Wen Zhihan had consistently striven to prove that everyone had captured the wrong person and that the mastermind behind the scenes was not Shen Zong.
When he discovered that taking the blame himself still failed to alter the situation, he realized that attempting to prove his innocence and win others’ trust was entirely futile.
Anyone else might truly have grown disillusioned with the entire world and all immortal sects from that point onward, but Wen Zhihan was no longer a naive youth of a century ago. Having regained his composure, he quickly weighed the pros and cons of the situation.
The truth was useless because the members of the sects were in no particular hurry. Once a suspect was captured, the specifics of the truth could simply be left to those responsible for the interrogation, as they placed absolute trust in their respective sects and the discernment of their elders and seniors.
Therefore, he had actually caused many people to waver; quite a few already believed in Shen Zong’s innocence and wrongful accusation. It was simply that this belief was powerless to alter the overarching momentum.
Right now, however, Shen Zong’s sudden loss of control and violent assault had inadvertently validated the earlier judgment of the immortal sects. Perhaps Shen Zong was not necessarily a criminal, but he had to be captured first and interrogated thoroughly.
The truth was distant and interrogation was distant, but the sword blades brandished right before them were immediate. The crisis was pressing, compelling every person present to take action.
Such was the momentum of the situation.
Seeing him targeted by his own beloved disciple with a drawn sword, yet continuing to blindly shield him and refusing to let others intervene out of fear that someone might injure Shen Zong, the cultivators finally lost their patience.
“Peak Master Wen! What is the meaning of this?”
“He is your disciple, yet he turns his sword against you! What is the use of protecting him like this? Peak Master Wen, we are trying to help you!”
“Senior still has unhealed injuries upon his body, please retreat behind us!”
It was naturally impossible for Wen Zhihan to heed their words.
If even he retreated, if even he treated Shen Zong as a criminal, then Shen Zong would truly be entirely alone.
Furthermore, Shen Zong’s state appeared rather abnormal.
Had he fallen under some sort of illusion? Or had something gone awry during his breakthrough and condensation of the Golden Core?
He feared neither Shen Zong’s sword nor that uncoordinated, baseless hostility. He only knew that his disciple was covered in blood, his gaze vacant, suffering an immense grievance.
He spoke up, “Shen Zong is no rebellious disciple; he has committed no heinous crimes.”
“Peak Master Wen!”
Blocking yet another strike for Shen Zong, his expression and tone grew more resolute than ever before,
“This is a private matter concerning Qiongwu Peak of the Profound Heaven Sect. I must ask you all not to interfere.”
“Senior may unilaterally choose to excuse the crime of insubordination, but there is no rule within our sects that permits standing idly by when witnessing injustice.”
Another blue-robed cultivator stepped forward, offering a firm yet unyielding bow to Wen Zhihan.
Immediately following that, the blue-robed cultivator issued a command, forming a sword array alongside a dozen other individuals.
If they resorted to direct violence, subduing Shen Zong without injuring Wen Zhihan would prove nearly impossible. However, by establishing a formation, they could trap Shen Zong directly.
Much like a short while ago, when the collective power of the various sects was used to suppress Shen Zong.
They must not be allowed to capture Shen Zong.
This was the primary thought echoing within Wen Zhihan’s mind.
He instantly altered his strategy, deliberately exposing an opening.
True to expectation, Shen Zong immediately spun forward, thrusting with a single sword. Wen Zhihan retreated in a disheveled manner, feigning panic as his injuries flared up, allowing himself to be disarmed of his long sword through feigned carelessness.
Shen Zong pressed his advantage as anticipated, his sword humming as it targeted Wen Zhihan’s heart.
Stepping sideways to dodge, Wen Zhihan caught the blade bare-handed while twisting his body to avoid his vital organs.
It was a long sword barely two fingers wide, exceptionally tough and sharp at the edge, though the spine remained largely unpolished and somewhat rough, gleaming with a moonlight-white luster.
Had Shen Zong been wielding any other weapon today, Wen Zhihan would have caught sight of his own reflection in the blade’s surface, witnessing the look in his eyes as he gazed at Shen Zong, an expression implying that should he fail right now and genuinely be pierced through the throat by his disciple, it would not matter in the least.
