to him.
This time, Mo Zhu did not refuse.
"Yes."
He detected something amiss in Yan Shanqing’s voice, assuming another quarrel with Yu Zhiling. It puzzled him—after their falling out years ago, with no news of her leaving seclusion, how could they still fight?
But curiosity was not in his nature. His belongings already packed in a qiankun pouch, he bid the disciples farewell and left for Yingshan Sect.
Standing at the mountain’s base, gazing upward, he realized how much his feelings had changed. Once, he had loved this place. Now, it was somewhere he never wished to return.
Climbing the steps, he reflected on the past three—almost four—years. He had thought his return would be for vengeance, that he wouldn’t come back until strong enough to kill her.
Yet fate had other plans.
Mo Zhu went straight to the Hall of Discipline, bypassing Tingchun Cliff. This summons was from Yan Shanqing, not Yu Zhiling.
Pushing open the heavy doors, he found the hall dark, suffocatingly so. No lanterns burned.
Four figures sat within: Yan Shanqing, Ning Hengwu, Xiang Wuxue, and Mei Qiongge.
Mo Zhu knelt at the threshold. "Greetings, Sect Leader. Elders."
His tone was flat, devoid of reverence, as if addressing strangers.
"Rise," Xiang Wuxue said.
What kind of voice was that—hoarse, as if every word had been dragged from the depths of the throat? Mo Zhu had heard Xiang Wuxue speak before; among the three elders, she was the gentlest, her words always soft and warm.
Mo Zhu frowned and stood, turning to look. Even without lamps lit in the hall, his Flying Serpent vision allowed him to see clearly.
Yan Shanqing’s hair at the temples had turned gray, though he was still in the prime of his life—merely four hundred years old, considered youthful among cultivators of the Central Continent.
Ning Hengwu sat at the far left, eyes lowered, lost in thought. The corners of his eyes were tinged red, as if he had been crying.
Xiang Wuxue and Mei Qiongge were the same, all of them seemingly dazed, their spirits drained.
Mo Zhu furrowed his brows. "Has the sect leader summoned me for something?"
Yan Shanqing’s Adam’s apple bobbed, his words forced out with difficulty. "Mo Zhu... when did your master save you?"
Mo Zhu’s expression darkened. He hadn’t expected this to be about Yu Zhiling.
Truthfully, he was impatient, but years of training outside the sect had taught him to mask his emotions. His voice remained steady. "Ten years ago. I was seven."
"Was she good to you?"
"...For those few days, yes."
Precisely because she had been too good, he couldn’t accept Yu Zhiling’s self-destruction.
She could have stopped liking him. She could have grown temperamental. But she shouldn’t have become a heartless ingrate, shouldn’t have spoken such words to the senior brothers and sisters who raised her, shouldn’t have tainted her Dao heart and turned into a villain.
Yan Shanqing pressed further, "Do you still wish to be her disciple?"
Mo Zhu’s expression grew colder. He stared at Yan Shanqing in silence—a blatant act of disrespect toward a sect leader.
Yet Yan Shanqing didn’t react with anger, nor did his expression shift. He simply waited for Mo Zhu’s answer.
Finally, Mo Zhu spoke. "No."
He untied the Yingshan Sect jade token from his waist and tossed it carelessly onto the ground. The clatter of jade against stone echoed sharply in the silent hall.
"I don’t know why the sect leader and elders summoned me, but if this is the matter at hand, my answer is clear. Immortal Lord Zhuoyu once saved my life. At the very least, the Mo Zhu of back then never once betrayed her."
Mo Zhu lifted his gaze, his eyes steady. "But she changed. And so did I. If it comes to it, I can also cease being a disciple of the Yingshan Sect."
The Yingshan Sect—coveted by rogue cultivators across the Central Continent. The title of closed-door disciple to the foremost of the Three Immortal Lords, Immortal Lord Zhuoyu—an identity others would kill for—was something he cast aside without hesitation today.
He turned to leave, but Yan Shanqing suddenly called out, "Mo Zhu."
Mo Zhu halted but did not look back.
Yan Shanqing’s voice was low. "What if I summoned you... to ask you to kill her?"
Mo Zhu whirled around, pupils constricting. "...What?"
Ning Hengwu spoke next. "To kill her. The one at Listening Spring Cliff."
Mo Zhu laughed, a bitter, furious sound. "Since the elders already know I harbor murderous intent, punish me however you see fit. What’s the point of these veiled provocations?"
He seemed genuinely enraged, his chest tight with stifled emotion. Without another word, he strode toward the door.
