Chapter 130

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Chapter 130: Blood-colored Ruins

The dilapidated hall stood atop a sheer cliff, where the sky met the horizon, revealing an expansive and open view. The sky was a brilliant blue, swirling with clouds, and the rays of twilight bathed the ground in a blood-like crimson gloom.

Yóu Lìng carried the bound Ming He, crossing the void as if stepping over mountains and rivers for miles, until she arrived at a dark and blood-stained hall.

“Do you know where this place is?” Yóu Lìng stopped and set Ming He down, watching her spine remain straight even in her helplessness, a bright smile on her face. “This is the Blood River Hall.”

She curled her lips, the black wolf on her mask also forming a fierce grin, emanating a deadly glint. “This is the Blood River, where blood flows like a river. This is the stronghold of the traitors of the human race.”

It was also the only path she could choose.

“Four years ago, the sound of heaven and earth echoed through the skies, shaking the five regions, and I first came to know of your existence.”

Yóu Lìng lowered her gaze. “I should have known earlier.” Knowing how you represent hope for the human race.

She smiled faintly, her expression softening slightly, yet her words were laced with a chilling coldness, as if poisoned. “Mu Qian, lock her away in the Blood Prison.”

“Yes.” A gentle voice came from within the hall.

Ming He’s eyes widened as she saw a young man in black clothes and black hair walk out from the hall. His upright figure shimmered faintly in the bright sunlight, his handsome face marred by a ghastly scar that shattered the noble aura he once possessed.

Mu Qian.

Disciple of the traitor Elder Zheng.

True disciple of the Floating Cloud Sect from Chiyu Peak.

Descendant of the human race’s suicide squad.

Now a member of the Black Wind Alliance in black clothes.

He was also the enemy who had caused the deaths of her eight senior brothers and sisters, the one she vowed to kill.

Young faces flashed in her mind, the crimson surroundings filled with the acrid scent of smoke. Amongst the blood and carnage lay scattered white bones, a true scene of blood flowing like a river, showing the human tragedy.

Thinking of this, Ming He clenched her fist, her eyes glimmering with a hint of blood red.

What did it matter if he was at the Heaven Origin realm? She was confident that she could defeat him with her Shadow Strike.

Yet she could not escape the control of the Binding Spirit Technique.

“Envoy.” Mu Qian bowed to Yóu Lìng as he passed by, then turned to face Ming He, his gaze deep and dark, a mixed and bloody aura surrounding him. He smiled lightly, appearing gentle and polite. “Junior Sister Ming He.”

He extended his right hand, channeling spiritual energy to lift Ming He’s body. Despite her cold and indifferent gaze hiding murderous intent, he continued to smile. “I apologize.”

He spoke words of apology, but his actions were sharp and determined, as spiritual energy like threads wound around Ming He, irresistibly pulling her into the blood-stained hall, crossing stairways and pavilions, revealing the dark prisons beneath the blood-colored river.

As if a dark curtain fell, blocking the sunlight and moonlight from entering, broken chains flashed with silver light. The black-clothed men stood quietly, slightly bowing their heads in respect upon seeing Mu Qian’s figure.

It turned out that his status amongst the foreign tribes was not low.

Ming He took a deep breath, her chest rising and falling, her eyes scanning the surroundings. She found herself in a square underwater chamber resembling a cage, trapping her freedom and severing her path forward.

She lowered her gaze, suppressing the feeling of suffocation caused by the dark and damp atmosphere of the Blood Prison, watching as Mu Qian’s right hand lifted. In just a few breaths, a bloodline the size of a finger was outlined, binding her to a dark mysterious pillar behind her.

After completing this, Mu Qian straightened up, his aura dark and dejected, looking at her with an unchanged smile, as if he were gazing at a lamb ready for slaughter.

“Junior Sister Ming He, I heard your path to cultivation has been ruined?” Mu Qian’s chest vibrated as he let out a low, deep laugh. “Do you know?”

He emphasized each word, “My path to cultivation is ruined as well.”

“Oh.” Ming He replied expressionlessly, a smirk barely forming on her lips. “What a pity.”

“Too bad it wasn’t I who destroyed it.” She lifted her chin, locking eyes with Mu Qian, her gaze icy and unyielding, her dark pupils brimming with an overwhelming murderous intent. Even confined beneath the black pillars and bloodlines, her sharpness remained undiminished.

Such was the essence of a true sword cultivator.

