Chapter Twenty: Resolution (2)

Miao Shilin saw that Che Wuyou was still intent on continuing the practice and hurriedly barked a harsh command to stop. Observing the dull vacancy that flickered across Che Wuyou’s wooden expression, he couldn’t help but feel a bit at a loss. Why was he taking such pains to argue with a simpleton? Wasn’t he just making things difficult for himself?

Suddenly enlightened, Miao Shilin realized why, when Che Wuyou was sent to the Miao family, Ye Hongyu had been so ruthless, even uttering such hurtful words. It was clear she didn’t care much about this boy at all. First, Che Wuyou’s days were numbered. Second, sending him away was a gesture of compromise to the Huashan Sword Sect, ensuring Che Yeming’s safety. Third, the boy was nothing short of a “disgrace” to the Che family—a couple famed throughout Jizhou, yet their son was a half-wit. Were he in their shoes, he’d probably be eager to be rid of the boy himself.

Yet, recalling that this fellow was the Ye family’s son-in-law, Miao Shilin’s gaze grew faintly peculiar. Was there some hidden story here? How could a figure of such stature as the Ye family’s father and daughter possibly have taken a liking to this boy? It made no sense at all.

Having worked this out, Miao Shilin gave a cold laugh and said to Che Wuyou, “As for whether or not I’ll treat your illness, that’s my own concern. You needn’t worry yourself over it.” As he said this, he couldn’t help thinking of his own beloved son, Miao Zongbao. If he were still alive, he’d probably have entered the Guiyuan realm by now, and the Miao family would have had another cultivator among the immortals.

His thoughts grew gray and despondent, and reaching into his robe, he pulled out a small bottle of pills, tossing it to Che Wuyou. “Take one each day from now on. They won’t cure you, but at least they’ll lessen your suffering.”

No longer paying any attention to the fool standing there, Miao Shilin stared out the window, his face full of melancholy. After a long while, he waved his hand. “You may all disperse.” He had originally gathered the disciples to discuss how to deal with Che Wuyou, but seeing how dull-witted the boy was, he realized the Che family would hardly be affected. He’d even tried to use Che Wuyou to threaten Che Yeming into severing his own arm—what a waste of effort.

Had he known things would turn out this way, he would never have done something so foolish. Better to have killed Che Wuyou outright in front of the Che couple—he could have struck a blow to their pride and avoided all this trouble.

As these thoughts churned, he turned and shot a gloomy glance at Han Feng, who was just about to leave. It was all this man’s fault for bringing Che Wuyou back. If not for him, none of this would have happened.

Han Feng was just about to step out when a chill suddenly crept up his spine. He twitched his nose and cursed under his breath, “Damn it, why does it feel so ominous? Am I being hunted by some demon beast?”

Just as the group reached the doorway, a harsh, rasping voice shrieked from outside: “Wait!” Shadows flickered at the entrance, and in an instant, three figures darted inside.

Startled, the crowd looked up to see an old crone, her face a mass of wrinkles, flanked by two maidens. The three of them stood like a screen across the doorway, blocking the exit.

There was a collective gasp of “Mistress!” and all eyes turned to Miao Shilin. He frowned slightly, casting a quick glance at the old woman but saying nothing. Then the crone ground out through clenched teeth, “We can’t let that Che brat off so lightly… There’s an old saying: the enmity of a murdered son is irreconcilable. And yet we’re to extend this wretch’s life by three years—that’s as good as granting him new life! We ought to claim some interest in return, don’t you think? That way, even the Huashan Sword Sect will have nothing to say.”

“Besides,” she went on, her shrill voice as chilling as an owl’s cry in the night, “when we attacked Guhé City, we called on many fellow cultivators, owed countless favors, and paid a steep price. If we don’t get some recompense, I won’t be able to swallow this bitterness, and Zongbao will never rest in peace.” The words were so piercing that an icy dread rose in every heart.

Miao Shilin’s expression was cool. “Oh? And what do you propose?” His tone was tinged with sarcasm, yet there was a note of uncertainty as well.

