MO RAN FLEW over the roiling sea of corpses, racing toward the base of the mountain.
The moment he exited the barrier, his gaze fell upon Nangong Si.
The confinement curse he used on himself had already been lifted. Ye Wangxi was on one knee next to him, helping him bandage his wounds as Mei Hanxue sat calmly on the ground between Jiangdong Hall and the two of them, his expression chilly. A zither sat before him, notes flowing like water as he plucked its strings.
Mei Hanxue was a senior direct disciple of Kunlun Taxue Palace's leader. He was known as an elusive figure, with strange martial skills and unpredictable tactics. One moment, he was perfectly upright and proper, and in the next, he would pull out some bizarre dark technique. Such was the power of his reputation that the mob from Jiangdong Hall had no choice but to sit upon the rocks glaring daggers, though they wanted nothing more than to skin Nangong Si alive.
As soon as Mei Hanxue spied Mo Ran, he lifted his fingers from the strings. He stowed the instrument, rose to his feet, and nodded respectfully. "How are things on the mountain?"
"The whole thing was fake," Mo Ran replied. "Fake?" Mei Hanxue frowned slightly.
The Jiangdong Hall contingent, overhearing, made their way over.
Huang Xiaoyue had been lying down within a nearby pavilion, having ordered several disciples to massage his legs and shoulders. He was making a great show of his frailty, but when he heard Mo Ran and Mei Hanxue's exchange, he couldn't resist peering through half-lidded eyes and straining to listen in.
"Xu Shuanglin isn't on the mountain," said Mo Ran. "He's probably on Mount Jiao. I—"
"Xu Shuanglin is on Mount Jiao?" Nangong Si didn't wait for him to finish. His face was ashen as he stared at Mo Ran.
"Maybe. It's not for certain."
Nangong Si gaped for a moment. "That's not possible, Mount Jiao only answers to the Nangong bloodline," he mumbled. "Xu Shuanglin…" The words stuck his throat. Nangong Si fixed his dark eyes on Mo Ran, the last bit of color draining from his face.
For a moment, he had forgotten that Xu Shuanglin was also a Nangong.
Many years ago, Nangong Liu and Nangong Xu had been lauded as a pair of promising young heroes. Many had speculated that Rufeng Sect would reach unparalleled heights of glory in the hands of the Nangong brothers, its future brighter than the noonday sun. Who could have foreseen the ending of these brothers, or the ending of their sect?
Nangong Si hung his head in silence.
By now, the rest of the expedition had made its way down the mountain. The thousand-strong crowd was like a migrating shoal of fish as it flowed into the clearing at the base of the mountain.
Chu Wanning strode straight over, Xue Meng and Shi Mei close behind. He looked at Nangong Si. "How did you hurt your hand?"
"It's not a problem; I cut myself," Nangong Si replied. "Thank you for your kindness, Zongshi."
Xue Meng sighed. "Why do you call him zongshi when you should be calling him shizun? Sheesh, Shizun said all that just for you to refuse it, you…"
"I never took a teacher," Nangong Si said through dry and cracking lips. "None of my education has come from studying with Zongshi. You needn't take my mother's request to heart."
Chu Wanning looked at him in silence.
"My apologies. But I don't even remember those three bows."
Before Chu Wanning could reply, he spotted Jiang Xi and several other sect leaders approaching with their retinues. Chu Wanning was unaccustomed to speaking of such private matters in public; he pursed his lips and didn't press the issue. Reaching into his qiankun pouch, he handed a small jar of salve to Nangong Si. "Put this on every day. In three days, your wound should heal."
By the time he finished speaking, the others had arrived. Huang Xiaoyue had also stumbled over from the pavilion, leaning on the arms of his disciples. Jiangdong Hall wasn't about to miss out on this piece of action.
Guyueye was currently the top sect of the cultivation realm, and thus it fell to Jiang Xi to speak first at crucial moments. But as he gazed at Nangong Si, he found himself at something of a loss as to how he should approach this young man. Rufeng Sect had abused its power for so many years, accumulating grudges too numerous to count. Now there was no ready target for vengeance—these grudges fell onto Nangong Si alone.
