Ch72 - A Fortune Beyond Measure

It was silence all around.

Zou Chi walked through the moonlight, green robes fluttering, talismanic script flashing across them like fireflies striking flame, erupting into brilliant sparks.

Behind him, a man in a black cloak loped forward, a wide hood hiding half his face, revealing only pale lips.

He drawled, “Why do you still cling to this body? I could teach you the Lanke Record’s body-stealing technique, and you could find a new one.”

Zou Chi glanced sidelong. Moonlight revealed a deathly pallor, blood seeping from all seven orifices—as if he were at death’s door.

No, as if he were already dead.

“Don’t go too far,” Zou Chi said mildly. “Chongjue really will kill you.”

“He’s killed me twice already.” The man sneered. “That bastard, he should have died with Su Xuanlin in Infinite Hell. Why did you risk saving him?”

Zou Chi snapped, “All these years in prison, and you still haven’t learned to shut that mouth?”

Just as the other was about to retort, a sudden Buddhist seal shot up the steps, smashing him off his feet.

Zou Chi caught him before he tumbled down the mountain path.

The man, clearly unsteady in this new body, righted himself with a snarl—“Wen Jingyu!”

At the top of the stairs, Chongjue stood, white robes loose on his shoulders, moonlight giving the lotuses embroidered there a startling, living shimmer. His face, usually suffused with detached compassion, now bore only an eerie amusement as he looked down at the pair below.

“It seems your mouth really does need a beating. Silence doesn’t come easily to you.”

Qifu Yin irritably yanked back his hood, revealing the face that belonged to Qifu Zhao—gentle features, but his amber eyes burned with a beast’s ferocity.

“Eight thousand feet underground, the Abyssal Infinite Hell—what a perfect place. Pity you weren’t buried there.”

Chongjue smiled, idly gathering his robes, a strange, unfamiliar mirth flickering across his face. “A fine place indeed. Thanks to the malice of all those whose kin you dragged down with you, I was able to condense a true body.”

Qifu Yin froze. His pupils flashed crimson. “You killed them?!”

“No.” A crimson mark seemed to bleed between Chongjue’s brows; the shadows of his lashes cut across his cheek like a blade. He lowered his voice, smiling. “I took all their poisons and desires into myself, let their malice become one with mine… That isn’t ‘killing.’ I granted them immortality at my side.”

Qifu Yin gaped.

Zou Chi, too, was stunned.

A decade ago, Chongjue’s malice had not run so deep.

Qifu Yin’s eyes burned red, a murderous aura radiating in waves. He trembled with rage. “How… how dare you!”

Chongjue, as if others’ suffering were fodder for his own pleasure, chuckled, lips curving. “You should thank Su Xuanlin.”

Qifu Yin glared.

Chongjue descended, stopping a single step above Qifu Yin, looking directly into those amber eyes. “If he hadn’t dragged me into Infinite Hell, your kin would still be happily slaughtering each other there like beasts.”

Qifu Yin’s killing intent surged. “Wen Jingyu! You—!”

Zou Chi, sensing disaster, stepped between them. “A-Yin!”

Qifu Yin’s glare shimmered—for just an instant, it seemed wet. “They had nothing to do with my crimes. They were innocent—!”

kCOyqlDJ hDm Cfo OAA LNpfLe: “WCfhC fI ECe v tJLJNIJz mCJo EfmC cDzzCfIm IJNLI. jOD ICODLz mCNyX oJ.”

s mNImJ OA ftOy tOIJ fy ZfAD jfy’I mCtONm, LfRI gLOOzLJII. “jOD…”

nOt OyhJ, mCJ oNy ECO yJFJt tNy ODm OA hLJFJt tJmOtmI hODLz OyLe ImDmmJt, “jOD… eOD…”

“iw xMMt.”

kCOyqlDJ mOeJz EfmC mCJ LNIm AODt RtNeJt gJNzI LJAm Oy mCJ Imtfyq, hNIDNLLe ALfhXfyq mCJo NqNfyIm ZfAD jfy’I ANhJ, JFJte qJImDtJ OOpfyq mCJ zfIzNfy Nyz zOofyNyhJ OA N oNy ECO’z yJFJt XyOEy JUDNLI.

dJ IofLJz ANfymLe, FOfhJ IOAm Nyz qJymLJ.

“Vp V wZwC nwgC Pnw bMCt ‘wjw’ pCMJ jMd gxgfO, V’rr TwOt jMd TPCgfxnP PM Pnw IwrrMb UWCfOxT PM CwdOfPw bfPn jMdC krgOTJwO.”

Qifu Yin went rigid, watching dumbly as Chongjue turned and walked unhurriedly away.

The four amber beads tumbled onto a pile of dead leaves, glinting like two pairs of strange eyes.

***

Su Hansheng rolled over in bed, half-asleep, when suddenly he clapped a hand to his eyes—a sharp pain had jolted him awake.

Had the Lanke Record somehow survived, coming back to claim his eye?

He scrambled up, bleary-eyed, and tried to summon his companion tree to fetch a mirror.

But after concentrating for a long while, not a single branch appeared.

Baffled, he finally looked around and realized he was in the shrine’s guest quarters on the back hill.

This was Chongjue’s territory—even if the Lanke Record was still alive, he wouldn’t dare come here for a single eye.

Su Hansheng covered his left eye to test his right—it could still see. At last, he relaxed.

The morning bell rang once.

Su Hansheng hurriedly dressed and got ready for class, but as soon as his foot touched the floor, a flash of red on his ankle caught his attention.

Lifting his right leg, he tugged up his underrobe—there was a strange red mark on the inside of his ankle.

It looked… like a bite?

