Although he couldn’t see her face, she cried so beautifully. Under the silver moonlight, her skirt swayed like reeds in the wind, creating a kind of broken beauty that stirred one’s heart.
Making a beauty cry was undoubtedly a grave sin. She didn’t even need to speak; a single teardrop was like a sword that could kill.
This special aura and atmosphere of beauty felt strangely familiar to Song Qian Ji, causing him to become vigilant.
In his life, many people had cried in front of him, and he considered himself worldly, yet this was the first time he felt like he was being set up.
Would the next moment bring a group of female cultivators from the Celestial Sound Sect rushing out to surround him, condemning him for bullying a fragile sound cultivator?
The Green Cliff scholars and disciples from prominent families would also question him about how he made her cry incessantly.
The independent cultivators and female cultivators from the Flower Stream Sect would undoubtedly watch the commotion with excitement.
Then the stone-faced dead man would be alarmed by this matter and would certainly come out to uphold “justice.”
And then they would argue again.
Song Qian Ji looked back, suspecting this teardrop was the prelude to “five hundred executioners hiding behind a curtain, waiting for the signal of a smashed cup.”
“Forgive me for embarrassing myself, fellow Daoist.” The female cultivator wiped away the tears on her cheeks with her sleeve. “Tonight, hearing this melody and seeing the moon, I couldn’t see my homeland, and was suddenly overcome with emotion.”
After crying, she exhaled, her posture slightly relaxed.
It was as if an invisible string that had been holding her spine straight, shoulders back, and chin slightly raised had suddenly snapped.
Now that string was broken, and she stood on the messy battlefield, relaxing in her natural state before a stranger.
If she wasn’t setting him up, then they could talk properly.
As her aura changed, Song Qian Ji also relaxed and comforted her: “This melody is precisely about one’s homeland. Yet flowers bloom and wither without questioning their season, and clouds gather and disperse without asking why. The mortal world is inherently impermanent.”
“The mortal world is impermanent…” the female cultivator said softly. “A ‘Snow Storm Battle Formation’ melody with flashing blades, gratifying vengeance, seemingly looking down on the world, but in the end, only a vast expanse of snow remains. ‘Flowers and Moon Falling into Clouds’ is the opposite—enchanting with flowers and moon, full of romantic charm, yet when listened to carefully, it carries a faint loneliness. But these two melodies must have been composed by the same person; they could only come from one hand. Am I right?”
Song Qian Ji was stunned.
Did she figure it out?
“Flowers and Moon Falling into Clouds” was about the land he had cultivated in Thousand Channels, the iron-eating beasts he had raised, the wheat he had watered, and the people he had met in this life.
They weren’t the people he had met in his previous life—Meng He Ze, Ji Chen, Lin Fei Yuan, Zi Ye Wen Shu—nor were they people he hadn’t met in his previous life, like He Qing Qing, Wei Zhen Yu, Xian Jian Chen…
Everything was different now; this melody was his current life.
He had thought they were completely unrelated, totally transformed, yet this unknown junior sound cultivator saw through it in one sentence.
The cultivation world was indeed deep and treacherous, hiding dragons and crouching tigers.
Her invisible gaze penetrated the mist veil, fixing firmly on him, demanding an answer:
“Fellow Daoist, don’t try to deceive me. I have played ‘Snow Storm Battle Formation’ thousands upon thousands of times, tracing it daily, engraving it into my bones and blood.”
Her words were resolute. Song Qian Ji was slightly alarmed—not good, this girl might have fallen into an obsession.
He Yun held her breath, finally hearing that person say: “It was me.”
She staggered two steps.
The person she couldn’t find by any means when the world was at its most beautiful.
Yet when she had reached the end of her path and was hiding her identity, she unexpectedly encountered him.
Her beauty was no longer at its peak, her mental state unstable, her situation perilous—there couldn’t be a worse time for this meeting.
But now he had never seen her face, nor did he know her identity. He only knew “He Yun.”
They had become acquainted through a new melody, fighting enemies together.
There couldn’t be a better meeting than this.
He Yun—no, it would be more accurate to call her Miao Yan.
She didn’t know why she had chosen this false name. He Qing Qing and Jiang Yun should have been enemies; who would use an enemy’s name and courtesy name?
“May I ask Song Daoist some questions?” Miao Yan’s voice was rough, her words forceful. “You can choose not to answer, but please don’t lie to me!”
Song Qian Ji smiled bitterly: “Very well.”
He lowered his head to arrange the formation materials.
“Song Daoist is an independent cultivator. May I ask where you’re from?”
