The people Liu Xuanyi had brought into the alley heard the commotion and broke the door open, and in an instant the two sides clashed at close quarters. Jiang Ying, disregarding the searing pain in both knees, leapt down and cut one man down with a single stroke of her sword.

At the same time, Liu Xuanyi swung his blade across from the eaves, slashing horizontally toward the youth in black. The knife edge grazed the thin blade with a harsh, grating clang; the youth sprang up and dodged, then with a flick of his wrist, the soft sword spun once in his hand, cold light flowing, easily winding past the back of Liu Xuanyi’s blade and pressing toward his throat.

Liu Xuanyi leaned sharply backward, barely evading it, yet a strand of beard along his jaw was still sheared off. Startled, he met the youth’s calm, pitch-black eyes again and instantly shed several degrees of his earlier contempt. The hands gripping his saber tightened more and more.

Drawing a breath and focusing again, Liu Xuanyi stamped on the roof tiles and leapt into the air, chopping straight down at the youth once more. The youth first turned sideways, then used his sword to brace against the heavy blade. The flexible sword bent, yet in the instant the thin edge rebounded, the youth spun and struck toward Liu Xuanyi’s back.

Liu Xuanyi was, after all, a standout in the jianghu; his reaction was extremely swift. He swung his long saber behind his back to block the youth’s attack, then turned to meet him blade to blade.

The night was dark, the wind biting cold. Only the flashes of blades sped like meteors; amid the ringing clashes, Liu Xuanyi gradually glimpsed the shadow of someone within the youth’s fierce, elegant sword forms.

He merely faltered for a moment, and the youth seized the chance. The leaf-thin blade instantly carved a bloody gash across his shoulder. He cried out in pain, struck the youth’s chest with one palm, then turned and leapt away, landing on the opposite roof.

Moonlight fell like silk, yet the pale glow upon the eaves was dim and cold. Liu Xuanyi pressed a hand to his shoulder and narrowed his eyes, once more sizing up the sword-bearing youth across from him. “Boy, what is Miaoshan Daoist to you?”

“And why are you at Zhifeng Tower?”

His expression grew increasingly strange.

What Miaoshan.

Zhezhu wiped the blood from the corner of his lips and sneered, “Old bastard, have you always been this talkative?”

“Where is Miaoshan? Could he be at Zhifeng Tower?” Liu Xuanyi’s face turned ever more ashen. His eyes lowered, and who knew what connections he spun in his own mind. Then he glared viciously at Zhezhu. “Tell me, is she truly with that Miaoshan? He’s nothing but a stinking Daoist, why must it be him and no one else?”

The “she” he spoke of was naturally the master of Zhifeng Tower.

It was as if Liu Xuanyi had stirred some inner demon himself; he did not even wait for Zhezhu to speak. He crushed a roof tile underfoot for leverage and sprang up, swinging his blade at Zhezhu.

This time, Liu Xuanyi’s assault was even more ferocious. Gripping the saber with both hands, every move was infused with inner force, each swing stirring fierce gusts of energy.

The blade in Zhezhu’s hand spun, receiving strike after strike. The two moved one before the other, rising and falling, leaping across several rooftops. Along the ridgelines, the cold wind whipped their garments into snapping flutters. Their blades pressed against each other—Liu Xuanyi’s body was covered in wounds, and Zhezhu had gained several bloody gashes as well.

“Miaoshan has been missing for sixteen years,” Liu Xuanyi stared fixedly at the youth’s exceedingly young face. “And you now—how many years have you lived?”

Zhezhu was thoroughly disgusted by his incessant chatter. He lifted his leg and struck hard at the crook of Liu Xuanyi’s knee, forcing him to drop heavily to one knee, his body lowered. Zhezhu’s sword tip pressed closer again. Liu Xuanyi hurriedly raised his blade to block, yet his edge was off by half an inch, and the youth’s sword pierced fiercely into the bone of his leg.

Liu Xuanyi threw his head back and cried out in pain. Before his hand could tighten its grip on the hilt, the youth drew out the sword, and the hilt struck his tiger’s mouth.

The saber slipped from his hand and fell from the eaves.

Liu Xuanyi could only close in and grapple with the youth barehanded. In mere moments, his palms were stabbed by the slender blade until flesh and blood were a mangled blur. He roared, his palm force surging viciously toward the youth—but in that very instant, a sword pierced through his chest.

The wind seemed to still for a moment. Liu Xuanyi belatedly lowered his gaze to the blade through his chest. When he lifted his head again, he spat blood, yet his eyes remained crimson, teeth clenched. “You must be the bastard child of her and Miaoshan.”

“You must be…”

His eyes full of resentment, his chest brimming with hatred—more of his muttering was drowned by the blood surging up his throat. His tall body toppled, crashing heavily at the mouth of the deserted alley, dying with eyes unclosed.

