Chapter 142

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Chapter 142: The Demon Race Hall Master

The jade walls and glazed blue tiles framed an exquisitely decorated courtyard, adorned with rocky hills, tranquil streams, and trees swaying gently in the breeze. The weak sunlight filtered through the gaps, refracting off the glass to cast a dazzling brilliance, tinged with a hint of vibrant color.

Ming He awoke in such a courtyard.

As her consciousness returned, so did the pain—deep, bone-rattling, and soul-shaking. It surged through her entire body, so intense that even the slightest breath sent a jolt of fear through her, making her wish she could slip back into unconsciousness.

If only she could sleep forever, never to wake again.

But she knew better. That was neither possible nor permissible.

Ming He lay there, her face pale, exhaling deeply. In the next moment, she pushed herself up, trembling unsteadily, her hand gripping the black railing beside the bed to keep from collapsing back down.

Even that small effort left her drenched in sweat, her lips bloodless, her consciousness teetering on the edge of fading once more. The pull of unconsciousness was relentless.

She glanced down at her body, clad in a thin white inner garment now soaked with blood.

The blood had seeped out when she sat up abruptly.

She didn’t need to examine her meridians to know the state of her body.

Besides, she no longer had the ability to do so.

Ming He let out a faint, bitter laugh, her eyes scanning the elegant and tranquil surroundings. This was no longer the dark chamber that had imprisoned her, stripped her of freedom, and cloaked her in despair.

Why had they moved her?

The question flickered in her mind, but she dismissed it quickly, her gaze falling to her hands. She stared at them, lost in thought.

The wounds where her tendons had been severed were now carefully bandaged, but the pain lingered, clinging to her like a parasite, much like the foreign energy churning within her.

Mu Qian had told her it wasn’t the blood energy of the demon race but the demonic energy of the demon race.

Demonic energy of the demon race.

Ming He’s fingers brushed lightly against the white cloth wrapped around her wrist. For a moment, her mind drifted. Then, with great effort, she lifted her left hand to remove the bandage from her right wrist, and her right hand to remove the one from her left. The scars were laid bare.

Twisted and grotesque, they snaked across her wrists like centipedes, ugly and horrifying.

How long had she been unconscious this time?

Ming He ran her right hand over the scars on her left wrist, then reached toward the table beside the bed. A crystal-clear fan lay there.

It reminded her of her bamboo sword.

The memory of the sword’s lightness and grace, and how it had shattered and fallen into the blood pool, tightened her chest. Her breath hitched, and the pale corners of her lips turned crimson, a drop of blood falling onto her white garment.

What had fallen into the blood-stained filth that day in the dark chamber wasn’t just her bamboo sword.

Broken Sword Style.

Ming He recalled the shadowed expression on Mu Qian’s face when he had spoken those words. A wave of confusion washed over her, leaving her disoriented and dazed.

Her fingers finally closed around the fan.

She examined it closely. The ribs were ivory white, elegant and refined. It felt warm and smooth to the touch, and the tassel swayed gently with her movements, tracing a delicate arc.

Curiosity stirred within her. She wanted to open it, to see what kind of fan it was and what image adorned its surface.

Why was this the only item in the room?

The question lingered, but before she could ponder it further, a sharp “thud” broke the silence. The sound startled Shen Yue, who had been standing watch outside, and struck Ming He’s heart like a thunderclap, shattering the heavy darkness around her.

She found herself unable to lift the fan.

Yet it felt so light.

Ming He felt her wrist twitch for a moment, and the next instant, she began to tremble uncontrollably. The fan, lacking support, fell gently in a slight arc until it touched the stone-paved ground.

The sound was not heavy, but rather light.

It was just a fan, after all!

Ming He stared at the fan lying quietly on the ground, and in a daze, she thought she saw her broken bamboo sword. Her hands had truly been rendered useless.

Could a sword cultivator who cannot lift a sword still be called a sword cultivator?

Ming He already had the answer in her heart.

Because she had once vowed that if she couldn’t lift a sword, then she was not a sword cultivator; this realization cut deep.

When the fan fell into Yóu Lìng’s hands, she knew it would be difficult to escape again, yet she had prepared herself, thinking she could face it calmly.

She thought she could, but she still could not.

She was still absorbed in her worries, troubled in her heart.

Ming He ignored the slightly lonely fan on the ground, holding her trembling right hand persistently before her eyes, staring off into space.

Her right hand fell weakly several times, but Ming He stubbornly lifted it again.

Until the blood at the corners of her lips deepened, and her white inner garment became increasingly damp.