But what sin had Nangong Si committed? It wasn't him who had taken Bitan Manor's sword manual or set those sky-high prices. He didn't even know where that sword manual was. His father, Nangong Liu, had a thousand crimes to his name, yet he had gone off and died without answering for any of them. A son, people said, ought to shoulder his father's debts—but if they took this principle seriously, how many could count themselves as innocent?
Besides, this young man before them now was the very last descendant of the Nangong bloodline. He was the singular key to opening the gate to Mount Jiao.
"You…" Jiang Xi began in a measured tone.
But before he got any further, a tremulous voice rose up from nearby. "Nangong-shizhu, you must come with us. The originator of these troubles should be the one to resolve them. You mustn't ignore or brush off the scandals Rufeng Sect has left behind."
Jiang Xi glanced sidelong at the owner of the voice: the abbot of Wubei Temple, Master Xuanjing. Inwardly, he sneered. This old monk was so embroiled in earthly pursuits even he was angling to reap some benefits for himself. Whatever—Jiang Xi wasn't keen to talk anyway. He shut his mouth without protest and merely watched as Master Xuanjing, leaning on his staff, gave Nangong Si an earful on principles like he was reciting sutras.
Nangong Si cut him off, "Okay, I'll go to Mount Jiao with you."
Master Xuanjing hadn't expected him to agree so readily. Blinking in surprise, he put his palms together. "Amitabha, surely Buddha will forgive some of your sins upon seeing that you readily accept reason."
Nangong Si looked as though he wanted to speak, but held his tongue. From his quiver, Naobaijin let out a whimper and tried to clamber out; Nangong Si expressionlessly shoved him back in. "I will go to Mount Jiao in hopes that I can prevent centuries of Rufeng Sect's disciples from suffering the indignity of becoming puppets to serve another's evil whims," he said, restrained. "Nevertheless, I appreciate the master's kind intent in pointing me down the righteous path."
Thus did the group acquire the living key to Mount Jiao.
Each of the four great evil mountains had its quirks. If one wished to approach Mount Jiao, they had to meet two criteria, regardless of whether they were of the Nangong bloodline themselves or accompanied by a Nangong descendant. First, they had to fast for ten days. Second, they had to proceed on foot once they arrived at the Panlong Range surrounding Mount Jiao. They couldn't ride swords or horses; in order to demonstrate their sincere intent, they had to traverse the three peaks preceding Mount Jiao on their own two feet.
Xue Zhengyong did some mental math. "It'll take about ten days to get from here to the Panlong Range on horseback. We can fast on the way. If none of you have urgent matters to attend to, I see no reason we need to return to our own sects beforehand. We can all head out together."
"That's a good plan," said the Taxue Palace leader. "If we travel together, we can discuss our strategy for the next stage."
"The only thing is, there must be at least three thousand people here," Xue Zhengyong pointed out. "It might be tricky to find enough horses…"
"I should have enough horses in my estate for everyone." A frail voice called out from the crowd, and a hand shot into the air. All eyes converged on a slight, mousy-looking man with a shrewd look about him, attired in luxurious crimson robes with a scrolling black cat motif embroidered onto the hems.
"Ma-zhuangzhu?" Jiang Xi's brows shot up.
The man who had spoken up was none other than Ma Yun, the master of Taobao Estate, one of the nine great sects of the upper cultivation realm. In that copy of the God-Knows-What Rankings that Xue Meng had once bought, he was named third-richest—though he was due for a promotion to the second spot now that Nangong Liu was dead.
As rich men went, Ma Yun seemed much more down-to-earth than Jiang Xi, with the solicitous demeanor of a salesman. These two men had acquired their fortunes through quite different means. Jiang Xi was ruthless and undaunted, with many priceless treasures to his name; his domain was the black market.
