At the moment Jing Hengbo was acting drunk and wild, all of Daomao, and even more distant places, were equally restless.

Beyond the mortal world stood an immortal mountain, existing in ethereal space.

The mountaintop was covered year-round with pristine snow. From afar, it appeared as a stretch of pure white connecting to azure sky. The snow gleamed and sparkled under rosy clouds, clean and sacred.

For ten li around the snowy mountain there was no human habitation. Beyond ten li were villages whose residents, on clear days, could climb high and see white smoke and human figures occasionally emerging from atop the snowy mountain.

They believed these were immortals—beings who inhaled cloud vapors, exhaled rainbows, and manipulated the qi of heaven and earth. Mortals must not offend them, or surely face calamity.

This belief had basis. Ten years ago, some had coveted the mountain’s game and entered to hunt, never to return. Some wandering heroes from distant places, hearing of immortals in the mountain, either disbelieving or yearning, had ignored warnings to explore the mountain, likewise never returning.

Over time, legend became fact, an unspoken taboo. The villagers believed: if these weren’t immortals, what were? They didn’t involve themselves in worldly affairs—in all these years, no one had ever seen the mountain immortals. They came and went high above—sometimes one could see human figures flash like smoke, vanishing instantly. Besides immortals, how could ordinary people do such things?

The villagers often gazed up at the immortal mountain, imagining that the highest-level immortal with the most divine powers must live at the mountain’s peak, daily consuming only cloud vapors and bathing in heavenly light.

At the mountain’s highest point.

The year-round unmelting snow reached knee-deep. Indeed, countless human figures moved across the snowfield. These people all wore thick white brocade and carried long whips with barbs, wandering over the seemingly empty snow as if patrolling something, though no people could be seen in the snow.

A group similarly dressed climbed up from one side of the mountain path, each carrying a basket. Those patrolling on the mountain approached, counted the numbers, and said dissatisfied: “Why are there fewer and fewer people?”

“It’s not easy to manage,” said those who’d come up from below. “Abandoned infants, defective children, kidnapped children, and bastard sons abandoned by main wives of wealthy families—we’ve gathered all we could find. Some children from poor households who couldn’t afford to raise them, we also bought with money. Dahuang’s conditions are harsh and fertility low—how can it withstand our batch-by-batch collection?”

“If not, try the surrounding small kingdoms,” said the mountain patroller, taking a basket. Inside was an infant, appearing barely half a year old, its small face red with cold but somehow not crying. Its bright black eyes stared at the strange face, looking quite adorable.

That man looked at it like viewing a stone, glancing indifferently before stripping off the infant’s clothes in two or three motions and casually tossing it into the snow.

Crying hadn’t yet started when snow covered it. That patch of snow sank about a foot. A nearby patch of snow moved slightly, and the patroller immediately lashed down with his whip.

“Don’t move randomly!”

A muffled bang as snow scattered. The snowfield faintly showed a long, long blood trace, quickly covered again by surrounding accumulating snow.

That patch of snowfield quieted.

The surrounding people acted as if they hadn’t seen this scene, each quickly stripping the infants from their own baskets and throwing them into the snow.

Some infants let out loud cries, some whimpered then fell silent, some couldn’t even make sounds.

The first speaker among the patrollers listened with dissatisfaction, snorting: “Getting worse and worse!”

Those who’d brought infants up the mountain bowed their heads like criminals, knowing the rewards for this arduous task would be limited.

The patroller waved them away: “Go collect your rewards. Perhaps this time you’ll get a different assignment.”

Those who’d brought infants up the mountain left. The patroller checked the time: “Dig them out in half an hour.”

“Yes.”

The patroller continued patrolling with his whip. He and his companions walked in the snow, light and leaving no traces. Seeing any slight movement in the snow beneath their feet, they’d crack down with a whip.

The snowfield quieted. He walked to the snow’s edge—beyond was a cliff.

“Time’s up for the previous batch,” he said.

