Ling Rong removed the disguise from his body, walked out of the bedroom, and stepped through the moonlight toward the gates of Yaoyue Hall.
He wanted to find his Master and ask for an explanation.
He wanted to know.
Why was the Qinggui sword repaired after his death?
Why hadn’t his Master taken on any disciples in the hundred years since he died?
Why was the jade pendant he had worn in the possession of his Master?
And were the memory fragments that drifted out from that jade pendant real?
Ling Rong’s fingertips had just touched the icy door knocker of Yaoyue Hall when a cold wind carrying the scent of blood suddenly swept past the back of his neck.
He instinctively moved to turn around, but his lower back was suddenly clamped by an arm wrapped in freezing cold energy.
“Junior Brother Ling, long time no see.” A cold laugh with a lingering tone brushed against his earlobe.
Before Ling Rong could struggle, a blinding purple light exploded before his eyes. When he opened them again, he had already fallen onto the carved sandalwood floor, a tiny bead of blood bruising his temple.
Looking up at the dark cyan robes hovering above his head, Ling Rong’s throat tightened: “Senior Brother Mo.”
“Don’t call me Senior Brother!” Mo Xian kicked away the bronze incense burner on the side table, shards of porcelain flying past Ling Rong’s ears. “Are you even worthy of mentioning those two words?”
He stared down at the trembling figure on the ground, his pupils glowing with a bloodthirsty, gloomy light. “You return like a lingering ghost, what exactly are you trying to do?”
Ling Rong coughed as he choked on the smoke, his eye corners flushed a sickly crimson: “I just wanted to see my Master.”
Hearing Ling Rong’s answer, the nameless fire burning in Mo Xian’s heart flared even brighter.
He stepped forward, leaned down to loom over Ling Rong, and reached out like an eagle’s claw to grip Ling Rong’s neck, snarling viciously: “Ling Rong, oh Ling Rong, why are you like a phantom that won’t go away, no matter how much I try to shake you? You said you were dead, so why did you have to come back?”
Ling Rong’s breathing grew increasingly difficult as he was choked; his face flushed red. He struggled desperately but could not break free from Mo Xian’s shackles.
Mo Xian let out a cold snort, his grip tightening a fraction more: “I thought that with you dead, Master could finally set his heart at ease and focus on sect affairs. But I never expected that in the past hundred years, the person Master has been yearning for is still you, a dead person! Why? What is so good about you!”
Ling Rong squeezed out a few words with difficulty: “I- I don’t know.”
“You are a bane through and through, a disaster star, do you know that!” Mo Xian continued to roar. “Because of you, Master hasn’t taken a single disciple in a hundred years, and the lineage of sword cultivation has gradually declined because Master has no heart for teaching.”
“All of this, you caused!”
Hearing the words “disaster star,” Ling Rong trance-like recalled the day his entire clan was exterminated.
Perhaps, he really was a disaster star.
Ling Rong lowered his eyes, a flicker of pain and bewilderment flashing within them, his voice shattering into an unmelodic tone: “Do… do you hate me just because of these things?”
“Of course not just these!” Mo Xian sneered, his smile laced with resentment. “Even when you were alive, you drew Master’s special attention. Did you think I didn’t know?”
“Every time Master looked at you, it was completely different from how he looked at us. It was you who caused Master to have mortal desires!”
“You are a mistake. From the very beginning, you shouldn’t have appeared by Master’s side, you shouldn’t have appeared in this world at all!”
“I hate you to death.”
“Therefore, I will never let you and Master recognize each other!” A resolute, ruthless light flashed in Mo Xian’s eyes.
“Are you going to kill me?” Ling Rong gave a miserable smile. “But I was already a dead man. I only barely managed to escape from the netherworld, and now I am nothing more than a lonely ghost. Do you think you can kill me?”
“Who said I was going to kill you?” Mo Xian narrowed his eyes, a sinister look appearing on his face. “I want you and Master to be inches apart, yet never able to recognize each other. This kind of pain is the best punishment for you.”
After saying this, Mo Xian freed his other hand and began to channel the spiritual energy around him.
Faint, pale blue threads of spiritual power flowed from his fingertips, intertwining in the air, gradually weaving into a strange, eerie net of light.
When the spiritual power touched Ling Rong’s body, it acted like agile yet dangerous little snakes, rapidly burrowing into his skin and slithering along his meridians.
Ling Rong suddenly realized.
