Whether it was the Zhongshan Zhulong clan or the current Emperor’s Hall of Fengdu City, they only knew his sword was named “Dragon Bone,” unaware of “Locked Red Mansion.”
He had truly used Locked Red Mansion only twice.
Once against Yin Xue, and once against Yin Bingheng.
The threads formed from spiritual power were tougher than any material—as long as the spiritual power remained unbroken, the threads would never sever.
Yet when he crawled out of the Abyss of Decay, his spiritual power was utterly depleted, replaced by the foundation of tainted energy.
Filthy power was far more suited to this technique than pure spiritual energy.
Not only was it tough enough to slice through dragon scales, but the contamination imbued within granted control over its victims.
Recalling the sensation of those tainted threads slowly carving through dragon scales, Shen Qi narrowed his eyes slightly, turning his hand to examine the ring on his finger.
After so long without use, he found himself almost nostalgic for the feeling of holding others’ lives and deaths in his grasp.
It was a different sensation from wielding a sword.
A flip of the hand brought life; a turn of the palm delivered death.
Threads wove into a vast net, ensnaring prey within.
Chasing, resisting, hunting.
It stirred the deepest bloodlust within, making even stagnant blood simmer with latent fury.
Suppressing the killing intent in his eyes, Shen Qi curved his lips into a smile as he looked at Mu Congyun, his voice soft and gentle: “Senior Brother, let’s go back.”
Mu Congyun nodded and took him back to Wuwang Peak.
While Shen Qi immersed himself in studying the newly acquired technique, Mu Congyun retrieved a sword he had once used.
“This is a sword I used in the past. Since you’re just beginning to learn swordsmanship, it should suffice. Once you grasp the essence of the sword and make progress, you can seek out a life-bound sword that suits you.”
The sword he handed over was a deep ebony peachwood blade.
The sword bore no unnecessary embellishments, its surface polished to a smooth sheen, glimmering faintly.
Both edges were blunt, unsharpened.
Yet as Shen Qi ran his fingers along it, he could sense the lingering sharpness of sword intent within-likely sharing the same origin as Mu Congyun’s current sword, Beitian.
“This sword resembles Senior Brother’s Beitian,” Shen Qi remarked casually.
“I crafted this sword myself,” Mu Congyun admitted with slight embarrassment—it was the first sword he had ever painstakingly shaped.
Back then, desperate to master the sword but lacking guidance, he resorted to the most laborious method: swinging the blade fifty thousand times daily, day after day, until he finally grasped the essence of the sword.
Yet, not being native to this era, he could never overcome the psychological barrier of killing.
Whenever he held a sharpened sword, his sword heart wavered.
Later, his master procured a thousand-year-old peachwood tree for him to fashion into a sword.
In mortal legends, peachwood could ward off evil spirits.
And his unsharpened sword was meant only to slay demons.
Over ten years, he carved two swords from that ancient peachwood.
One was the nameless sword now gifted to Shen Qi-the very blade he had used during his early training, swinging it fifty thousand times daily.
The other was Beitian.
After comprehending the sword’s essence, he took the heartwood of the thousand-year peach tree as its core, spending a decade refining it into his life-bound sword.
Once Beitian was complete, the first sword lost its purpose and was carefully stored away as a keepsake.
Now, parting with it for Shen Qi’s sake, he felt a twinge of reluctance.
Shen Qi had initially scorned the blunt, unsharpened sword, but upon glimpsing the hidden emotion in Mu Congyun’s eyes, he changed his mind and accepted it: “Thank you, Senior Brother. I’ll treasure it dearly.”
Mu Congyun gave a quiet hum of acknowledgment before assigning his task.
“From now on, at sunrise each day, you’ll go to Guanshi Cliff and swing the sword ten thousand times.”
Shen Qi: ?
His expression froze for a moment before he responded, though his demeanor was noticeably less cheerful than before.
Even Mu Congyun noticed the change in him and hesitated, wondering if he had been too harsh.
But then he recalled how he himself had once practiced fifty thousand sword swings a day-now, he was only asking Shen Qi to do ten thousand. Surely that wasn’t excessively strict.
What swordsman doesn’t endure hardship?
Hardening his heart, Mu Congyun solemnly warned, “No slacking. I’ll be checking.”
Shen Qi: “…..”
Practice would begin the next day-at least for tonight, Shen Qi wasn’t forced to swing his sword.
Still, his mood was far from pleasant.
After confirming that Mu Congyun had retired for the night by listening to the sounds from the neighboring room, he concealed his aura and silently slipped out of Mingyue Canglu.
At the foot of Wuwang Peak, Shen Qi flexed his fingers slightly.
The pale moonlight fell upon his hands, illuminating the eerie, dark crimson patterns on the surface of Suohonglou.
“It’s been a while since I’ve fed you.”
With his hands clasped behind his back, Shen Qi’s figure gradually elongated, his features shifting and transforming.
Shedding his harmless disguise, he donned an intricate and opulent crimson robe before heading toward Liewu Peak, where the Punishment Hall was located.
His target tonight was Jiang Ling.
Yet Jiang Ling was nowhere to be found on Liewu Peak.
The failed hunt only deepened Shen Qi’s irritation.
With a flick of his sleeve, two crimson birds materialized before him-none other than the brothers Hong Feng and Hong Yun.
“Lead the way.”
To think that noble descendants of the Vermilion Bird were being used like hunting hounds.
The brothers cursed inwardly but dared not disobey.
After scouring Liewu Peak separately, the elder brother, Hong Feng, fluttered before Shen Qi, fawningly circling him before gesturing for him to follow.
Jiang Ling was no longer in Xuanling.
During the day, he had managed to maintain his composure in front of his grandfather and the senior disciples of the Punishment Hall.