Subordinates dug open snow piles, dragging out some rigid bodies. Most were three or four-year-old children, their thinly clothed bodies stiff and blue, already frozen to death under the snow.

He used his whip to carefully prod through them like sorting pork. Occasionally finding one still breathing, he’d say: “Send to the back mountain.”

After examining the batch of children, only two were still alive. He sighed and shook his head: “Worse every year.”

After handling this batch, he went slightly downward. After a section of mountain path was a small waterfall where over ten seven or eight-year-old children sat below it. Water streams filled with countless tiny ice crystals poured directly over their heads without shelter.

The children were blue all over, shivering, struggling to sit cross-legged on cold round stones, having to endure the continuous ice water pounding their heads while not sliding off the round stones. The stones were covered with ice fragments and were very round on all sides.

Ice crystals formed randomly in the waterfall—some large, some small, some sharp, some smooth. Small, smooth ones hitting heads merely caused bumps, but encountering large, sharp ones might result in pierced skulls.

Here required not only ability but luck.

When the patroller arrived, a large icicle was flowing down the waterfall, falling on a child’s head. The child cried out as blood spattered from his head, his body tilted, and he slid off the round stone.

As he fell, he futilely extended his small arms, frozen iron-blue, as if praying for rescuing hands.

But no one saved him. His companions gritted their teeth fighting their own fates, while the patroller coldly folded his arms, his gaze like seeing a weak deer pierced by fate’s arrow.

Failures had no right to demand salvation.

This was the iron law of the snowy mountain.

That child’s frail small body tumbled down, swept into the rushing ice flow. Below the waterfall was a channel—fallen children would be swept into mountain caves, rotting in deep water, never seeing daylight again.

The ice flow turned pink for a moment, then cleared again. This water flowed continuously—no amount of blood could stain it red.

The remaining children witnessed their companion’s fate, most expressionless, continuing to sit steady.

If they didn’t sit steady, they’d be next.

The patroller continued forward.

Ahead was a dark cave. Upon entering, one immediately felt completely different temperature from outside—fiery hot, as if countless furnaces burned within.

After enduring three days under the ice flow waterfall, immediately coming here, under the clash of cold and heat, those with weak constitutions would immediately collapse.

Those who didn’t collapse could enter small caves within the dark cave. Both sides of the dark cave had such small caves, each emitting dim red light like purgatory, like earthly fire, making one’s heart tremble at the sight.

Yet they couldn’t hesitate—they had to immediately walk in.

Entering those dark caves also had mysteries. Some were true heavenly fire caves—entering meant instant incineration to ash. Others were body-tempering blood jade marrow caves that, though causing suffering, provided benefits. There were even higher-level fire source skill caves for body training, qi supplementation, and learning profound heart methods on cave walls.

Entering different caves meant different fates. But this required not luck, but wisdom.

Upon entering the caves, there would be some clues and hints guiding cave selection. But no one would prompt you—it depended entirely on your own comprehension and wisdom to discover.

How many children had endured snowfield breath-holding, endured ice flow waterfalls, entered these caves, felt long-missed warmth, believed the guide’s words that “every cave has great fortune,” hastily sought a cave for warmth, and thus lost their lives.

Only the most careful, cautious, and clever children could pass this trial.

The patroller passed along the cave’s only safe path, his footsteps echoing hollow and distant. Many caves around had people in them. He saw a child enter a heavenly fire cave.

He smiled slightly, with faint malice.

Almost instantly, red light flashed in the darkness, and a puff of ash burst out, scattering on his clothes and at his feet.

Not even a scream—instantly erased from the world. Perhaps his family still thought he was enjoying fortune somewhere, not knowing their child had long entered hell’s reincarnation.

The patroller pursed his lips, cursed “idiot,” casually brushed the bone ash from his sleeve, and stepped on the fine ash toward the cave exit.