Yet he remained entirely oblivious to all of this, keeping his focus fixed squarely upon Shen Zong. As their spiritual energies collided, he simultaneously struck out with a palm against Shen Zong’s wrist, knocking the long sword straight out of his grip.
Shen Zong seemed to momentarily freeze, his gaze drifting involuntarily toward the disarmed weapon as he muttered something under his breath.
Wen Zhihan failed to catch the words.
The very next second, Shen Zong lunged at him empty-handed.
The sword array was on the verge of completion. Clutching his wounded torso, Wen Zhihan retreated backward and abandoned all resistance.
“I…”
Controlled by the inner demon, Shen Zong pounced forward like a wild wolf just barely tearing free from a hunter’s trap, clamping his hands tightly around Wen Zhihan’s throat.
“I do not need you to take the blame.”
At that exact moment, Wen Zhihan finally caught the murmured words on his lips.
The blurred phrasing struck like a sharp thorn, making his heart hammer heavily against his ribs.
Collapsing backward onto the ground, Wen Zhihan absorbed nearly the entirety of Shen Zong’s weight, pinned firmly to the earth.
He had originally intended to evade further, putting at least a bit more distance between them and the ominous cliff behind them, but it was already too late.
“A-Yuan.”
Seemingly oblivious to the agony of being strangled, Wen Zhihan managed to call out his disciple’s childhood name, then opened his arms to pull the youth into an embrace, soothing him with gentle strokes.
He parted his lips, but found himself incapable of uttering further words.
Fortunately, his strategy yielded results.
Witnessing him pinned and held hostage by Shen Zong, the cultivators who had already formed their sword arrays refrained from taking further action out of fear of injuring him.
Without an order from the sect masters, none dared to lay a hand on a peak master.
Exhaling in relief, Wen Zhihan turned his attention back to Shen Zong.
“Mas…”
Clearly the assailant brimming with hostility, Shen Zong instead wore an expression of intense agony, crying out in a hoarse, strained voice, “My master, I will not allow you to defile him!”
He was about to wake up.
Sensing what his body was doing, Shen Zong grew faintly panicked, his consciousness struggling with increasing intensity.
Though still lacking full clarity, he remained steadfastly aware of one absolute truth: he must not allow the inner demon to run rampant.
Absolutely not.
The inner demon operated purely on instinct, devoid of reason and acting with reckless abandon. Every impulse, emotion, and desire he had previously labored to suppress would serve as nourishment for the inner demon.
If this continued, he might well commit irreversible acts.
Yet dreading something invariably brought it closer.
Seemingly sensing a long-denied sense of deprivation, the inner demon suddenly dipped its head and sank its teeth straight into Wen Zhihan’s collarbone.
Only upon hearing his master draw a sharp breath to endure the pain did the burning, restless fever within it subside marginally.
Instantly, Shen Zong tasted the copper tang of blood.
The inner demon yearned for the scent of Wen Zhihan’s blood, and so it bit down.
Wen Zhihan remained completely motionless, refusing to push him away. Instead, he pulled him closer, patting his back in a rhythmic soothing motion while his other hand secretly conjured a talisman designed to clear the mind and banish distracting thoughts.
Channeling spiritual energy into the paper, it erupted in a brilliant flare upon touching Shen Zong, driving away all chaotic thoughts.
That very clarity-clearing talisman dealt a temporary blow to the inner demon.
The crushing force around his neck and collarbone instantly slackened by several fractions. Blinking rapidly amidst a cold sweat, Shen Zong raised his head to stare at Wen Zhihan.
“Cough, cough…”
Regaining his breath, Wen Zhihan remained unable to speak smoothly just yet. Having conditioned his physical body for years, merely being throttled was insufficient to kill him, but it was far from pleasant.
“A-Yuan, it is alright.”
The inner demon refused to accept defeat so easily.
Spiritual energy manifested as a sheer black veil, instantly shrouding Shen Zong’s eyes and ears the moment he regained consciousness.
“Shen Zong!”