“I was born a mortal. A small place called Pingning Town, not worth mentioning.”
“You’re friends with Guardian Zi Ye. How long have you known each other?”
The deepest night before dawn covered the wilderness, with beast roars and rushing water echoing from afar.
Song Qian Ji hesitated slightly, then told the truth: “For many years.”
In Miao Yan’s mind, the shadow of another person flashed inexplicably. Her nails painfully dug into her palm as her emotions surged.
Thousand Channels was famous throughout the cultivation world, not a small place. Cultivators had long lifespans; Song Qian Ji and Zi Ye Wen Shu had met at Hua Wei Sect, but a mere three or four years could hardly be called “many.”
It wasn’t him.
Fortunately, it wasn’t him.
“Tonight you did this deliberately. You stayed here wanting to resolve Zi Ye Wen Shu’s dangerous situation?”
“Yes.” Song Qian Ji used his scabbard to pick up a piece of formation material from the ground, smiling bitterly: “Miss He, let’s stop the questions here. If you ask any deeper, I won’t answer.”
“I must confess something amusing, Fellow Daoist. Before meeting you, I played ‘Snow Storm Battle Formation’ over and over, often wondering how old the composer was, whether male or female, where they lived, what cultivation techniques they practiced, what they liked to do.” Miao Yan stepped closer. “Today, meeting you, I find you’re completely different from what I imagined.”
Song Qian Ji fidgeted with his knife handle: “You must be disappointed.”
People always mythologize what is beyond their reach.
“No! Though different, yet, my original wish falls short of this.” Miao Yan said these words and was stunned.
He was completely different from what she had imagined.
Average-looking, wearing ill-fitting Daoist robes, wielding a borrowed Snow Blade, his bearing not particularly noble, somewhat careless like an independent cultivator, yet not truly unscrupulous.
He looked at everyone as if looking at flowers and the moon, seeing neither beauty nor ugliness, yet could travel thousands of mountains and waters to face danger for a friend.
Only someone like Song Xun could compose those two melodies.
Song Qian Ji thought this female cultivator was intelligent and composed, able to guide her junior to replay the melody after hearing it just once; she also practiced diligently, practicing a single melody countless times, yet remained unknown within the Celestial Sound Sect.
She was still young, her talent unrecognized. Perhaps this was why she was depressed and unfulfilled, becoming ensnared in the obsession with “Snow Storm Battle Formation.”
“Miss He Yun, look.” Song Qian Ji switched his knife to his left hand, resting it on the ground, and extended his right index finger, pointing diagonally toward the sky.
In the ink-blue sky before dawn, a crescent moon hung at the treetops, like a silver boat that could carry people sailing through the sea of clouds.
The woman softly said: “How beautiful.”
She looked up, suddenly forgetting she was Miao Yan, forgetting the sect’s internal strife, forgetting her master, forgetting the “Senior Sister” and “World’s Most Beautiful Woman.”
She only knew she was standing on the messy battlefield of Blood River Valley, with someone pointing at a crescent moon for her to see.
Beneath the moon, that person’s finger was not perfect, at least not the hand of a Qin player. The back of his hand bore burn marks and a scar from a snowblade.
Who knew what had happened to him before?
Miao Yan came back to her senses and shifted her gaze: “Excuse my rudeness.”
“You follow the direction of my finger and see the beautiful moon.” Song Qian Ji bent his finger slightly. “But if you only stare at this finger, you won’t see the stars and moon in the sky. Whether it’s ‘Snow Storm Battle Formation’ or ‘Flowers and Moon Falling into Clouds,’ or even me as a person—we’re all just this unimportant finger, not your true moon.”
“Not just the qin melodies or sound techniques, but all methods and classics in the world are like a finger.” Song Qian Ji lowered his hand. “Use the finger to see the moon. See the moon, forget the finger. Since you are fated to seek immortality and ask about the Dao, why fixate on fleeting fame and appearances? You should go to the nine heavens above and see the true moon!”
His tone was gentle with a smile, yet carried the meaning of soaring freely through the nine heavens.
“The true moon.” Miao Yan murmured. “Can I see it?”
“Miss, you’re still young and so intelligent. Of course, you can go wherever you wish. It just depends on what choices you make, and whether you can let go of your obsessions… Hey! Miss He!”
Before Song Qian Ji finished speaking, he saw the female cultivator’s figure shake as she hurriedly ran into the ice cave, disappearing.
Song Qian Ji scratched his head, feeling slightly regretful, thinking he might have messed up.
Even if he used teleportation techniques to chase after her, he couldn’t say anything more, not knowing how to further persuade her.