He quite liked this patrol section—warm, safe, effortless. No need to whip those under the snow who couldn’t help but move, and no risk of being cut by waterfall ice cones on hands and face. The cave’s heavenly fire could solve everything for him.

His footsteps made soft sounds on the ash—so much gray-white ash, very comfortable to walk on.

Behind him were screams from the blood jade marrow caves, where those enduring bone-searing, skin-changing torture howled. Scalding blood jade marrow would cling to their muscle and bone, repeatedly washing their sinews and bones. Shrill screams crashed against thick cave walls, filling the cave with terrifying echoes.

Accompanied by fierce flashing red light and continuously bursting bone ash, it was like hell.

Yet he found it quite familiar.

Everyone alive here had come through this, growing accustomed. Even therefore, seeing those foolishly entering heavenly ash caves, he’d feel intellectual superiority.

He saw a bit of daylight ahead—about to exit the cave. He quickly raised his collar—outside would be very cold.

Exiting the cave was an ice lake. From far away one could see the ice lake like a mirror, with foot-long icicles like swords and trees at the sides.

The ice lake also had people—some ten-year-old boys with bare upper bodies fighting on the ice lake.

They were barefoot, holding swords, their sword light cold and sharp as icicles. Every move targeted opponents’ vital points.

Because only one of the two could live.

Those boys’ faces mostly had ice beads reflecting light—frozen tear drops.

Having survived to now, to here, they’d lived together for years. Moreover, for ice lake sword fighting, the overseer would specifically choose the pair with the best friendship to compete.

Only by severing emotions and hardening nature could one do what others couldn’t.

The patroller stood still, arms folded, watching the sword fighting with relish. The ice lake was streaked with many deep red traces—thin ones were blood marks from feet scraping the rough ice surface, thick ones naturally came from bodies being dragged.

A pair of boys were fighting before him, one tall and one short, both very agile. The initial pain had passed—now both faces showed childish ferocity, appearing increasingly frightening.

The patroller suddenly felt somewhat dazed, as if returning to years ago—also with floating snow, an ice lake under snow, and piercing cold all around.

A pair of boys were sword fighting, also one tall and one short. Tear drops on both faces pattered down onto the lake surface, crisp.

…The tall boy before his eyes suddenly made a tricky angled sword thrust from under his ribs, directly toward the opponent’s lower abdomen.

The short boy from years past suddenly made a sword thrust directly toward the opponent’s brow.

…The short boy before his eyes suddenly bent backward in an iron bridge, his back touching ground, sword flying up from his toes.

The tall boy from years past suddenly made a sword thrust from under his elbow, directly toward the short boy’s heart.

…The tall boy before his eyes staggered backward, his feet slipped, falling to the ice lake’s edge where ice trees were sharp as thorns behind him. He crashed into them with a scream as ice spikes pierced through his chest.

…The short boy from years past also couldn’t rescue in time, staggering backward. Just as the sword was about to enter his chest, the tall boy suddenly withdrew his hand and dropped his sword.

He reached out to help him up.

He looked up at him.

Suddenly a sword flew over, nailing into that tall boy’s chest from years past. In the splattering blood was a grand voice saying sternly: “Those who drop swords and show mercy—execute!”

That bone-chillingly cold voice nailed into the ice lake depths of the heart, never to melt.

…

On the ice tree, the tall boy’s corpse hung high. The short boy stared at him in a daze. His expression seemed like he wanted to cry, but he dared not cry. If tears truly flowed, he couldn’t pass the final trial and couldn’t become a registered disciple.

For the first time, the patroller slowly folded his arms, as if finally feeling the cold.

That short boy from years past also hadn’t cried.

That boy from years past had picked up his sword, silently turned back, walked into the grove halfway up the mountain, becoming a registered disciple there. After three more years of tempering, he became a formal disciple, outer hall manager, inner hall manager, until today.

That boy was him.

That tall boy killed for dropping his sword was his twin brother.

…

The patroller suddenly didn’t want to continue patrolling. What came after didn’t need his attention.