The old crone’s wrinkled face twisted with an inexplicable bloodthirsty glee. Cackling, she said, “My idea is to cut off one leg and one arm of this boy, then send the severed limbs to the old villain Che Hongshi. I would dearly love to see the look of impotent fury on that old scoundrel’s face—let him savor the agony of a torn heart! Only then will my anger be appeased.” Her voice was sinister and shrill. Even in this warm, comfortable weather, there was not a trace of warmth to be found.

Che Wuyou was alarmed, his face turning deathly pale. He’d never imagined the old woman could be so vicious, meeting him for the first time and already planning to maim him. Panic seized him. “Who—who are you? Why are you so cruel? What grudge do you have against me?” He pictured himself with just one arm and one leg and shuddered. If that were his fate, he’d rather die on the spot.

The crone took delight in his fear, grinning savagely. “You Che brat, this is nothing. I’ll have plenty of time to... entertain you. Then you’ll know what true cruelty means. Hahahaha…” Her words, spoken slowly and deliberately, ended in peals of mad laughter.

Terrified by her ghastly face, Che Wuyou stumbled backward, his heart pounding like drums on the battlefield, his mind a blank. Gasping for breath, he stared wildly about at the cold, indifferent faces surrounding him. Sunlight streamed obliquely through the solemn hall windows, casting a prismatic glow that lent the place a strange, eerie atmosphere.

Suddenly, the crone, her body trembling as if barely able to stand, took a sudden step forward—like a kite whose string had snapped, she appeared before Che Wuyou in a flash. He could hardly believe that such a frail figure could explode with such force and speed; he hadn’t even seen her move, and she was already there.

He looked up at her with ashen face, meeting the old woman’s desiccated, orange-peel countenance. Suddenly, she grinned at him, baring a mouthful of gleaming white teeth, and his scalp prickled with terror. Before he could react, her right hand flickered like a phantom—a gleaming short dagger appeared, flashing green in the sunlight, its sharp blade radiating a chilling threat.

She waved the dagger before him, as if weighing how best to carve him up. In a panic, Che Wuyou let out a scream and turned to flee.

The crone cackled with delight. Without a visible movement, she reappeared before him, her body stiff like a corpse. Che Wuyou, moving too fast to stop, crashed headlong into her.

It was like hitting a slab of iron. He reeled, dizzy, stars spinning before his eyes, and fell hard to the ground, dazed and disoriented. Before he could recover, the crone’s dagger flashed—an icy streak like a bolt of lightning. He felt a sudden chill on his right arm, then a searing pain that bored to the bone.

He gasped, his heart pounding. My arm—she’s cut it off! But when he looked down, he saw his arm was still there, though a deep, crimson gash ran about an inch long, blood crawling along it like a red centipede.

He breathed a sigh of relief—his arm remained. Ignoring the pain, he looked up at the crone, who advanced on him, dagger gleaming, her presence chilling the air. He felt utterly helpless and lost, her relentless approach like a death knell hammering at his nerves.

Instinctively, Che Wuyou cast about for help, but met only the cold, unmoved faces of the crowd. Then he saw her—the little girl, Liu Lanzhi, delicate as a sprite, hands clenched tight, her face flickering with anxiety.

A strange warmth surged in his chest. He thought of his mother—her tender, worried eyes, her gentle care. Then, bitterly, he remembered her ruthlessness, her cold, unfeeling gaze, and the words she had spoken to cut him off. With these thoughts, his fear ebbed. Perhaps what must come would come.

He did not call out for help. Instead, he lifted his head stubbornly and met the old woman’s gaze. After a long moment, he slowly closed his eyes, turning away from her, perhaps even feeling a faint hope—a hope for death.

The crone was deeply stung by his indifference. Seeing his face so calm only unsettled her more. She burst into another round of wild, cackling laughter, and after a while, said cruelly, “Well, little thief, let’s see how long you can endure.”

Before her words had faded, the dagger snapped up, its sharpness whipping through the air like a lash, striking Che Wuyou’s body with a searing blow. His body convulsed as if shocked by lightning, blood spurting forth in a crimson arc.

Che Wuyou groaned through clenched teeth. With sudden resolve, he opened his eyes, squared his jaw in defiance, and looked at the crone with utter contempt, as if saying, “Is this all you’ve got? How could I ever respect you?” Then, once more, he closed his eyes.