A chance encounter—he could build a trellis, but he couldn’t decide how a flower should bloom.
Just as he finished gathering the formation materials, the crescent moon had set, and the east was brightening. He still needed to check how Zi Ye Wen Shu’s injuries were recovering.
Before entering Zi Ye Wen Shu’s ice chamber, a group of Green Cliff scholars enthusiastically welcomed him, greeting a hero, surrounding him to massage his shoulders and pat his back. Had they not been in an ice cave, someone might have been fanning him.
“Senior Brother Song has finally returned! We saw you conversing with the fairy from Celestial Sound Sect from afar but didn’t dare disturb you, so we waited here!”
Song Qian Ji found it amusing: “Has anyone come to deliver gifts?”
“Yes! The independent cultivators sent three tiger beast pelts and two skins. The Flower Stream Sect sent three boxes of Spirit Jade Flower ointment, saying they wanted to ask Senior Brother Song to reserve more spaces for them in tonight’s formation.” Qing Zhai presented the items, feeling proud. “When they came, they all bowed respectfully and spoke much more politely.”
Song Qian Ji thought to himself that guarding the formation had become a good position. Those people thought each night’s guardians were limited, thus creating competition.
The major sects and prominent families were experienced and could remain calm.
“I have no use for these things, send them back,” said Song Qian Ji. “And pass along a message asking everyone to contribute formation materials. I can increase the star positions in the formation tonight.”
“No problem, Senior Brother Song!” said Zi Mo.
“What did you call me?” Song Qian Ji asked.
“Since you’re a friend of Guardian Zi Ye, of course, you’re our senior brother. We’re all curious about what Senior Brother Song did to make them so willingly gather together to guard the formation. Could you reveal a little?”
“Do you want to know?”
The scholars all nodded in unison.
“Tonight I’ll select two people to come and see,” said Song Qian Ji. “I’ll reserve good star positions for you.”
“I heard last night was a great victory. The spirits have suffered casualties. Are we about to completely escape this predicament?” someone asked urgently.
“Not yet time,” Song Qian Ji said as he walked into the ice chamber.
Everyone consciously fell silent, yet was reluctant to disperse, transmitting messages to each other:
“So earlier when he was dealing with those people and chatting with female cultivators, he was trying to get them to contribute their efforts—far-sighted indeed.”
“A friend of Guardian Zi Ye couldn’t be an ordinary person!”
“With Senior Brother having friends like this, I feel reassured and confident.”
Zi Ye Wen Shu didn’t find Song Qian Ji reliable.
After hearing Song Qian Ji’s formation plan, he frowned:
“If one is harmed, all are harmed. This method is extremely dangerous.”
“Are you afraid they’ll be injured?”
“You’re the strongest.”
“So you’re afraid I’ll be dragged down by others? You’re afraid I’ve found myself in a group of teammates who will hold me back, making me too cautious when facing enemies, rather than fighting alone. Is that right?”
Zi Ye Wen Shu nodded.
“I’m not afraid,” Song Qian Ji rested on his scabbard. “If this monk dies, fellow Daoists die too.”
“Reckless talk.”
“Alright, I won’t say inauspicious things.”
He told the other what he had done last night because if he said nothing and later caused a commotion, Zi Ye Wen Shu would worry and come out to look.
Suddenly he heard Zi Ye Wen Shu ask: “Have you found the person you want to kill?”
“I’ve been standing all night, talking non-stop, exhausted and tired,” Song Qian Ji closed his eyes, pretending to sleep.
Song Qian Ji knew that Zi Ye Wen Shu didn’t speak unnecessarily. This question meant he was willing to help.
The other had received his antidote and was unwilling to owe him this favor.
But the killing was related to how Xian Jian Chen had tricked him. This matter was neither glorious nor simple, not fitting Zi Ye Wen Shu’s principles. There was no need to involve him.
“Can’t say?” Zi Ye Wen Shu asked.
Song Qian Ji, eyes closed, his voice slightly deep: “Cannot.”
…
At nightfall, the position near the cave entrance was especially lively.
There were new cultivators from all sides. The Green Cliff Academy sent Qing Zhai and Zi Mo.
Last night there were merely seven people; tonight it had grown to twenty-one, a magnificent group like a small exploration team.
These twenty-one people didn’t entirely believe that Song Xun had some extraordinary skill; most came out of curiosity and doubt, wanting to investigate.
The Celestial Sound Sect had sent Mu Xia and two other female cultivators named Meng Zhi and Liao Hua this time, but no He Yun.