Unlike others’ imagination, the snowy mountain wasn’t about meeting higher masters the further up you went. On the contrary, the mountaintop was the first trial—only those who could descend the mountain had a chance at life.

He stood halfway up the mountain, looking distantly toward the mountain foot. Near the mountain foot was a small wooden hut—the necessary passage for outer disciples to become inner disciples.

Only by entering the inner sect could one truly be considered part of the sect, with the sect bearing all matters of life and death.

Thinking of everything endured when entering that small hut years ago, even emotionless him couldn’t help shivering.

Something vital within his body began timely aching, reminding him of the true meaning of “severing emotions and hardening nature.”

He stood there, taking a deep breath, qi sinking to his dantian, slowly downward, downward.

When true qi sank to a certain level within his body, there was immediately a burst of intense stabbing pain. He knew—he’d reached it.

There, at the most important position belonging to a man, was a needle.

Severing masculinity, locking yang.

He took another breath, using true qi to slowly pull upward the needle he felt.

In this cold region, his face flushed red, his whole body trembled, sweat rolled from his forehead, beads pattering to the ground, melting into snow piles and disappearing.

His features twisted together from intense pain, nearly grotesque. He suddenly exhaled a long breath and staggered back a step.

Leaning against the ice surface, he shivered for quite a while before calming down.

Using true qi to examine again, he discovered the needle had moved roughly the distance of a grain of rice.

This made him somewhat happy, feeling rapid progress this time—previously he could only move the distance of a hair strand.

He was still far from pulling this needle out of the vital area, but he believed that in his lifetime, there was hope of achieving it.

This method he’d obtained from sect elders at enormous cost. Pulling the needle was extremely difficult because it was hard to control the needle’s trajectory—it was easy to injure internal organs. Reportedly, many in the sect who died suddenly were because they’d secretly attempted to pull needles unsuccessfully.

The needle couldn’t be completely extracted from the body—over time it became entangled with vital areas and couldn’t be separated. All who secretly pulled needles only hoped to move the needle to other unimportant areas—anything was better than having it stuck there causing day and night suffering.

Had anyone succeeded? He didn’t know. He hoped to be one.

He leaned against the ice wall, taking quite a while to calm the intense pain within his body. Each needle pulling was like torture, making even these sect members who’d experienced all kinds of suffering find it unbearable.

He felt that anyone who could completely transfer this needle must be the most formidable, most enduring, most unshakeable man in the world.

He began walking up the mountain again, cycling through the path he’d walked. When walking back, he suddenly remembered the first person in snowy mountain history to truly descend the mountain.

He not only reached the mountain foot but even walked beyond it, toward the more distant Dahuang.

He was the sect’s taboo and insurmountable figure. His solitary sword-bearing figure from years past shadowed everyone’s hearts like a specter. The proud sect suffered unprecedented humiliation because of him, and even now, everyone in the sect tacitly avoided mentioning this matter.

He thought of his sword-pierced brother and sighed slightly in his heart.

Others have their fates. We are all ordinary people who can only submit to stern destiny.

But had he succeeded?

…

He walked up the mountain just in time for half an hour. His subordinates dug those newly brought infants from the snow, testing their breathing one by one.

All were already dead.

He was very disappointed and sighed again: “Worse every year!”

…

The snowy mountain had four seasons distributed across it—the peak was winter, while the foot was spring.

Here the lake water was very clear, grass like velvet carpets. Flowers didn’t bloom in gardens but flourished everywhere. Winter and spring flowers crowded together in bloom, making one admire the mountain peak’s immortal aura while wondering if this might be the true immortal realm.

Among the flowers were many white foxes, so numerous one might think all of Dahuang’s white foxes were kept here. These foxes, long domesticated, appeared gentle and naive. Their upturned snow-white tails covered their dark eyes as they leaped lightly through flowers like soft clouds drifting over grassland and snow-white hems.

