The next morning, on the plaza before the Sect Grand Hall.
The usually barren plaza was now covered with magic formations.
The formations divided the plaza into square tournament platforms, with matches already underway on some of them.
Beside the plaza, there was a protruding Mountain Viewing Platform, slightly higher than the plaza itself, offering a commanding view of the entire scene below. It was meant for disciples not currently competing, as well as any loose cultivators watching on the sidelines.
For an Immortal Sect, the Sect Grand Competition was also an opportunity to showcase the sect’s strength. On one hand, it attracted new disciples; on the other, it served as a deterrent to those with ill intentions. Thus, outside spectators were not turned away.
Ji Wangshu sat on the Mountain Viewing Platform and yawned.
Dawn had barely broken when Mu Zhiming dragged him here, claiming that all Top 32 contenders would be decided within a single day.
He glanced at the female cultivators around him. Some were familiar faces he often saw during sword practice, and others were the gamblers he had encountered at the betting house yesterday.
But none of them were particularly close to him, so he had no choice but to sit there alone, looking rather forlorn.
“Well, well! Junior Brother Wangshu, you’re here early.”
Just then, a figure descended from the sky on a flying sword, clad in an Inner Sect robe, flashing him a gentle smile.
Ji Wangshu’s eyes lit up. It was Chen Miao.
He promptly patted the empty spot beside him, gesturing for her to sit.
Chen Miao walked over with a spring in her step, sitting down half an arm’s length away from him—just enough distance to avoid making Mu Zhiming jealous if she happened to see them later.
“By the way, Junior Brother Wangshu, have you ever seen Mu-tou fight at full strength before?”
Chen Miao sat cross-legged, patted the dust off her robe, and loosened her red waist sash a little to accentuate her figure. Between the draping of her skirt and the rise and fall of the fabric, a sliver of her fair, toned abdomen peeked out—clearly the result of rigorous training.
Ji Wangshu dared only to steal a glance from the corner of his eye. Noticing Chen Miao looking at him, he snapped his head away and replied with feigned nonchalance:
“Now that you mention it… I don’t think I have.”
“Then you’re in for a treat. The way Mu-tou fights, it’s really quite—”
Chen Miao paused mid-sentence, a flicker of fear crossing her eyes.
Ji Wangshu looked at her curiously, waiting for her to finish, only to see Chen Miao point toward the arena and exclaim:
“Hey, Senior Sister Mu is up!”
Ji Wangshu set aside his curiosity and turned his gaze toward the plaza, landing on a platform not far from them that offered a clear view.
Mu Zhiming descended gracefully, holding a slip of paper marked “Group C” in one hand and a flying sword in the other.
She looked much as she always did—a black eye veil covering her eyes, wearing a water-blue off-shoulder Daoist robe that revealed her delicate collarbones and half her wrist. Today, however, her legs weren’t wrapped in sheer fabric but in form-fitting ice silk leggings for ease of movement.
As if she had heard Chen Miao’s voice, she turned her head toward their direction.
Mu Zhiming gave Chen Miao a slight nod, then, sensing through spiritual power perception, looked toward Ji Wangshu with a faint smile on her lips.
“Group C, first round. Begin.”
The Elder’s voice came from nearby, yet Mu Zhiming still held her sword, her eyes—pale grey pupils behind the veil—fixed on Ji Wangshu, lost in thought.
Her opponent on the other side of the platform, seeing her distracted demeanor, felt she was looking down on him.
With a flick of his wrist, his sword danced on the wind and lunged toward Mu Zhiming in an instant.
But she remained still.
It wasn’t until the sword was mere inches from her body, and the opponent’s face had already twisted into a gleeful expression, that her right wrist moved ever so slightly.
Clang!
A crisp ring of the sword resounded. Mu Zhiming’s blade was already pressed against the opponent’s throat.
The opponent gulped, and only after a long moment managed to choke out a few words:
“I… I concede…”
After her opponent stepped off the platform, Mu Zhiming lowered her head to look at her own robe.
Though her eyesight was too poor to see clearly, she knew nothing had changed from when she started.
“This won’t do…” she murmured to herself.