His steps were swift. In moments, he reached the threshold, hand outstretched to push it open—when a palm settled lightly on his shoulder.
Mo Zhu sensed no killing intent from the touch. It was featherlight, less a restraint than a plea.
He didn’t turn.
"Mo Zhu... will you listen to me for a moment?"
The one who had come to him was Yan Shanqing.
Mo Zhu clenched his fists, each word deliberate. "What else is there to say? My stance is clear. I do wish her dead. If you intend to punish me, then do so. There’s no need for these tests."
Yan Shanqing remained unruffled. His hand lingered on Mo Zhu’s shoulder as he repeated, softer this time, "Just listen to me for a while... please?"
That faint note of pleading made Mo Zhu’s fists slacken instantly. He turned, disbelief flashing across his face.
Up close, the streaks of gray at Yan Shanqing’s temples stood out starkly, like flour spilled into ink. The contrast was jarring.
How had he aged so much in just three years?
Seeing Mo Zhu relent, Yan Shanqing withdrew his hand and walked back toward the raised platform where his seat stood.
"When Little Five first came to the Yingshan Sect, she wasn’t even a month old. We took turns caring for her. There were no new mothers in the sect, so we had to buy spirit-infused milk for her. Every time she cried, we fed her, changed her clothes..."
"When she grew older and could eat rice paste, she loved it. Children get hungry quickly—we had to feed her several times a day."
Yan Shanqing reached the platform and turned to face Mo Zhu below.
Mo Zhu frowned, baffled by this sudden reminiscence.
Yan Shanqing seemed lost in memory, a faint smile tugging at his lips as he recounted happier times.
"She could walk before she turned one, babbling her first words—'shixiong' and 'shijie.' By three, she had entered the Path of the Enlightened Heart. At ten, she formed her golden core. By sixteen, she had reached the peak of the Nascent Soul stage. She won the Grand Tournament three times in a row. She was the Central Continent’s miracle, the Yingshan Sect’s treasured jewel. Everyone adored her—she had friends everywhere."
Mo Zhu’s expression softened, though not because of Yan Shanqing’s words.
Yan Shanqing was crying.
Tears rolled down his cheeks. His tall frame hunched slightly, as though standing on that high platform had become akin to teetering on the edge of an abyss.
"But after our master died, she changed. No more laughter, no more tears. She roamed the Central Continent, purging evil. She never stopped cultivating, yet her Dao heart stagnated completely. How could a cultivator of the Path of the Enlightened Heart—a path built upon clarity of mind—lose her foundation like that?"
"I didn’t realize anything. The day she left... it was her birthday. The things she said before she went—why didn’t I notice how wrong they sounded?"
"She died in the Four Slaughter Realm. And I didn’t know. I knew nothing."
A deafening crash echoed through the hall as Yan Shanqing—the esteemed leader of the Yingshan Sect—collapsed to his knees before a mere disciple.
His body trembled, shoulders shaking with muffled sobs.
"I forgot her. All of us forgot her."
"The entire Central Continent... not a single person remembered her. We all forgot."
Mo Zhu’s sword clattered to the ground. His heartbeat roared in his ears, thunderous, frantic.
Ning Hengwu covered his face, quiet sobs escaping him.
Xiang Wuxue bent forward, while Mei Qiongge wiped her tears with her sleeve.
Mo Zhu wasn’t a fool. Yan Shanqing hadn’t spelled it out explicitly, but his words painted a picture so horrifying it threatened to shatter Mo Zhu’s sanity.
—"I’m sorry I’m late."
—"Once I return from the Four Slaughter Realm, we’ll form the master-disciple bond. From then on, I’ll be your teacher."
—"Mo Zhu, as long as I live, I’ll protect you."
She had been so good. Immortal Lord Zhuoyu, Yu Zhiling, cultivated the Path of the Enlightened Heart—how could her Dao heart have turned malevolent?
For decades, Immortal Lord Zhuoyu had purged evil, vanquished countless fiends, and sealed the Four Slaughter Realm over a hundred times.
Yan Shanqing’s reaction was nothing short of a slap to Mo Zhu’s face.
He lowered his head and looked at his own hands—those once-tender little hands that had tightly grasped hers, feeling the sword calluses on her fingertips. Back then, he had thought to himself that he must find the best hand salve for her.
Mo Zhu’s voice was hoarse as he said, "The knuckle of her right index finger was slightly bent, deformed from years of gripping a sword. The calluses on her thumb and fingertips were thick."
Yet he had never once observed that person’s hands.
At the time, his mind had been consumed by a single thought: Why had his master stopped liking him after emerging from the Four Slaughter Realm? Had he done something wrong?
