After Killing His Sinful Disciple with His Own Hands, the Immortal Venerable Went Mad - Chapter 3

The disgust in Wen Pinglan’s eyes still lingered. Ling Rong lowered his eyes, his heart feeling heavy, but he still walked slowly to the bedside, picked up his clothes, and put them on. The hidden patterns on his robes brushed against the carvings of the bed frame, emitting a faint, fragmented sound. He silently fastened the last jade button; as his black, wide sleeves fell, they covered the imperceptible trembling of his fingertips.

The gilded candlelight flickered as he turned, casting his shadow long against the bluestone floor. Ling Rong looked at his own silhouette, bisected by the moonlight, and suddenly felt that this shadow resembled the self in his Master’s eyes shattered, superfluous; even his existence was an offense. After dressing, he lifted his wide sleeves slightly to cover the messy bed behind him. It wasn’t until the palace doors made a light sound behind him that he finally released his clenched, numb fingers.

“Since Master does not wish to see this disciple, then this disciple will take his leave first.” Ling Rong said softly.

Clearly, he was the Lord of the Demon Realm, the Master of the Demon Palace, yet before his Master, he was as humble as an ant. As soon as the words fell, Ling Rong retreated from the bedchamber.

In the Great Hall of the Demon Palace.

The gilded candlesticks flickered behind him, casting his shadow long and short upon the bluestone. Finally, Ling Rong took his seat on the main throne where a coiled dragon lay, the moonlight slanting across his paper-white profile. He rested his head on the dragon-patterned armrest, his brocade robe half-covering the bruises left from last night, like a faded painting.

Outside the hall came the ticking of the clepsydra. Ling Rong closed his eyes, feigning sleep, his eyelashes casting fine, fragmented shadows beneath his eyes. Without warning, a sharp pain surged through Ling Rong’s chest. The “Soul-Eroding Poison” was wreaking havoc through his internal organs once again.

Ling Rong curled his body up abruptly; cold sweat soaked through his inner lining, and the pain of his fingernails digging deeply into his palms couldn’t rival the surging, searing pain in his heart. The taste of blood welled up in his throat; he bit his lower lip hard, but whimpers still escaped through his teeth. In the instant he could no longer hold on, a heart-wrenching roar tore through the silence.

“Ah!”

The Qinggui sword seemed to sense something, humming as it broke through the air and transformed into human form. Qinggui’s amber pupils reflected his master’s paper-white face, his long black hair draped over the coiled-dragon throne like a mass of ink that wouldn’t dissolve.

“Master!” Qinggui supported Ling Rong’s tottering frame.

Ling Rong grabbed his sleeve, his knuckles turning white, wanting to say “it is nothing,” but only coughing out half a breath. Qinggui looked at his sweat-drenched forehead and channeled some spiritual energy into him. As spiritual energy was poured continuously into Ling Rong’s body, the look of agony on Ling Rong’s face finally faded a little.

“Why suffer so much!” Qinggui’s eyes were red, the sword tassel at his waist shaking violently with his anger. “When Wen Pinglan clamped your neck last night, did he spare even a shred of master-disciple affection?”

“Qinggui!” Ling Rong whispered, trying to silence him.

But Qinggui was unstoppable, simply pouring out everything he had been bottling up for so long: “You keep saying that everything you do for him is to repay the debt of saving your life. But look, over these many years, which of the things you’ve done for him wasn’t at the cost of your life?”

“The favor of him saving you back then was long ago completely offset by your sacrifices; your debt has long since been repaid!”

Qinggui paused, his tone growing more agitated: “Take that year he was wounded by the Demon Race and poisoned by that terrible ‘Soul-Eroding Poison’ of the Demon Realm, hanging by a thread. What about you? To save him, you didn’t hesitate to steal forbidden arts, forcibly transferring your own Immortal Bones into his body to preserve his life!”

“This act meant you would never have the possibility of becoming an immortal, you could only walk the path of the demon. You even drew the toxins from his body into your own—do you know how painful the backlash of that poison is every day?”

“And furthermore, to completely clear the toxins spreading through his immortal veins, you even hardened your heart and gouged out his immortal veins. For over a hundred years, you have been trembling with fear, terrified that the residual toxins in his body would flare up again. Every time he was asleep, you would secretly draw the toxins from his body into your own.”

“Even, to prevent him from being tainted by the demonic energy generated by the Soul-Eroding Poison, you actually… engaged in intimate union with him, just to draw the demonic energy into yourself.”

Qinggui shook his head in distress as he spoke.

“Qinggui!” Ling Rong suddenly tightened his grip on his wrist, his voice as hoarse as torn silk, but in the end, he only let go powerlessly. “Say no more.”

Qinggui stamped his feet in frustration: “Master, you trampled your own immortal path and dignity underfoot, only to receive his hatred in return!”

The wind whistled outside the hall, sweeping dead leaves against the window lattice, Qinggui’s voice choked with sobs: “He neither knows your heart in gouging out immortal veins to draw out the poison, nor can he understand last night…”

“Stop it.” Ling Rong interrupted him, raising a hand to press against his heart, which was still aching faintly.

“You did so much, but he? He knows nothing, and his hatred for you only grows deeper. Why bother hiding all this in your heart and suffering in silence alone?” Qinggui’s emotions grew more intense.

Facing Qinggui’s questioning, Ling Rong’s expression was despondent: “I don’t want to… I truly don’t want Master to feel guilty because of these things…”

He gazed at the mermaid-silk canopy hanging from the dome and whispered: “If Master knew the truth, how sad would he be?”

The moonlight climbed onto his blood-stained lips. “Let him hate me; it is better than…”

Better than letting that cold, moon-like Immortal Venerable shed tears for a sinner like him.

Qinggui wanted to say more, but looking at the dim light in Ling Rong’s eyes, he sighed in the end. He knew too well—ever since the day Ling Rong abducted Wen Pinglan back to the Demon Palace, the deep affection in his Master’s eyes had been like spider silk wrapped around his body; the more he struggled, the deeper it bound his heart.

At that moment, cold sweat had soaked through Ling Rong’s brocade robes with their hidden patterns, his white knuckles gripping the throne’s armrest. As the bone-eroding pain finally receded, he struggled to lift his eyelids. Through the haze, a familiar, simple white figure entered his field of vision. Wen Pinglan was walking toward him, holding a celadon teacup.

“Master…” A light suddenly ignited in Ling Rong’s eyes upon seeing Wen Pinglan. He stumbled to his feet, his black robes sweeping across the coiled-dragon steps, running toward the white figure almost frantically.

Wen Pinglan’s voice was so soft it made one’s heart shudder: “Are you still feeling unwell? I heard your roar from the bedchamber just now and thought last night’s events had left you exhausted, so I thought this calming tea might offer some relief.”

Before the words were finished, the teacup was already held out before Ling Rong; the swirling steam blurred both their faces. Ling Rong felt as if he were still in a dream. After all, it had been a long time since his Master had spoken to him in such a gentle voice.

Ling Rong took the teacup with trembling hands and drained it in one gulp. The warm liquid slid down his throat, but in an instant, it turned into bone-piercing coldness.

The teacup in his hand shattered with a snap as it hit the floor; amidst the crisp sound of breaking porcelain, the world before his eyes began to twist and spin. Before his consciousness completely dissipated, the last thing Ling Rong saw was the fleeting look of complexity in Wen Pinglan’s eyes.

That touch of gentleness was like mirror flowers and water moon, shattered in the end.

“Master!” Qinggui’s eyes flashed. Watching Ling Rong’s collapsing frame, he glared at the cold-faced Wen Pinglan: “What did you put in the tea?!”