After Killing His Sinful Disciple with His Own Hands, the Immortal Venerable Went Mad - Chapter 4

As the words fell, a piercing azure light surged around Qinggui, and the sword hummed as it transformed into a stream of light, thrusting toward Wen Pinglan’s face.

Before the cold blade could reach him, Wen Pinglan quickly dragged the unconscious Ling Rong up from the floor, hooking his arm around his neck and imprisoning him in his embrace.

“If you dare to harm me, I will send him to the nine heavens.”

Wen Pinglan lowered his eyes to glare at Qinggui, his fingertips caressing Ling Rong’s neck; the blue veins beneath the pale skin trembled in rhythm with the threat. The Qinggui sword vibrated violently, transforming back into human form.

With eyes cold as frost, he said: “The dignified Wangshu Immortal Venerable is actually this despicable!”

Hearing this, Wen Pinglan sneered, the corners of his mouth twitching: “Qinggui, you are an immortal artifact that has followed me for a thousand years, yet now you betray me for a member of the Demon Race?”

“No matter what, I only recognize Ling Rong as my master!” Qinggui took a sudden half-step forward, sword qi erupting from his body.

A flicker of sinister darkness crossed Wen Pinglan’s eyes, and just as he was about to retort, Ling Rong in his arms suddenly let out a faint moan. Qinggui’s expression changed drastically; his forward momentum came to a dead halt, his fingertips trembling: “Master, how are you!”

Ling Rong gradually opened his eyes, but his ink-jade pupils were devoid of focus. Seeing this, Wen Pinglan reached out with his other hand to grip his chin, forcing him to look up.

The lush candlelight reflected on the youth’s pale face, his eyelashes casting fine, fragmented shadows beneath his eyes, like the wings of a butterfly about to wither. Looking at Ling Rong’s unfocused eyes, Wen Pinglan knew the medicine had taken effect.

He had dosed the tea with a truth serum. Those who ingested it would obey the questioner’s every word. And this medicine was something he had scavenged from Ling Rong’s bedchamber.

“Who are you?” Wen Pinglan’s fingertips brushed across Ling Rong’s lips, his tone teasing yet mocking.

“I am… Ling Rong…” The youth’s voice was hoarse, filled with the pain of his imprisonment.

“Then who am I?” Wen Pinglan leaned in, forcing himself closer, his warm breath brushing against Ling Rong’s ear.

“You are my Master, my most beloved Master…” Ling Rong murmured unconsciously, a sickly flush blooming on his lips.

Wen Pinglan’s heart gave a sudden jolt; the memory of the boy holding a peach blossom cake and calling him “Master” suddenly became vivid in his mind. But this palpitation was fleeting; he cast Ling Rong’s face aside in disgust. The love of those from the Demon Realm was nothing but a poison that bewitched the heart. He found it disgusting.

Qinggui stood not far away, watching Wen Pinglan’s actions, feeling somewhat baffled.

Immediately afterward, Wen Pinglan asked another question: “Why did you steal the study of forbidden arts?”

Ling Rong said: “Because I…”

Before the words could be finished, Ling Rong’s body suddenly trembled violently, a painful, low moan emitting from his throat. Qinggui could no longer suppress himself; transforming back into his sword form, his sword qi tore through the air: “Wen Pinglan! You dare touch him—”

Just then, Ling Rong’s unfocused pupils contracted sharply. He suddenly reached out, his distinct, bony fingers precisely clamping onto the Qinggui sword that was thrusting toward Wen Pinglan’s throat.

The chill radiating from the sword collided fiercely with the heat of his palm; he recited a incantation in a low voice, and the blade emitted an unwilling hum before eventually dissolving into a stream of light and vanishing.

Wen Pinglan still held Ling Rong imprisoned in his arms, his chest pressed firmly against the youth’s thin spine, their chaotic breathing intertwined. Ling Rong could clearly feel the scorching heat emanating from the other person. That heat was like a fire, burning through his skin and into his veins, causing his heart to tremble violently beyond his control.