Ming He had grown into a formidable sword cultivator, standing tall and unshakable in the world.

“You…” Mu Qian clenched his fists, his brows twitching in barely contained frustration. After a long pause, a slow, mocking smile spread across his face, his eyes gleaming with both amusement and arrogance.

A flash of light, and he raised his right hand, now gripping a black dagger aimed directly at Ming He’s face.

“Do you think this scar suits me, Junior Sister?” Mu Qian asked, the dagger steady in his right hand as his left rose to trace the scar on his face. A water mirror materialized, reflecting both him and Ming He.

“The way you’re staring at me, you must find it quite striking,” he said with a soft chuckle, though a shadow lingered in the depths of his gaze. He straightened his posture, his tone almost gentle. “Don’t worry, you don’t have to envy me.”

“I’ll give you a matching one.”

Mu Qian’s voice was calm, almost tender, as his slender fingers tightened around the dagger. His eyes darkened, and with a mix of madness and something unspoken, he brought the blade down toward Ming He’s right cheek.

Ming He didn’t flinch.

Her eyes remained wide open, bright and unyielding, her posture as steady as ever, unshaken and fearless.

It was just flesh, after all—nothing worth her alarm.

All she needed was her Senior Sister and her sword.

“Clang!”

A ghostly blue light streaked across the Blood River, striking Mu Qian’s wrist before the dagger could touch Ming He’s skin. The blade clattered to the ground, spinning away and landing at Ming He’s feet.

“Mu Qian, did I give you permission to act?” A low, gravelly voice echoed in Ming He’s ears, carrying the ethereal resonance of the flowing river.

Ming He glanced down at the dagger by her feet, her gaze sharpening. When she looked up, she saw Mu Qian’s face pale, his aura darkening, blood dripping steadily from his right wrist.

That was the hand of a sword cultivator—a hand of utmost importance.

Yet Mu Qian had no time to tend to his wound; his first priority was survival.

The young man in black robes lowered his head, kneeling in the pool of blood. His forehead struck the hard stone floor of the chamber with a heavy thud, and when he raised it again, a streak of blood marked his brow. “I acted out of anger, Envoy. Please, spare me.”

“Out of anger? Was it truly your own decision?” Yóu Lìng stepped through the Blood River, her figure appearing in Ming He’s line of sight, her black boots rippling the surface of the blood.

She looked down at Mu Qian with a disdainful gaze, her fingers idly tracing the dark patterns on her hand. Her tone was casual, almost indifferent, yet laced with an unspoken threat.

“You nearly ruined my plans,” she said, picking up the dagger with a derisive laugh before tossing it aside carelessly. Her eyes lingered on Mu Qian, their meaning inscrutable.

After a long silence, she suddenly laughed. “Fine, get up.”

“I’ll let this slide—for now. But if there’s a next time—” She glanced back at Ming He, leaving the rest unsaid, though the implication was clear.

“Understood.” Mu Qian rose, brushing off his robes, and moved to stand by the Stone Door of the chamber, his expression unreadable. As he turned, the faintest hint of a smile touched his lips.

“Ming He,” Yóu Lìng began, stepping closer, her gaze drifting from the blood-soaked ground to the Jing Ying Sword at Ming He’s waist, then to the Star Lock resting over her heart. Her eyes were dark, filled with an unspoken menace.

Ming He remained silent, meeting Yóu Lìng’s predatory gaze without flinching, her expression as calm and indifferent as ever.

From the moment Mu Qian had raised the dagger until now, she had not wavered.

Yóu Lìng didn’t seem to mind. She wasn’t truly seeking conversation, merely speaking her thoughts aloud. “Sword Demon’s true name was Mu Chen—the ‘Mu’ of righteousness, the ‘Chen’ of the Nine Heavens Stars.

He was once the greatest in the Eastern Region, and he was once the young leader of the human race.”

“Did you know? The one you once revered as a god—your young leader—was nothing but a fallen sword cultivator.”

Yóu Lìng seemed to find it all quite amusing, her laughter wild and unrestrained, tinged with a chilling edge, as if tears might spill from her eyes at any moment. She raised a finger, tapping gently beneath her mask, and when she withdrew it, a glistening droplet clung to her fingertip. "He is a sword cultivator who has fallen into darkness!" she exclaimed.