Noticing the anomaly immediately, Wen Zhihan reached out a hand in an attempt to tear the black veil from his face.
His fingers grasped forward, yet connected with nothing.
Through the semi-transparent black veil, Shen Zong opened his eyes once more, his pupils unfocused as he gazed into the void like a sleepwalker.
“Master…”
As expected…
Mistaking the failure for an ineffectiveness of his clarity talisman, Wen Zhihan hastily formed hand seals with both hands, attempting to dispel the illusion plaguing Shen Zong.
A short arrow flashed through the air from the side, piercing through Shen Zong’s shoulder. Radiant with golden light and unstoppable force, the impact sent Shen Zong flying backward.
The golden arrow pierced clear through his rear shoulder blade, nearly crippling his arm. Staggering back several paces, Shen Zong managed to regain his footing without collapsing outright.
“Wen Zhihan, are you a fool?!”
Before Wen Zhihan could locate the archer, the cultivator who loosed the arrow roared with righteous fury, retaining his familiar explosive temper,
“Your disciple has completely gone mad with demonic obsession! Had I not rushed over, were you planning to let him devour you alive?!”
“Thank you, Daoist Chen, for stepping in to save me, but I must ask you not to interfere in the private affairs of Qiongwu Peak.”
Supporting his body, Wen Zhihan rose back to his feet. Though swaying slightly, his expression lacked its usual warmth,
“I am not yet so weak that I can be slain by my own disciple.”
“You…!”
Chen Fengjue nearly choked with fury, fortunately restrained by several fellow daoists flanking him, preventing him from joining forces with Shen Zong to beat Wen Zhihan up.
“He did not injure me intentionally.”
Witnessing the blood welling from Shen Zong’s shoulder, panic spiked within Wen Zhihan, lending a touch of anger to his tone,
“Shen Zong is merely framed like this because he fell victim to an illusion, can you not see it?!”
Chen Fengjue paused momentarily.
Indeed, Shen Zong’s gaze appeared peculiar, and a hazy black mist seemed to shroud his features.
The failure to notice it earlier stemmed from the overwhelming chaos of the battlefield, or perhaps the exceptional stealth of the illusion.
“Hey, hurry up and switch to another sword array!”
Chen Fengjue stamped his foot. “Never mind the illusion, give me the strongest breaking-spell formation immediately and snap him out of it before capturing him! What use is catching a madman otherwise?!”
As the head of Xuanyucang, eccentric though his temperament might be, Chen Fengjue’s authority commanded compliance; his directions were quickly executed as the group reformed their sword array.
Wen Zhihan hurriedly formed seals once more to assist in shattering the illusion, but a sudden blockage seized his meridians.
Damn it, at a critical juncture like this, his body…
His limbs turned limp, and he dropped to one knee, breathing heavily.
Lifting his head, Wen Zhihan saw Shen Zong picking up his long sword once more.
He hastily raised a hand, using the scabbard at his waist to parry a blow.
Another golden short arrow shot in from behind, striking Shen Zong’s blade and driving him back.
Wen Zhihan turned back to block. “Do not attack him!”
Chen Fengjue typically favored heavy swords, switching to a bow only on rare occasions, yet Wen Zhihan knew better than anyone that though small in appearance, a bow in Chen Fengjue’s hands possessed destructive power rivalling any grand heavy blade.
Shen Zong raised his head, thoroughly trapped within the illusion, and swung his sword again.
“Chen Fengjue! I told you to stop!”
Lifting his right hand, Wen Zhihan drew the treasured natal sword concealed at his waist, the Fuyue Sword.
Supple and nimble, it could be wrapped around the waist during peacetime, shining with a silver luster and thin as cicada wings. Yet once spiritual energy was infused, it grew incomparably sturdy, capable of splitting mountains and piercing rock.
He slashed a line across the ground with all his might, laying down a barrier of spiritual energy that isolated everyone else outside.
Chen Fengjue was incandescent with rage. “I am done caring about you!”
“C-Chen Immortal, are you truly dropping this?”
“Keep going! Follow my lead! Break the illusion!”
