Shen Zong ignored the Leaving-Man Tree.
The journey ahead was somewhat distant, taking the entirety of the daylight hours to arrive. Along the way, Wen Zhihan briefly outlined the objectives of this mission.
After the major sects discovered those corpses, they immediately initiated an investigation. Failing to track down the culprit, they instead followed the trail to unearth various misdeeds committed by unorthodox cultivators.
Everything transpired much as Shen Zong had anticipated; the individuals he had put to death became victims, their own identities as unorthodox cultivators yet to be exposed.
At present, the surviving unorthodox cultivators were likely buzzing about like headless flies, terrified that the righteous sects would uncover their crimes, and equally terrified of becoming the next victims.
“However, our purpose on this trip is not to investigate the wrongdoing of unorthodox cultivators, but to track down and apprehend a few demonic cultivators.”
“Demonic cultivators?”
Hearing this term, Shen Zong felt a genuine trace of surprise.
Unaware of his disciple’s peculiar expression, Wen Zhihan continued with a heavy heart, “Someone has been spreading the secret arts of demonic cultivation among the mortal populace.”
“Oh?”
Shen Zong found his interest piqued. “Those unorthodox cultivators did it?”
“Perhaps,”
Wen Zhihan mused, “I believe it may well have been the mastermind behind those unorthodox cultivators, with the sole objective of scattering the various sects’ energy and buying time.”
Most unorthodox cultivators wreaked havoc within the cultivation world, whether killing to seize treasures or practicing forbidden techniques for power. Their actions tended to be mysterious and low-key, driven purely by profit. Apart from accumulating too much bad karma to successfully undergo heavenly tribulation and attain immortality, they were otherwise indistinguishable from ordinary cultivators.
Demonic cultivators, however, were vastly more terrifying. Any atrocity they committed would fail to shock anyone; their behavior was brazen, their personalities eccentric and volatile. Once they stirred up a massive commotion, they possessed the power to ravage an entire region.
Now, with the dissemination of demonic cultivation secret arts, demonic cultivators of unknown origin were popping up one after another across various locales.
If left unchecked, not only cultivators, but even ordinary mortals who were destined never to cross paths with the immortal path would suffer disaster.
Such an event had never occurred in the past.
Recalling everything from before his rebirth, Shen Zong could not remember any precedent for this.
Although he practiced demonic cultivation himself, he hardly wished to see the population of demonic cultivators multiply. More people simply meant more fools.
Yet speaking frankly, the only one cunning enough to conceive of such a desperate strategy was Wen Zhihan.
Heh.
A thief crying stop thief?
Having laid out the objective of this excursion, Wen Zhihan instructed Shen Zong to rest properly while he retired to a side to sit in meditative cultivation.
Entering a meditative trance expedited the passage of time. When Wen Zhihan opened his eyes once more, they had arrived at their destination.
As the cloud boat prepared to dock, he stepped out onto the deck to survey a cluster of stone-and-tile houses shrouded in mist and flickering lights, confirming that the area remained inhabited.
Disembarking from the cloud boat, Wen Zhihan produced a luopan compass. After determining their general bearings, he strode off in a specific direction, passing through a patch of dilapidated housing and a bamboo grove. When the scenery opened up before them once more, a reasonably clean and refined courtyard came into view.
Upon reaching this spot, both individuals sensed a chaotic aura of demonic energy seeping outward from the house.
Yet even without perceiving the dense demonic energy here, any ordinary person could have discerned the ominous nature of the place.
Dragon Valley was humid, lacking distinct seasonal changes; for the most part, it experienced only extended spring and autumn seasons, while scorching summers and frigid winters rarely occurred.
Yet right now, in the midst of spring, stepping off the cloud boat revealed vast stretches of greenery and blooming flowers of every hue, with moss blanketing the stone steps.
Only this single courtyard remained bone-chillingly cold, blanketed in heavy, goose-feather snowflakes.
Wen Zhihan stood at the entrance of the courtyard, holding off on entering as he pointed toward the doors and windows of the dwelling.
Shen Zong followed his gaze, only to discover that bright red lanterns were actually hanging there, adorned with vibrant red celebratory window-cuts and couplets, presenting the unmistakable appearance of celebrating the Lunar New Year.
The New Year was still far off, but this festive ornamentation contrasted sharply with the swirling blizzard.
Within the small courtyard, snow-dusted firewood and a stone mill were visible, alongside rows of Chinese cabbages left outdoors that had already frozen over.
Despite its rustic simplicity, it exuded a strange warmth, and the courtyard gates stood wide open, unobstructed by any defensive barriers.
The moment the two crossed the threshold into the courtyard, faint sounds of laughter and conversation drifted outward from the house.
Yet upon closer observation, one would realize this was merely a low-level illusion cast using demonic arts.
Shen Zong watched in silence, quietly resting his hand upon his sword hilt. “Shall we capture them alive, or—”
His expression remained aloof, perfectly mimicking an immortal sect disciple who harbored an innate hostility toward demonic cultivators, indifferent to human sentiment and focused entirely on eliminating demons to uphold the Dao, much like any ordinary member of the righteous sects.