Yóu Lìng let her right hand drop, the droplet cascading into the pool of blood below, sending ripples across its surface. A faint, ghostly white light bloomed at the crimson center. "Do you know why I’ve brought you here?" she asked, her gaze lifting to meet Ming He’s, whose lips, though pressed together, still radiated a clarity that even the darkness could not obscure. "I want to destroy you," Yóu Lìng declared.

The thought of dragging light into darkness, of mingling it with bloodshed, seemed to amuse her. "Ming He, I’ve prepared a gift for you," she said, stepping back and settling into a tall chair behind her, crossing her legs with the casual air of a carefree noble. "If you choose to join us, I’ll grant you the position of deputy leader of the Black Wind Alliance. Will you accept?"

"What a pity," Yóu Lìng sighed, her voice tinged with mock sorrow as she observed Ming He’s continued silence. "Do you want to know how I plan to destroy you?"

Ming He lowered her eyes. "You can’t destroy me."

"Naive!" Yóu Lìng’s interest was piqued by Ming He’s response. Her brows lifted with excitement as she rose to speak, but she was interrupted by a black-clothed man at the door. "Envoy—"

"Other matters can wait," Yóu Lìng said, waving her sleeve dismissively.

"Envoy, His Highness requests your presence," the black-clothed man said, his voice low and trembling slightly. "You instructed that any matters concerning His Highness must be reported immediately."

"His Highness?" Yóu Lìng’s expression shifted, her murderous intent dissipating as a warm smile spread across her face. She cast a lingering glance at Ming He before turning toward the Stone Door. "Close the Stone Door," she ordered. "Until I give the command, no one is to touch her."

This last instruction was directed at Mu Qian.

With a heavy thud, the Stone Door slammed shut, and the last flicker of light in the chamber vanished, leaving only the faint sound of flowing water echoing in the darkness. Ming He, however, felt no unease. She was accustomed to the gloom of Sword Demon Mountain.

Her eyes remained open, shining like stars in the night, a glimmer of curiosity and confusion in their depths. She wondered about the "His Highness" Yóu Lìng had mentioned.

When the black-clothed man had spoken, Yóu Lìng had been standing right in front of her. Though Ming He’s gaze was lowered, she hadn’t missed the look in the envoy’s eyes—tender and smiling, the unmistakable gaze of someone in love.

It was a look she had once seen in her Senior Sister’s eyes.

"Senior Sister," Ming He whispered to herself, her eyes growing brighter. She strained against the bloodlines binding her and glanced to the side, where a black dagger lay quietly on the ground to her left. It was the same dagger Mu Qian had intended to use to disfigure her.

Now, it was her only means of escape.

Trapped beneath the black pillars and bloodlines, she couldn’t move, let alone reach the dagger—at least not with her abilities as a cultivator. But Ming He was more than just a cultivator.

She closed her eyes, focusing her mind. In the depths of her Sea of Souls, her soul power surged, rising like towering waves that resonated with the Blood River outside the chamber. The black dagger trembled slightly, as if preparing to lift from the ground.

Ming He continued to concentrate, her invisible soul power reaching out to the void. She watched as the dagger began to rise, and a smile spread across her lips—a smile that was both mocking and radiant.

She didn’t know what had happened to Yóu Lìng, nor did she care. All she knew was that Yóu Lìng was her sworn enemy. And when it came to enemies, it was best to know them inside and out.

The envoy of the Black Wind Alliance, with her black attire and black wolf mask, was a traitor to the human race, a natural adversary. Yet even Ming He had to admit that Yóu Lìng possessed an undeniable brilliance.

Her methods were ruthless, her schemes intricate, and her every move calculated. She had brought countless human prodigies to their knees. To be named an envoy of the Black Wind Alliance, to be trusted by the so-called "His Highness," and to lead the Tian Yan Tribe as the foremost traitor to the human race—Yóu Lìng was undoubtedly exceptional.

So, could such a meticulous and formidable figure truly have forgotten to remove a dagger from the chamber? Ming He doubted it. It wasn’t an oversight; it was deliberate.

But why? Perhaps it was a cruel game—to offer a glimmer of hope, only to snatch it away, to let her glimpse the dawn before plunging her back into darkness.

Yóu Lìng was toying with her, trying to break her spirit, to make her taste despair in the midst of hope. But Ming He wasn’t so easily defeated.

Her smile deepened in the darkness, her eyes glinting not only with starlight but also with calculation. "Let’s see who will win," she thought.

Her fingers tightened around the dagger, her resolve unwavering. Her eyes sparkled with anticipation, ready for whatever came next.