After Killing His Sinful Disciple with His Own Hands, the Immortal Venerable Went Mad - Chapter 8

Wen Pinglan’s fingertips stroked the crack on the edge of the desk the one left behind when he smashed his wine cup the night before.

Mo Xian’s words struck his heart like heavy hammers. The four words “wishing he were dead,” overlapping with the vows he had whispered to himself the previous night, caused the emotions churning in his chest to surge even more violently. He lowered his eyes to look at the bamboo shadows swaying outside the window lattice, suddenly remembering when Ling Rong had been pressed against the wall of the Demon-Locking Tower; the blue veins bulging on his neck looked exactly like those entangled bamboo branches.

“Master?” Mo Xian, seeing his silence, probed a step further: “The entire Immortal Sect hopes to seek justice for you. Now that Ling Rong’s spiritual power is sparse, it is the perfect time…”

“Enough.” Wen Pinglan suddenly raised a hand to interrupt, a cold chill crossing his eyes.

Mo Xian looked at his Master’s expression, barely able to contain the smile at the corners of his mouth. He had long heard that his Master had been distracted recently and had worried that the other might have developed some compassion for that demon. Now, it seemed the Master’s judgment was merely clouded by hatred. With just a little incitement, he could push Ling Rong into the abyss from which there was no return.

“Tomorrow, at the hour of Chen (7:00–9:00 AM).” Wen Pinglan gazed at the surging clouds outside the hall, his voice as cold as tempered ice. “Tell the Hall of Discipline to prepare the bone-extracting torture tools.” He paused, his Adam’s apple rolling as he swallowed bitterness, “The demonic bones must be crushed in front of the entire Immortal Sect to prevent a resurgence.”

Mo Xian was overjoyed and about to bow in thanks when he saw Wen Pinglan suddenly raise a hand to press against his temple, fine, cold sweat seeping from between his fingers. The lingering drunkenness from the night before and the surging emotions in his heart combined, causing darkness to wash over his vision in waves. He forced himself to wave a hand, signaling Mo Xian to retreat. Only when the palace doors closed again did he collapse onto the carved chair.

Mo Xian stepped out of the Yaoyue Palace, and the palace doors shut behind him with a thud. He tilted his head slightly, a subtle curve forming at the corners of his mouth. Thinking of Ling Rong, currently imprisoned in the Demon-Locking Tower and about to suffer the agony of having his demonic bones extracted, Mo Xian felt as if a glass of sweet nectar had been poured into his heart; pleasure spread through him like ripples.

From the moment Ling Rong stepped into the Immortal Gate, Mo Xian had felt disgust toward him. He could not understand why his Master always placed so much focus on Ling Rong. He himself came from a prestigious and illustrious family and had shown extraordinary aptitude since childhood; whether in spell cultivation or comprehension of the immortal arts, he had far surpassed his peers. Yet, even so, the gaze the Master bestowed upon him was always faint, tinged with distance and politeness. Thus, he could not understand how he was inferior to Ling Rong in any way.

As for Ling Rong, in Mo Xian’s eyes, he was a complete fool. No matter how much Mo Xian didn’t hide his disgust, Ling Rong would always hover around him like a nuisance, constantly trying to please him. Every time he saw Ling Rong’s sycophantic smile, Mo Xian felt incredibly annoyed.

In a trance, Mo Xian’s thoughts drifted back to the year Ling Rong had first entered the Immortal Gate. That day, Ling Rong had somehow discovered Mo Xian’s birthday and had gone down the mountain to pick peach blossoms, weaving them into a bracelet to give to him.

“Senior Brother Mo!” the youth’s clear voice had called out.

Ling Rong had run over, panting, the hem of his pale green Taoist robe stained with mud, a few peach blossom petals still stuck in his hair. He held a small cloth bundle in his hands, his eyes sparkling: “I heard today is your birthday, so I… I prepared a gift!”

Mo Xian had watched as the youth carefully unfolded the cloth, revealing a bracelet woven from peach blossom branches. Among the pink and white petals were embedded several round pebbles, glowing with a gentle luster in the sunlight. He had frowned.

“What is this?” Mo Xian had retreated half a step in disgust, his sleeves sweeping away a few fallen peach blossoms. “Do you think trash picked up from the side of the road is fit to be a birthday gift?”

Ling Rong’s smile had stiffened instantly, his fingertips clutching the bracelet tightly: “This is… I went specifically to the back mountain to pick these peach blossoms. I heard that peach blossoms can bring good luck…”

“Good luck?” Mo Xian had sneered, suddenly reaching out to snatch the bracelet. The scent of peach blossoms mixed with the faint smell of herbs on the youth’s body, the fragrance tightening his roots of teeth. “You think you can be brothers with me by taking this kind of thing?”

He had deliberately held the bracelet up before Ling Rong’s face, watching the anticipation in the youth’s eyes slowly turn into unease.

“Open your eyes and see clearly.” He said word by word, “What I, Mo Xian, want is a treasure worthy of the status of an Immortal Gate disciple, not trash you picked up.”

Ling Rong had reached out to grab it, but was pushed away. The youth stumbled and fell to the ground, his palms grazing against the blue stone tiles, seeping fine beads of blood.

