After Killing His Sinful Disciple with His Own Hands, the Immortal Venerable Went Mad - Chapter 6

“Master! This villain has wreaked havoc on the Three Realms, his sins are grave; why not execute him on the spot instead of going to the trouble of taking him back to the Immortal Gate?” A man stepped forward, his dark green hem sweeping across the floor littered with corpses. The sword at his waist glinted in the smoke, its tassel swinging violently with his movements, making his brows and eyes appear even more sharp and fierce. This man was named Mo Xian, Ling Rong’s senior brother. Other sect leaders nodded in succession, their discussions rising and falling.

Ling Rong’s drooping fingertips curled slightly; he raised his eyes to look at that familiar figure, and his memory was instantly pulled back to the past. In his impression, Senior Brother Mo had always disliked him. Back at the Immortal Gate, no matter how cautious he was, trying to build rapport and strike up conversations with this senior brother, the only things he ever received were cold words and contemptuous glances.

“Senior Brother Mo…” the dry syllables rolled in his throat.

“Don’t call me Senior Brother; I have no junior brother as despicable as you!” Mo Xian interrupted him mercilessly. “Colluding with the Demon Race, betraying the sect—what face do you have to call me Senior Brother?” Having said that, he looked at Wen Pinglan, “Master, this person is extremely wicked and should be executed on the spot as a warning to others.”

Wen Pinglan was silent for a moment, a trace of complex emotion flashing through his perpetually cold eyes. That fleeting touch of spite made everyone familiar with him shudder: “Killing him would be too easy on him.” He paused, his tone growing increasingly icy, “I want to make him wish he were dead.”

These words were like a sharp blade, piercing straight into Ling Rong’s heart. Not long ago, he had bestowed his entire spiritual power upon this very person. Now, this man was using the power he had given to destroy the Demon Realm he protected, and was racking his brain to find ways to torment him…

Just then, Qinggui flashed over, transforming into human form to block Ling Rong, dazzling light erupting from his body: “Don’t you dare harm my Master!”

“Qinggui, step back!” Ling Rong’s voice was low, carrying an unquestionable majesty. “I do not wish to implicate you.”

“Master, even if I die, I will be with you…” Qinggui’s eyes reddened as he guarded Ling Rong stubbornly.

Ling Rong sighed softly, enduring the piercing pain from his danfu (cinnabar field) as he mobilized the last trace of weak spiritual power in his body and shot it toward Qinggui. Qinggui instantly turned into a stream of light and was taken back by him.

Following this, Ling Rong looked at Wen Pinglan, blood droplets overflowing from the corners of his mouth to stain his lapel, blooming like dark red flowers: “However Master wishes to dispose of me, Ling Rong accepts it. I only ask that you… spare the innocents of the Demon Realm.”

Hearing this, a fleeting sense of satisfaction from a successful scheme flashed in Wen Pinglan’s eyes, but it vanished instantly. The next second, his figure flashed, appearing within the formation. Seeing this, the crowd withdrew their sword formation one after another. Wen Pinglan waved his hand, and a white light shot out. The white light tore through the air like a venomous silver snake, precisely piercing into the center of Ling Rong’s brow.

Blinding light exploded in Ling Rong’s field of vision; a bloody sweetness welled up in his throat, and his legs turned limp as if the tendons and bones had been extracted. In the instant his consciousness scattered, the angry humming of the Qinggui sword resonated in his ears, followed immediately by a world-spinning sensation of weightlessness.

Wen Pinglan lunged out the moment Ling Rong collapsed. His plain white, wide sleeves swept over the broken blades on the ground, steadily catching that tottering body. His fingertips sank into the youth’s thin spine; even through the fabric of the clothes, he could feel the protruding vertebrae. Ling Rong tilted his head unconsciously while unconscious, his paper-white cheek brushing against Wen Pinglan’s wrist.

His eyelashes cast fragile butterfly-shadows beneath his eyes; his slightly parted lips were still stained with undried blood beads, glowing with an almost translucent crimson. This state of being at the mercy of others suddenly stung Wen Pinglan’s eyes, and a certain dormant emotion broke through the soil. Mingled with the hatred and unwillingness of the past few months, it stirred up turbulent waves in his chest.

