The spring sun slanted through the peach branches, dyeing the fallen blossoms all over the ground into flowing rouge.
Wen Pinglan stood on the blue stone steps, a corner of his plain white wide sleeve lifted by the wind, yet his gaze was locked firmly onto the dancing figure beneath the tree.
The sword tassel of Ling Rong swept across the blossoming branches, causing pinkish-white petals to rustle and fall onto the hem of his robe.
Suddenly, the youth spun around and withdrew his sword, his peach-blossom eyes curving into crescent moons, “Master look, has your disciple’s swordplay improved yet again,”
Wen Pinglan quietly looked at Ling Rong, falling into a daze for a long time.
Only after a good while did he seem to come to his senses, smiling with relief as he spoke with gratification, “It has indeed improved, Rong er, your hard work is all witnessed by your teacher.”
Hearing this, Ling Rong continued to brandish his sword, his sword-wielding movements becoming increasingly grand and open, his posture growing more agile and ethereal.
“Thank you for the praise, Master,” Ling Rong responded while brandishing his sword.
As time passed, fine beads of sweat oozed from his forehead, quickly turning into a downpour of sweat, yet his movements showed no intention of stopping.
Watching Ling Rong strive so desperately, Wen Pinglan felt a trace of heartache in his chest and could not help but speak up to ask, “Why practice the sword for such a long time without resting, do not exhaust yourself.”
Upon hearing this, Ling Rong’s movements faltered, and he stopped, raising his sleeve to wipe the sweat from his forehead.
He looked at Wen Pinglan with an earnest gaze and said, “Because, I want to become more powerful, and then protect Master, Master usually worries so much for this disciple and even passed down a whole body of skills to me, I also wish to be able to shield Master from the wind and rain one day.”
Hearing these words, Wen Pinglan’s heart gave a sudden throb.
He looked at this pure and sincere youth before him, and as if possessed by a ghost, he wanted to draw him into an embrace.
Yet at the exact instant his fingertips just brushed against the youth’s sleeve, a sudden change occurred.
He saw Ling Rong’s body become just like an illusory bubble, unexpectedly turning into smoke and dissolving in the gentle breeze.
Before Wen Pinglan could even snap back from the shock, the surrounding scene abruptly transformed.
The originally beautiful peach blossom forest vanished in an instant, replaced instead by the gloomy and icy Demon Locking Tower.
Meanwhile, Ling Rong was bleeding from his seven facial orifices, lying weakly on the ground, though his face was as pale as paper, a faint smile still hung from the corner of his mouth.
He looked at Wen Pinglan and said softly, “Master, let us part here.”
Looking at this scene, a wave of dread washed over Wen Pinglan’s heart, as if an invisible hand was tightly gripping his heart, hurting so much that he could barely breathe.
“Do not,” Wen Pinglan abruptly sat up, the cold sweat on his forehead dripping down along his jawline.
The brocade quilt in his arms slid down, revealing half a piece of blue jade pendant by his pillow, which was precisely the one he had personally handed to Ling Rong many years ago.
Outside the window, the moonlight was like water, casting the shadow of the newly added peach branches on the desk onto the wall, appearing just like the flying hem of the youth’s robe when he brandished his sword back then.
Counting the days, this year, it seemed to be the one-hundredth year since Ling Rong passed away.
Within the immortal sect, new disciples continuously flooded in, adding quite a bit of vitality.
The swallows’ nest under the eaves remained the same, the swallows coming and going for several rounds, the fledglings growing up and leaving again, already changing for several batches.
Everyone had completely forgotten Ling Rong who died in the Demon Locking Tower a hundred years ago, and even whenever someone recalled it, they would all feel highly gratified.
Yet only Wen Pinglan trapped himself within his obsession.
He trapped himself inside a dream from which he could never wake up, guarding the ruins of his memories alone in the dream.
Then, at every moment of waking up from the dream, he chewed on the bitter fruit of regret and longing alone.
Wen Pinglan’s expression was despondent as he gazed at the empty surroundings, whispering, “Ling Rong, what I owe you, how should I repay it,”
After saying that, he got up, changed into that set of plain clothing, and subsequently left the bedroom.
Stepping into the main hall, the silence of the surroundings wrapped around him like a physical substance, he walked straight to the table and sat down, several jars of long-sealed wine were placed on the table.
