Chapter 58

With just a light pat on Luo Binghe’s shoulder, Tianlang-Jun snapped the boy’s arm once more. He frowned slightly, and Zhuzhi-Lang immediately bent to retrieve the fallen limb, presenting it with both hands.

Luo Binghe made no move to wipe the blood from his face. A dangerous glint flashed in his eyes as his hand shot back to grasp the hilt of Xin Mo at his back.

“A fine sword,” Tianlang-Jun remarked. “A pity its wielder is so… undisciplined.”

“Go!” Luo Binghe hissed at Shen Qingqiu.

Go? Go where? Shen Qingqiu thought desperately. Is that even possible now?

“It’s too late,” Zhuzhi-Lang interjected calmly. “Two hundred Blackmoon Rhinopede were only enough to force the sacred barrier open for a moment—just long enough to let you in.”

“Then I’ll use the two of you as a blood sacrifice to open it again!” Luo Binghe snarled.

But before Xin Mo could fully clear its scabbard, it was slammed back in with a resonant click. Tianlang-Jun had somehow appeared behind him, a single finger holding the demonic sword trapped. Luo Binghe whirled to counterattack, his movements a blur. Yet no matter how fast he was, Xin Mo never drew more than three inches before being forced back. After a few such exchanges, Tianlang-Jun seemed to lose interest. With a flick of his wrist, he ignored the sword entirely and instead pressed his palm firmly against the crown of Luo Binghe’s head.

Luo Binghe’s eyes flew wide. A dense, churning cloud of violet-black energy gathered above him. Whatever Tianlang-Jun was doing, it robbed Luo Binghe of his voice, leaving him choking on silent fury.

Tianlang-Jun closed his eyes for a moment. When he opened them, he said, “So it’s not just you. You brought two little fish in with you.”

He lifted his hand slightly, studying Luo Binghe’s face with detached curiosity. “He resembles his mother.”

A cold voice cut through the chamber from the side. “His eyes are yours.”

Tianlang-Jun turned slowly.

The gleaming edge of Xiu Ya rested against Zhuzhi-Lang’s throat. Shen Qingqiu said, “A subordinate this capable is hard to come by. It would be a shame to lose him. Shouldn’t you reconsider, Tianlang-Jun?”

“My lord,” Zhuzhi-Lang murmured, “this subordinate was careless.”

Careless? Shen Qingqiu had nearly broken a sweat pinning him down! The man was as slippery in human form as he was in his serpent one!

“You’re hurting Zhuzhi-Lang’s feelings, treating him like this,” Tianlang-Jun said slowly.

“And you’re hurting my feelings, treating your son like that,” Shen Qingqiu retorted, half-serious. “You release your son, I release your nephew. How about it?”

“I’m afraid I’m not being given that opportunity,” Tianlang-Jun replied.

Shen Qingqiu’s palms were slick with cold sweat, but his voice remained perfectly steady. “I am giving you that opportunity right now.”

“I meant,” Tianlang-Jun clarified, “that Zhuzhi-Lang won’t give me that opportunity.”

No sooner had the words left his mouth than Zhuzhi-Lang threw himself forward, driving his throat toward Shen Qingqiu’s blade!

The move was executed with terrifying, suicidal conviction. Startled, Shen Qingqiu yanked his sword back on pure instinct. The moment the pressure eased, Zhuzhi-Lang twisted free and flashed back to Tianlang-Jun’s side.

Tianlang-Jun gave Shen Qingqiu a see-what-I-mean look and smiled. “If I were to be threatened on his account, Zhuzhi-Lang would choose death. Please don’t underestimate him, Peak Lord Shen.”

Shen Qingqiu felt the urge to cough up blood. As a hostage, Zhuzhi-Lang was utterly worthless! All that effort for zero sense of accomplishment!

“My nephew has suffered a slight indignity,” Tianlang-Jun said. “It’s only fair I collect compensation from your disciple.” His fingers curled infinitesimally tighter.

A choked grunt escaped Luo Binghe. A trickle of blood seeped from the corner of his eye, but his gaze, with immense effort, found Shen Qingqiu. Gritting his teeth against a mouthful of blood, he forced out the words, “…Go! Anywhere… just don’t stay here!”

Shen Qingqiu’s head snapped up. In the same motion, he hurled Xiu Ya straight forward. Like a bolt of white lightning, it shot toward Tianlang-Jun, who tilted his head slightly. The blade grazed his cheek with a metallic shing before embedding itself deep into the painted mural on the far wall behind him.

“Your aim is somewhat off,” Tianlang-Jun observed.