He tightened his arms abruptly, pushing the man fiercely against his chest. Ling Rong’s neck, devoid of any strength to resist, tilted to one side. Wen Pinglan stared at that patch of skin rising and falling with weak breaths, his finger pads subconsciously stroking the back of the other’s neck; the rising violence in his heart threatened to shatter his reason: “When you imprisoned me in the Demon Palace all those years ago, did you ever think of this day?”

Xuanyue Gate. Demon-Locking Tower.

The putrid odor at the bottom of the Demon-Locking Tower permeated his bones; Ling Rong opened his eyes in agonizing pain. The iron chains hanging overhead glowed with a faint blue rust; the spells on the walls flickered, causing the wandering vengeful spirits around them to appear now clear, now blurred.

The Qinggui sword transformed into human form and stood beside him; the sword qi flowing around his body coiled like a silver dragon, crushing the pouncing evil spirits into dust.

“You filthy things, how dare you touch Master?” Qinggui’s sword-brows stood erect; wherever his spiritual power passed, shrill ghostly wails echoed through the tower. Intimidated by the sword qi, the vengeful spirits curled up in corners, whimpering, not daring to approach a single step closer.

Ling Rong supported himself against the cold stone wall, struggling to rise, disturbing the unhealed wounds in his dantian and causing him to grunt in pain. Where is this? The Demon-Locking Tower?

His Master had actually locked him here…

Ling Rong raised his eyes, watching Qinggui’s blood-bathed form as he protected him, guilt washing over him like a tide: “Qinggui, I’m sorry…”

Seeing his master awake, Qinggui hurried over in two steps to support the tottering Ling Rong, his warm palms pressing against his cold back to channel spiritual power: “Master, you need not be polite with me; I will follow you forever.”

Before the words were finished, a massive sound of iron chains snapping echoed through the tower. The entire tower shook violently, and the spells erupted with blinding golden light. Ling Rong grew vigilant at once.

White mist flooded the floor like a tide, carrying the familiar scent of pine. When the mist cleared, Wen Pinglan, standing with his hands behind his back, came into view. He pressed his thin lips together, playing with a piece of cold, gleaming Immortal-Binding Rope.

Ling Rong’s Adam’s apple rolled; looking at that face, shadowed in the flickering light, his heart skipped a beat.

“Master, why have you come…” Ling Rong instinctively took a half-step back, his spine colliding with the damp stone wall; mold stains mixed with the scent of blood seeped into his fabric.

Wen Pinglan flicked the Immortal-Binding Rope, the metallic clatter startling the vengeful spirits in the corner. When he lifted his eyes, the shadows cast by his lashes beneath his eyes made his gaze even more unfathomable: “Why, are you afraid of me?”

Before the words were finished, Wen Pinglan had already lunged forward like a phantom, his hand smelling of pine accurately clamping around his throat: “When you destroyed my immortal veins back then, you didn’t look like this cowering mess.”

The Qinggui sword transformed into a stream of light to thrust, but was repelled by an invisible barrier the moment it touched Wen Pinglan’s sleeve. Ling Rong was choked until he stumbled backward, the searing pain in his neck causing his eye sockets to flush red. He grasped the hand that was restraining him, his fingertips touching the newly formed calluses on Wen Pinglan’s palm.

“Master… if you want to kill me…” Ling Rong breathed out, blood droplets overflowing from the corners of his mouth onto Wen Pinglan’s hand, “…then please, make it quick…”

Wen Pinglan suddenly laughed; the laughter was like a blade tempered in ice. He pushed the man fiercely against the stone wall, his other hand gripping Ling Rong’s chin, forcing him to meet his gaze: “Kill you? That would be too easy.”

Wen Pinglan’s thumb rubbed fiercely over Ling Rong’s pale lips, leaving purple-black marks upon them, the hatred churning in his eyes threatening to drown the man.

“I want to take a good look, how the once-revered Demon Venerable is crushed, pride shattered inch by inch, in this dark and lightless Demon-Locking Tower.”