Tonight, Song Qian Ji wasn’t carrying the snowblade.

The cultivators in the cave had already fully accepted “the independent cultivator Song Xun,” regardless of whether he had a formidable blade in hand or whether he was acknowledged as Zi Ye Wen Shu’s friend.

Before entering the formation, he specifically returned the blade to Zi Ye Wen Shu: “Tonight I might have to kill someone.”

Zi Ye Wen Shu looked at him strangely, as if asking why to returned the blade if he intended to kill.

Song Qian Ji possessed many valuable items—the Seven Supreme Painting Spring Mountain Qin, the Dragon Slaying Formation—yet no one had ever heard of him having a personal spiritual weapon.

A truly suitable weapon with which one could fight life-or-death battles.

Song Qian Ji said: “This matter doesn’t concern you. I don’t want to use your blade.”

Zi Ye Wen Shu said coldly: “If not the Snow Blade, what will you use?”

“I brought my sword.” Song Qian Ji knew his good intentions and wasn’t annoyed. “This sword’s lethality is no less than the Snow Blade.”

A killing sword shouldn’t be casually shown to others.

But to demonstrate that he indeed had a suitable spiritual weapon and to reassure the other party, he summoned a thin sword from his storage pouch and slowly drew out three inches, showing it to Zi Ye Wen Shu.

It emerged from its scabbard silently. The sword body was thin and narrow, with an almost transparent crystal-like quality. It couldn’t reflect human shadows, only the surrounding ice walls.

The blade was sharp with a chilling killing intent. One could imagine that once thrust forward, it would be invisible and unstoppable, leaving no room for mercy.

Even Zi Ye Wen Shu, who was accustomed to high-grade spiritual weapons, couldn’t help but brighten his eyes in admiration: “Good sword!”

Song Qian Ji smiled with satisfaction and sheathed the sword. If Xian Jian Chen didn’t have at least this level of assets, all these years would have been wasted.

Then he heard Zi Ye Wen Shu change his tone: “This is not your sword.”

His tone was certain.

Song Qian Ji was slightly displeased: “You’ve never seen me use a sword. How do you know I’m not suited for it?”

Zi Ye Wen Shu shook his head: “Such a killing sword does not suit you.”

Song Qian Ji’s sword should be forthright and adaptable, capable of both killing and saving.

Song Qian Ji smiled helplessly and lightly tapped the scabbard: “You think too highly of me. But right now, I’m just like this sword—merely a killing tool in someone else’s hands.”

The person to be killed was waiting comfortably, methodically setting up a trap. The killer, however, had to traverse thousands of mountains and rivers in pursuit, unable to retreat even when aware of the snare.

If not for encountering Zi Ye Wen Shu’s group, this would have been a tiresome and dull task.

Zi Ye Wen Shu heard him mention “someone else” and raised an eyebrow slightly: “It’s that person.”

He looked toward the ceiling as if trying to see through the ice walls to the distant sky.

Song Qian Ji was startled, then laughed: “One guess and you’re right. So clever—I thought practicing that technique would have made you foolish.”

Otherwise, why would he always place himself in danger, ending up with injuries?

Zi Ye Wen Shu seriously corrected him: “The ‘Ice Soul Technique’ diminishes the practitioner’s emotions and desires, not their intellect.”

This wasn’t difficult to guess. When Song Qian Ji was at Hua Wei Sect, he gave a face to no one, refusing to visit Purple Cloud Temple or Green Cliff. Because he had the greatest backing.

In this world, who else could ask him to kill someone, except Xian Jian Chen?

Song Qian Ji thought, unfortunately, this technique both elevates and harms you.

Every gain comes with a price. The stronger a cultivator’s mystical abilities, the more dangerous their weakness.

Because Green Cliff needed a dignified and just guardian statue, Zi Ye Wen Shu had forged himself into a cold and emotionless blade.

Sometimes he struggled to understand the complex subtleties of human emotions. The more people feared approaching him, the less he interacted with others, making it increasingly difficult for him to empathize with ordinary people.

Until Song Qian Ji began writing letters to him, passionately and earnestly describing trivial countryside matters, forcibly pulling him back to the world of mortals.