Shen Qingqiu slowly lowered his hand, a faint smirk touching his lips. “It’s perfect. A bullseye.”

A flicker of confusion crossed Tianlang-Jun’s face. He turned.

Xiu Ya was buried to the hilt in one eye of the smiling woman depicted on the mural. The gemstone that had been inlaid as her pupil now lay in glittering fragments on the floor.

Though merely a painting, the woman’s gently curved lips began to stretch wider and wider, her smile growing impossibly broad, until it split her face from cheek to cheek like the maw of a slit-mouthed specter.

Suddenly, the tomb chamber erupted with a shrill, earsplitting peal of laughter—and it was coming from the painted woman’s mouth!

The Hall of Joy had its security measures. One wall was adorned with inlaid gems, but pry one loose, and you’d be treated to the Joyful Demoness’s sonic weapon: laughter meant to literally laugh intruders to death.

The effect was particularly potent on demons, as the tomb’s architects had naturally anticipated demonic thieves. The sound drilled into the ears, making hearts and brains pound in violent, painful sync. Dizziness swamped the senses, vision blurring. Zhuzhi-Lang clapped his hands over his ears. Tianlang-Jun withdrew one hand to press against his temple.

Shen Qingqiu, prepared for this, seized the instant of distraction. He shot forward, his left hand snapping up to recall Xiu Ya—which flew back to its sheath—while his right hand grabbed Luo Binghe, and he ran!

Bursting into the next chamber, Shen Qingqiu’s first act was to slam the stone gate shut and seal it! The massive slab crashed down with a thunderous boom, kicking up a cloud of dust. He’d only found the mechanism to close it, not to open it. Good. Let it stay shut.

Finally allowing himself a breath of relief, he turned.

And nearly dropped to his knees.

He was clutching Zhuzhi-Lang’s wrist in a death grip. The man blinked at him.

You have got to be kidding me. He’d grabbed the wrong person?! What cosmic injustice was this? He’d left that pair of violently dysfunctional father and son back in the Hall of Joy!

Sinful! Absolutely sinful! Shen Qingqiu released Zhuzhi-Lang’s hand and spun, raising his sword to cleave the stone door. Zhuzhi-Lang caught his sleeve. “Shen-xianshi, don’t go back. He stands no chance against my lord.”

Shen Qingqiu wanted to scream.

How could I mix them up from so close?! Blame it on the hallucinogenic laughter attack, the dim green candlelight, and the fact all three of them were wearing similar-looking black robes. Did relatives have to share the same fashion sense?!

The sheer stupidity of it brought tears to his eyes. He slammed a fist against the unyielding stone. “I was trying to be with Luo Binghe!”

Zhuzhi-Lang stared at him, stunned.

After a long pause, he said, “Shen-xianshi… aren’t you already with him?”

“…”

There’s no talking to these people!

Shen Qingqiu raised a hand to silence him and took a few steps forward. The ground beneath his feet felt oddly uneven.

Zhuzhi-Lang moved to follow. “Don’t move!” Shen Qingqiu commanded, throwing out an arm to stop him.

A gigantic woman’s face was carved across the entire floor of the chamber. They were currently standing on its ear.

Unlike the seductive beauty in the Hall of Joy, this face was a portrait of pure rage—features contorted in fury, eyes bulging, a thin gaze and broad nose crafted to be as hideous as possible, like some wrathful ogress.

“Don’t step on the face,” Shen Qingqiu cautioned carefully.

Zhuzhi-Lang: “…”

The entire floor is a face. Where else am I supposed to step…

The Halls of Joy, Rage, and Sorrow came one after another. Past the first Hall of Joy lay its successor: the Hall of Rage.

In the original story, when Luo Binghe had toured—ahem, looted—the Sacred Tomb and cleared this stage, he’d used a specific sequence of steps. Unfortunately, Shen Qingqiu couldn’t remember the exact pattern. Stepping in the wrong place would trigger the hall’s defenses. Flying on a sword was no use either; passing overhead vertically still counted as ‘stepping.’

Then again, of course she’d be angry if someone stepped on her face! No wonder this was the Hall of Rage!

He’d charged in thinking he had Luo Binghe, who would surely know the path. Who could have predicted this ‘wrong person’ debacle! It seemed Zhuzhi-Lang and Tianlang-Jun had only been active in the first Hall of Joy; relying on the snake demon to navigate this trap was hopeless!

The floor was growing hotter. Shen Qingqiu crouched, testing the temperature with his fingertips and yanking them back immediately. It felt like a fire raged beneath the stone, turning the ground into a griddle ready to sear flesh. The woman’s carved cheeks, originally a faint rosy hue, were deepening into a vivid, angry red.