A seven-year-old child couldn’t unravel such complexities. All he knew was to clumsily try to please her.
He thought carefully now—what had that person’s hands looked like?
Slender, with perfectly straight fingers, devoid of sword calluses.
Those were not the hands of a sword cultivator. Yu Zhiling had been exceptionally talented, but she had also trained diligently. Her success had been forged through both innate genius and relentless effort—the calluses and misshapen fingers on her hands were proof of that.
Yu Zhiling would never have discarded her lifebound sword, abandoning it for ten years.
A sword cultivator’s life was their sword.
Mo Zhu closed his eyes in despair.
The Teaching Hall was filled with stifled sobs, yet Mo Zhu was the only one who did not shed tears. The near-death experiences of recent years had taught him to conceal his emotions. He was no longer the child he once was—how could he weep so easily?
From the very beginning, he had mistaken the wrong person, hated the wrong person.
What fault had she ever had?
Mo Zhu’s gaze fell upon the jade token he had thrown onto the floor of the hall. Staggering forward, he took a few steps toward it before collapsing to his knees.
He had no strength left. In that moment, his ears rang, and his mind went blank.
"She… is dead?" Mo Zhu looked up dazedly. "But the soul lamp in Yingshan Sect still burns. How could she be dead?"
Yan Shanqing, his voice choked with tears, answered, "At first, it was lit. We were certain it was Xiao Wu’s soul lamp… until two days ago. Until two days ago."
Ning Hengwu, sobbing, continued, "Two days ago, the spirit of the Chengfeng Blade awakened. Divine artifacts resonate with one another, so the spirit of Zhu Qing also stirred. Its aura enveloped the entire Yingshan Sect, and only then did we realize… for the past ten years, Zhu Qing had been dormant."
"When a sword’s spirit slumbers, its master is either missing or already dead. That person didn’t refuse to use Zhu Qing—they couldn’t. Bringing Zhu Qing back was merely a ruse to conceal their identity."
Mo Zhu asked, "But the soul lamp was still lit… How could Master be dead?"
Mei Qiongge, the only one still composed enough to speak, replied, "When she first returned ten years ago, we suspected Xiao Wu had been possessed. We used every method to investigate, even examining her soul lamp. At the time, it was still burning, and it was undoubtedly hers."
Mo Zhu understood. "So after Zhu Qing’s spirit awakened, you checked again two days ago… and found her soul lamp had gone out?"
"Yes. Xiao Wu’s soul lamp was enshrined in the Spirit Hall, where the past sect leaders and elders of Yingshan are honored. It is a sacred place, rarely visited unless necessary. Had we not suspected something back then, we would never have gone there. These past years, with her seemingly still in the sect, we had no reason to check the lamp again."
It was only the awakening of Chengfeng that made them realize the person in Yingshan Sect might be an imposter. When they returned to the Spirit Hall, they discovered the lamp that had burned ten years ago had, at some unknown time, quietly extinguished.
She had died without any of them knowing.
Yan Shanqing’s hair had turned white overnight. The other senior brothers and sisters had coughed up blood from the shock. In the two days since Mo Zhu’s return, none of them had slept or eaten.
Mo Zhu murmured, "But wasn’t she… in seclusion?"
At the mention of that person, the previously quiet Ning Hengwu suddenly lashed out, "What seclusion? She left Yingshan Sect three years ago! The cave was empty—she only used seclusion as an excuse!"
At this point, the truth was undeniable.
Because Zhu Qing’s spirit had awakened, they realized the one who returned was not Yu Zhiling. When they checked the soul lamp, they found it had gone out at some point during those ten years, unnoticed by anyone.
No one spoke. The silence stretched on.
Finally, Mo Zhu asked, "What do you want me to do?"
It was the only question he could voice.
The hall remained still until, after a long pause, there was movement.
Yan Shanqing rose unsteadily to his feet. Since inheriting their master’s position as sect leader, the Teaching Hall had become his prison.
He looked at Mo Zhu, saw the redness in the young man’s eyes, and knew his regret mirrored their own.
"We want you to hunt her down—at any cost."
Mo Zhu’s expression didn’t change. Calmly, he asked, "Why me?"
"Xiao Wu trusted you. She must have had her reasons. You are strong." Yan Shanqing said, "She knelt at the foot of Yingshan for seven days before I allowed her to take you as her disciple."
"She said she would only ever have one disciple—you."
Mo Zhu closed his eyes. His chest ached, his breath came unevenly.
His hands trembled, his shoulders shook. The jade token of Yingshan Sect dug into his palm, but the pain was nothing compared to the agony in his heart.