Song Qian Ji smiled and said: “Then help me think about something else. The spirits understand self-preservation. After meeting strong resistance here and suffering heavy casualties, they still refuse to leave, attacking every night and summoning more of their kind. The secret realm has plenty of other cultivators, so why fixate on our group? Could it be because you and I taste better, more to their liking?”

“Because they fear something, yet covet something else,” said Zi Ye Wen Shu.

“Indeed, the spirits dare not enter the cave, perhaps because deep within is something they dread, while we possess something they desire. They fear we’ll discover what they want and use it against them, so they can only press on with their attacks.”

In his previous life on this night, when Zi Ye Wen Shu and Song Qian Ji were resisting the spirits, a sudden earthquake occurred. The ice cave seemed about to collapse, and the cultivators inside ran about like headless flies.

Zi Ye Wen Shu attempted to lead a breakout, resulting in heavy casualties. Seeing the situation deteriorate, Song Qian Ji called the surviving cultivators to run deeper into the cave instead.

The group escaped through a passage opened by the earthquake and entered an underground palace, temporarily escaping death’s shadow.

As for why the spirits initially targeted them, no one cared.

The secret realm held countless mysteries. Not every secret had an answer, and not everyone lived long enough to solve the riddles.

Song Qian Ji was certain that since Wu Xiang’s avatar had the patience to hide here, he must have a plan and objective.

Something worth his pursuit must be significant, and it was also worth the full mobilization of the realm’s spirits.

Song Qian Ji couldn’t reveal his rebirth, nor did he bother inventing other reasons: “I can divine the future. I’ve foreseen an earthquake tonight. A passage leading to an underground palace will open deep in the cave. If you lead people along the fractured ice path downward, you can escape to safety. Do you believe me?”

Zi Ye Wen Shu firmly refuted: “You cannot divine.”

“Besides the first sentence, do you not believe the rest either?!” Song Qian Ji couldn’t prove events that hadn’t occurred yet, but he needed the other’s cooperation.

“I believe,” Zi Ye Wen Shu said. “Something will happen tonight, so the person you want to kill might appear?”

Song Qian Ji happily slapped his leg: “Zi Ye, talking with you is truly so simple.”

Events proved he had rejoiced too soon.

At that moment, the ice surface trembled and icicles fell. The spirits, as if provoked, launched a frenzied attack.

Song Qian Ji drew his sword and called out: “Everyone run deeper into the cave! I’ll cover the rear!”

Suddenly, a black shadow flashed by, followed by a white light carrying bone-chilling cold.

A spirit, not three feet from Song Qian Ji, was split in two.

The Snow Blade had struck first—Zi Ye Wen Shu had arrived.

Song Qian Ji was both annoyed and helpless. He transmitted: “I thought we agreed that once the earthquake hit, you would lead everyone into the underground palace while I hold off these creatures outside, and then join you.”

“I didn’t agree,” Zi Ye Wen Shu said. “They will listen to you. They don’t need me to lead them.”

He glanced at Song Qian Ji’s sword, implying that one person alone couldn’t hold off the frenzied spirits.

Song Qian Ji simultaneously glanced at his wound, implying that with unhealed injuries, he himself was still stronger.

After a brief panic, the cultivators habitually followed Song Qian Ji’s arrangement, deploying their spiritual weapons to clear a path as they rushed deeper into the cave.

Indeed, they didn’t need Zi Ye Wen Shu to lead.

Only the Celestial Sound Sect created complications.

“Where is Song Xun? Why is he staying behind?” Miao Yan’s face was pale.

“That’s his business,” Liao Hua pulled the dazed Miao Yan. “Senior Sister, hurry! What are you waiting for?”

The earth shook and mountains trembled. Icicles fell like rapid rain, creating deafening buzzing echoes.

Miao Yan couldn’t hear clearly. She only thought that if she were separated from Song Xun in this chaos, without having exchanged any keepsakes, how would they find each other in the vast sea of humanity, in the uncertainty of life and death?

Even if he wanted to find her, he couldn’t find a nonexistent sound cultivator named He Yun.

She might never see him again or hear him play the flute. She still had many unasked questions, many unfinished melodies she hadn’t played for him.

Miao Yan was swept forward by the crowd. Mu Xia grabbed her arm, urging her to move faster.

“No!” Miao Yan shook off that hand and suddenly called out loudly, “In this cultivation journey, I want to see the real moon!”