Master Ma, on the other hand, had established a network of delivery outposts large and small throughout the cultivation realm. Every sort of parcel and shipment passed through these outposts, and they also leased spiritual horses, boats, and carriages. Taobao Estate specialized in manufacturing various swift vessels and vehicles, and breeding herds of spiritual beasts of burden. Because he dealt in so many areas, people liked to call Ma-zhuangzhu a jack-of-all-trades, or, for short, "Jack Ma."
As their gazes met, Jack Ma quailed a little at the aloof, icy expression on Jiang Xi's face. Meekly shrinking back, he said, "Or… perhaps we should go to Rainbell Isle? I'm sure Jiang-zhangmen has more horses than me in his manor, heh heh."
Everyone stared.
Jiang Xi was momentarily speechless as he took in Ma Yun's wrinkled smile. "I was just expressing my gratitude for Ma-zhuangzhu's generosity, that's all," he eventually replied. "We're not far from Taobao Estate. If Ma-zhuangzhu is willing to play host, we would be much obliged."
Master Ma let out a breath of relief and grinned. "Then let's all head toward my humble estate! The hour is late; we might as well stay the night and set out in the morning."
Taobao Estate was located atop Gu Mountain on the shores of Hangzhou's West Lake. Despite its name, Gu Mountain was better described as a sloping hill; it took less than an hour to reach the summit.
"Here we are!" Master Ma crowed. He walked up to the main gate, brilliant with red lacquer, and dispelled the protective barrier with a wave of his hand. "Welcome, one and all!"
The various sect leaders were consumed by worry and impatience after the events on Mount Huang. Only Master Ma had recovered his easy demeanor so quickly, flashing a warm smile at all his guests. Many exchanged glances and snorted, but no one said anything much. The crowd poured through the great barrier into Taobao Estate. The sect leaders went first, then the elders, then their direct disciples, and finally the rest like a massive tide.
"What the hell is up with Jack Ma?" Xue Meng muttered to Mo Ran. "His smile gives me the creeps—do you think he might be working with Xu Shuanglin? Is he leading us into a trap?"
Mo Ran paused. "He's not."
"How are you so sure?"
"The leaders and top cultivators of the nine great sects are all here, and everyone's on guard. If he's really working with Xu Shuanglin, he'd accomplish exactly nothing by bringing us here—he'd only blow his own cover."
"Then why's he so giddy?"
Mo Ran heaved a sigh. "Because he's about to make a fortune." "A fortune? Won't he be in the red after this?" Xue Meng asked,
bewildered. This son was just like his father: he had no business acumen to
speak of. Everyone on Sisheng Peak knew the story of how Madam Wang had once asked the young Xue Meng to get change for a silver leaf from a roadside peddler. The child had come back with only a kite and three greasy copper coins—in other words, he'd been painfully ripped off. But Xue Meng thought the little kite very pretty and was highly pleased with his transaction. How could a young master like him understand the workings of Jack Ma's opportunistic mind? He was still baffled even after thinking it over for a while. "Did you mishear? He said he'd let us borrow horses, not rent them to us. If he's giving out stuff for free, then—"
They were approached by a low-level disciple in charge of guiding the guests to their rooms. Mo Ran waved a hand in Xue Meng's direction, signaling for his silence. The two allowed the beaming disciple, outfitted in a short pink coat, to lead them to the courtyard where they would stay the night.
The guest courtyards were all at the periphery of the compound and housed six people each. As dusk fell, Mo Ran stood before the window in his room, gazing out at the cool umber of the distant mountains and the ripples grazing the surface of West Lake.
Since coming down from Mount Huang, Mo Ran had been consumed by anxiety. Now, with the door closed, he finally let that fretful energy rush out. As he gripped the window ledge with one hand, his other subconsciously fidgeted with a small, warm object he had picked up somewhere.
The Jiangnan scenery was lovely as ever, but Mo Ran found himself unable to appreciate it. Had anyone else caught sight of his face in that moment of sunset, they would never have believed the man they saw was the righteous and honest Mo-zongshi. That face belonged to the past life's Emperor Taxian-jun. It was etched with malice, irises pierced by the red light of the dying sun. As the sky darkened, Mo Weiyu's features began to warp.