They’d probably already taken a few missteps on her face without realizing. Shen Qingqiu retreated several paces, edging as close to the side wall as possible.

Without warning, a geyser of blazing, golden-red liquid erupted from the floor.

In a flash of light, Zhuzhi-Lang shifted to his true form. A massive cyan-scaled serpent with luminous scales and piercing yellow eyes coiled upon the ground, its upper body rearing to a height of four men. It swept Shen Qingqiu into a protective coil, wrapping him securely within its armored embrace. Gleaming white fangs hovered near Shen Qingqiu’s head, and those huge golden eyes were even more unsettling up close.

Tianlang-Jun was right. Zhuzhi-Lang really didn’t know how to hold a grudge. Had he forgotten being brought to tears by the realgar wine? Or having a sword at his throat just moments ago? And now he was protecting Shen Qingqiu so diligently it was almost embarrassing to keep scheming against him.

A tremendous crash shook the chamber as an entire section of the Hall of Rage’s wall collapsed inward. Through the billowing dust, Tianlang-Jun stepped over the rubble, flexing his wrist casually as he entered.

“I may be mistaken,” he said, “but Peak Lord Shen seems even more familiar with this Sacred Tomb than I am.”

Zhuzhi-Lang, back in human form, cried out in alarm, “My lord, don’t come in!”

Before Tianlang-Jun could even form a question, he had already taken six or seven steps directly across the woman’s carved face.

Shen Qingqiu: “…”

Zhuzhi-Lang: “…”

A pillar of molten rock, thick enough for four men to embrace, exploded upward from the floor, instantly engulfing Tianlang-Jun in a roaring inferno.

Ahahahahahahahahaha!!!

Shen Qingqiu’s heart roared with silent, vindictive laughter. That’s what you get for not letting people finish their sentences! That’s what you get for beating up your own son! Keep acting all high and mighty—see where it gets you!

But his laughter died a swift death. Luo Binghe stumbled in after him. One arm hung limp, utterly broken, and blood streamed from his head, sealing one eye shut.

He looked… terrible. Far worse than the beatings the original Shen Qingqiu had doled out in the early days.

What was it with this kid’s constitution? Why did every authority figure in his life default to violence as a teaching method? He wasn’t a disciple of Bai Zhan Peak!

Zhu Zhilang was frantically circling the roaring pillar of fire, paying them no mind. Luo Binghe’s gaze swept the chamber, then dropped to the floor. He leaped from the rubble and, in a few swift, precise steps, was at Shen Qingqiu’s side.

Impossible. How could he glance at the floor once and know the exact safe path?

As if reading his mind, Luo Binghe answered tersely, “The facial pressure points.”

By the time the words were out, they were already through the Hall of Rage and into the next chamber. As the stone gate rumbled shut behind them, Shen Qingqiu couldn’t help but steal another glance at Luo Binghe, confirming this was, indeed, the right person.

Shen Qingqiu hovered at the edge of the tomb chamber, not daring to move. The main witch of the “Hall of Sorrow” perched on the ceiling. He looked up. Sure enough, a woman’s face was painted there, brows knitted in profound grief.

Sensing intruders, the face’s eyes snapped open. Its features twisted, the sorrow deepening. First, a trickle of moisture seeped from its eyes, then a dense, mournful rain began to fall from the entire ceiling.

Shen Qingqiu opened his mouth to warn him—corpse-rain, don’t let it touch you—but Luo Binghe simply raised a hand, shielding him beneath it, and charged through the downpour with both of them in tow…

Shen Qingqiu: “…”

Where was the finesse? The strategy? In the original work, you were a technical genius! This was just brute force!

The three halls of Rage, Joy, and Sorrow had spanned two hundred thousand words in the novel! Condensed into… what, a single chapter? Sorrow alone had dragged on for ten chapters! And now? Three lines? Were you in that much of a hurry?!

The system chimed with a notification: [Excising filler content, refining the plot. Style Points +100!]

You refined it into dust!

Beyond the hall lay a dark, silent tomb passage. The moment they stepped into it, rows of eerie green flames flickered to life, stretching into an endless, gloomy line.

The tomb’s security was utterly paranoid, relentless. Spirit-dampening candles were scattered everywhere as if they cost nothing. The sightless corpses that had been wandering the corridor mindlessly turned, drooling, and shuffled closer. Luo Binghe lifted a hand, his expression cold and impatient. They let out low, resentful hisses, guttural growls rumbling in their throats, before bowing their heads and retreating into the shadows.

Without so much as a glance at Shen Qingqiu, Luo Binghe released his arm. “Let’s go.”