"Mo Zhu, first you must obtain the Wuhui Sword."
"Use Wuhui to find Xiao Wu’s remains."
Mo Zhu left the hall, the discarded jade token once again hanging at his waist. Outside, the sunlight was blinding. Disciples greeted him along the way, but he acknowledged none of them.
He retraced his steps to Tingchun Cliff. The stone path was covered in dust, with occasional footprints—likely left by Yan Shanqing and the others when they came two days prior.
For three years, no one had visited Tingchun Cliff. No one had walked this mountain path.
Mo Zhu arrived at the cave. The entrance had been shattered—Yan Shanqing’s doing.
Three years ago, when Mo Zhu left, he had watched "Yu Zhiling" enter this cave. Little had he known that while they all believed her to be in seclusion, she had already slipped away unnoticed.
Mo Zhu coldly averted his gaze and made his way to Yu Zhiling’s courtyard.
He raised his hand to touch the gate but couldn’t bring himself to push it open. An empty home was no home at all.
Standing outside, Mo Zhu asked himself: Ten years had passed. Even knowing that person wasn’t her, how much of his feelings for her remained?
They had only spent a few days together. Could the emotions from that brief time truly withstand a decade?
He stood there, lost in thought, until the sky blazed with sunset hues, golden light warming his face. He looked up, meeting a sky painted in rainbows.
She had loved sunsets. Now, she would never see another.
In that moment, all hesitation vanished.
She had considered him her only disciple. He had regarded her as his master for life. The vow he made in his heart at seven years old would not waver, even after ten years.
Because she had been so, so good. And someone that good should not have died forgotten, in some unknown place.
Such a remarkable person, one he had admired for so long.
Mo Zhu pushed open the door and stepped inside. The courtyard had been cleared of fallen leaves, spotless—likely cleaned by Yan Shanqing and the others. From the largest furniture like tables and beds to the smallest teacup, every item that person had used had been discarded.
Yan Shanqing and the others couldn’t stand anything tainted. If Tingchun Cliff hadn’t been Fu Chun’s former residence, they might have torn it down and rebuilt it entirely.
Mo Zhu sat in the front courtyard for a long time before finally making his way through the corridors to the rear courtyard—a place he had never visited before.
A pavilion stood in the middle of the lake, its surface dotted with a single withered lotus flower. He sat by the pavilion’s edge, gazing at the lifeless bloom.
A gust of wind swept past, rippling the water and sending the lotus drifting toward him.
He remained still, watching as the flower drew closer and closer until it reached his side.
For some reason, Mo Zhu reached out and touched it.
The moment his fingers brushed the withered Changqiu Lotus, it bloomed anew, its petals bursting open as if propelled by a surge of spiritual energy.
Nestled within the layers of petals was a wooden box.
Mo Zhu’s hands trembled as he opened it, revealing a jade bracelet inside—the Huiqing Serpent Bracelet, the treasured heirloom of the Flying Serpent clan.
He had spent years searching for it, once believing Yu Zhiling had taken it. Back then, he thought it wouldn’t be so bad if she kept it.
She was powerful and kind-hearted, a friend of his mother’s who had once saved his life. In his hands, the bracelet would never be safe.
But she had never taken it at all.
Who could have guessed that the Flying Serpent clan’s treasure lay hidden inside a withered, decaying lotus in the lake?
That person hadn’t thought of it either. For years, they had scoured Tingchun Cliff, turning it upside down in their search.
Yu Zhiling had hidden it where no one would ever think to look, masking its presence with her own spiritual energy so that not even its aura could be detected.
Clutching the jade bracelet, Mo Zhu knelt in the pavilion and wept.
"Master… I’m sorry… I’m so sorry…"
"Master… Master…"
The next day, he left Tingchun Cliff and arrived before the Spirit Armory Pavilion, where Yan Shanqing and the others stood waiting.
Zhu Qing hovered before him—a sword that had gained sentience, its spirit aware that its master was gone.
Mo Zhu asked, "Zhu Qing, will you come with me?"
The sword dipped its hilt in acknowledgment, then flew to his side. A bonded sword that should only answer to its master, yet Zhu Qing had chosen a second wielder. It would follow him—to seek vengeance.
For its master. For his master. For Yu Xiao Wu of the Yingshan Sect.
Mo Zhu cupped his hands in salute, bidding farewell to Yan Shanqing and the others before turning to enter the Spirit Armory Pavilion.
Yan Shanqing called after him, "The sword we need you to retrieve is the No Return Blade from the highest level. Only that one. It must be that one."
"Understood."
With that, he stepped inside.