Shen Yue watched her pale face and drenched in cold sweat, feeling pity. Even though it was because of the hall master’s orders, she could not just stand by and do nothing.

So she softly spoke, “Ming He, you… should rest and nurture your body.”

She meant to say that it was because of her serious injuries and lack of strength that she couldn’t lift the fan, but she knew how hollow and weak that statement would sound once it crossed her lips.

It felt more like a mockery.

After all, her current situation was a result of her own choices.

Ming He lightly raised an eyebrow, and upon recognizing Shen Yue’s face, she looked momentarily stunned, her hoarse voice deep as she replied, “Why aren’t you calling me Friend anymore?”

Shen Yue fell silent.

Ming He scoffed and no longer paid her any attention, lowering her gaze to the fan on the ground, remaining motionless for a long time.

Seeing her like this reminded Shen Yue of the hall master’s and envoy’s commands. After a moment of hesitation, she crouched down to pick up the fan and tentatively offered it to Ming He.

Ming He did not refuse.

Shen Yue was of the demon race or part of the Black Wind Alliance; she had guessed that before, and now knowing it did not surprise her.

After all, she was not the only human race traitor beside her.

The human race traitors surrounding her.

Ming He raised her gaze to meet Shen Yue’s eyes. She was actually quite beautiful, with delicate features that, although not as stunning as Qin Chu Yi or the unharmed Mu Nan Zhi, were still exceptional.

But what she first remembered were those eyes.

Clear and bright, despite being an assassin from the Pursuit of Life Tower.

Even today, her eyes remained clear, but a layer of darkness now shrouded them, creating a stark contrast with her overall aura, yet it perfectly matched the existence of Blood River Hall, as if they had merged into one.

Mu Qian seemed to feel the same way.

Ming He gazed deeply at Shen Yue, not angry enough to tell her to leave, nor did she treat her with cold indifference.

In truth, she barely reacted to Shen Yue at all.

When she picked up the fan and handed it to her, Shen Yue simply took it.

As for the fan falling again—

Ming He narrowed her eyes, ignoring the fan Shen Yue offered once more, her lips curling into a faint, cold smile tinged with the crimson of blood.

Why had they left a fan on the table by her bed?

The weight of the fan was deliberate—light enough for her to lift, yet heavy enough that she couldn’t hold it for long, nor could she open it.

This was undoubtedly a fan Mu Qian had prepared for her.

Or perhaps it wasn’t just Mu Qian; Yóu Lìng, Shen Yue, or even the hall master they spoke of—anyone could have been behind it.

But it was no accident.

They wanted to remind her, constantly, that her swordsmanship was ruined.

The bamboo sword was gone; it didn’t matter that the Shadow Strike, Blue Sea, and Longquan Sword still existed.

She could no longer wield a sword.

And then there was the Ghostly Sword.

It lay hidden in her Sea of Souls, its blade sheathed for so long that it might never be drawn again.

Since waking, she could no longer summon her soul power.

This was no surprise.

After all, Yóu Lìng was of the direct bloodline of the Soul Clan, and her mastery of soul techniques far surpassed Ming He’s.

Now, she was truly a wasted cultivator, less than an ordinary mortal.

Ming He sat there, her expression unreadable, her right hand trembling uncontrollably. Yet her heart was submerged in endless darkness, not a ripple of emotion stirring within.

This wasn’t her usual calm, the kind she used to mask her feelings. No, this was a heart that had turned to stagnant water.

Her body, her trembling hand, her silent heart—it all felt as though it had been torn apart by something in that moment.

All that remained was the boiling demonic energy within her, declaring that this was the only path left to her, if she refused to accept a life as a mere mortal.

Ming He certainly didn’t want that. Her mind and awareness screamed at her that she should resist, that she must resist.

But her heart no longer cared to fight.

Her heart wanted nothing, not even to struggle. It wished only to sink, to drift through the rest of her life in a haze.

Mu Qian hadn’t just severed her tendons and destroyed her bamboo sword; he had taken her swordsmanship, her meridians, and her once unyielding heart—the heart that had vowed never to surrender.

Could a heart soaked in blood ever return to its former clarity?

Ming He didn’t know. She only remembered something, her right fingers twitching slightly, and then she rose unsteadily, wanting to see the world outside.

She was tired—so tired—of the darkness and the silence.

Shen Yue did not stop her, and neither Yóu Lìng nor Mu Qian appeared.

Ming He then knew she was right.

The green trees outside the courtyard swayed gently in the wind, occasionally letting a leaf drift down to the ground, quickly accumulating a thin layer of fallen leaves that glistened under the harsh sunlight, creating a beautiful sight.