The words naturally didn’t reach the ears of the two spectators on the platform.
Ji Wangshu rested his hands behind his head, leaning back lazily, a stray leaf somehow already dangling from his lips.
“That’s it? That’s no different from our wooden sword practice…”
He muttered, though his palms had unknowingly grown sweaty.
Beside him, Chen Miao grew anxious: “Oh, that’s just because her opponent was too weak! Senior Sister Mu hasn’t even shown her real strength yet. You’ll see in a bit.”
“The way Senior Sister Mu fights is just—”
As she spoke, she gestured animatedly, only to find she couldn’t quite describe it. She pouted in frustration and plopped back down.
On the platform, the next opponent had already stepped up, cupping his hands in a salute toward Mu Zhiming.
The opponent steadied his breathing, drew a deep breath, and a cold glint flashed in his eyes. In the next moment, a sword qi radiating white light shot straight at Mu Zhiming.
This time, Mu Zhiming didn’t just stand there. Her brow furrowed, but she only defended, never attacking.
Her sword occasionally stabbed into empty air, as if she couldn’t quite make out her opponent’s position.
Seeing her in this state, the opponent felt encouraged, assuming that her blindness truly prevented her from perceiving distance.
Whoosh, whoosh!
Two swift and fierce sword strikes came slashing toward Mu Zhiming’s waist.
Her footwork was sluggish, and she couldn’t dodge in time. Moments later, her robe was pierced, revealing a sliver of her supple waist. Her skin was as fine as white jade—but now, two long, thin blood streaks marred it, standing out all too clearly.
“Oh no! What’s going on?!”
Chen Miao gasped from the sidelines.
Ji Wangshu sat up straight, the leaf flying from his mouth and landing on his body. He fell silent.
Mu Zhiming on the platform, however, paid no heed to the commotion. She lowered her head and looked at the faint beaded drops of blood on her body, giving an almost imperceptible nod before her flying sword shifted.
Swoosh, swoosh!
Her sword stabbed out in an extremely twisted arc, sending two arcs of sword qi that split through the opponent’s protective spiritual energy and struck his hands with precision.
Clang!
The opponent’s flying sword clattered to the ground. A three-inch blood scar had opened on his right wrist, rendering it useless.
“Will you… concede now?”
Mu Zhiming frowned across from him. The wounds on her waist and abdomen still oozed, staining a corner of her water-blue Daoist robe red.
The opponent struggled to his feet a few times but ultimately could no longer fight. He picked up his flying sword and stumbled off the platform.
Mu Zhiming advanced to the next round.
Only then did Ji Wangshu on the viewing platform let out a breath. He picked up the leaf that had fallen on him and put it back between his lips, though his brow remained furrowed.
Voices from the surrounding spectators reached his ears:
“Oh dear, so being blind really doesn’t work after all…”
“Could it be that the Fairy Mu we’ve all pinned our hopes on won’t even make it into the Top 4…”
“Bullshit! Fairy Mu, not even in the Top 8 or Top 16?”
“Don’t even talk about it. I went to the gambling house with that young master and wagered 1W spirit stones on Mu Zhiming to take first place. I regret it now. Can I get a refund…”
“Friend, you’re seriously loaded. That amount of spirit stones could buy you a Mystic-grade flying sword…”
Ji Wangshu listened to the idle chatter and turned to Chen Miao, leaning in quietly to ask:
“Chen Junior Sister, be honest with me. You spar with Mu-tou more than anyone else. How is her spiritual power perception, really?”
Chen Miao was also panicked, looking like she wished she could shake some sense into him. She replied:
“Senior Sister Mu… she should have mastered that ages ago…”
“Last time, no matter how much I tried to interfere with my spiritual energy, she always knew exactly where I was.”
“But the way things are now… I don’t understand it either.”
Ji Wangshu saw the genuine worry on Chen Miao’s face—she didn’t seem to be lying. But the blood-stained corner of Mu Zhiming’s robe on the platform was telling him the truth all too clearly.
He was at a loss as well. His palms clenched unconsciously, beading with fine sweat.