Every other time he’d caught Shen Qingqiu, his gaze had been a physical weight, relentless. This time, he wouldn’t look at him.

Shen Qingqiu noticed Luo Binghe’s face was flushed a deep, startling red, stark under the sickly green candlelight. It wasn’t embarrassment. Shen Qingqiu wondered if he’d been poisoned, or if the beating had caused some internal hemorrhage, but his steps, while heavy, were still steady. It didn’t quite fit.

He wanted to ask, but the words stuck in his throat.

Just as Shen Qingqiu was about to force something out, Luo Binghe spoke first.

It seemed he was always the one to break the silence.

“The spiritual pathways in that body… are they functioning well?”

Shen Qingqiu hadn’t expected that to be his first question. He paused. “They’re normal.”

He remembered. The spiritual pathways in this body had been painstakingly repaired by Luo Binghe over five long years.

Luo Binghe gave a slight nod. “Good. The other body… I preserved it for a few days. But I couldn’t maintain it any longer.”

The Dewflower Mushroom body withered and dissolved the instant the soul left it. That Luo Binghe had sustained it for days, and then dared to come alone to the Holy Mausoleum afterward… Shen Qingqiu found himself at an even greater loss for words.

Tianlang-jun had mentioned Luo Binghe “brought along two little fish.” Shen Qingqiu asked, “Who did you bring with you?”

Finally, Luo Binghe looked at him. “I came alone.”

He paused, then continued, his voice flat. “The two back there… they’re not to be trifled with. Even if Shizun has no wish to stay with me, I hope you won’t throw your lot in with them.”

“You’ve met them before?”

“I crossed paths with the snake in the Southern Borders. Fought him a few times. Nearly came out worse for it. The other one… I haven’t met, but I know I’m no match for him.”

Zhu Zhilang was from the Southern Borders; of course he’d be active there. Tianlang-jun had said the Jinlan City plague was originally concocted to solve the Southern Borders’ food problem. It made sense Luo Binghe would have clashed with him there.

But Zhu Zhilang hadn’t revealed Luo Binghe’s identity to him, nor did he treat him as a young master. Tianlang-jun didn’t seem to have any such intention either.

It seemed neither father nor… cousin… had any intention of acknowledging him.

A complicated mix of emotions churned in Shen Qingqiu’s chest. He was still fumbling for a response when the candlelight flickered violently, plunging the passage into deeper shadow. Luo Binghe’s weight slumped against him.

Damn it. The moment a shred of sympathy for this kid returns, he pulls this! Again!

But this time, Luo Binghe didn’t cling to him or grope about. He just collapsed against him, completely still.

Shen Qingqiu finally noticed something was wrong. Exhausted himself, he couldn’t support both their weights. He thumped back against the stone wall, Luo Binghe a boneless weight against him. The boy’s head lolled and struck the wall with a sickening crack that made Shen Qingqiu’s own teeth ache in sympathy.

He straightened hurriedly, catching Luo Binghe and turning him. His hands searched, finding his back. The fabric there was tattered, eaten away by the corpse-rain. Beneath it, the skin felt wrong—soft, yielding, with the sickly sweet scent of decay already rising from it.

Corpse-rain was no trifling matter.

Following his usual instincts for rousing someone, Shen Qingqiu’s first impulse was to deliver two sharp slaps to the face. But his hand froze mid-air. He couldn’t do it. Instead, he settled for lightly patting Luo Binghe’s cheek, his own voice softening unconsciously. “Luo Binghe? Can you hear me?”

Luo Binghe’s eyes remained shut, his lashes still. His face was flushed an even deeper, more alarming red.

Shen Qingqiu touched his forehead. It was burning, as if with fever. But the concept of “fever” didn’t apply to Luo Binghe. He touched his hand. It was ice-cold. It was like his head was in a furnace and his body in an ice cellar.

In Shen Qingqiu’s understanding, even when the protagonist faced moments of dire straits, they never lasted long. He certainly never lost consciousness.

Shen Qingqiu slid a hand behind Luo Binghe’s head, gently massaging the spot where it had struck the wall.

“Luo Binghe, can you understand me?”

No response.

Shen Qingqiu tallied it up. To preserve the physical body from withering, Luo Binghe had drained his spiritual power for days (and still failed). He’d expended enormous effort hunting the Black Moon Rhinoceros-Python. After arriving at the Holy Mausoleum, he’d been beaten by Tianlang-jun, taken the full brunt of the Hall of Joy’s sonic assault, been beaten again by Tianlang-jun, and finally, been drenched in corpse-rain.

However you looked at it, this was far more serious than a fever.