She looked closely at the tree and noticed it was a pine tree, the type favored most by her Master.

To her surprise, such a tree could thrive in this place, standing tall and reaching for the clouds, green and vigorous.

Ming He felt quite astonished.

Because here was still the Blood River Hall, yet it was the pinnacle of the Blood River Hall.

Therefore, she did not smell the familiar scent of crimson blood that had almost been her constant companion, nor did she hear the endless roar of the Blood River below.

The top of the Blood River Hall was the only place where the sunlight gathered.

According to Shen Yue, this place was called the Sea of Clouds, the temporary base for the master of the Alien Race Hunting Hall while at the Blood River Hall.

Thus, it was obvious who stood behind Shen Yue.

The Sea of Clouds was the cloud sea atop Sword Demon Mountain, or was it…

Ming He thought this and felt a faint smile forming; she also found herself slightly interested in the master of the Alien Race Hunting Hall.

Having severed her entire meridian system and cut her tendons, yet not taking her life, instead allowing Shen Yue to bring her here—did this imply that the master wanted her to know of their presence, whether intentionally or not?

What exactly did Mu Qian intend to do?

Or perhaps, what did Yóu Lìng wish for?

To fall into darkness?

Ming He narrowed her eyes in a smile that was not truly a smile; indeed, it wasn’t far from that now.

She couldn’t see her own eyes or gather the waters of a mirror for reflection, yet she clearly understood that the original clarity and brightness had been completely replaced by an isolation that was harsh and severe.

The grudge of destroyed swords and the hatred of the Broken Sword could not go unpunished.

And then there was her Senior Sister…

Ming He lowered her gaze to the Crescent Moon jade pendant that hung close to her heart, still clinging despite the twists and turns it had endured. She stood at the peak of the Sea of Clouds, looking up at the blazing sun in the sky, tears pooling in her eyes but unwilling to look away, much like the Yóu Lìng of the past.

The master of the Alien Race Hunting Hall approached, and with a barely noticeable sigh at her appearance, there was a look of pity and tenderness in her eyes.

She walked closer, her gaze never faltering, standing above Ming He, blocking the harsh sunlight that fell, her posture high and commanding, yet her eyes were gentle and caring, her voice exceptionally soft and meticulous:

“Why don’t you go inside to rest?”

With a wave of her hand, she drew Ming He and Shen Yue into her domain, and Ming He felt her mind become hazy, finding herself back in that earlier room, pressed down on a soft couch nearby the bed by a woman in black clothes and a mask.

“Rest well, you needn’t worry about anything else,” she spoke warmly, her calm and friendly demeanor causing Shen Yue to glance at her several times.

Shen Yue had not been beside her master for long, yet she had never seen her treat anyone with such tenderness and care—not even toward the envoy or the prince.

With the former, she was on equal footing, and with the latter, there was an obvious hierarchy, so gentleness was never required.

Was it because of their plans, or was it… something harder to contain?

Shen Yue gazed at the pine tree above the Sea of Clouds with a complex look in her eyes, sighed softly, and silently turned to retreat.

Ming He sat on the soft couch, blinking, and then raised her head slightly to look at her; what met her eyes was a mask, one she had never seen before yet felt oddly familiar with.

The pattern on the mask depicted a pine tree, yet it was not the same pine tree that stood above the Sea of Clouds.

Pine tree.

Ming He stood in a daze for a long while before suddenly doubling over, coughing up a mouthful of blood. Her coughing grew violent, wracking her body as if tearing her heart apart, until she had expelled the last traces of blood from her chest, staining the once-pristine floor with crimson splatters.

Yet, the light in her eyes grew brighter, intensifying until it seemed capable of setting the very plains ablaze.

It outshone the daylight, surpassed the scorching sun, eclipsed the radiance of the Full Moon, and even dimmed the twinkling stars, surpassing all things in the world.

Never before had Ming He’s gaze burned with such brilliance.

The master of the Alien Race Hunting Hall could not have missed this.

She observed Ming He’s stunned expression, her own heart filling with a profound sense of awe.

The sound of footsteps, neither heavy nor light, gradually approached.

Yóu Lìng swiftly crossed the room, stepping over the furnishings to stand directly in the center. She gazed at Ming He, who was bent over, coughing up blood, her expression distant. “Ming He, do you wish to know who the master of the Alien Race Hunting Hall is?”

Her voice was soft, carrying a tone that was both coaxing and enticing, her brows arched with a mix of pride and arrogance.

Everything was under her control, and she reveled in it.

