It wasn’t only Ziqing who recognized it — Jun Beiyue recognized it too.

This was the passage leading into Lishang’s climax — the prelude to the piece’s most sorrowful, most devastating high point.

For anyone who had only ever seen the score for Lishang and never heard it actually performed, the first listen would reveal nothing at all — they wouldn’t even recognize it as Lishang.

The two Elders of Qinse were the perfect example of this. So were Jiao Cha and Mu Fusang.

But for those genuinely well-versed in music, they recognized at once just how terrifying this piece truly was. The melody itself already carried a deeply bewitching, mesmerizing quality — and now, played on the demon zither of all instruments…

A demon of sound, a lament of sound — powerful enough to kill. Powerful enough to kill the very will to live.

Sure enough, after only a brief passage, the crowd began falling into all manner of states — some weeping uncontrollably in inexplicable grief, some suddenly staring vacantly into space, utterly lost and hollow, others frozen motionless where they stood or sat, dazed beyond words. The manifestations varied too widely to fully describe.

With nearly every note, Xuanyuan Lige unleashed a fierce burst of Wind Blades, fighting off Jun Beiyue and the two Elders of Qinse simultaneously. By any normal measure, this should have been an easy victory for the defenders — the two Elders of Qinse possessed the highest martial skill among them, followed by Jun Beiyue, with Xuanyuan Lige ranking below both. Now, with Xuanyuan Lige gravely wounded, and three opponents against his one, victory should have been all but assured.

And yet, the two Elders of Qinse were clearly struggling badly. Though they managed to hold onto their sanity, they were nonetheless suffering under the influence of Lishang’s demonic melody. Elder Qin was the first to fall back to the ground, hands clamped helplessly over his ears, and before long, Elder Se followed, bracing himself against a table with both hands, likewise unable to resist covering his own ears.

Lishang was terrifying enough on its own — combined with the demon zither, played with the performer’s own blood as fuel, even the two Elders of Qinse, for all their formidable mental fortitude, simply couldn’t withstand it.

This wasn’t a matter of Xuanyuan Lige’s own skill — it was the sheer, inherent terror of Lishang and the demon zither themselves.

Only Jun Beiyue still held on, though he gained no advantage from it either. He had once heard Ziqing perform Lishang on the stringless zither, reaching this very passage — even she had never been able to play through the climax. He’d clearly sensed that whenever Ziqing focused too intently on this section, she risked losing herself entirely, becoming trapped by the piece’s crushing sorrow.

As a listener, though, he himself had never had much of a reaction to it.

Like Ziqing, he possessed an innate mental fortitude that resisted the control of demonic music. But the Lishang that Xuanyuan Lige played on the demon zither was something else entirely — utterly different from the version Ziqing played on the stringless one!

This particular melody, this particular rendition — he simply couldn’t withstand it. He could only barely manage to hold onto his own consciousness.

If this continued much longer, as the melody grew ever more mournful, he too would eventually succumb, just as the two Elders of Qinse already had.

Jun Beiyue made an immediate decision, drawing his long sword. But at that very moment, Xuanyuan Lige suddenly laid the demon zither flat, sat down cross-legged, and began playing with both hands at once!

“Beiyue!” Ziqing cried out in alarm, launching herself skyward at once — and at that exact moment, Jun Beiyue finally lost his footing, stumbling backward several steps and crashing to the ground in a graceless heap, forced to sheathe his sword and clamp both hands over his ears, over his own chest, struggling against the pressure building in his heart.

The music bore down with crushing weight, enough to make one’s heart feel as though it might stop beating, enough to make breathing itself feel impossible.

It was the very same piece — how could Xuanyuan Lige possibly wring from it such an unbearable, unendurable sorrow?

No — to be precise, the true horror of Xuanyuan Lige’s rendition of Lishang lay not in its sorrow, not in its mournfulness, but in its despair.

It was a despair that led directly to thoughts of death itself, one that crushed even the very will to live.

Looking out across the arena, the thousand-odd spectators had all lost their minds entirely, all sinking into boundless grief, boundless despair — only Jun Beiyue and the two Elders of Qinse still clung to their sanity, straining with every last reserve of strength to hold that final line, unable to mount any further attack against Xuanyuan Lige.