She turned around and, against the chaotic tide of people, ran wildly toward the cave entrance.

“Song Xun!” Miao Yan shouted.

Song Xun was swinging his sword, the sword light like rain.

His ordinary face seemed bathed in moonlight. In her eyes, she could see no one else.

“Miss He, why did you…” Song Qian Ji was startled.

“I will take you away!” Miao Yan grabbed Song Xun’s left hand that wasn’t holding the sword, like a drowning person desperately clutching a piece of driftwood, believing they had grasped the moon in the water.

She stuffed a jade comb into Song Xun’s hand and hastily transmitted: “This treasure of the Celestial Sound Sect, the Transverse Breaking Comb, can cut open a spatial passage for an instant, helping two people reach a thousand miles away. There’s only one chance—it becomes useless after use!”

She wanted to say: Let’s leave this place. Who cares if Wang Shu or Jiang Yun becomes the sect leader if the Song King or Wei King claims the throne, who cares if the world falls into chaos? Let’s go to the end of the earth, change our names, and spend a lifetime playing qin and flute.

Zi Ye Wen Shu slightly raised an eyebrow, seeming puzzled.

Song Qian Ji hurriedly withdrew his hand: “Miss He, were you hit on the back of the head by a falling icicle?”

Otherwise, why would she talk such nonsense? The Celestial Sound Sect had no such treasure; Miao Yan had never mentioned it in his previous life. Even if it existed, how would it be in the hands of an ordinary disciple?

Furthermore, though they knew each other, they weren’t close. Where could they possibly go together?

Miao Yan met Song Xun’s astonished gaze and froze as if someone had poured a bucket of cold water over her head.

If not for someone pulling her away, she would have been injured by a falling icicle.

“Senior Sister!” Mu Xia and others caught up, their faces ashen, expressions anxious.

They didn’t call her He Yun but addressed her as “Senior Sister,” their tone very familiar, just as they usually called her “Senior Sister Miao Yan.”

Miao Yan glanced at her sect members. The madness in her eyes receded as she silently retrieved the Transverse Breaking Comb, her voice rough: “I was momentarily confused and panicked. How embarrassing.”

She wasn’t He Yun; she was Wang Shu’s carefully nurtured disciple, the future heir of the Celestial Sound Sect.

Song Qian Ji swung his sword with one hand while gently pushing her back with the other, having no time to pay much attention to her unusual behavior:

“This place is dangerous! Leave quickly!”

“I won’t go,” Miao Yan deployed a protective spiritual tool shaped like a flower umbrella to shield against falling ice blocks. “I’ll stay and help you.”

Mu Xia urged anxiously: “If Senior Sister won’t leave, how can we?”

Others turned back upon hearing this, their feelings complex.

These past few days, they had fought side by side, helping each other. In this critical moment, even the seemingly fragile female cultivators of the Celestial Sound Sect dared to stay behind. How could they flee in haste?

Someone was the first to turn back: “I won’t leave either!”

It was the Sect Leader of the Flower Stream Sect, which had been most at odds with the Celestial Sound Sect.

Like a spark igniting oil spread across the ground, once the words were spoken, everyone felt a surge of heroism.

Chief Yan said: “Daoist Song has guided our battle techniques in the formation every day. A teacher for a day is a father for life. If you meet with misfortune here while I escape safely, it will surely become a heart demon for me in the future. We, independent cultivators, may not call you ‘master,’ but today we share your fate, advancing and retreating together!”

“Share fate, advance, and retreat together!” Countless voices echoed strongly.

Various spiritual tools wove colorful lights as everyone stood with resolute expressions.

Song Qian Ji shook his head helplessly. Is this sudden display of unity appropriate right now?

But surrounded by people who had schemed against each other in his previous life yet bore no grudges in this one, he felt a subtle sense of emotion and moved.

Just as he was about to speak, he suddenly sensed something.

Song Qian Ji turned his head, his gaze like lightning, piercing through the falling ice fragments to lock onto the back of a female cultivator.

That silhouette was small and swift, wrapped in a veil, inconspicuously breaking away from the group.

At this moment, the only one heading deeper into the cave was Wu Xiang.

No need to search anymore.

Song Qian Ji swung his sword.

The sword light, like an arrow released from its string, flashed over everyone’s heads in the blink of an eye.