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Ch70 - With Ulterior Motives




By the time Ying Jianhua finished dealing with matters at Old Talisman Ridge, daybreak was near.
The lights in Falling Parasol Lodge still burned. Summer had vanished without a trace—in Old Magpie Ridge, autumn arrived abruptly. The days were still hot and bright, but at night, frost and dew formed.
Ying Jianhua strode in, robes dusted with cold. “Xiaoxiao? Why are you still awake?”
There was no reply, only the sound of restless shifting behind the curtains.
Detecting no sign of a Phoenix Bone flare, Ying Jianhua frowned and pulled back the light-blocking drapes, ready to scold—only for his face to darken in alarm.
“Xiaoxiao!”
Su Hansheng lay sprawled across the bed, half-dressed, black hair and white robes tangled. He seemed to be in deep discomfort—his bare feet kicked at the quilt, one hand pressed to his forehead, his face flushed, amber eyes glazed and damp.
“Senior Brother…” His voice was hoarse. “It burns.”
Ying Jianhua’s expression turned grave. Thinking the Phoenix Bone had erupted, he took Su Hansheng’s wrist, pulse-checking intently.
But a Phoenix Bone flare-up was impossible to miss—Su Hansheng’s meridians showed no trace of its energy, no stagnation, no sign at all.
Yet Su Hansheng was burning up.
Worried, Ying Jianhua coaxed, “Don’t sleep yet. Tell me what’s wrong.”
Su Hansheng, eyes swimming with tears, looked at him blankly, then said, “I don’t know… I just feel hot.”
Ying Jianhua placed a thousand-year Cuiwei Mushroom on the bedside table. “Is that any better?”
Su Hansheng whispered, “My heart won’t stop racing.”
Ying Jianhua: “…”
If it stopped, that would be a real problem.
Alarmed by his delirium, Ying Jianhua called out, “Changkong!”
He immediately remembered he’d sent Changkong back to Yingxu Sect.
If it were the Phoenix Bone, he could at least suppress it with spiritual energy. But this baffling illness left him at a loss.
Just then, a voice sounded outside. “Young Master, is something wrong?”
Ying Jianhua frowned. “Who’s there?”
The person hesitated, then entered, sword in hand, voice cool. “And you are?”
Ying Jianhua’s eyes narrowed.
Yuan Qian—who’d risen before dawn to “absorb the essence of sun and moon” (in other words, to be first in line for breakfast)—was still rubbing sleep from his eyes, his robes loosely fastened.
Awakened by the disturbance, his usually slit-like eyes opened fully, revealing cold, if drowsy, snake pupils. “What are you doing in the Young Master’s room in the middle of the night—?”
Ten breaths later, Yuan Qian dropped to his knees and performed a formal bow. “My apologies, Dao Lord Ying! Dao Lord Ying, good morning. I am Yuan Qian of the Huaize serpent clan, the Young Master’s classmate.”
Ying Jianhua: “…”
Truly a Wendao Academy student—flexible when it counts.
Ying Jianhua had no interest in serpent demons, but remembering Su Hansheng’s distress, he asked, “Are there any good physicians at Wendao’s Infirmary?”
Yuan Qian replied eagerly, “Yes, the Shangyuan Province’s Little Medical Immortal is there now.”
He glanced at the bed and ventured, “Is… is the Young Master very ill?”
Before Ying Jianhua could answer, Su Hansheng reached out weakly and clutched his senior brother’s wrist. “Don’t trouble anyone else… I’ll be fine soon… cough.”
Ying Jianhua pressed him firmly back down. “Don’t be ridiculous.”
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xULJ yQLJ APQYTB mLiPYp. “r YQddYT gQd.”
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jDNy ZfNy ALONmJz yJNtJt Nyz mOOX YD dNyICJyq’I EtfIm mO hCJhX CfI RDLIJ.
Ying Jianhua sat on a chair by the bed and rubbed his throbbing forehead, feeling that not a single mess left by his master had ever been straightforward.
The Heaven-Reaching Tower at Old Talisman Ridge had cracked, and though the breach had been repaired, no one knew how many prisoners of Infinite Hell had escaped. There was no way to even begin tracking them.
