Chapter 18: The Murderous Sword, Part 7

The exquisite pleasure brought by their spiritual communion left Leng Fangxie in a daze, struggling to remain lucid, endlessly tossed in the whirlpool of sensations.

When he finally awoke, he had lost track of how many days and nights had passed. The storm had subsided, and the Cloud-Flowing Flying Palace had returned to its ethereal, otherworldly state, as if that night of fierce wind, rain, and near-collapse had been nothing but a hallucination.

Yet the lingering numbness and bliss within his body reminded him otherwise—he tried to move a finger but his entire body trembled uncontrollably, barely able to maintain composure.

After a long while, the shaking gradually subsided, and Leng Fangxie regained control over his senses and limbs.

He found himself tightly embraced by Fu Heng, seated atop a white jade platform. Seeing him awake, Fu Heng shifted his position to face him directly.

“Did you sleep well?” The exalted Immortal Sovereign’s tone was gentle, lips curved in a warm, amiable smile.

How could he even dare ask—sleep well?! If this were just the usual sleeping side by side, they wouldn’t have ended up like this upon waking!

Fu Heng’s constant embrace was meant to bind him, to prevent his escape.

Feeling deeply mocked and amused, Leng Fangxie had no patience left to engage with someone lost in their own world. He remained silent; Fu Heng paid no mind and continued speaking to himself: “Our spiritual bodies have merged perfectly; our consciousnesses are profoundly attuned. Just a bit longer, until your spiritual sense grows stronger, then we shall become Dao companions, how about that?”

Leng Fangxie sneered coldly. “No.”

Straightening his back slightly, he lowered his gaze and looked at Fu Heng with icy disdain. “Is that the answer, Master, you wish to hear?”

Fu Heng naturally did not. He simply ignored Leng Fangxie’s reply as if he had agreed, continuing on his own.

“The Harmony Ceremony will be held atop Sword Peak. I have invited your friends from all over. Besides the necessary contracts, spiritual unions, and heavenly proofs, I know you have always favored mortals, so I will also arrange a human wedding ceremony. Bridal chamber, flower candles... all have been prepared.”

“And the wedding attire.” Fu Heng’s usually faint tone rippled suddenly with a slight uplift. “I have prepared for a long time. Fangxie, this wedding robe you wear once in your life—no matter how splendid or precious, it will never be enough.”

With a subtle flick of his fingers, a veil of mist appeared. Leng Fangxie was forced to turn his head to look. Through the fog, a magnificent garment was slowly presented. Its vivid red shimmered with the hues of the morning glow, radiant and luminous. Every intricate pattern was exquisitely crafted, revealing the painstaking care invested.

More remarkably, the wedding robe brimmed with boundless spiritual energy; it was a rare spiritual treasure in its own right. Yet in Fu Heng’s words, it was merely a garment to be worn once.

“Since you love light, I used the very first, brightest streak of dawn light each day as the weaving material. But since only a little can be gathered daily, it took over a hundred years to complete this piece, and still a few more months are needed,” Fu Heng said with a gentle smile. “Because the weather varies daily, the light on rainy or snowy days is unusable. I had thought of using astral phenomena instead, but those creations cannot match the natural brilliance, so I gave up, making you wait so long.”

He had planned to realize this dream so long ago!

No wonder Fu Heng had shut himself away for a century, no wonder the Cloud-Flowing Flying Palace suddenly appeared... A century’s devotion to a single garment meant to be worn only once.

Staggered, Leng Fangxie’s only thought was: madman!

He had lost.

He should never have believed Fu Heng could control himself, nor thought that severing his inner demons would restore the master-disciple relationship to what it once was.

After all, spilled water cannot be retrieved!

*

Leng Fangxie was confined by Fu Heng.

He… had grown accustomed. He had been imprisoned before.

But this time was different. Fu Heng was no longer content with merely lying together or playing with his hair. The spiritual communion not only brought Leng Fangxie overwhelming shocks beyond recall, but unleashed Fu Heng like a beast from its cage, utterly unrestrained.

Except for two hours after dawn, which Fu Heng spent painstakingly gathering dawn light to weave the wedding robe, all his remaining time was devoted to Leng Fangxie—wrapping him in spiritual consciousness day and night, constantly probing his tender, immature spirit, all under the pretense of strengthening Leng Fangxie’s spiritual sense for the upcoming Harmony Ceremony.

Leng Fangxie found this unbearable. At first, he gritted his teeth and endured, but soon his mind faltered, teetering on collapse. He hurled curses at Fu Heng, who never lost his temper, almost seeming to find his outbursts pitifully endearing.

Leng Fangxie’s spiritual aperture was entirely invaded by an unfamiliar spirit essence, shamelessly entering uninvited.

In pain and humiliation, he struck Fu Heng. Even in his weakened, ethereal state, an attack from a Nascent Soul cultivator was formidable. Yet Fu Heng allowed him to vent his fury, even withdrawing his spiritual shield so that Leng Fangxie could leave marks upon his iron-willed body.

No matter what was done, Fu Heng accepted it all. The rebellious fury was regarded as an adorable response.

At his most broken moment, Leng Fangxie sensed a disturbance in the lotus seat within his spiritual aperture—an alien consciousness taking root, stirring for days, about to bear corrupt fruit, fusing with the childlike Dharma body.

This was an invasion striking at the very core!

