Li Furong's face was pale, her breathing weak. The wounds on her neck and hands had bled profusely—just a little deeper, and the gash on her neck would have been beyond saving.
Fang Songhe swiftly pressed a handkerchief against the wound on her neck, but it was soon soaked crimson. "Ninth, she needs to stop the bleeding!" he urged.
Chu'he quickly dragged Ninth over. "Ninth, hurry!"
Ninth, however, moved sluggishly, muttering without enthusiasm, "She’s not going to die. What’s the rush?"
Chu'he coaxed him, "I’ll buy you candied hawthorns tomorrow!"
At the mention of his favorite treat, Ninth finally perked up and let himself be pulled along to tend to the bleeding.
For him, Li Furong’s flesh wounds were nothing serious.
But when a black, fleshy worm appeared in Ninth’s hand, Li Furong’s pallid face stiffened in horror. She recoiled instinctively, though Fang Songhe’s grip held her firmly in place.
Her injured throat made speech painful, but her terror at the sight of the worm was unmistakable.
In an instant, a large hand covered her eyes.
"It’ll be over soon. Don’t look."
Blind to the sight, Li Furong felt a cold, wet sensation on her neck and shivered—yet the pain from the wound dulled considerably.
Meanwhile, someone dabbed a cloth soaked in the worm’s secretions onto the cuts on her hands, easing their sting as well.
Chu'he and Ninth huddled together, narrowing their eyes in unison.
"Something’s off," Chu'he murmured.
"Off," Ninth echoed, mimicking her expression.
A scream pierced the air—the old man had used a black-clad assailant as a human shield, leaving the man to lose an arm to Cang Yan’s blade in a gush of blood.
In the next breath, the old man hurled the maimed man toward Cang Yan like a vengeful projectile before vaulting over the wall. Cang Yan gave chase without hesitation.
Fang Songhe gently pushed Li Furong into Chu'he’s arms. "I’ll assist." With that, he vanished into the night with a single leap.
Chu'he shot Ninth a meaningful glance.
Ninth, in turn, signaled the little green snake.
The serpent slithered off Chu'he’s body with visible reluctance, reaching the dying black-clad man and biting off his mask.
When the mask fell away, Chu'he felt no surprise at the revealed face.
"It’s Painter Gao."
Chu Sheng’s wrongful arrest had drawn Fang Songhe and the others into the fray. Later, Painter Gao’s portrait of Hunter Ma led them to the only person who knew the whereabouts of the Cang family’s young mistress.
They could have confronted Hunter Ma immediately but held back, knowing his loyalty would drive him to death before betrayal. Thus, only Fang Songhe’s group could extract the truth.
At this stage, no one suspected Painter Gao—until he produced that painting.
Both Fang Songhe and Chu'he had guessed the mastermind was the centuries-old founder of the Witchcraft and Gu Sorcery Sect. If so, why would he let a painting so personally significant—depicting a woman in yellow—fall into outsider hands?
Instead, the painting gave Painter Gao reason to remain in Chu Mansion.
Sure enough, when Chu'he announced her departure with Ninth, their hidden foe panicked and revealed himself.
Chu'he cut straight to the point: "Where is he?"
Painter Gao laughed weakly. "A kindred spirit is rare in life. Betray him? Never."
His art, misunderstood and scorned as heretical, had found appreciation in that man—who even shared an ancient tale with him.
Once, there was a painter named Van Gogh, whose bold strokes and vivid colors were dismissed as "the work of a madman." Yet centuries later, his pieces became treasures.
If the masses failed to recognize genius, it was their failing, not the artist’s.
The man assured him: in a hundred, a thousand years, his paintings too would be hailed as masterpieces.
For the first time, Painter Gao felt validated. He renamed himself Gao Fan and pledged his life to his benefactor.
"He and I... both yearn for what we lack. I only wish him fulfillment. As for these ignorant fools—let them perish! Hahaha, let them all perish!"
His mad laughter spent his final breath. His head lolled, eyes wide and lifeless—as a worm crawled from his gaping mouth.
Li Furong shrieked and hid behind Chu'he, who, equally startled, yanked her behind Ninth. Clutching Ninth’s red sleeve, she whispered, "What happened?"
Ninth replied flatly, "A gu worm severed his neck."
Whether the worm was planted or willingly ingested to ensure silence, they’d never know.
Chu'he seized Ninth’s hand. "Now only that old man knows the mastermind’s location. Ninth, we can’t let him die too!"
Ninth crossed his arms, stroked his chin, and nodded. "Chu'he’s right."
Suddenly, he swept an arm around her waist and soared into the air. "Then let’s join the fun."
Left behind, Li Furong stomped in wordless frustration.
Chu'he’s voice floated back through the night: "Li Pimple, stay put and heal! No fun for you!"
The deserted streets flashed with clashing steel, reeked of blood, yet strangely, no residents stirred.
The old man, besieged by Cang Yan and Fang Songhe, could only defend. When outmatched, a chime of silver bracelets signaled Sang Duo’s arrival.
From afar, she commanded violet venom-spiders to spin corrosive webs. A mere brush ate through fabric, then flesh.
Cornered, the old man had nowhere to run.
Then—a streak of crimson, swift as a meteor.
White hair flowed, silver ornaments chimed, ruby earrings glinted coldly.
The old man caught the ghost of a smile on the red-clad youth’s face—beautiful, eerie.
A palm strike split the air, slamming into his chest.
His pupils shrank. Too late to counter.
The young figure did not pause, his toes lightly tapping the ground as he soared like a swallow through the air, landing gracefully under the moonlight once more. With a composed smile, he gently smoothed a strand of snow-white hair resting on his chest, exuding effortless charm.
Suddenly, a girl’s face peeked out from behind the dangerous-looking youth, her hand waving playfully as she hid in his shadow.
"Brother Fang, Cang Yan, Sang Duo—we’re here to help!"