Ming He ignored her, slowly dimming the brilliance in her eyes, replacing it with a gray, lifeless stillness, a calm that refused to waver.

Whether she wanted to know or not, Yóu Lìng would speak.

And indeed, that was exactly what happened.

Yóu Lìng was merely going through the motions, and Ming He’s response mattered little.

With a faint curl of her lips, Yóu Lìng faced Ming He, enunciating each word with deliberate clarity: “The master of the Alien Race Hunting Hall holds an identity among the human race—her name is Wei Rou!”

Having spoken, she fell silent, her gaze fixed intently on Ming He, awaiting her reaction.

Wei Rou!

The name was unfamiliar, yet not entirely unknown to Ming He.

She had first heard it in Dongfeng City, within the walls of Qingyun Tower, spoken directly by her Senior Sister, Qin Chu Yi.

Wei Rou had once been a friend of her Master, Qu Lingyun. Rumors swirled that she harbored feelings for her Master, possessing a spirit body and an exceptional furnace constitution. After the negotiations between the human and demon races, she had been abducted by the young leader of the demon race, intended for the purpose of Yin-Yang cultivation. It was her Master who had wielded her sword, venturing into the demon realm alone to rescue the human woman.

In that battle, the young leader of the demon race had perished, and the demon race had torn up the treaty, leading to heavy casualties among the humans. When the treaty was eventually restored, her Master’s swordsmanship had been half-destroyed, and she had been confined to the Liu Yun Sect in the Eastern Region, forbidden from ever leaving its borders.

While it could not be said that Wei Rou had caused the chaos, she had been an indispensable part of the entire affair.

At the time, Ming He had not believed Wei Rou bore any responsibility, but now she wondered—did she truly bear none? Or, perhaps, had she been the one to ignite the conflict?

The position of master of the Alien Race Hunting Hall was one of immense power and significance.

Ming He knew well that this role could only be held by a member of the alien race. Even someone as cunning and favored as Yóu Lìng, who enjoyed the trust of the alien prince, held only the title of envoy.

So, Wei Rou was an alien—a member of the Tian Yan Tribe!

What, then, did all of Qu Lingyun’s convictions amount to?

Her Master had once told the Lord of the Central Region that even if the person in question were not Wei Rou, not someone she knew, she would still act to save them if she encountered them.

Because that was her path.

Her swordsmanship was about wielding her blade to right injustices, protect the weak, and vanquish evil.

But what if the weak she sought to protect were not weak at all? What then of her Master?

Even though she had been exiled to Liu Yun, even though her swordsmanship had been half-ruined, Ming He had always known that her Master’s swordsmanship had not diminished—it had only grown stronger, lying dormant, waiting for the moment to be drawn once more.

But if her Master were to learn of Wei Rou’s true identity, could her sword ever be drawn again?

Ming He did not know, but she was certain of one thing: Wei Rou’s identity was real.

Yóu Lìng had not lied to her.

Just as Mu Qian had claimed that her Senior Sister was in life danger, Ming He now understood that it had been a falsehood.

Her Master.

The one who had guided her every step of the way, from whom her path had originated, and whose unyielding spirit had shaped her own.

Through both words and deeds, Qu Lingyun had been a truly remarkable Master.

Yóu Lìng had chosen this moment to reveal the truth, and her intentions were unmistakable.

Ming He would know, and naturally, her Master would know as well.

After the events on Canglang Island, the wanted notices from the Imperial Palace and the jade slips had spread across the five regions. Her Master would surely have heard.

Yet, Ming He had received no word from her Master, and the relentless pursuit had prevented her from reaching the Ninth Continent.

What had become of her Master?

Ming He pondered this, yet she remained seated, unmoving.

The revelation that Wei Rou was of the Tian Yan Tribe was neither trivial nor insignificant. It was not aimed at Ming He but at her revered Master, Qu Lingyun.

And at the entire human race.

It was a wound that cut deep into the heart.

Yóu Lìng had expected Ming He to react with fury, to lash out in anger, to plead desperately, to have her faith shattered, or to struggle to believe.

She had imagined countless possible reactions, yet Ming He simply sat there, her expression unreadable, neither joyful nor sorrowful, uttering a single, light “oh,” and offering no further response.

At this, Yóu Lìng knew the time had come. Excitement surged within her, and her words carried a hint of glee.

She clapped her hands, her expression eager. “I present the Left Envoy.”

The human race did not have left or right envoys. With the recent passing of the Left Envoy of the Demon Race, the one she referred to could only be the Left Envoy of the demon race—Mu Xuan Ye.