If only my Wood Spirit Three-Needle Flower could help Mu Zhiming somehow…
Ji Wangshu sighed inwardly. When he had first arrived in this Dream World, he had treated it as a game, playing along with the act. If things got too hard, he could just abandon the quest and return to Yixiu Sect to find another path.
But after half a year of living side by side with Mu Zhiming, he had unknowingly given a piece of his true heart.
Though people may be but grass and trees, true feelings still grow.
“Hey, hey, stop chatting. It’s Su Qingyue’s turn. Look!”
Ji Wangshu wanted to ask Chen Miao more questions, but he noticed everyone’s gaze had shifted to another corner of the arena.
Standing there was a woman of breathtaking, otherworldly beauty. Her hair was swept up high, catching the morning sunlight, secured with a wooden hairpin.
She was even taller and more striking than Mu Zhiming. Her white simple attire clung to an impressively poised figure, and the long sword in her hand pulsed with cold light.
The crowd was transfixed, exchanging glances and whispering among themselves. Even Chen Miao couldn’t help stealing a couple of looks.
Only Ji Wangshu didn’t. He acted as if he hadn’t heard, keeping his eyes fixed on Mu Zhiming on the platform.
When he saw that she didn’t even attempt to use spiritual energy to recover, but instead turned her veiled head toward the Elder to signal for the next opponent, Ji Wangshu’s brow furrowed deeply.
I’m definitely asking her about this when we get back tonight.
…………
“Mu-tou, what the hell was that today?”
That evening, in the courtyard, Ji Wangshu had barely landed from his flying sword before grabbing the slender arm of the figure in front of him, his voice thick with anger.
Mu Zhiming felt a rough grip around her fair wrist, and the corner of her mouth curled up ever so slightly.
She turned around, her black eye veil facing him, but the faint smile was gone, replaced by a face cold as frost—just like always.
“You… you’re hurting me.”
Mu Zhiming lowered her brows, her left hand gently clutching her wrist. Her water-blue Daoist robe was torn in several places, stained with hints of white, exposing patches of pale, frost-like skin beneath the moonlight.
At the same time, the dozen or so crisscrossing sword wounds on her body were a shocking sight.
Ji Wangshu instinctively released her arm, then reached out to grip her shoulders, giving her a gentle shake.
“You made it into the Top 32, but this isn’t the you I know!”
“Several of today’s opponents weren’t even as good as Chen Miao, yet you still struggled that hard.”
Chen Miao: Meow meow meow? Excuse me? I competed today too! And I made it to the Top 32 as well!
“I… don’t want to talk about it.”
Mu Zhiming kept her brows lowered, a few strands of hair slipping from her temples and brushing softly against her slightly pressed lips.
Under the moonlight, she gently cradled her wrist, and this cold, ethereal fairy carried a rare fragility tonight that made one’s heart ache with pity—an overwhelming urge to pull her into an embrace.
“Come to my room and apply the medicine for me…”
Inside the wooden house, Mu Zhiming gently lifted the hem of her robe, her fingertips pinching the fabric and slowly inching upward until it reached her chest, revealing a vast expanse of snow-white curves. In the moonlight, they were so pale they seemed translucent, like the still surface of a mountain lake.
Had this been any other day, Ji Wangshu would have snuck a peek or two, then turned his head to the ceiling and pretended he’d seen nothing at all.
But today, he had no such thoughts. He took the healing ointment from his storage pouch, spread it on his fingers, and began applying it to the woman on the jade bed.
“Hiss—”
When his index finger pressed against her waist and abdomen, a muffled sound escaped Mu Zhiming’s lips on the jade bed.
He immediately stopped, looked up at the woman, and saw her covering her face with both hands. Unable to read her expression, he asked with concern:
“Does it hurt? I’ll be gentler.”
He lowered his head and continued applying the ointment, though this time his movements were far more delicate, tracing slow, careful circles over the wounds.
In the courtyard, the moonlight was like water, pooling on the windowsill and spilling onto the pillow beside Mu Zhiming’s head on the bed.
Mu Zhiming quietly parted her fingers, peeking through the gap at him. Seeing his utterly serious, meticulous expression, the corners of her lips curved up again and again.