He reached out to pick up the wine pot, his movements somewhat mechanical as he poured several cups of wine, without making a pause, cup after cup, he tilted his head back and drank them all in one gulp.
The pungent wine flowed down his throat, burning his five viscera and six bowels, yet he seemed completely oblivious, merely gulping down cup after cup.
Gradually, the intoxication went to his head, and Wen Pinglan’s gaze began to blur.
He suddenly smiled, facing the empty air, as if facing the dead soul of Ling Rong, whispering softly, “Offsetting it with my life, is that fine, perhaps only in this way can I fully redeem my sins,”
After saying that, he suddenly picked up a wine cup and smashed it ruthlessly onto the ground.
With a crashing sound, the wine cup instantly shattered into four pieces.
He picked up a sharp fragment, putting it against his own neck without any hesitation, the sharp fragment cut through the skin, and a trace of fresh blood slowly oozed out.
Yet right at this moment, with a creaking sound, the door was violently pushed open.
The sudden sound caused Wen Pinglan’s hand to shake, and the fragment fell to the ground with a clanging sound.
He raised his head to look over, only to see Mo Xuan standing at the doorway with a face full of anxiety.
After seeing clearly who it was, Wen Pinglan composed himself, forcing a calm expression, and asked with a frown, “In the middle of the night, is there some matter,”
Mo Xuan hurriedly stepped into the Yaoyue Hall, seeing the messy state inside the hall, he did not dare to ask much, merely bowing respectfully with his hands cupped, saying apprehensively, “Master, I have disturbed you, your disciple has something to say to you.”
“Speak,” Wen Pinglan said.
“Tomorrow is the immortal sect’s annual disciple recruitment convention, in past years during the disciple recruitment convention, you would always not show your face,” when Mo Xuan spoke up to this point, he paused slightly, a trace of hesitation flashing through his eyes, hesitating to speak.
Wen Pinglan understood in his heart what Mo Xuan wanted to say.
He let out a soft sigh and then sat down.
Since Ling Rong’s death, his world seemed to have collapsed by a corner along with it.
From then on, he no longer accepted disciples, and he truly was unwilling to accept disciples anymore.
Wen Pinglan taught sword cultivators.
In the past, the disciples under his sect were numerous, and sword shadows flew about, yet now, it had been a long time since any new disciple entered under his seat.
This resulted in the disciples within the immortal sect who were truly proficient in sword techniques becoming fewer and fewer, and the lineage of sword techniques gradually declined.
The other elders saw this in their eyes and felt anxious in their hearts, repeatedly advising him to accept disciples again to continue the inheritance of sword techniques.
Yet every time, Wen Pinglan would excuse himself on the grounds that among the newly entered disciples of the immortal sect, those with excellent natural talent were extremely few.
It was like this year after year.
As time went on, although the other elders feared his status as the Sect Master and did not dare to say much, they all understood in private that the Sect Master was still competing secretly over the matter of Ling Rong a hundred years ago, unable to let it go.
Mo Xuan saw all of this in his eyes, knowing deeply that continuing like this would be extremely detrimental to the inheritance of the immortal sect’s sword techniques, and also knew that the other elders already had many opinions in their hearts.
Tonight, he lay in bed tossing and turning, pondering for a long time, an internal war raging in his mind, and finally made up his mind to come and advise his own Master.
Mo Xuan summoned his courage and continued to say, “Master, the immortal sect’s sword technique inheritance has lasted for a long time, now the disciples who know the sword are becoming increasingly scarce, continuing like this might make it difficult to sustain, during this disciple recruitment convention, perhaps we can find a bud with excellent natural talent, I still hope Master can show your face to select some good disciples for the sword technique lineage of the immortal sect, reviving the glory of sword cultivators.”
Wen Pinglan remained silent for a long time, his gaze falling onto the fragments of the wine cup on the ground, his thoughts drifting far away.
Seeing that his Master was unmoved, Mo Xuan took a step forward and said sincerely, “Master, your disciple understands your affection toward Junior Brother Ling Rong, yet if Junior Brother Ling Rong knows in the afterlife, he surely would not wish to see the immortal sect’s sword techniques decline because of him.”
When mentioning Ling Rong, for some reason, Mo Xuan’s heart also trembled along with it.
Wen Pinglan raised his head to look at Mo Xuan, a trace of a complex expression flashing through his eyes, appearing somewhat touched, yet hesitating again.
After weighing the pros and cons for a long time, he finally responded, “Fine.”