Chen Fengjue hopped in place. “Stop standing around like idiots! You, and you, follow my lead, there is only one sword array capable of breaking all illusions through sheer brute force! Hurry up! Otherwise, one of the two of them is going to die first!”
“Thank you.”
Wen Zhihan muttered under his breath.
Behind him, Shen Zong had plunged deep into the hallucinatory realm crafted by his inner demon.
An inner demon was termed as such precisely because it harmed both self and others. For cultivators, an inner demon functioned in direct opposition to the Dao heart.
A steadfast Dao heart ensured a smooth path of cultivation, allowing effortless comprehension and progression.
A nascent inner demon resulted in stubborn obsession, making practice yield half the results with double the effort.
Virtually no one could maintain normalcy while harboring an unvanquished inner demon, let alone improve their cultivation, not to mention surviving thunder tribulations and breaking through to the Golden Core stage while carrying one.
Such a counter-intuitive feat was achievable solely by Shen Zong, the favored child of the Heavenly Dao.
This circumstance explained why no one connected his anomalies to an inner demon.
Even a mortal could ruin themselves through momentary foolishness, and an inner demon excelled even further in this regard.
The illusion it wove precisely replicated Shen Zong’s lived experiences prior to his rebirth.
Upon the precipice, chilling winds howled and spiritual energy surged like unceasing torrents. With a thunderous crash, startled birds burst from the mountain forests.
Shen Zong beheld the massive army assembled to encircle him, witnessing the disgust in every gaze directed his way, as if he were a heinous evildoer deserving of death.
Everyone desired his conviction and execution; everyone desired his death.
He then looked toward his master.
Wen Zhihan glared with stern brows, raising his sword against him and enumerating numerous crimes in accusation.
His master also desired his death.
How long they fought remained unknown; his body was battered and steeped in misery.
Master’s Fuyue Sword slowly lifted, the sharp blade radiating murderous intent as it clashed with his own, the keen edge spitting electrical arcs.
A deep fatigue settled within his heart, leaving him feeling that continuing this battle was meaningless. Whether he won or lost, died here, or scraped by alive, made no difference.
This was not his master.
Shen Zong raised his long sword for a final struggle, yet Wen Zhihan showed no mercy, directly shattering his pendant weapon.
The sword, broken?
Lowering his gaze to the fractured hilt in his hand, he retreated another step.
He watched Wen Zhihan wear a glacial expression, his eyes lingering with a trace of impatience, as though the pain and despair he suffered from being encircled, abandoned, and betrayed were merely detestable nuisances.
He heard Wen Zhihan drive him step by step toward the cliff’s edge, exactly as in his past life, issuing a low threat,
“Otherwise what? Shen Zong, so many people have died or gone mad, so many sects have been offended, and all the evidence is right here. If you did not commit these acts, could it possibly be me?”
Shen Zong revealed an expression of unguarding panic, “No…”
“Could it be that you wish to let the entire world know that Peak Master Wen of Qiongwu Peak, despite cultivating for many years, earning universal respect, and saving countless lives, is in truth nothing more than a selfish hypocrite behind closed doors, and that his usual benevolence was merely an act?”
Wen Zhihan seemed to have seen through him all along, loathing the deep-seated reverence and yearning hidden within his disciple’s heart, yet forcing himself to swallow his disgust to exploit this youthful, ignorant devotion through coercive threats,
“Who do you suppose would appreciate such a truth? Allow your master to take the blame for your crimes, and you will gain everyone’s contempt or pity, carrying the world’s sympathy into a smooth, fortunate future, is that it?”
Shen Zong’s mind reeled violently, a cord strung tightly for years snapping within his brain. Drawing a harsh breath to suppress the rising tide, he instead vomited a mouthful of hot blood.
“Hah, how filthy.”
Lowering his head, Shen Zong finally cast away the broken sword hilt. His shoulders shuddering slightly, he suddenly burst into laughter.
“Master, oh Master…”
His smile was uglier than weeping.
“Is only the death of your disciple capable of satisfying you?”
Not true.
The true Wen Zhihan stood before him, reaching out an attempted grasp, but Shen Zong stepped backward, inch by inch.