Hems blown by wind scattered leisurely like dandelions. Compared to the mountain peak’s tense atmosphere of killing, the mood here was carefree.

Opposite the hems were many pairs of boots standing together in a reporting posture.

The report had concluded, and everyone awaited judgment.

A deep purple flower petal fell on the hem. A pair of snow-white hands reached over, carefully picking off the petal, as if arranging clothes was far more important than these people waiting for replies.

A fox affectionately rubbed against her hand, and she petted its head.

“A registered disciple has disappeared?”

“Yes.” Someone answered respectfully. “We’ve already sent another outer disciple to Daomao.”

“Where did the registered disciple disappear?”

“Seven Peaks Mountain.” The speaker’s voice was cautious. “Along with all the subordinates he brought…”

The hand stroking the fox paused, but immediately resumed composure. The fox seemed suddenly frightened, shrieking as it darted away. Above, a cluster of deep purple flowers shed many petals.

She quietly watched the fox flee, then flicked her finger with supernatural detachment.

The fox’s body stopped mid-air, then fell into deep purple flowers below, where a pit had somehow appeared. The fox tumbled into the pit.

Wind swept up soil—next year those flowers would surely bloom more beautifully.

“If he’s dead, so be it,” she said with even greater supernatural detachment. “Murong, you handled this matter improperly.”

A middle-aged man bowed slightly: “Yes, I’ll go to the punishment hall for discipline shortly.”

She gave a faint “mm,” then suddenly asked: “How are things at the medicine altar?”

“Maintaining stability. No deaths for now, but… we can’t rule out future fatalities.”

“Didn’t you say you’d found solutions from the sunken coffin remains?”

“But we discovered other toxins.”

“We needn’t save that family’s lives, but their martial arts share our origins. The backlash they suffer could be our future fate. Tell the medicine altar to be more careful—send reinforcements whenever needed.”

“Yes.”

“No deterioration is good news. Send word to him to hurry.” Mentioning this “him,” her tone grew slightly somber.

“Yes.” The respondent became more cautious.

“Is he still in Dige recently?”

“Yes, reportedly he’s restricted the Queen’s authority and should already have plans…”

“Don’t say ‘should.'” She interrupted.

Everyone fell silent. After a while, someone softly said: “He will. We fulfilled our protective duties—he should be grateful.”

“Nangong,” she said expressionlessly, “such hypocritical words need not be spoken.”

Another silence.

“Any changes at the mountain’s base recently?” After a while, she asked seemingly casually.

Though she asked casually, others dared not answer carelessly. Someone immediately said: “Nothing. Just…”

“If there’s more, don’t say ‘nothing.'”

“Yes.” That person lowered his head, feeling she seemed in a bad mood today. “There’s a small difficulty. Finding children with excellent bone structure is increasingly hard—even abandoned infants are rarely found. The stewards sent down the mountain for this work are also less successful than before.”

“What’s the cause?”

“Near us, the Sunken Iron Emerald tribes, Ji Kingdom, and Meng Kingdom have recently seen ‘Charity Halls’ appearing, specifically taking in abandoned infants and homeless youths. Reportedly established by wealthy merchants from Shang Kingdom with good intentions, but they’re affecting Heavenly Gate’s plans. We wanted to ask madam to consult the sect master about implementing sanctions against these halls.”

“Any abnormalities among the stewards? Does this person seem to deliberately target us?”

“The stewards’ loyalty is beyond reproach. As for whether that merchant is targeting us—regardless of his intentions, affecting Heavenly Gate’s sect continuation plans is a capital offense.”

Everyone nodded in agreement.

“These suddenly appearing charity halls,” the woman spoke without hesitation or doubt, her thinking seeming like decision-making, “assign special observation. If there’s wrongdoing, eliminate immediately.”

“Yes.”

She stood up, and others stepped back, knowing the conversation had ended.

Snow-white hems swept through purple flowers, gathering a skirt full of milk vetch petals. The petals danced lightly with her steps, turning and transforming into misty purple fog that disappeared.