Seeing Ling Rong regain consciousness, Wen Pinglan subconsciously loosened his arm and stepped back a few paces.

When that reassuring body heat vanished abruptly, Ling Rong felt a sudden chill run through his whole body, even his fingertips turning cold. He turned his head; a dark red light of residual demonic nature remained in his gaze, but it dissolved into a deep, dark pool the moment it touched Wen Pinglan.

His Adam’s apple rolled with difficulty; Ling Rong moved his feet, inching toward the other person step by step.

Watching the figure closing in, alarm bells rang in Wen Pinglan’s heart. He frowned, retreating warily, his robes dragging a shadow across the floor: “Stop! What else do you want to do?”

Ling Rong seemed not to hear, but continued forward with stubborn insistence.

Just as Wen Pinglan was about to retreat, he suddenly felt his body’s spiritual power suppressed by an invisible force, leaving him frozen in place, unable to move.

He furrowed his brows: “Sinful disciple! What have you done to me?!”

Ling Rong finally reached him, lowering his eyes to gaze at the face that had appeared in his dreams countless times.

“Sinful disciple!”

A soft sigh overflowed from Ling Rong’s throat. He leaned down, his warm lips precisely covering those thin, ceaseless lips.

Wen Pinglan’s pupils constricted, his entire being frozen in place. He wanted to struggle, wanted to rebuke, but when Ling Rong kissed him, an unfamiliar yet familiar palpitation spread from the depths of his heart.

This shouldn’t be the reaction he should be having.

He was Ling Rong’s Master, the immortal who had once pulled the other from the abyss, yet now he was being so offended by this rebellious disciple. However, a corner of his heart, suppressed for too long, was screaming.

Ling Rong’s kiss was light, but Wen Pinglan was not satisfied with just that; he wanted to pry open the teeth before him, wanted to pull the person in front of him firmly into his embrace, wanted to see him reveal an expression of pain and pleasure.

In this moment, Wen Pinglan felt that his heart was in chaos.

Soon, Ling Rong drew back his lips.

“You…” Wen Pinglan regained his composure after a brief trance, complex emotions churning in his eyes. “Who gave you permission to be so brazen?”

His voice was hoarse, carrying a tremor he didn’t even realize himself.

Ling Rong lowered his eyes and said: “Master, I know you loathe me.”

“A hundred years have passed; it is time for this disciple to let you go.”

Wen Pinglan’s heart trembled upon hearing this.

Ling Rong was actually… going to let him go.

Ling Rong’s pale lips curled into a self-deprecating smile: “Master, do you not resent me, hate me for personally destroying your immortal veins back then and imprisoning you in this Demon Palace for a full hundred years?”

Wen Pinglan said: “Since you know, you still dare to mention it in front of me?”

“Today, I release you.” Ling Rong suddenly grabbed Wen Pinglan’s wrist, his other palm pressing against the other’s chest—the danfu (cinnabar field) where spiritual power should have flowed had long since dried up.

His voice was as low as a delirium, yet every word was clear. “I give all my spiritual power to you.”

Suddenly, the heat transmitted from Ling Rong’s palm began to travel through his meridians like molten lava, and his danfu, which had been dry for a hundred years, suddenly surged with strands of spiritual fluctuation.

“Are you mad?” Wen Pinglan’s voice trembled, a rusty metallic taste rising in his throat. “Do you know what it means to completely strip away all your spiritual power?”

Ling Rong did not answer.

The spiritual power poured into his body like boiling magma. The sealed meridians began to produce a tearing pain, only to be healed in an instant. He gazed at the cold sweat seeping from Ling Rong’s temples, watching the face gradually lose its color, and suddenly recalled a similar scene a hundred years ago when he had bestowed his own immortal roots upon this youth.

After bestowing the spiritual power, Ling Rong withdrew his hand and said: “Master, take your leave.”