After Killing His Sinful Disciple with His Own Hands, the Immortal Venerable Went Mad - Chapter 7

After Wen Pinglan left the Demon-Locking Tower, Qinggui finally broke free from the Immortal-Binding Rope. The scorched marks left by the rope were still emitting wisps of white smoke on Qinggui’s wrists, yet he seemed completely unaware, only stumbling toward the figure curled in the corner.

At this moment, Ling Rong was like a fish trapped in a shallow shoal, hanging by a thread. In his understanding, his Master had always been a man of pure heart and few desires, as if all the passions of the world were unrelated to him. Recalling last time, if he hadn’t drugged his Master, given his Master’s temperament, he would never have taken the initiative to do such a thing.

However, this time, the situation was completely different. His Master seemed to be intentionally trying to humiliate him. Ling Rong felt not a shred of love in this humiliation; what poured out was bone-deep hatred. He was in agony, yet powerless to break free…

“Master!” Qinggui knelt in the pile of rubble, trembling as he pulled the man into his arms.

Ling Rong’s head hung limply against his shoulder, cold sweat still凝結 (congealing) on his eyelashes. Panting, pale lips continuously spilled out gasps mixed with blood foam, the hot liquid dripping onto the back of Qinggui’s hand, scalding enough to make his eye sockets ache.

Ling Rong forced his eyes open, his pupils reflecting broken light, his voice rasping and dissonant: “Qinggui… am I… dying soon…”

Qinggui immediately picked up the black robe scattered on the ground and draped it over Ling Rong: “Master, you… will not die. Master, it is all my fault for not having the ability to protect you… otherwise you wouldn’t have been…” Qinggui trailed off, unable to bear saying any more.

The spells of the Demon-Locking Tower flickered erratically, casting their shadows in jagged, broken fragments. Ling Rong stared at the mottled light and shadow on the dome, suddenly laughing softly, blood foam sliding down the corners of his mouth: “It is a pity that, in his eyes… I am not even worthy of a quick death.”

Qinggui said: “Master, you clearly gave him all your spiritual power, how can he…”

“Because he hates me.” Ling Rong leaned his head back against the stone wall, looking at the flickering dome, countless illusory points of light reflecting in his pupils. “From the moment I imprisoned him in the Demon Palace, he hated me to the core.”

He raised his hand, his fingertips unconsciously stroking the marks on his neck. “Look, he even finds killing me too easy; he must tear my dignity apart bit by bit.”

“Pfft…” Ling Rong suddenly spat out a mouthful of blood.

“Master!” Seeing this, Qinggui grew anxious, hurriedly channeling spiritual power to Ling Rong.

“It is useless.” Ling Rong shook his head weakly, his blood-stained fingertips brushing against Qinggui’s tear-streaked face. “The backlash of the Soul-Eroding Poison is becoming more severe, plus the little spiritual power I have left in my body now… I’m afraid my time is running out…”

Before the words were finished, he suddenly convulsed violently, a sharp pain coming from his chest: “Qinggui… it hurts so much…”

Qinggui bit his lower lip hard, the taste of blood spreading in his mouth. He hugged Ling Rong tightly, his sword qi surging uncontrollably around him, shaking the surrounding vengeful spirits until they let out shrill screams: “It is all my fault! If it weren’t for my lack of cultivation, for failing to break free from the Immortal-Binding Rope in time, how could I have let you suffer such humiliation…”

“Not your fault.” Ling Rong wanted to raise his hand to wipe away his tears, but it fell heavily to the ground.

That night.

The copper bells on the eaves of the Yaoyue Palace swayed gently in the wind, but the jade-like sound could not dissipate the thick silence within the hall. Wen Pinglan leaned against the carved window lattice, moonlight spilling over his white robes through the ice-cracked window paper.

Silver radiance and dark shadows intertwined over his distinct contours, sketching out a sense of obscurity that did not seem like an immortal’s. Seven or eight celadon wine cups were already stacked on the table, the amber liquid shimmering with cold light in the candlelight.

The force of his fingertips gripping the wine flagon was strong enough to crush it. The spicy liquid burned its way down his throat, yet it could not extinguish the dark tide churning in his chest. The smell of alcohol, which usually made him frown, had become the only effective medicine to numb his nerves.

As the eighth cup slid down his throat, Wen Pinglan suddenly smashed the cup heavily to the ground. The crisp sound of shattering porcelain startled the night owl resting under the eaves, and it startled him into a trance.