The illusion muffled his voice and fabricated his words and actions. Unaware of what Shen Zong was seeing or hearing, and failing to comprehend why merely blocking a sword strike had caused Shen Zong to discard his weapon and display sheer despair,
Wen Zhihan’s breathing stalled, and an ominous premonition seized his heart.
Gazing at him, Shen Zong walked step by step toward the cliff’s edge. His fighting spirit extinguished, the youthful eyes lost their final glimmer, leaving behind only vacant darkness.
Looking ahead, his sight fixed upon no one in particular as he murmured almost to himself,
“Since matters have reached this pass, my life was saved by you, Master. Now, I return it to you. From this moment onward, we owe each other nothing.”
“No!”
The youth standing at the cliff’s edge finally closed his eyes, taking a light, hopeless step backward as he plunged into the abyss.
“The sword array is complete!”
In the rear distance, a golden beam erupted from the twenty-seven-member sword array, shooting toward them like a shooting star.
The blinding black veil dissipated alongside the environment, and even the power of the inner demon was halved in that instant. Shen Zong snapped his eyes open, but his body had already lost its equilibrium, instinctively thrusting out his right hand as if seeking to clutch at something.
“A-Yuan!”
Wen Zhihan lunged toward him without hesitation, but his chilled fingertips missed by a fraction, grazing merely a strand of hair as he watched his beloved disciple plunge into the abyss, leaving his mind instantly blank.
It is too late, Wen Zhihan.
Simultaneously, the lingering soul that had hidden away reappeared, lurking within his shadow and whispering a curse.
Like a vulture awaiting life to fade so it could feast on rotting flesh, Bai Chixin watched with eager anticipation for a good show.
The Mandate of Heaven cannot be defied.
No.
He refused.
Time seemed dilated at that moment. With no time for reflection, he dove forward with all his might, plunging off the cliff in pursuit of his disciple.
“Wen Zhihan!”
Behind him, someone let out a shriek of sheer terror, their voice cracking entirely.
Yet he could spare no attention for that now.
The weightless drop constricted his heart. Acting purely on instinct without sparing a thought for spiritual energy, Wen Zhihan grabbed Shen Zong’s arm, yanked him tight into his embrace, twisted his body mid-air in an emergency maneuver, and positioned himself directly beneath the youth.
“Do not fear,”
Whether from fright or the biting gale, Wen Zhihan held him fiercely, his entire body trembling as he forced out soothing words, “A-Yuan, do not fear, Master is here, you will not, you will not come to harm.”
Amidst the frantic descent, Wen Zhihan lacked the leisure to note finer details, entirely failing to notice that the figure in his arms had stiffened for a fraction of a second.
High above on the distant cliff, array-generated golden light enveloped everything, capturing Bai Chixin’s lingering soul, which had nearly succeeded in its possession attempt.
Sensing this variable, Wen Zhihan heard Chen Fengjue’s roar of fury, followed by the sight of numerous swords shooting past the cliff edge, plunging downward in a desperate bid to catch up to their falling figures.
This was a sequence that would never transpire within the original text of Homeward Journey.
Within the novel, the Cliff of Returning to Heaven was an abyss of no return spanning millennia, where countless supreme cultivators had perished. No one knew its true depth nor what lurked at the bottom, they knew only that it was a fatal dead end from which none escaped.
No one would ever attempt to rescue someone falling into the Cliff of Returning Heaven, nor defy such a preordained fate.
Yet he had accomplished it.
He had seized Shen Zong in time, he had successfully rallied the crowd to defy the Mandate of Heaven alongside him, and he had finally proved that the members of the immortal sects were not a cold-hearted, merciless mob.
He could alter all of this.
Wen Zhihan relaxed instantly, a sudden urge welling up within him to voice everything aloud,
“A-Yuan, in truth, I…”
Before the words left his lips, Shen Zong forcefully shoved him backward, a gentle wave of spiritual energy lifting and suspending him for a fleeting instant.
Followed instantly by a thunderous crash and a billow of dust.
Covered in blood, Wen Zhihan slammed heavily into the earth, falling completely silent.