Drops of blood slid soundlessly from the sword’s edge. Zhezhu stood quietly upon the eaves, moonlight like silver frost illuminating his pale face.

“Protector!”

Jiang Ying hurried over with others. Beneath a faint lamp in the alley, they saw Liu Xuanyi already lifeless, blood staining the uncleared snow crimson, silently spreading into a pool.

Zhezhu leapt down from the eaves. Blood and qi churned in his chest; for a moment he felt dizzy, nearly unable to stand. Jiang Ying quickly stepped forward to support him.

“Have they all been killed?”

Zhezhu closed his eyes, barely steadying his mind, and shook off his hand.

“No one left alive.”

Jiang Ying nodded in response.

“Mm.”

Zhezhu lifted the tip of his sword, his voice calm. “Dispose of him as well.”

Following the direction of his sword tip, Jiang Ying glanced once more at the corpse at the mouth of the alley, then turned back and cupped his hands in acknowledgment. At that moment, a subordinate led over a horse. Zhezhu wound the soft sword into his diexie belt and swung up onto the horse.

The sound of hooves echoed through the alley. Jiang Ying glanced at the youth on horseback—he appeared no different from usual—then turned his face aside and ordered his men to quickly deal with the corpses and blood on the ground.

The night was pitch black. Zhezhu rode alone through the streets; the broad avenues were empty, even the small food stalls beneath oilcloth canopies had extinguished their fires.

Yet a faint scent of wine still lingered in the air. He lightly inhaled. Above his head, strings of brightly colored lanterns wove dazzling lights and shadows, spilling over him, glaring enough to sting the eyes.

He raised his whip and spurred the horse, galloping out of the city.

Between Taoxi Village and that bamboo grove lay a small river. Zhezhu rode all the way back from Shuqing City, and the sky had already begun to pale faintly.

The horse stepped onto the stone arch bridge. Only after entering the bamboo grove did his dizziness grow worse. Fatigue and weakness wrapped around him, his thoughts gradually slowing. At the courtyard gate, he dismounted, barely supporting himself, staggering into the yard. Step by step he climbed the stairs, panting. With his vision blurred, the moment his entire body pitched forward, with a creak, the door suddenly opened.

Before Shang Rong could see him clearly, she only felt a shadow press down. Caught off guard, she fell backward to the ground.

The cold morning wind surged in through the wide-open door, whipping the pale aqua gauze curtains into a tangled dance. The youth pressing down on her, his breath brushed close against her neck. Shang Rong’s lashes trembled. After a moment, she lifted the hand resting on his back—her entire palm was soaked with wet blood, a shocking sight.

“Zhezhu?”

She called him urgently, but he gave no response. As soon as she moved, she felt something cool and soft lightly brush her throat. She stiffened instantly.

“Miss Susu, why are you—”

Hearing the commotion, Mengshi hurried over without even properly fastening his outer robe. Seeing this scene from the doorway, the rest of his words caught in his throat. He quickly stepped forward, lifted the unconscious youth, and laid him onto the bed.

Turning back, he saw Shang Rong bring over a bundle and dump the bottles and jars inside onto the table all at once. He took a pot of hot water warming on the brazier and poured it into a basin, then said to her, “Don’t worry, I know some medical arts as well. Go out first—don’t look anymore.”

Hearing this, Shang Rong glanced at the pale-faced youth on the bed. She pressed her lips together, shook her head, and remained standing where she was.

Mengshi did not persuade her further. Knowing he could not delay, he quickly removed the youth’s clothing to examine the wounds. The youth’s fair shoulder and neck were exposed; a savage gash, pulled by the fabric, began bleeding again, flowing down along his arm.

Shang Rong turned her face slightly away, not daring to look further, yet the smell of blood in the room grew ever heavier.

Throughout the entire process, Mengshi did not dare relax for even a moment. He had not treated such severe external injuries for many years. Using every skill he had, he finally managed to stop the bleeding, cleaning the many wounds large and small across the youth’s body. By the time he finished, his forehead was covered in sweat.

Closing the door, Mengshi and Shang Rong stood on the wooden steps. He wiped the sweat from his brow and said, “The bleeding has stopped. I still need to fetch some herbs to decoct. Don’t worry, his life is not in danger, it’s just…”

He hesitated.

“What?” Shang Rong immediately raised her head.

Mengshi stroked his beard, frowning. “The medicine you brought is effective, but when applied to wounds, the pain is extremely intense. Yet whether I was cleaning his wounds or applying medicine, he never reacted in the slightest.”

“If my guess is correct…”

A trace of disbelief entered Mengshi’s voice:

“He likely suffers from a strange condition—an inability to feel pain.”