Wen Zhihan, however, pressed down upon his hand, shaking his head gently. “There is no rush.”
A flicker of puzzlement crossed Shen Zong’s features, though he remained silent.
A moment later, Wen Zhihan stepped into the soft snow, walking step by step toward the front door before knocking upon the wooden panels from which the laughter periodically echoed.
Yet the instant the occupant caught sight of his immortal attire, his complexion drained of all color. After hurriedly exchanging a few hurried words with his family inside, he closed the door from the outside.
The man appeared to be an ordinary mortal in his thirties, clad in aged, homespun garments.
Once the door was shut, the man dropped heavily to his knees right in front of Wen Zhihan.
“Immortals, spare my life!”
Wen Zhihan quickly stepped aside to avoid receiving the kowtow. “Rise and speak first.”
The man displayed no hostile intent, nor was he feigning misery to launch a sneak attack. Once he was helped to his feet, he confessed his situation in full detail, tears welling in his eyes.
He had indeed practiced demonic cultivation, but not out of a possessed desire to harm others; rather, it was to evade pursuit by mortal enemies. Later, after slaying all his enemies, his wife and child caught sight of his savage power and were frightened into falling gravely ill. Only then did he suffer a sudden awakening, resolving to lead his entire family into seclusion here, living out the remainder of his days as an ordinary farmer.
Wen Zhihan then asked him where he hailed from prior to practicing demonic cultivation.
The farmer merely replied with dull simplicity that before embarking on demonic cultivation, he had simply been an ordinary commoner who had never crossed the threshold of the immortal sects.
As for the illusion blanketing the courtyard, it was cast solely to deceive his wife.
Ever since she fainted from terror upon witnessing his bloodthirsty appearance and subsequently fell ill, his wife had suffered from unyielding high fevers. In desperation, he sought help from other demonic cultivators, eventually acquiring a single immortal pill that he fed to her to preserve her life.
Though her life was saved, his wife’s mind remained clouded, causing her to forget countless things while her memories remained permanently anchored in the Lunar New Year of that particular year. Her short-term memory could retain events for only seven days; once those seven days elapsed, the cycle would repeat anew.
Unwilling to subject his wife to further trauma or have her realize she was ill, he used illusions to fabricate this normality.
He truly was a pitiful wretch.
At this juncture, Shen Zong drifted around the courtyard out of curiosity, inspecting this and that before finally coming to a halt before the sole water well.
He looked down into the depths, finding the water dark and fathomless.
“Immortal, I beg you, spare our family. Though I practice demonic arts, I possess no real martial might or cultivation. In another twenty or thirty years, my lifespan will reach its end, I—”
“Demonic cultivation is not as simple as you think.”
Faced with his relentless pleading, Wen Zhihan let out a soft sigh.
“The person who handed you the secret art of demonic cultivation told you only of its benefits, but did they tell you what price must be paid for practicing it?”
“The price… I have already paid a heavy price.”
The farmer froze, failing to comprehend his meaning.
“Indeed,”
Wen Zhihan lowered his gaze, a hint of profound compassion shadowing his features. “Ordinary mortals see only that the path of immortality is fraught with hardships and perilous obstacles, requiring one to labor their sinews and strain their resolve with no guarantee of advancement. Demonic cultivation, by contrast, is swift and effortless; provided one uses the correct methods, whether sacrificing others or committing every imaginable atrocity, they can easily amass immense power.”
The farmer lowered his head.
That was precisely how he had grown strong.
Through slaughter, through shedding his humanity, he had finally acquired the strength that made everyone cower in fear.
“However, the reason demonic cultivation can appear so effortless is precisely because it preemptively overdraws everything one possesses.”
Wen Zhihan spoke in measured tones, laying the stark truth before the farmer.
“It overdraws the past, discarding all accumulated virtues and ancestral protection gathered across past lives. It overdraws the future, forfeiting the destiny of dozens of future reincarnations and every possibility that rightfully belonged to you. From that moment onward, karma and blessings alike cease to exist; death is the final end, with no entry into the cycle of reincarnation, no audience with King Yama. Your soul is cast out, rejected by the three realms and five elements, forever wandering the desolate gaps of the void.”
The farmer, terrified even of descending into the netherworld to atone for his sins, had never heard of such a fate and stood rooted to the spot in utter shock.
“When an ordinary mortal breathes their last, that is simply death. When an immortal practitioner perishes, it is a fall. But when a demonic cultivator dies, the term used is annihilation.”
Though Wen Zhihan grieved over such an ending and the immense toll exacted, he nevertheless articulated every word of the unvarnished truth without omission.
“Have you ever wondered why, despite both being demonic cultivators, there exists such a disparity in strength and destructive capacity among them?”
The farmer stepped backward, trembling violently as he gave a slow shake of his head.
“Because the price they are capable of overdrawing varies as well.”