In her natural garden were flowers of every color, but she only ever lingered beneath purple ones.

Just as she was about to turn the corner, the man previously called Murong suddenly called out: “Dare I ask madam, how is the sect master recently? With his divine skill completion approaching, we should prepare gifts early to congratulate the sect master.”

The two sentences were somewhat strange, seemingly unrelated.

Surroundings remained silent, but the atmosphere suddenly became more murderous as milk vetch petals fell faster throughout the garden.

She neither stopped nor looked back.

“The sect master is well. Just prepare as needed.”

Her figure gradually disappeared into the flower depths. Everyone exhaled long breaths and slowly raised their heads.

Some were silent, some sneered, some had flashing eyes.

Foxes throughout the garden fled in panic as white foxes occasionally fell dead silently.

Skylight reflected blindingly bright off snow. Here flowers bloomed like brocade, peaceful as an immortal realm.

…

She entered a small wooden hut with a simple exterior, pushed open the door, walked inside, then further inside.

Walking downward, further downward.

Her pace was slow and light, yet never pausing.

At the path’s end, she stopped.

Here was still ordinary household decoration—bed, table, window, even kitchen and washroom.

It looked like the most ordinary couple’s bedroom, except windows never let in sunlight. Night pearls hidden in overhead wooden board cracks replaced lamplight.

The bed’s hundred-children playing flower curtain looked rather vulgar. This type of curtain used by common couples to pray for children hanging here created a jarringly inappropriate feeling.

Within the curtain, shadows seemed to move.

She casually removed her cloak like any wife returning home: “I’m back.”

No response.

She sat at the table, poured herself tea, held it in her hands: “Are you thirsty? Want to drink?”

No response.

She drank several sips herself, held the empty cup in a daze briefly: “Today Murong asked about you. Do you want to see him?”

No response.

She nodded: “Fine, if you won’t see him, you won’t. Oh, right,” she seemed to suddenly remember, “I almost forgot to tell you—I punished Murong today.”

No response.

“Oh, you ask what for?” she said lightly. “Naturally for incompetence. Though he’s your brother, sect rules are sect rules. Even blood brothers must follow regulations, right?”

No response.

She suddenly laughed: “You’re right to blame me. Yes, I’m abusing public authority for private revenge. I deliberately punished Murong—so what?”

She set down the teacup, stood up, quickly walked to the bedside, slightly lifted the curtain with some intensity but still calm tone: “Right, I don’t like Murong. He’s our relative, very close blood relation, but I can never forget…” She paused. “…because of him, we lost our child.”

The bed remained completely silent.

She lifted the curtain, climbed in, cupped the face of the person inside with both hands, saying sorrowfully: “Murong, our only child, because of him is gone. How can you expect me to like him?”

Her body suddenly froze as if hearing some heart-piercing words. After a while, her voice finally rose passionately.

“You say I don’t really care about the child? You say I’m just making excuses? Hmm? You so distrust your wife, protecting your brother?”

No movement within the curtain.

She suddenly lunged forward, knocking down the person in the curtain. Muffled sounds arose as if someone was pounding the bed boards. The curtains shook, slowly closing the slightly exposed gap, faintly revealing a glimpse of snow-white long hair.

The bed boards continued shaking lightly, vaguely mixed with ambiguous panting. In the pauses between breaths, her voice floated out intermittently.

“…I’m going to send word to find…I don’t believe I can’t find him…he’s still alive…he must still be alive…this supreme sect, the future foundation, all belongs to him…how can he not be alive!”

…

The snowy mountain’s ice wind couldn’t reach dark Daomao.

A manor near Shangyuan City stood in Daomao’s unique slightly gray mist.

Nearby villagers all knew this belonged to an Emerald tribe noble’s property. This noble rarely came, leaving the manor usually empty.

Now the manor was also dark and silent, seemingly uninhabited. Only those with excellent eyesight might notice scattered lights flickering in the manor’s depths.