“But I made this myself…” his voice trembled. “I wanted to make Senior Brother happy…”

“Happy?” Mo Xian had thrown the bracelet hard against the ground, the peach blossom branches scattering instantly. “Seeing you in this fawning state makes me sick.”

He looked down at the youth from a height, “Remember, you are nothing but a beggar picked up from the side of the road; you will never be worthy of standing next to me.”

Ling Rong had knelt on the ground, trembling as he picked up the scattered petals. Mo Xian, watching his wretched appearance, suddenly felt bored. As he turned, he deliberately stepped on the broken bracelet, listening to the crisp sound of the peach branches snapping under his boots.

“Don’t ever appear before me again.” He had left without looking back, the sound of the youth’s suppressed sobbing following behind him. At the time, he hadn’t realized that years later, that peach blossom bracelet he had trampled underfoot would become the deepest obsession in Ling Rong’s eyes.

Midnight.

In the Demon-Locking Tower.

Ling Rong had fallen into a deep sleep, but was plagued by nightmares. In his dreams, the tragedy of his entire family being slaughtered was re-enacted.

…

“Mo Rong!”

“Rong’er…”

His mother’s shrill, agonizing cries pierced through the chaotic sounds of slaughter. Ling Rong was dragged into a false wall; the moment his back hit the bricks, the cry of pain in his throat was smothered by his mother’s hand. Through the gap, he saw his father fighting in a pool of blood, his silver-white hair flying amidst the flames like red plums blooming in the snow. His father’s blade reflected the grimacing faces of the pursuers; the leader was none other than the Minister of the Ministry of Works, who usually smiled and bowed to his father every day.

“Rong’er, don’t be afraid.” His mother’s trembling voice sounded above him; warm blood dripped down her temples onto Ling Rong’s face, carrying the rusty,腥 (fishy/metallic) sweetness. Outside the false wall came the clashing sound of weapons and intermittent pleas for mercy. Ling Rong’s nails dug deep into his palms. He didn’t dare to cry, nor could he.

“Go… go to Xuanyue Gate… find your elder brother… he will protect you…” His mother’s voice grew weaker, the last few words almost dissipating in her throat. “Also, on the way… you must never… tell anyone… that your surname is Mo…”

There was a muddle-headed emperor in the human realm. Drunk on the dragon couch, he indulged in wine and lust, indulging treacherous officials in their power-seeking while casting aside the remonstrances of loyal subjects. One day, while in a drunken stupor, he saw an old man with immortal grace standing before the hall, his voice ringing like a bell: “The descendants of the Mo clan will inevitably seize the throne!”

Sweating cold, the emperor woke up, his eyes filled with madness and killing intent. Before the dawn broke, imperial edicts were sent in every direction like snowflakes—whoever bore the surname Mo was to be killed without mercy!

It was because of this that Ling Rong’s entire family was massacred. Ling Rong felt the weight upon him grow heavier; his mother’s pupils slowly dilated, yet she still mustered her last ounce of strength, using blood-stained fingertips to write the two characters “Xuanyue” on his palm. The footsteps of the pursuers grew closer; Ling Rong bit his lip hard, letting the metallic taste spread in his mouth. When the footsteps stopped outside the wall, he almost stopped breathing.

“Search carefully! If they are alive, I want to see them; if dead, I want to see the bodies!”

The familiar voice made Ling Rong feel icy all over. It was his father’s most trusted advisor.

I do not know how long it lasted, but finally, the world returned to silence. Ling Rong pushed away his mother’s body with trembling hands; the moonlight leaking through the gap in the wall illuminated his mother’s face, pale as paper. He gently closed his mother’s eyes, tears sliding down silently to drip onto her blood-stained clothes.

The moment he crawled out of the false wall, Ling Rong was so shocked by the scene before him that he could barely breathe. The once-bustling Mo Mansion was now littered with corpses. His father’s sword was thrust into the stone steps, the blade soaked through with blood. Ling Rong stumbled and picked up the sword.

The night was deep. Ling Rong took a deep breath and ran toward the city gate. Along the way, he avoided countless inspections, chewing wild grass when hungry, drinking stream water when thirsty. Every time sleepiness struck, his mother’s dying instructions echoed in his ears, supporting him as he continued forward. Finally, when the majestic outline of Xuanyue Mountain appeared before him, Ling Rong’s legs had almost lost all sensation.

At the foot of the mountain, Wen Pinglan, dressed in white, looked like a banished immortal descending before him. Wen Pinglan looked at this youth covered in scars and asked softly: “Child, what is your name?”

The cold mountain wind swept across the youth’s disheveled hair, and his mother’s final instructions exploded in his ears. The tragedy among the ruins of the Mo Mansion, the hideous faces of the pursuers, his father’s blood-stained white hair… countless images swirled in his mind.

“The youth relies on the danger as if it were flat ground, leaning alone against a long sword to traverse the clear autumn.”

Ling Rong suddenly remembered the poem his father had taught him to read.

Thus, Ling Rong said: “My name is Ling Rong. ‘Ling’ from ‘reaching the clouds’ (Lingyun), and ‘Rong’ from ’embracing rivers and seas’ (Rongchuan).”