As Wen Zhihan spoke, the corner of his eye kept a cautious watch on Shen Zong’s figure before quickly retracting his focus.
“Their original life trajectories differed as well. Had they not turned to demonic cultivation, some might have accumulated vast hidden merits in life, qualifying them to serve within the Halls of Yama or become regional city gods. Others might have had multiple reincarnations predestined, already arranged to be reborn into wealthy and noble households in their next life, while others possessed immortal affinity in their fate, destined merely to endure trials. Yet once they practiced demonic arts, all of this vanished into smoke, converted entirely into the power of a demonic cultivator.”
“I have failed my ancestors, I…”
As he listened, the farmer finally succumbed to absolute terror. He dropped to his knees once more, pleading frantically, yet Wen Zhihan could offer no remedy for his plight.
Inquiring further into the origins of the demonic secret art and securing a few clues, Wen Zhihan placed a binding legal shackle upon the farmer to prohibit him from taking any more lives, before leading them away from the household.
As they reached the courtyard gate, Shen Zong glanced back one final time.
The warm illusion had dissipated at some unknown point. The house stood devoid of lights, devoid of the farmer’s wife and child, leaving behind only chilling desolation and a blank white funeral banner hanging silently from the lintel.
A stark character for mourning was inscribed upon the lintel, matching the white of the falling snow.
“Shen Zong.”
Noticing his gaze, Wen Zhihan explained in a subdued tone,
“That farmer lost his mind long ago. Demonic cultivation warped his intellect; he believed he was comforting his wife and child, which was why he cast the illusion. In reality, his family had perished long ago, and the depths of that ancient well in the yard are piled high with human bones.”
Shen Zong retracted his gaze, looking toward him with an expression neither warm nor cold, a trace of amusement touching his thoughts. “Is Master attempting to use the fate of demonic cultivators to warn your disciple, hoping to deter him from straying onto an evil path?”
Wen Zhihan did not answer him directly, merely casting a deep, prolonged look at Shen Zong.
“Master speaks true. Those who practice demonic cultivation commit countless atrocities and deserve no good end.”
A sweet, docile smile blossomed across Shen Zong’s features, his eyes curving delightfully.
“In this disciple’s view, however, what drove that man to such a state was not demonic cultivation itself, but sheer stupidity. Because he was too foolish, he lacked the wit to sell the demonic cultivation art to reap greater profits, nor did he sell it to desperate scoundrels for money or trade it to immortal sects for miraculous elixirs. Because of his stupidity, practicing demonic arts cost him a thousandfold price while netting him barely ten percent of the benefits.”
As he spoke, he stepped closer to his master, the smile in his eyes carrying a threefold complexity. “Even when Master kindly laid out the truth for him, he failed to consider how to make amends, collapsing and losing his mind all too easily. He truly failed to live up to Master’s good intentions.”
“Shen Zong…”
“Master,”
Shen Zong interrupted him. “Do you find demonic cultivators pitiful, or hateful?”
Meeting his gaze, Wen Zhihan felt his heart sink an inch further as he involuntarily lightened his breath.
“Neither.”
“Why?”
“The world is full of suffering, and so many people are driven to desperation and choose demonic cultivation. That is the dereliction of duty on the part of righteous immortal cultivators like us.”
Lowering his eyelids slowly, Wen Zhihan reached out to take Shen Zong’s hand, leading him away from the courtyard.
“I am merely a single cultivator; I cannot judge whether others are pitiful or hateful. But as long as I retain the strength to move, I will exert my utmost to prevent anyone else from stepping onto the path of no return.”
Shen Zong had not anticipated hearing such a reply.
The smile on his face gradually faded, leaving a heavy agitation churning within his heart, though the source of this irritation remained obscure.
At some point, the heavy snowfall had ceased.
The thick accumulation of snow merely stained this tiny courtyard white, weighing down the bamboo stalks surrounding the perimeter until they bent low. Standing before a grove of bamboo, a faint sense of melancholy washed over him.
Observing how the bamboo stalks were pressed down by the accumulated snow nearly to the point of touching the earth, Wen Zhihan instinctively reached out, steadying a bamboo branch to give it a gentle shake.
Chunks of heavy snow cascaded down in showers. Relieved of its burden, the bamboo snapped back up in the blink of an eye, standing tall and straight once more in the snow to greet the long-awaited sunlight.
The snow transformed into a frosty mist that enveloped Wen Zhihan from head to toe. Lifting his gaze to inspect the green bamboo that was still swaying gently like an animal shaking off its coat, he broke into a warm, gentle smile.
As if struck by a sudden thought, he halted right at the edge of the bamboo grove and turned back abruptly. “Shen Zong, once this matter is concluded, let us travel to Yongjing Island together. I have something I wish to tell you.”
Thump.
His heart delivered a heavy blow against his ribcage. Shen Zong’s gaze darkened, fixing unblinkingly upon the figure before him as a sharp ringing erupted in his ears.
The inner demon within his mind raised its voice, laughing hysterically, yet sounding entirely as though it were weeping.