What Mo Xian was performing was a memory-manipulation technique!
So Mo Xian intended to erase his memories!
Ling Rong was struck with panic and struggled desperately, shouting: “No you can’t you can’t do this.”
The hand Mo Xian used to choke him did not relax; instead, it tightened even further. His other hand continued to channel the spiritual energy methodically, attempting to invade Ling Rong’s sea of consciousness.
“No, you can’t.”
A sense of suffocation washed over Ling Rong’s consciousness. His throat felt as if it were being tightly throttled by a searing hot iron chain, and every struggle made the hand gripping his neck tighten further.
He coughed violently.
The light and shadows before his eyes began to distort. Before his consciousness completely plunged into darkness, the last thing he saw was the hatred burning in Mo Xian’s eyes.
Mo Xian retracted his hand, and with a thud, Ling Rong’s limp body fell heavily to the ground.
Mo Xian watched the person who had lost all ability to resist with cold eyes, though his chest was still heaving violently from anger.
He took a deep breath, forcibly calming his emotions. His slender fingers formed a seal, and his spiritual energy transformed into ghostly blue threads that sank into the center of Ling Rong’s brows.
Deep within the sea of consciousness, memories unfolded like a scroll.
Mo Xian had originally expected to see scenes of Ling Rong interacting with their Master, but what met his eyes were images that were both familiar and heart-wrenching.
The twilight plated the vermillion-painted pillars of the Mo manor in a layer of warm gold. Six-year-old Ling Rong stumbled into the courtyard, the hem of his robe embroidered with lotus flowers covered in grass clippings.
He clutched the corner of Mo Xian’s robe, large tear drops crashing onto the fabric, blurring into dark water stains: “Big Brother, are Father and Mother sending you away to the Immortal Sect to learn magic?”
Upon hearing this, Mo Xian turned and squatted down.
The young boy’s slender palm brushed away the tears at the corners of his younger brother’s reddened eyes, his fingertips gently wiping away the teardrops clinging to his eyelashes: “Be good. Rong-er, don’t cry.”
His voice was like a spring stream flowing over bluestones, yet it could not hide the faint reluctance in his eyes.
Ling Rong suddenly reached out to tug at the jade crown binding Mo Xian’s hair, pulling him closer until their nose tips almost touched.
Those watery peach-blossom eyes were filled with grievance, even his lips were trembling: “Big Brother, after you go there, will I never be able to see you again?”
Crystal-clear tears slid down his cheeks, dripping onto Mo Xian’s freshly changed moon-white inner robe.
“Silly child.” Mo Xian chuckled softly, his fingertips winding a curl of Ling Rong’s soft hair. “Big Brother will come back to see you when I have time.”
He intentionally drew out the end of his sentence, reaching out to scrape the tip of Ling Rong’s reddened nose, wanting to tease him into breaking into a smile.
But Ling Rong suddenly stamped his foot, the golden silk butterfly on his embroidered shoe fluttering with the movement.
He simply sat down on the bluestone slab, folded his arms across his chest, and turned his head away: “No, no!”
His lotus-root-like arms tightly hugged his knees, and his muffled voice was thick with nasal tones: “I want to see Big Brother every day! Big Brother is not allowed to leave!”
Mo Xian sighed and said: “A-Rong, you know, Big Brother has always had poor health.”
“A-Rong, have you forgotten? Last month when Big Brother coughed up blood, it was you who stayed up all night tending the medicine.”
“The Immortal Sect has thousand-year medicinal springs and heavenly treasures; only by going there to cultivate can Big Brother live a long life and accompany you for a long time.”
He leaned closer, his warm breath sweeping over Ling Rong’s reddened earlobe: “If you don’t let Big Brother go to the Immortal Sect, could it be that you want to watch Big Brother die of illness?”
“No!” Ling Rong suddenly looked up.
He hurriedly gripped Mo Xian’s sleeve, speaking in a rapid-fire manner: “Rong-er doesn’t want Big Brother to die! Rong-er wants Big Brother to be safe and sound every year!”
As he spoke, he couldn’t help but sob again: “Big Brother, after you go to the Immortal Sect, you must not forget Rong-er.”
“Rest assured, Big Brother will never forget Rong-er.”
Looking at the memories deep in Ling Rong’s sea of consciousness, Mo Xian lost his focus.
“Mo Rong… it was actually you.”
“My Rong-er.”