The existence of another reborn person working with Xu Shuanglin sent tremors down his spine. He felt as though a knife was pressed to his throat so tightly the edge had broken skin, cutting into his flesh, letting blood seep out. But the wielder didn't press the blade down, and Mo Ran couldn't turn to look at them. He couldn't see who stood behind him, ready to take his life at any moment.
Mo Ran was on the verge of a breakdown. It seemed he couldn't keep the matter of his rebirth a secret for much longer. If the truth came out when they got to Mount Jiao, what should he do? What would his aunt and uncle think of him? What about Shi Mei? Xue Meng?
And Chu Wanning? What about Chu Wanning…?
If the sins he'd committed in the past life came to light, how much would Chu Wanning despise him? Wouldn't he be unwilling to even look at Mo Ran ever again?
Mo Ran's heart twisted in an awful knot. He felt colder and colder, encased in a bone-chilling freeze—
With a crisp click, the trinket in his hand fell onto the floorboards. He bent down in a daze to pick it up. It was gray with grime—no one had stayed in these rooms at Taobao Estate for ages. They hadn't been cleaned carefully, and the floor was dusty…
Wait. Mo Ran blanched.
He suddenly realized what he had been playing with. Nestled in his palm was a smooth, jet-black little stone—a Zhenlong chess piece.
The blood drained from his face.
During the last two years of his previous lifetime, he had developed a habit of funneling spiritual energy into his palm whenever he was feeling overwhelmed or stressed, concentrating it into a tiny black chess piece to fidget with. This new quirk had struck fear into the hearts of the palace servants. Mo Ran had once overheard a whispered discussion of how he must be making chess pieces in fury so he could kill people and make them into puppets.
"Aren't you terrified His Majesty might use those Zhenlong chess pieces he's always playing with?"
"To tell you the truth, I'd rather see him play with human skulls than those things."
"You're afraid? What about me? I'm His Majesty's personal attendant—heaven knows how many times my knees have nearly given out. Each of those chess pieces costs His Majesty a great deal of spiritual energy—he'd never make them idly. He must have a goal in mind, or maybe he needs to vent his temper… What if he vents it on me? What will I do…"
This conversation had left Mo Ran speechless, yet on second thought, it was quite amusing. What were these gossipy servants going on about. How were they so confident in dissecting his motives? In truth, there was no reason behind all those chess pieces—it was just one of Emperor Taxian-jun's many peculiarities. But after overhearing that conversation, he would now and again lunge forward without warning, Zhenlong chess piece in hand as if ready to plant it in one of the servant girls, then watch his attendants tremble in fright and beg for mercy. His face invariably remained cold as he surveyed such scenes, but a glimmer of amusement surfaced in his heart. This had been one of his sole sources of joy in those final two years of his life.
Many years had passed since he had last refined a Zhenlong chess piece. Since his rebirth, Mo Ran had been unwilling to touch this technique, as though trying to make a clean break with his past self. Eight years had passed in the blink of an eye. He thought he would've forgotten the technique by now, that his lips would no longer know the shape of those incantations.
But he saw now that he couldn't escape. There was evil sown within his very soul. As he stared at that black piece, his hand shook uncontrollably. He was swallowed by despair—
All of a sudden, he didn't know who he was. Was he Taxian-jun? Or was he Mo-zongshi? He didn't know where he was. Was he on the banks of West Lake? Or the hall of Wushan Palace? He couldn't tell dreams from reality. He couldn't stop trembling. That tiny black chess piece was as heavy as a nightmare, like a spot of filthy blood the color of soot. Manic laughter echoed in his skull as a voice shrieked, "Mo Weiyu! Mo Weiyu!
You can't escape! You can't run away! You'll only ever amount to evil, only ever be a vengeful ghost! You're a scourge upon this world! A scourge!"
Someone rapped on the door.
Mo Ran came back to the present with a jolt—he was drenched in cold sweat. Fingers closing around the chess piece, he snapped, "Who is it?"
"It's me," called the voice outside. "Xue Meng."