He lowered his eyes to look at the wine stains on his palm, suddenly recalling the blood droplets that had trickled from Ling Rong’s lips in the Demon-Locking Tower that day, winding across the back of his hand with scorching temperature. He remembered the sensation of Ling Rong’s pale cheeks brushing against his wrist, the trembling of his thin frame, and that broken cry of “Master.”

These memories were like maggots on bones, gnawing frantically at his clarity of mind whenever he tried to calm his heart. Wen Pinglan rose abruptly, his wide sleeves sweeping the wine utensils off the table. Amidst the sound of shattering porcelain, he looked at the mess on the floor, his eyes growing deeper and deeper.

Since the day Ling Rong released him back to the Immortal Gate, Wen Pinglan had felt as if a piece of his heart had been gouged out; the sense of emptiness followed him like a shadow. During these days, he would often think of Ling Rong for no reason. He didn’t know the reason; it was just that Ling Rong’s appearance and voice, like a ghost, lingered, weaving through his mind without restraint.

Gradually, he finally understood: he actually wanted to see Ling Rong.

However, whenever his thoughts reached Ling Rong, the scene of the intimate union with him in the Demon Palace surfaced like a brand. At the time, he had felt nothing but shame, but recalling it now, he couldn’t tell whether what surged in his heart was hatred or something else.

Could it be that he had developed romantic feelings for Ling Rong?

“Impossible.” Wen Pinglan muttered to the void, spiritual power surging in his sleeves, scattering the remaining aroma of alcohol. An immortal shouldn’t have such turbid emotions. Those restless, scorching feelings that made his breathing chaotic must be the shadows left by a hundred years of imprisonment.

And so, Wen Pinglan attributed these complex emotions to hatred.

Wen Pinglan clenched his fists, his nails digging deeply into his palms: “I want to make him wish he were dead, nothing more.”

But the moment the words fell, the alcohol surged up, causing his eye sockets to flush with heat. In a trance, he couldn’t tell if this scorching heat came from the strong wine or from some corner of his heart that had been forcibly frozen.

The next morning.

Morning light filtered through the mica windows of the Yaoyue Palace, casting fine, fragmented light spots on the green jade desk. Wen Pinglan’s fingertips brushed over the yellowed ancient books, the scent of ink mixed with the lingering scent of last night’s wine. When a knock sounded at the door, his hand gripping the page froze.

“Enter.”

Before the sound had faded, the palace door was pushed open. Mo Xian’s dark green hem swept across the threshold. He peeked at his Master’s pale complexion and the uncollected wine cups on the table, feeling a flash of doubt, but he gathered his composure and said in a clear voice: “Disciple pays respects to Master.”

Wen Pinglan did not raise his eyes, his fingertips unconsciously stroking the folded corner of the book page: “What is the matter?”

“Disciple has nothing, only… ” Mo Xian took a half-step forward, his boots crushing a piece of porcelain shattered last night, “there are some ideas I wish to ask Master to decide upon.”

“Oh?” Wen Pinglan raised his brows.

Mo Xian deliberately lowered his voice, his tone adding a layer of indignation: “That villain Ling Rong imprisoned you for a hundred years and destroyed your immortal veins; now that he is only locked in the Demon-Locking Tower, it is truly difficult to quell the grievances of the entire Immortal Sect.”

The sound of flipping pages stopped abruptly.

Wen Pinglan finally raised his eyes, his cold, star-like pupils sweeping over Mo Xian’s clenched fists, and let out a light laugh: “Then in your opinion, how should I deal with him?”

A glint of ruthlessness flashed in Mo Xian’s eyes; his knuckles turned white from the force of his salute: “Disciple dares to plead: Master, please remove his immortal bones! Let him also taste the feeling of wishing he were dead!”

He emphasized the words “wishing he were dead,” glancing out of the corner of his eye to see his Master’s eyelashes tremble slightly, assuming he had touched the other’s heart.

Wen Pinglan, however, suddenly put down the book, his wide sleeves brushing over the wine stains on the table: “Since he has fallen into the demonic path, his immortal bones should have turned into demonic bones long ago.”

“Demonic bones should be removed even more!” Mo Xian stepped forward excitedly, “In doing so, we can not only cut off any hope he has of turning things around but also resolve your hatred!”