Before his dull mind could react, the Dawnlight Sword was summoned, its sharp radiance piercing Fu Heng’s chest. The sword’s renown was formidable; wounds it left were slow to heal, even for cultivators far beyond his level.

Had Leng Fangxie lost reason, the blade would have struck Fu Heng’s heart directly. Though death was impossible, immense pain and backlash would ensue.

Fu Heng, who had personally forged the sword, was well aware of this. Yet he did not evade. His expression was calm as he watched the blade pierce slightly left of center.

Even immortals bleed, the blood vivid like gemstones, gushing forth along the sword’s length to stain Leng Fangxie’s arm.

Whether from sorrow or anger, his eyes stung, tears welling as the world blurred.

“Master was bewitched by inner demons to do these things,” he said with difficulty. “Fu Heng Sovereign is a towering, all-encompassing great power, one step away from ascension after nearly a millennium of cultivation. Why destroy everything for this? If you stop now, I will pretend none of this ever happened.”

That was his last plea to Fu Heng.

Though knowing the chance of Fu Heng’s change of heart was slim, a flicker of hope remained.

Fu Heng’s response was to grasp his shoulders firmly, holding him tight. The wound widened, blood pouring forth.

A constricting, blood-stained embrace.

They seemed to sleep amid a pool of blood.

“…” Leng Fangxie lowered his gaze, hearing Fu Heng’s calm voice from above.

“I am no good man, nor the righteous being you imagine, reckless or otherwise.”

A trace of amusement crept into his tone. “Had I not inadvertently joined the Nine Heavens Sect, I surely would be a demon slayer, one condemned by all. Though born lowly, whatever I desired, I never failed to obtain.”

Fu Heng paused, then whispered gently, “Fangxie, I will not let you go. If you want to leave, there is only one way—kill me with the Dawnlight.”

So resolute, like Fu Heng’s sword, once drawn there was no turning back, even if it meant wounding both.

Those waves of anger, sorrow, and helplessness gradually drowned in an immense void. The heavy scent of rust filled his nostrils; drenched in blood, Leng Fangxie slowly closed his eyes. For a moment, it felt as if he had returned to a long-ago night when Fu Heng had saved him from a demon’s clutches.

Before this, he might have still hoped for Fu Heng. But after multiple spiritual mergings and being overwhelmed by countless memories of Fu Heng’s past, he knew there was no hope.

Fu Heng rarely spoke of the past. Cultivators look only forward, never back, unless death is near.

Leng Fangxie once thought Fu Heng must have been born into wealth and privilege, naturally entering the Nine Heavens cultivation path upon discovering his spiritual root.

But that was not true.

The memories showed a tall, thin Fu Heng, skin stretched tight over bones, looking frightening, with hair like dried straw, uneven in length—one short patch gnawed off by a dog.

On a silent, devouring winter’s night, Fu Heng, scantily clad, fought a lame wild dog over a steamed bun in a dilapidated temple. The bun was fist-sized, shriveled and dry, its white surface stained with dirt and grime. It was the sole morsel found to stave off hunger for both man and beast.

Using hands and feet, he kicked and grabbed the dog’s abdomen, biting its eyes and throat. Ignoring the pain of canine teeth piercing his shoulder, he bit the dog to death.

Pushing the dog aside, there was no time to check his wounds. His first instinct was to scrape the bun from the mud and swallow it. Even as it choked him, he patted his chest to ease the discomfort, feeling satisfaction.

To Fu Heng, one bun was enough only to pull him back from starvation’s edge. It was never enough to fill him.

But there was the dog.

Without fire or flame in winter, the dog would soon freeze into an ice sculpture. Without rest, Fu Heng pounced again, tearing and swallowing the bloody, foul-smelling dog meat, staining his clothes with blood.

This was Fu Heng?

During a refugee flight, he met a benefactor who had once fed him. The benefactor fell into the mud, trampled by many, bleeding from a cracked head, limbs bent unnaturally.

Recognizing the tall Fu Heng, hope lit the man’s face, but he watched helplessly as Fu Heng ignored him and walked away.

“Wait!” the benefactor shouted with all his strength. “Help me! Don’t leave!”

Fu Heng kept walking, hearing the man’s hoarse curse: “Ungrateful wretch! You will have no good end!”

Finally, Fu Heng stopped, turned, and looked down at the disheveled man.

“You fed me once, so what?” he said slowly, tilting his head like a youth.

“I never asked for your help. You came running, thinking you could use it to threaten me?”

More refugees arrived, engulfing the man. Fu Heng heard his cries, but a faint smile crossed his impassive face.

Later, miraculously noticed by a cultivator and taken to train at the Nine Heavens outer gate, Fu Heng endured the scorn and bullying of fellow disciples, gradually suppressing his wild arrogance and ferocity, adopting a facade of gentleness and amiability.

This was Fu Heng.

When Master Jiang Jianyu died, Fu Heng stood silently beside him, expressionless, unmoved, like a beast devoid of feeling.

His memories were detached, unaffected by the death of a fellow disciple, even growing resentful at having to wait to gather the corpse.

‘When I return to the sect, what should I make for Fangxie?’

So utterly bored, he even thought about what meal to prepare upon his return.

Such was Fu Heng…

Shameless, cold-hearted to this extent!

What unsettled Leng Fangxie most were the fleeting glimpses of red eyes in Fu Heng’s memories.