But when night fell and silence reigned, he couldn’t help but recall Mu Congyun’s sword strike.
He had envisioned countless possibilities, attempting to counter that move, yet the memory of the other’s razor-sharp sword intent made it painfully clear-he hadn’t lost to the technique itself, but to the intent, even the very heart of the sword.
No amount of external aids could bridge the fundamental gap between them.
The more he understood the disparity, the more he felt he had no place left in Xuanling.
And so, under the cover of night, he slipped away unnoticed.
But where could he go after leaving Xuanling?
He couldn’t face returning to the Sword Inquiry Sect either.
Lost, he sat atop a solitary peak, staring blankly at the moon overhead.
Until an icy voice whispered beside his ear: “Found you.”
Jiang Ling’s mind jolted back to awareness.
Instinctively, he leaped back, drawing Yaori Sword in one swift motion.
“Who goes there?”
Shen Qi had already resolved to take his life—he hadn’t even bothered to wear a mask.
Looking down at Jiang Ling with undisguised disdain, he remarked coldly, “You look hideous in red. A man should know his limits.”
Jiang Ling had never been insulted like this before. Enraged, he swung his sword in attack.
Shen Qi calmly raised a finger, effortlessly catching the blade between his fingertips. “Too slow.”
Had this been his own sword, the fool would have died a thousand times over.
But tonight, he wasn’t planning to offer Jiang Ling as a sacrifice to his blade.
Narrowing his eyes, his golden pupils slitting vertically, Shen Qi pressed his palm against Jiang Ling’s sword and scoffed.
“Killing the weak is hardly satisfying.”
Just as Jiang Ling tried to pull back his sword, his body suddenly stiffened.
A cold sensation crept up his wrist.
Slowly, he looked down-pale gray threads were rapidly spreading from Yaori Sword, winding around his arm.
The fine threads wove into a net, glinting coldly under the moonlight as they sliced through flesh and skin.
The pain came belatedly.
The delicate net bound him tightly, constricting further and cutting deep into his flesh.
Jiang Ling clenched his teeth until blood seeped from his gums, barely managing to keep his grip on his sword.
With the last remnants of his spiritual energy, he crushed the life token he carried, sending out a desperate plea for help.
Shen Qi noticed but made no move to stop him.
Watching Jiang Ling struggle futilely in the net, clinging to the illusion of hope, Shen Qi finally felt a sliver of the thrill of the hunt.
What was the point of prey that didn’t struggle?
His fingers flicked, and pale gray threads of corruption slithered like puppet strings through Jiang Ling’s limbs and joints.
Sweat poured down Jiang Ling’s forehead as he fought to stay conscious.
“I… have no grudge against you… My grandfather is—”
“Annoying.”
Shen Qi had no patience for his words.
The threads sealed his mouth shut.
With another flick of his fingers, Jiang Ling moved like a marionette, dancing to his whims.
“Who said you need a grudge to kill?”
Manipulating Jiang Ling to strip off his red outer robe, Shen Qi smirked cruelly.
“I kill on a whim. That red looks hideous on you—I dislike it, so you die.”
Humiliation burned in Jiang Ling’s eyes, but his body was no longer his own.
Only after the offending red robe was gone did Shen Qi’s mood improve.
He toyed leisurely with the threads, savoring the agony of prey fighting for survival.
The despair of a creature trapped, helplessly marching toward death-this was the pleasure of the Crimson Lock Tower.
Shen Qi’s eyes narrowed in satisfaction as Jiang Ling became a bloodied wreck, his breath growing fainter. Just as he prepared to end the hunt, the wards in his bedroom trembled.
He paused, then chuckled softly.
“How fortunate for you.”
Before the words faded, his figure vanished.
Without their master’s control, the gray threads dissolved into mist, seeping into Jiang Ling’s body.
Collapsed on the ground, Jiang Ling twitched weakly before losing consciousness entirely.
*
The tolling of the bell from Slaughterblade Peak jolted the entire Xuanling Sect awake.
Each peak housed a warning bell, rung only when demonic intruders were detected.
Mu Congyun was the first to stir, immediately heading to Shen Qi’s quarters.
After two unanswered knocks, he forced the door open.
Shen Qi sat up, rubbing his eyes,
clad only in thin inner robes. “Senior Brother?”
“Something’s happened. Come with me.”
Once dressed, Shen Qi followed Mu Congyun to the Hall of Obscured Stars.
Guan Linyin and Jin Ni had already arrived, while outer disciples trickled in more slowly.
After waiting for about a quarter of an hour, Xie Cifeng descended on his sword, his expression grave. A closer look revealed suppressed fury in his eyes.
“Master, what happened?”
As the head disciple, Mu Congyun was the first to speak.
Xie Cifeng’s gaze swept over Shen Qi before he answered solemnly,
“Your Uncle Zhuge grew worried about Jiang Ling and went to check on him late at night, only to find him missing. When he went searching, he detected the aura of Fengdu demons near Slaughterblade Peak.”
Fengdu lay beyond the Western Border, a gathering place for all the malevolent spirits the land could not tolerate.
With old grudges lingering, it had always been at odds with the Western Border.
There had been incidents before where Fengdu demons infiltrated western sects for reconnaissance.
But if it were merely demons sneaking into Xuanling, they wouldn’t have made such a grand fuss.
Mu Congyun remained silent as Xie Cifeng continued:
“Tracking their path, he discovered demons attempting to break into the Tower of Ten Thousand Scrolls.”
Shen Qi, who had been keeping his head lowered, slightly raised his brow and idly turned the ring on his finger.
Someone from Fengdu breaking into the Tower of Ten Thousand Scrolls at night?
Now things were getting interesting.