Su Hansheng’s Phoenix Bone kept tormenting him, and Ying Jianhua had no idea how to help him escape the pain. The thought made his chest ache.
And now this mysterious illness—the more Ying Jianhua thought about it, the more uneasy he felt. Outwardly calm, he couldn’t help stealing glances at Yuan Qian.
Yuan Qian’s expression changed several times—from calm at first, to frowning, until his eyes finally went wide with disbelief.
Ying Jianhua’s heart lurched. “Well?”
Su Hansheng’s luck was always terrible. Surely he hadn’t caught some fatal illness?
If something really happened, how could Ying Jianhua account for it to his master in the afterlife?
Yuan Qian looked oddly sheepish. “Dao Lord Ying, the Young Master just has a fever.”
Ying Jianhua: “…”
A… fever?
It had been so many years since Ying Jianhua, a cultivator of great attainment, had even heard that word. He found it baffling.
Could cultivators—like feeble mortals—really get fevers and colds?
Yuan Qian took out some medicinal pills from his pouch and, supporting Su Hansheng’s head, coaxed him. “It’s not serious—just take this pill, sweat it out, and by morning you’ll be bouncing around again.”
Su Hansheng was about to fuss and refuse, but he didn’t dare provoke Ying Jianhua, so he reluctantly swallowed the pill.
Yuan Qian wiped the sweat from his forehead and offered, “Would the Young Master like some treats from the canteen? They’re hard to get, I’ll bring some later.”
Su Hansheng shook his head. “I don’t like sweets.”
Yuan Qian didn’t press. Uneasy at lingering, he bowed and withdrew.
Ying Jianhua stood there stiffly for a moment, then strode over and sat down by the bed, coolly pressing a hand to Su Hansheng’s burning forehead. “How did you suddenly get a fever? What were you doing? When did it start?”
Su Hansheng tightened his lips and didn’t answer.
It seemed that ever since Chongjue left, the heat in his body and the pounding of his heart hadn’t stopped.
Ying Jianhua was about to press the issue, but Su Hansheng, as if embarrassed, abruptly pulled the quilt over himself and mumbled, “I don’t feel well. I want to sleep.”
Seeing he was still sweating at the temples, Ying Jianhua had no choice but to tuck him in properly and lower the light-blocking curtains.
Su Hansheng always felt safest in a small, dark space. He curled up in the rumpled bed, exhausted and wanting to sleep, but his mind kept flashing back to when Chongjue had taken his hand and pressed it to his own heart.
Su Hansheng started to feel feverish all over again.
This was so strange.
In his past life, he and Chongjue had done things far more intimate—why was a single touch over clothing enough to throw him off balance like this now?
Su Hansheng didn’t understand matters of intimacy; he only knew this was a kind of emotion he couldn’t control. But it wasn’t the mania of his waking madness—it was something else entirely, and he had no idea what to make of it.
“Maybe I just need to sleep.”
Su Hansheng thought: whenever he slept, his dreams always took him back to the Infinite Hell and Chongjue’s company—perhaps he could find some answers there.
With this thought, the fatigue that had been ignored suddenly overwhelmed him, dragging him down into heavy sleep.
Su Hansheng was very used to being lucid in his dreams and enjoying passion, but this time, when he opened his eyes—
Instead of the Infinite Hell’s endless darkness, it was the shrine behind Wendao Academy?
Su Hansheng froze.
This dream was different.
Here, there was sunlight spilling through the windows. Su Hansheng tentatively lifted a hand, half wanting to see if the sun would burn him.
But before he could, someone grabbed him from behind and hauled him back into the shade.
He felt the familiar embrace and craned his neck to look up. “Chongjue?”
Chongjue stood behind him, a black cloth covering his eyes, a strand of hair drifting over his flawless face, revealing pale eyes and a crimson mark on his brow. His lips, always so faintly mocking, moved as if to speak, then fell silent.
Su Hansheng frowned. “What’s wrong?”
Chongjue seemed different from the usual dream version—though he was still dressed in black, it was as if the puppet in his mind had gained a soul and refused to play its part.
“Su… Hansheng.”
Before Chongjue could finish, Su Hansheng suddenly said, “Wait.”
Chongjue, on the verge of exploding, ground out, “Wait for what?”
