After Killing His Sinful Disciple with His Own Hands, the Immortal Venerable Went Mad - Chapter 2

Ling Rong was still immersed in his dreams, completely unaware of the danger descending upon him. In an instant, he felt his neck tighten, a sense of suffocation rushing toward him. His consciousness was still somewhat hazy, and he didn’t quite understand what was happening; he could only instinctively let out a thin, fragmented whimper.

When Wen Pinglan heard this sound, he felt his heart tremble suddenly. His hand loosened slightly, unintentionally. The killing intent that had been so firm just a moment ago was now showing signs of wavering. His gaze fell upon Ling Rong’s sleeping face once more, and in a daze, his thoughts drifted back several years.

At that time, Ling Rong had accidentally injured himself while practicing the sword, his blood staining his robes red. Wen Pinglan, filled with compassion, had hurried to take him to the quiet room to carefully treat the wound. While wiping the injury, Wen Pinglan had inadvertently touched a sore spot, and the young boy had let out a whimper just like this, his eyes brimming with tears, looking like a startled little deer before scurrying into his embrace, shivering. That sight had shattered Wen Pinglan’s heart into pieces.

“Master, it hurts…” the boy’s voice had been choked with sobs, his warm breath spraying against his neck. Wen Pinglan remembered his own heartbeat skipping a beat at that moment, instinctively hugging the trembling body in his arms tightly and coaxing him gently: “Don’t be afraid; Master is here.” At that time, this boy had been so pure and innocent, so endearing.

But now, Wen Pinglan found that he had, without realizing it, developed a trace of disgust toward Ling Rong. He loathed Ling Rong’s refusal to submit to discipline, his wayward actions on the righteous path of cultivation; he loathed him for stealing the study of forbidden arts, completely ignoring the dangers and consequences; and even more, he loathed him for imprisoning him here, trapping him in this confined space, hidden away from the light of day… These myriad disgusts were like blades, swirling wantonly in Wen Pinglan’s heart.

Frost-colored moonlight congealed like frost on the back of Wen Pinglan’s hand; his knuckles were pale and white from the force, and the skin on Ling Rong’s neck was already marked with the prints of his fingers. That flicker of compassion was merely a spark in the snow. As he caught sight of the grotesque demonic patterns on the boy’s collarbone, all pity froze instantly into ice.

Wen Pinglan knew that the pure boy no longer existed; replaced by a ruthless Demon Venerable. A sinner who had imprisoned him through despicable means. A hundred years ago, Ling Rong had attacked the Immortal Gate, abducted him back to the Demon Realm, destroyed his immortal veins, turning him into a cripple who could no longer use magic, grinding the pride of Wangshu Immortal Venerable into the floor tiles of the Demon Palace.

“Sinful disciple, I should never have brought you back to the Immortal Gate all those years ago. I should have let you die on that snowy night,” Wen Pinglan said in a low voice, his tone as cold as poison-tempered ice blades, his fingertips exerting force as he pressed the man into the quilt.

The sensation of suffocation caused Ling Rong’s eyelashes to tremble violently. Just as his life hung by a thread, the sword on the table nearby suddenly vibrated and broke through the air, the blade reflecting in Wen Pinglan’s shocked pupils. As he rose from the bed and whirled to avoid it, his black hair cascaded like moonlight, his bare feet touching the cold floor tiles, his venomous gaze shooting toward the hovering sword.

After regaining his footing, Wen Pinglan said coldly: “Qinggui, you thousand-year spirit artifact, have you learned to devour your master?”

Upon hearing this, the sword-humming ceased abruptly, transforming into a youth in purple robes who landed before the couch. This sword was named “Qinggui,” gifted to Ling Rong by Wen Pinglan the year he entered the Immortal Gate. At first, Ling Rong wasn’t very adept at using this sword, so he was often injured by it. But even so, Ling Rong had doted on it, caring for it with great devotion. He often held the immortal sword in his arms, spinning under the peach blossom trees, the arc of his waving sleeves startling a tree full of falling petals.

Back then, the blade was pure white, but it gradually began to glow as Ling Rong caressed it day and night. He always loved to press his face against the cold blade, chattering on and on about the new techniques he had learned that day. This obsessive cherish had even caused the sword to manifest a sword-soul. When Qinggui first materialized as a purple-robed youth standing in the morning dew, Ling Rong had looked at the sword spirit who was the same age as him, laughing until tears brimmed in his eyes.

Every night since then, the scabbard would emit fragmented whispers; Ling Rong told the sword everything—the gentleness of his Master teaching him sword control, the osmanthus cake he had secretly slipped him when he was being punished, and those feelings he dared not utter aloud. Over the years, Qinggui had seen its master’s stubborn spine as he knelt before the execution platform, and had seen the way he clutched the blood-stained jade pendant in the mass grave. It had seen him sit alone atop the Demon Palace, staring in a trance at the inscription “Gift to beloved disciple Ling Rong” on the jade pendant until dawn.

At this moment, fury burned in the sword spirit’s amber pupils, and the tassel at his waist trembled violently—it knew better than anyone how deep the suffering Ling Rong had endured for Wen Pinglan!

Qinggui said: “You don’t understand Master at all! If it weren’t for him all those years ago…”

Before the words could fall, Ling Rong’s weak voice cut off the accusation: “Qinggui.”

Qinggui froze in place, watching Ling Rong prop himself up, his messy black hair falling over his forehead, setting off the cinnabar mole at the corner of his eye and making it appear even more vivid. The moonlight outlined his thin back, the blue and purple marks left from last night winding like vines.

“Withdraw.”

As soon as Ling Rong spoke, Qinggui immediately realized his words had displeased his master, and so he immediately reverted to his original form. In the next second, a sword lay on the floor.

Ling Rong walked straight forward, picked up the Qinggui sword, wiped it with extra care, and after placing it back on the desk, Ling Rong exhaled. Good, just a little bit more. A little bit more, and Qinggui would have told the whole story of what happened back then. But Ling Rong didn’t want his Master to know that he had fallen into the demonic path for his sake. He didn’t want his Master to feel guilty, nor did he want to burden his Master’s heart with those extraneous emotions. If possible, let his Master keep hating him.

Ling Rong’s fingertips brushed over the two characters “Qinggui” carved into the sword hilt; they had been carved by Wen Pinglan himself. Back then, he practiced swordplay under the moon, refusing to stop even when the hilt wore his palms raw, all to be worthy of this immortal sword sooner. Now, the gold thread on the sword tassel had long since faded, yet he still kept it immaculately clean.

Seeing that Ling Rong had regained consciousness, Wen Pinglan retreated cautiously for half a step, his back pressing against the carved screen, as if fearing that Ling Rong might retaliate.

Ling Rong raised his eyes, the moonlight reflecting in their depths, and asked: “Master fears me?”

Wen Pinglan remained silent.

Seeing Wen Pinglan’s reaction, Ling Rong let out a low laugh, his voice hoarse, tinged with self-mockery: “Compared to the pain of having my chest pierced by a sword on the execution platform, what are these mere fingernail marks?”

Wen Pinglan still did not respond.

His calm demeanor made Ling Rong look like nothing more than a madman.

Ling Rong gave a bitter laugh and lowered his eyes to mask the emotions surging within.