That lamplight was held by a middle-aged man carefully reading a somewhat old manual by its light. After a while, he couldn’t help shaking his head in amazement: “Truly worthy of being an otherworldly sect! Even casually given items are so astounding!”

Opposite him sat a man in plain clothes with clean temperament but profound eyes. He shook his head slightly: “Big brother, I advise you not to casually learn what they gave.”

“Why?” The first of the Thirteen Guardians, Qu Shaohong, reluctantly set down the sword manual in his hands.

This place was publicly known as Emerald nobility’s private property, but was actually one of the Thirteen Guardians’ many secret holdings. Though the Thirteen Guardians had been at the bottom among Daomao’s various tribes for years, few knew their private property in Daomao could be called first—much was simply registered under others’ names.

This was Second Guardian Jian Zhizhuo’s idea. He advocated keeping a low profile and striking decisively.

“This type of sect’s foundation-building methods differ from others,” Jian Zhizhuo said. “They’re generally extremely cruel. Especially Heavenly Gate’s pure-hearted, passionless approach—there must be unique cultivation methods requiring severed emotions and hardened nature. People like us with insufficient foundations who must roll in the mortal world shouldn’t try learning their heart methods. Beware of cultivation deviation.”

“You’re right too.” Qu Shaohong immediately moved the manual away somewhat uneasily. “Seeing those Heavenly Gate disciples’ coldness, they don’t seem like people with feelings or loyalty. Just helping with a small favor earned such generous thanks—they might not have good intentions.”

He thought, then added: “You say otherworldly sects like Heavenly Gate never involve themselves in worldly affairs. How could they suddenly send people down the mountain to trouble an ordinary martial world force?”

Jian Zhizhuo smiled. In the flickering candlelight, his smile was inscrutable.

“Could it be you…” Qu Shaohong looked at his smile, suddenly understanding something. “You’re using a borrowed knife to kill!”

“Big brother, careful of eavesdroppers.” Jian Zhizhuo’s smile was gentle and mild.

Qu Shaohong closed his mouth, staring at him intently. Jian Zhizhuo smiled somewhat helplessly, saying softly: “Heavenly Gate wants to find Yelu Qi, saying he violated their dignity and must be punished. But Heavenly Gate people have never seen Yelu Qi.”

“So you directed the target toward Shadow Pavilion’s Master Mu? Making Heavenly Gate people mistake Master Mu for Yelu Qi? But what if Heavenly Gate people discover the mistake? And why do you focus so much on Shadow Pavilion that you must eliminate them first? Wouldn’t directing the target toward Soaring Heaven Gate be better? Soaring Heaven Gate has oppressed us for a long time.”

“Heavenly Gate cares about face and won’t admit to seeking Yelu Qi, only pointing out a characteristic. I merely said Shadow Pavilion’s Master Mu seemed somewhat like the person Heavenly Gate sought. I didn’t confirm anything—Heavenly Gate went looking themselves. If it’s wrong, what’s it to me?” Jian Zhizhuo smiled warmly yet cunningly. “As for why I targeted Shadow Pavilion rather than the more powerful Three Gates Four Alliances, it’s because compared to the Three Gates Four Alliances, this unassuming Shadow Pavilion is the opponent we most need to watch for in the future.”

“Really?” Qu Shaohong’s expression was somewhat incredulous.

“We’ve endured for years, willingly remaining at the bottom among Daomao’s martial forces. We absolutely cannot allow a new force to emerge at the crucial moment and compete with us for final victory.” Jian Zhizhuo said lightly. “With or without Heavenly Gate, I would have acted—just a matter of timing.”

“That’s not right!” Qu Shaohong suddenly remembered something, exclaiming: “Wasn’t Master Mu betrayed by Lei Shengyu and severely wounded with unknown whereabouts during the hot bath at Jade Tower? Isn’t the person Rakshasa Gate is escorting said to be the Queen’s subordinate Ying Bai? Why are you directing Heavenly Gate people toward Ying Bai’s group?”

