Hearing these words, “himself” couldn’t help but be stunned.
He sat on that hill piled up from bones, the crimson sky light illuminating his face identical to Nanxi’s.
The mocking expression on that face disappeared, replaced by a bewilderment Nanxi had never seen before.
Like something long believed in suddenly shattered, revealing an underlying truth even he didn’t recognize.
After a good while, he finally spoke, his voice very light—light with a touch of sorrow.
“Yes… the current you is human; you’re not the previous me anymore…”
As he spoke, “himself” revealed a smile uglier than crying.
That smile was twisted, corners pulled up, but there was no mirth in his eyes—only something heavy that Nanxi completely couldn’t understand.
Like relief, or deeper pain.
Then, contrary to what he had said before, he began pouring out his bitterness.
Flowers nourished by love are different, aren’t they?
“Himself” thought in his heart.
He looked at the youth in front of him—this self who grew up under the sun, this self carefully protected by Shuang Feixue for twelve years, this him who would calmly face death to save a fisherwoman.
They clearly had the same appearance, the same divine soul origin, yet they had walked completely different paths.
One grew up in love, learning to cherish, learning to give, learning not to implicate the innocent even in the most desperate times.
The other struggled in the mud, learning to scheme, learning selfishness, learning that in this world, no one could be trusted except himself.
“Himself” suddenly didn’t want to speak about the past.
The reason was simple—just as he had said before, they weren’t the same person.
As a remnant soul, he didn’t need to let this youth in front of him inherit those debts.
After all, strictly speaking, he didn’t even count as the true self; he was merely a means left behind by himself, a contingency for when encountering unhandleable dangers.
A sword hidden in the shadows—nothing more.
“Himself” complained like this in his thoughts; the youth couldn’t hear his ideas, after all—he wasn’t himself.
They shared the same divine soul, yet separated by fourteen years and completely different experiences, like two rivers that converged and then diverged, already different currents.
“Kid.”
He suddenly spoke, his voice recovering some of its previous tone, just with a hint of fatigue hidden underneath.
“I do have a way to break the deadlock, but this thing has conditions. At this point, I’ll just tell you straight—I, like the scenes in the heart realm, am all fake stuff. Only you here are real; can you understand that?”
Nanxi looked at him and shook his head.
The youth didn’t understand—what real, what fake, what heart realm, what remnant soul.
These words were too unfamiliar to him, no different from heavenly script.
“Forget it if you don’t understand…”
The other smiled; this time, the smile was gentler, like an elder looking at an ignorant child.
“You just need to know one thing: In a bit, I’ll take over your body, then disappear. That person outside—I’ll handle her for you, but after that, your path won’t have a weapon as useful as me.”
The “himself” in front of the youth revealed a mocking smile, as usual.
Only this time, this smile was mixed with too many emotions—reluctance, relief, envy, and resolve.
Those complex things blended together, making that habitual mocking expression become deep and bitter.
Nanxi opened his mouth, wanting to say something, but didn’t know what to say.
Thanks? Probably not needed?
He wouldn’t accept it. Then ask clearly what was going on?
But now wasn’t the time for that.
But the other didn’t give him a chance to speak.
“One last thing.”
He said, reaching out to grasp in the void; a sword appeared out of thin air in his hand.
A black sword—slender and long, completely undecorated—was as pitch-dark as ink.
Only a thin line of deep red light ran along the edge of the blade, like blood that had clotted.
That was the shadow sword; Nanxi had seen it that night in the peach grove, seen it in the depths of his primordial spirit.
The first time he killed, it was this sword’s phantom that formed in his hand.
“This sword is yours from now on.”
“Himself” said, placing the sword horizontally on his knee, his fingers gently brushing over the blade—movements very light, like stroking something precious.
“In the future, you’ll have to handle things like this yourself.”
He lifted his head, looking into Nanxi’s eyes; his gaze was quite serious—even terrifying.
“But remember this: The moment you truly willingly pick up this sword, there are things you’ll have to bear. Isn’t there a saying? In the jianghu, one’s body is not one’s own; at that time, your fate will be just like that phrase.”
He emphasized the words “truly willingly,” very solemnly.
“As for the moves in the sword,” he continued, his tone lightening a bit, “you know them from the bottom of your heart; you don’t even need anyone to teach you. They were originally yours.”
As his words fell, he stood up and inserted that shadow sword into the bone pile between them.
The sword body sank into the white bones, emitting a muffled sound, standing there like a black tombstone.
The door to leave had opened; not far away, that semi-transparent door reappeared.
Outside the door, he could see the frozen Madam Xuanji, could see the solidified waves, could see Huang Muzhi’s terrified face in the distance.
“Himself” strode toward the door.
His steps were steady, one by one, crunching crisply on the bones.
When he reached the door, he stopped, without turning back, just leaving one last sentence.
A piece of advice.
“Kid, cherish the people who love you; don’t regret it when it matters.”
With that, he stepped out the door.
Nanxi stood in place, watching that door slowly close in front of him.
The gap narrowed more and more, finally shutting completely and disappearing.
The heart realm began to collapse—this time for real.
The crimson sky cracked open countless fissures; the black sun shattered into powder; the bone hill underfoot turned to flying ash.
Everything dissipated.
The youth opened his scarlet eyes.
In front of the seaside thatched hut, Madam Xuanji’s fingertip was only an inch from his brow; the wind began to blow again, carrying the salty tang of seawater.
Waves crashed on the reefs, shattering into white foam.
Huang Muzhi’s scream came from afar, sharp and despairing.
Time flowed again.
Madam Xuanji’s finger advanced forward, that point of cold light stabbing straight at his brow.
But Nanxi didn’t move.
He just stood there, looking at Madam Xuanji, then gently, slowly, curved his lips.
A smile.
Not the youth’s usual gentle smile, nor a panicked forced smile, but a kind Madam Xuanji had never seen on this youth’s face—frivolous, casual, yet with cold sharpness hidden deep in the eyes.
Like a different person, but she felt this was the youth’s true appearance.
Madam Xuanji’s movement paused.
She hadn’t stopped on her own; some invisible force compelled her to stop.
That force emanated from the youth, like ocean waves; wherever it passed, the air became viscous, light began to distort.
She saw the youth’s eyes change.
Those pitch-black, ink-dark pupils suddenly began to glow with a scarlet light. Deep within them, a trace of blood-red slowly spread—like vermilion ink dropped into water—gradually staining the entire iris crimson.
That red was very dark—dark like dried blood, appearing bewitching and dangerous under the midday sun.
“You…”
Madam Xuanji spoke, her voice for the first time uncertain, but the words weren’t finished.
The youth—or rather, the existence currently controlling this body—raised his hand, using two fingers to gently pinch her fingertip.
The movement was casual, but the strength was astonishingly great; Madam Xuanji only felt her fingertip like clamped by iron pliers, her bones emitting faint cracks from the unbearable load.
“Let’s not say those repetitive words either.”
Nanxi said, the voice still that voice, but the tone completely changed—light and airy, with teasing.
“Let’s just start directly.”