Su Hansheng carefully smoothed the disheveled black robes, took a deep breath, and gently laid his palm against the fabric over Chongjue’s heart.
Chongjue’s hands clenched in his sleeves—the pain and torment he’d struggled to suppress vanished, replaced by a cold smile. “Su Xiaoxiao, have you truly had enough of living?”
Su Hansheng shot him a look, knowing the man wouldn’t dare strike him in a dream. “As if you didn’t know—I’ve had enough for ages.”
Last time, he’d even killed himself right in front of this man—why ask such a stupid question?
Su Hansheng treated this man as nothing but a dream, not realizing that the figure in black had gone utterly rigid—as if remembering something, the ferocity in his pale eyes suddenly shattered.
Su Hansheng pressed a hand to his heart, thoughtful. “No, that’s not right. Touching your chest in the dream didn’t feel strange at all.”
Chongjue began, “You—”
“Don’t talk.” Su Hansheng covered his mouth, still puzzling. “What’s going on?”
Chongjue suddenly said, “Knock-knock.”
Su Hansheng glanced at him, confused. “You’re knocking? Or is this a joke?”
Chongjue only stared back, gaze icy as ever, then muttered again, “Knock-knock.”
Su Hansheng tilted his head. It took him a while to realize.
Knock. Knock.
Three times already, the morning bell for classes at Wendao Academy had rung.
Su Hansheng sat dumbfounded for a while before scrambling out of bed.
Ying Jianhua had already left at some point.
Yuan Qian’s medicine really had worked—Su Hansheng had sweated out his fever and was much cooler now.
The academy bell kept ringing.
Since starting at Wendao, Su Hansheng had hardly attended class on time. This time, he couldn’t afford to be late, so he dragged himself to Shang Shan Study Hall, trying to focus on the books and lectures.
Fortunately, morning classes were all talismanic script—subjects for which Su Hansheng, with his Fuli blood, needed little effort to understand.
He traced the patterns on a scroll, his eyes wandering to his right index finger. Tentatively, he picked up a brush and tried to copy out the phoenix-taming talisman Qifu Yin had taught him.
The Lanke Record’s talisman was fiendishly complex. It took Su Hansheng half a day of concentration just to sketch it halfway.
Eyes burning, he finally set the brush down and shook out his sore hand.
Talismanic script was dull, and many students in Shang Shan Study Hall were playing with their disciple seals on the message wall. Seeing the instructor absorbed in his own research, Su Hansheng sneaked out his disciple seal as well.
Leaning into the spiritual link, he typed out a message:
> Uncle, are you feeling better today?
He hesitated, erased it, and tried again:
> Chongjue, are the bone chains really gone?
Still dissatisfied, he erased that too, fussing with the text for a while before finally sending:
> Since I have no classes in the afternoon, I might as well go to the shrine and copy those three scrolls of scriptures.
“Hmm,” Su Hansheng murmured, pleased. “Perfect excuse, and it sounds natural.”
Absolutely no way anyone could guess his real intentions.
Chongjue didn’t reply.
Su Hansheng slumped over the desk, swishing his feet impatiently, waiting for a response.
But staring at it only made the wait unbearable, so he went back to copying talismanic script.
Even after finishing a new talisman, there was still no activity from the seal.
Su Hansheng nearly lost his temper, thinking, “If you’re going to ignore me, then I—”
Just then, the disciple seal lit up. He jabbed at it so fast his hand was a blur.
Chongjue’s reply was two words—written in a forceful, implacable hand:
> Not necessary.
Su Hansheng frowned at the curt tone, thinking, “Then I won’t go! Who wants to visit that dingy shrine, anyway? Nothing interesting, just monks chanting all day.”
As soon as class ended, he’d go find Yuan Qian, Wu Baili, and Qifu Zhao, and they’d head to Nian Nian’s—forget about Chongjue entirely; he wouldn’t get a second glance.
He drew himself up loftily, full of resolve and dignity.
After class, Yuan Qian bounced over. “Young Master! Ready for Nian Nian’s?”
Su Hansheng set his shoulders proudly. “No, I have something to do.”
Then, sheepishly, he set off for the shrine at a trot.
**
T/N: extra chapter (apologies for the delay T_T)