Chapter 17: A Series of Crises (Part 1)

Under the star-studded night sky, a man poured a pot of clear tea. Bathed in the pale moonlight, he lounged lazily beneath a sturdy plum tree in the courtyard, eyes closed in quiet repose. His left hand gently twirled a folding fan, while his right hand raised a teacup to his lips, sipping delicately.

Near his dangling feet burned a single incense stick, silently marking the passage of time.

The surrounding atmosphere began to stir; the flame atop the incense flickered. Suddenly, his narrowed eyes snapped open, revealing deep, obsidian pupils.

Light footsteps, weightless yet unrestrained, reached his ears.

Someone had arrived.

The man, known as Mr. Hundred Flowers, continued to wave his fan and savor the fragrance of tea beneath the moon, speaking seemingly to himself, or perhaps to the newcomer behind him.

“Are you not sleeping, sir? Have you come to idle away the night in conversation once more?”

Ling Sicheng did not reply but stopped three paces away.

He wasted no time and asked directly, “Have you come for the Immortal Zither?”

The man under the tree smiled faintly, drained the rest of his tea in one gulp, then turned to face Ling Sicheng.

Before him stood a youth once clad in white, now dressed in a sleek black night garment, resembling a shadow merging with the darkness. The dark attire accentuated his tall, slender frame; a tightly fastened leather belt outlined his waist, and in his hand, he held a silver longsword sheathed.

Hundred Flowers glanced at him, furrowing his brow with a smile that was neither fully sincere nor entirely mocking. “I’m afraid I don’t understand what you mean.”

Ling Sicheng cut through the pretense, tossing over a folded yellow paper. “I had someone investigate your Thousand Machines Pavilion, one of the top three merchants in Yangzhou’s black market. Cen Yuan sent you here for this, didn’t he?”

Hundred Flowers pinched the paper between two fingers but showed no intention of unfolding it or reading its contents.

Instead, he curled his lips meaningfully. “I have an agreement with my master; this matter cannot be spoken of.”

“Your master is dead,” Ling Sicheng replied coldly.

“Oh, whether my master lives or dies is his concern. I keep my promises out of my own honor. So you may rest assured—whatever I promise, I will never break.”

He waved his fan slowly, enunciating each word without hurry.

Ling Sicheng scoffed, dismissive. “You’re nothing but a filthy black market dealer. What right do you have to spout such nonsense here?”

Realizing no further information would be gained, and with other pressing matters awaiting that night, he turned to leave.

But a voice called softly from behind.

“Tonight, the demonic energy surges and danger lurks. You’d do well to stop wandering and return to rest.”

The youth paused briefly, murmured, “Mind your own affairs,” and strode away without looking back.

Only the man beneath the tree lingered, chuckling lowly—half mocking, half resigned. Seeing the incense nearly burnt out, he snapped his fan shut, his expression suddenly solemn.

*

By the time Ling Sicheng reached the back mountain, it was deep into the night.

A cold breeze swept through, carrying a biting chill. No melodies played upon the mountain tonight; under the moonlight, all was silent.

He focused his gaze ahead and saw wild grass growing thick and tall, surpassing his knees, faintly outlining a graveyard.

He had heard from the maidservants that the ceremonial grave for Xing’er was in a desolate patch within these hills.

Following a winding path, he pushed aside the overgrown weeds until he found the neglected grave. A small, weathered stone tablet bore only Xing’er’s name, crudely inscribed.

Her true name was unknown, or perhaps long forgotten on this cold, lonely earth.

Fortunately, he immediately spotted what he sought.

A large, dark iron cleaver lay flat atop the stone. Its blade was dulled and curled beyond recognition, covered in flaky rust. Whoever placed it here did not attempt to conceal it.

Ling Sicheng exhaled deeply, feeling a weight lift from his chest.

He hung his Cold Star sword at his waist, and with his free hand, lifted the cleaver, examining it carefully under the moonlight. The iron was heavy; his palm was stained dark red by the rust.

Just as he had expected.

A faint smile crossed the youth’s face, relief etched in his features. He wrapped the rusted blade carefully in cloth, slung it on his back, and brushed the rust from his palm.

Just as he prepared to leave, a strange presence stirred in the air.

Instinctively, Ling Sicheng tensed. His smile froze, and his relaxed brow knit tightly.

—Demonic aura!

The thick, sinister energy in the air was unmistakable—identical to the day he first arrived. Without a doubt, it was the aura of the enigmatic specter.

Moreover, he faintly perceived a subtle ripple of dark purple emanating northwestward, spreading in widening circles, nearly dissolving into the black night sky. Without close attention, it could easily go unnoticed. The ripple originated from deeper within the back mountain.