Only one person remained fully unaffected: Ziqing.

She alone was still clear-headed, still standing, watching in silence as that blood-soaked figure atop the rooftop played on in a frenzy, performing this world’s own dirge of sorrow, as though determined to drag everyone present down into despair alongside him, to die with him.

She didn’t know why, when she herself played Lishang on the stringless zither, she was affected by this same grief and despair, risking losing herself to it entirely — and yet, listening to Xuanyuan Lige play it on the demon zither, she felt nothing at all.

She could only tell that it was sorrowful, that it was despairing — but she couldn’t feel it as deeply as everyone around her seemed to.

Jun Beiyue placed no pressure on her, said nothing, didn’t even look at her — but Ziqing knew perfectly well: this was her chance, and she had to seize it.

Only she could kill Xuanyuan Lige now.

At this moment, Xuanyuan Lige was, in truth, at his very weakest — his only remaining strength lay in the zither in his hands, and in Lishang itself.

Whether she killed him outright, or simply cut off his playing and handed him over to the two Elders of Qinse — either way, today, he was certain to die.

What should she do?

Ziqing instinctively glanced toward Jun Beiyue, only to find his eyes closed. Deliberately.

He wasn’t going to pressure her, wasn’t going to advise her — he wanted her to decide this for herself.

And Xuanyuan Lige, throughout all of this, never once looked her way, as though she were entirely invisible to him.

Time was slipping away, and everyone’s mental fortitude was finite. Those with weaker internal energy, weaker willpower, would soon begin dying of heart failure.

Ziqing knew she had no time left to hesitate. The choice before her was simple: live, or die.

And at that very moment, Xuanyuan Lige suddenly rose to his feet, one hand cradling the zither, the other still lightly playing. Though the melody’s power waned somewhat as a result, Jun Beiyue and the two Elders of Qinse, having endured so much already, still couldn’t recover fast enough.

They all opened their eyes at once, staring at Xuanyuan Lige — it was plain to see. He meant to flee.

Yes, he meant to escape. Trapped by the thousand eagles, utterly exhausted, his body a mass of wounds — his back, his hands, his legs all torn to shreds, chunks of flesh ripped brutally away, blood still flowing without pause.

If this continued much longer, he would either collapse from sheer exhaustion or bleed to death.

If he could, he would have loved nothing more than to tear Jun Beiyue to pieces himself — but for now, he had no choice but to seize this opportunity to flee.

His cold, venomous gaze drifted, almost unconsciously, toward that all-too-familiar figure nearby. He knew, better than anyone, that whether he lived or died now rested entirely in that woman’s hands.

“Ziqing, strike now!” a sharp voice suddenly rang out — Elder Se. Beside him, Jun Beiyue’s eyes remained lowered, giving nothing away, utterly silent.

Ziqing gritted her teeth, and with a sudden leap, soared into the air. And it was in that very instant that Xuanyuan Lige turned to face her directly, while Jun Beiyue watched her from behind.

Xuanyuan Lige suddenly smiled — even amid all that blood, a bright, breathtaking smile bloomed across his face.

This was him, through and through — no matter the moment, no matter which side he stood on, he always smiled at her with such pure, unguarded sincerity, just as he had that very first time on the grasslands, when she’d saved his life, and this man who was cold as ice had smiled at her that way for the very first time.

Ziqing’s heart ached, ached terribly. She couldn’t help wanting to ask him — why? Why not simply be a musician, a wandering minstrel drifting free across the world under open skies? Wouldn’t that have been enough?

Why cling so stubbornly to something he could never possibly have?

But she asked him nothing at all. She drew Liuguang. She had told him once — they would meet on the battlefield someday, and when that day came, he would be he, and she would be she. No mercy, no holding back.

She had promised herself: this zither had been his gift to her; this piece had been his gift to her; even her own fingering technique had been taught by his own hand. Setting aside that brief friendship they’d once shared, in some sense, he had been her teacher.

She had vowed to herself: no matter how great the grudge between them, she would never turn her own musical skill, her own Wind Blade, against him.

Suddenly, Ziqing’s figure blurred, and in an instant, she closed the distance, appearing directly before Xuanyuan Lige!