“Who said the group Rakshasa Gate is escorting is Ying Bai?” Jian Zhizhuo smiled mockingly.

“What do you mean?”

“Don’t forget, the intelligence says the Queen was meeting with us when attacked and Ying Bai got separated in the chaos. We know the truth ourselves—the Thirteen Guardians never met with the Queen. Someone’s spreading false information, directing blame toward us. So the meeting was fake, the attack was fake, and Ying Bai is fake too. Who needs escorting now? Only the severely wounded Master Mu betrayed and hunted by his subordinate!”

“I see…”

“So…” Jian Zhizhuo smiled with light but murderous intent, faint malice flashing in his eyes. “Someone directed trouble toward us, so naturally we can redirect it back. Your Majesty the Queen, Master Mu—prepare to receive Nine Heavens Gate’s attention!”

…

Jing Hengbo was drunk again.

Perhaps drinking amid this killing battlefield with assassins all around while discussing world affairs had a special thrill. Perhaps the war between fennel beans and beef was particularly interesting, drawing her attention. Perhaps this Master Mu had an ability to make people unknowingly lower their guard. Perhaps Daomao’s situation demanded too much of her attention. In any case, inexplicably, she was drunk again.

She had a problem—when drunk, she liked to move around, jumping and shouting loudly, exhausting herself before naturally falling asleep.

She still knew not to rush onto the battlefield. First, others were blocking attacks, so why give them the advantage? Second, she’d recovered her true appearance tonight—showing herself would expose everything.

Wang Jin and others were still fighting desperately, still grateful that the hunter’s daughter was obedient enough to hide in the carriage without coming out. As for assassins who approached the carriage and met misfortune, Wang Jin naturally assumed “Ying Bai” was responsible, increasing his admiration for the Queen’s general’s combat ability.

Jing Hengbo looked up at the carriage roof—it was spinning. Looking at the ground—it was spinning too. Everything spun dizzily, as if this cramped space would squeeze one breathless.

She decided to run far away for fresh air. In a flash, she left the carriage and was already at a slope distant from the battlefield.

Suddenly someone was on her back, lying against her. She turned her head foolishly: “Eh? How are you here too?”

On her back, Master Mu smiled both shyly and slightly wickedly: “You carried me out. You said you’d bring me to see the night scenery.”

“Ah?” Jing Hengbo held her head, thinking for a long time. It seemed this had happened. “Oh…”

“We’re going to see night scenery,” he reminded her. “You’re blocking me—I can’t see.”

“Oh.” She stood up, carrying him on her back.

While carrying him, a strange feeling suddenly flowed through her heart—she felt this scene seemed to… perhaps… maybe… have happened before?

Drunkenly carrying someone…

Where was it similar, yet where different?

Drunk minds always got tangled. Unable to sort it out, she could only sway back and forth, carrying him to look at stars from all directions.

“Look, the stars are so bright!”

He looked up at the sky. Tonight wasn’t particularly clear. Besides the permanent hazy clouds in the northwest, overhead were only a few dim stars flickering without much presence in cloud gaps.

“Yes, so bright.”

Where she was, even without starlight, there was brightness.

“Look, the moon is so beautiful!”

Clouds occasionally moved, revealing a glimpse of moonlight—vague and hazy, still tinted with mottled reddish halos like an unclean blood handkerchief.

“Yes, very beautiful.”

He stared at her earlobe—pure white and round, seeming to have jade and moonlight colors.

“Look, three flying people!” She pointed excitedly at the sky, waving loudly: “Little Perspective! Tomboy! Cake Girl! Don’t run! Sister is here! Here!”

He frowned and looked up. Of course there were no people in the sky, only a meteor passing—a streak of light briefly crossing the horizon.

In that moment he closed his eyes and clasped his hands, suddenly wanting to make a wish.

Dahuang legend said wishing on meteors could earn heaven’s mercy.