He dared not delay. Recalling his elder brother Ling Beifeng's words: when a great demon recovers its power, it solidifies its aura into a faint dark purple hue, subtle yet perceptible upon careful observation.

This was timely indeed.

He hurried toward the source, moving swiftly yet silently to avoid alarming the entity. Not daring to use his immortal power openly, he trotted along the path until he glimpsed the ripple’s origin.

Below a barren hillside stood a figure facing away—no, a monster.

Though humanoid in shape, its entire body was blood-red from behind, crowned with coiled black horns. A long, thin tail drooped and swayed gently. Surrounding the creature hovered a ring of suspended water droplets, which refracted the dark purple ripples radiating outward.

Ling Sicheng’s nerves stretched taut like bowstrings. He drew his Cold Star sword, trembling with anticipation.

Like a keen hunter, he observed carefully as he crept closer, waiting for the demon to reveal a weakness.

Yet, fully focused ahead, he failed to notice a shadow creeping up behind him—

…

Thud—

The heavy fall of a person startled a flock of birds into flight across the night.

*

“Chirp-chirp—”

The next morning, sunlight streamed through paper windows as Jiang Xiaoman awoke comfortably amid a chorus of birdsong.

She rubbed her eyes, yawned, and stretched leisurely. Seeing the bright sunshine outside, she realized she had finally slept well into late morning. The exhaustion of recent days had vanished, and she felt revitalized.

At home, new junior disciples often lacked discretion, and her father would casually summon her for “morning practice,” interrupting her precious rest. Father always insisted, “One must not neglect the basics, even at home.” She wondered why she needed to cultivate her skills so diligently—perhaps to read scripts faster?

Then there was her senior brother, who, upon returning from missions, always sought her out claiming to “check on her progress.” She felt awkward and unable to refuse, especially with their father present, resulting in even more frequent “morning practices.”

So this rare feeling of complete ease was a welcome reprieve.

Today was also the day the “great revelation” was to unfold. She stretched her limbs and adjusted her spiritual breath in preparation for the impending “final battle.”

As she prepared, a sudden realization struck her—

—Where was Young Master Ling?

She looked around. The bed opposite hers was empty.

Not only that, but the neatly arranged bedding was exactly as it had been the previous night, untouched. Ling Sicheng’s medical bag remained intact on the desk, and the snow-white long robe hung over the chair, just as he had removed it before retiring.

It seemed he had not left early… rather, he had never returned.

A wave of unease washed over Jiang Xiaoman.

Yet she comforted herself: he was formidable and would surely be safe.

She paced the room restlessly, waited through the burning of an incense stick, and glanced outside—nearly noon now.

Her right eyelid twitched fiercely, her heart pounded, and her hand unconsciously reached beneath her pillow for her immortal flute. Dark premonitions flooded her mind.

One thought consumed her—

I must find him.

Without hesitation, she summoned the spirit sparrow from her pendant. It sniffed Ling Sicheng’s robe, fluttered around the room, first pausing at the medical bag, then alighting by the window, chirping sharply twice.

Jiang Xiaoman understood. She quickly slipped on her shoes and cloak, stuffed the flute hurriedly into her sleeve, whistled for the sparrow to perch on her shoulder, and hurried out.

Outside, she played a brief tune on her flute, replenishing the sparrow’s spiritual energy. The little bird, alert and obedient, perched on her shoulder, drawing in the faintest traces of energy to discern the direction.

She gently stroked its clever head, speaking affectionately, “Yue’er, you must help me find him. His fate is tied to Xing’er’s.”

The sparrow seemed to understand and redoubled its efforts.

Following Yue’er’s calls, Jiang Xiaoman stumbled through the undergrowth to the back mountain. In daylight, the mountain was less desolate than at night, but wild grass and shrubs grew rampant, clearly untended for years.

Why had Yue’er brought her here?

The back mountain was remote and eerie—rumored to hold a graveyard, a place for the dead.

Was Ling Sicheng alright?

The more she thought, the deeper her apprehension grew.

The sparrow circled above, suddenly crying out before darting off sharply toward the northwest.

“Yue’er, wait!”

Jiang Xiaoman hurried after it.

Not far ahead lay a sloping embankment, overgrown with grass nearly knee-high, surrounded by dirt and gravel swarming with buzzing mosquitoes—a chaotic scene.

The sparrow hovered above a tangled patch of grass, circling and calling out.

Sharp-eyed, Jiang Xiaoman spotted a youth lying face down in the grass, dressed in black but covered in dirt, nearly hidden among the tall weeds.

Alarmed, she gasped and rushed forward.