After My Death, the Immortal Venerable Became a Demon for My Sake - Chapter 3

At the very moment Jiang Cishuang’s technique crushed the black mist, miles away at the Xiyi Sect, Wu Qianshan’s triumphant smirk shattered. He doubled over, unable to hold back a violent spray of blood that splattered across the jagged remains of the halved statue.

Staggering back, he didn’t stop until he slammed into the heavy desk behind him.

“Sect Leader!” Zongyue and the nearby disciples cried out in shock, rushing to prop him up.

Wu Qianshan clutched his chest, gasping for air. It took several long moments before he could stabilize his scattered spiritual sense enough to speak.

“Song Wangxiao isn’t running alone.”

The tracking array he had used could only be dismantled by someone at the Body Integration stage or higher. A mere Foundation Establishment disciple like Song Wangxiao should have been completely oblivious to the intrusion, yet at the critical moment, his spell had been effortlessly severed by a single, lethal strike.

Wu Qianshan’s face turned a bruised shade of dark purple. He was certain now: her companion’s cultivation was superior to his own.

“Zongyue! Take the Golden Core and Nascent Soul disciples and hunt them down to the north immediately. Forget about discretion, use every artifact at our disposal. It seems Song Wangxiao has found herself a powerful benefactor.”

Zongyue bowed deeply. “Understood.” He hesitated for a moment before adding, “And the invitation from the Guanqi Sect Leader to discuss the demonic invasion?”

Wu Qianshan waved him off, clearly finished with the conversation. “I will summon you back when it is time for us to depart. Until then, do not return without her.”

Once the room cleared, the Sect Leader could no longer suppress the backlash. He leaned forward, vomiting a mouthful of blood so dark it was nearly black, his pupils trembling.

Who is it? The Guanyun Sect? Or the Guanqi Sect?

*****

Terrified that the woman on her back might bleed out, Song Wangxiao sprinted through the wilderness without pause. The desperate urge to save her had, for a moment, completely eclipsed her fear of the Xiyi Sect.

The stranger had said the sect knew their location, so Wangxiao veered off in a new direction. After a night of frantic travel, she stumbled upon a derelict, abandoned temple and finally stopped to catch her breath.

She laid the woman down on the soft bedding she’d brought. When she checked the bandages, her heart sank. Not good. She’s still bleeding.

Wangxiao looked toward the horizon. She had been carrying her for an entire night; by all logic, the blood should have clotted by now. Why wouldn’t it stop?

Guilt gnawed at her, leaving little room for rational thought. To her, it was a miracle the woman was even alive. Is this just how resilient high-level masters are?

She knelt, coaxing a pill into the woman’s mouth. Then, she reached for the silk cloth to unfasten the stranger’s outer robes. Her hand froze at the collar. She stood up abruptly, needing a moment to distract herself by surveying the temple.

The space was small, the rafters and corners heavy with thick cobwebs that suggested years of neglect. In the center stood a stone statue with its upper half missing, looking as though it had been smashed by a heavy blow. It was impossible to tell the deity’s gender, and the inscriptions at the base were worn smooth by time, leaving only the word “Immortal” legible.

Finding no hidden threats, Wangxiao returned to Jiang Cishuang’s side. When she had first bandaged her, she had simply wrapped cloth over the woman’s robes. This would be the first time she had to actually dress the wounds properly.

If I don’t do this now, she’s going to bleed to death, Wangxiao told herself, shaking her head to clear away the intrusive, awkward thoughts. She carefully unfastened the outer and middle robes. When she reached the final layer, the thin inner garment—a wave of late-arriving embarrassment finally hit her.

Because the wound was at the waist, she had to unfasten the front and then gently roll the woman over to wrap the bandages. Wangxiao took a deep breath, retrieved her medicinal powder and silk, and adopted a “see no evil” mindset as she opened the final layer of silk.

Skin so fair it was almost translucent came into view, like a mountain stream under moonlight. Wangxiao stared for a heartbeat, stunned, before the sight of the deep, jagged sword wound across the woman’s waist snapped her back to reality. The strange atmosphere evaporated instantly.

She got hurt this badly just to help me, Wangxiao thought, her throat tightening with a bitter ache. Her expression turned solemn. She meticulously cleaned the wound, applied the powder, and began wrapping the silk. She tended to the smaller nicks as well, only letting out a long sigh of relief once the bleeding finally ceased.

Wiping the sweat from her brow, she looked at her handiwork and managed a small, satisfied smile. She carefully redressed the woman’s inner robes, only then allowing her gaze to drift upward.

And she found herself staring straight into a pair of cold, clear eyes.

The woman’s expression was indifferent. There was no telling how long she had been awake, or how long she had been silently watching.

“…”

“I—I was just dressing your wounds,” Wangxiao stammered. The moment the words left her mouth, she regretted them. It sounded like a guilty excuse. She wanted to bite her tongue off.

The woman didn’t react with anger; her gaze remained neutral, though unreadable. She sat up slowly, her inner robes shifting with the movement to trace the elegant, feminine lines of her silhouette.

She looked down at the neatly wrapped silk around her waist, then looked back at Wangxiao, who was desperately trying to find something—anything—else to look at in the room.

Her pale lips parted slightly.

“I know,” she said, her voice soft but steady. “I trust you.”

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