He shook his head, horrified at his own imagination.

There was no way a bite would show up on his ankle—especially in the World-Honored One’s guest quarters.

“It’s probably just a bug bite,” Su Hansheng muttered, rubbing at the tiny red spot. “This place hasn’t been used in centuries, so bugs are only natural. I’ll go to the infirmary after class for ointment.”

He stopped worrying, changed, and ran to the shrine.

Chongjue, whether from sleeplessness or early rising, was already seated on a cushion, making tea. A plate of pastries sat on the low table—from who knew where.

Su Hansheng, emboldened by Chongjue’s indulgence the previous day, plopped down across from him without bothering to bow, beaming. “Good morning, Uncle!”

Chongjue responded with a faint “Mm.” “You didn’t finish copying the scriptures yesterday. You can come again at three ke past noon to continue.”

Su Hansheng nodded, grabbing a pastry and stuffing it in his mouth.

Halfway through, he suddenly paused. “How did Uncle know I’d be done with class at three ke past noon?”

Shangshan Study Hall’s schedule changed daily—sometimes classes ran into the night, sometimes they ended at noon. Today, he only had two classes in the afternoon, both ending exactly at that time.

Chongjue passed him a cup of tea, eyes downcast. “Zou Chi told me.”

Su Hansheng couldn’t fathom why the vice dean would relay such trivialities, but he didn’t ask, just munched on the pastry and scratched absently at his itchy ankle, brow furrowing.

“What’s wrong?” Chongjue asked.

“There are bugs in the guest quarters,” Su Hansheng mumbled. “My ankle hurts and itches.”

Chongjue’s hand paused as he poured; a faint, indulgent smile curved his lips.

“Where were you bitten? Let me see.”

Su Hansheng, pastry between his teeth, casually tugged up his robe and pointed to his ankle. “Here.”

Chongjue studied it. “It bled?”

“I think so.” Su Hansheng craned his neck to look. “It doesn’t hurt that much.”

Chongjue sighed, took ointment from his storage ring, drew Su Hansheng’s slender ankle onto his lap, and began to apply the salve himself.

Su Hansheng nearly choked on his pastry. “N-No need, Uncle! It’s just a little wound, it’ll go away by itself in half a day.”

Chongjue’s fingers tightened abruptly, stopping Su Hansheng from pulling away.

Su Hansheng hissed. “Uncle—?”

Then, as if catching himself, Chongjue loosened his grip to a casual, unavoidable hold, expression unaffected.

“Don’t be ridiculous.”

Su Hansheng realized he’d overreacted and chided himself for his own indecent thoughts.

It was just salve—not like in his past life, when he’d been pinned down by the ankle and pounced on.

He tried to look nonchalant, sitting up straighter and sipping his tea.

Perfectly calm—except that his trembling hands spilled half the cup.

Chongjue rubbed the ointment into the mark on Su Hansheng’s ankle, fingers cool and smooth as jade. The warmth seeped in, the red mark growing redder.

It might have just been Su Hansheng’s imagination, but Chongjue’s fingertip lingered at the anklebone, lashes lowered, eyes unreadable.

Su Hansheng shook his foot. “Uncle, it’s fine. It doesn’t hurt anymore.”

From Su Hansheng’s angle, he couldn’t see Chongjue’s dark eyes, turbulent and fixed intently on that ankle.

But when Chongjue met his gaze, the look was as cool and unfathomable as snow atop Mount Sumeru, as if veiled in mist.

Su Hansheng, catching his eye, looked away again, chagrined. “Why do I feel so guilty just looking? I’m not some lecher.”

Finally, Chongjue let go, wiping his fingers on a cloth, then absently flicked through his prayer beads.

Today, he’d changed his set again—but as his fingers moved, fragments crumbled silently to the floor.

“Thank you, Uncle.” Su Hansheng quickly pulled on his socks and shoes. “I’m going to be late—I’d better get to class.”

Chongjue smiled faintly. “Go ahead.”

Su Hansheng charged out the door.

But before he could leave the shrine, a translucent barrier appeared out of nowhere—with a thud, he slammed straight into it, nearly cracking his head open if he hadn’t managed to get his hands up just in time.

He patted the barrier, confused. “Uncle, the barrier’s still up.”

Inside, Chongjue, still seated on his cushion, now held only a string of silk—his last bead was gone, crushed in his palm. It took all his self-control not to keep Su Hansheng trapped inside forever.

A wisp of spiritual power drifted from the shrine to gently part the barrier.

Su Hansheng grabbed his books and skipped down the hill.

A muffled crash echoed through the shrine—the low table, the screen, all the furnishings, shattered into splinters.

Chongjue, alone in the wreckage, held his aching forehead, struggling to suppress the vicious wrath within.

Years of confinement in Infinite Hell had forged a malice that craved domination and destruction. Keeping that instinct in check in the world of men was nearly impossible.

Pain split through his temples; a drop of blood from the crimson mark between his brows traced a slow path down his nose.

At last, unable to bear Su Hansheng leaving his sight again, Chongjue swept to his feet and in a breath of black smoke, vanished.

The shrine’s barrier did not fade—instead, it spread outward, swallowing the entire campus of Wendao Academy.

***

Su Hansheng rushed all the way and just barely made it to Shangshan Study Hall as the final bell rang.

Early in the morning, all the students were groggy except Yuan Qian, who was still riding high from securing breakfast pastries. He beamed and offered one to Su Hansheng. “Young Master, the instructor said our last two classes are canceled.”

Su Hansheng frowned. “Why?”

“No class is good,” Yuan Qian said. “Why question it? We went to the ink workshop market yesterday—the Autumn Festival is coming up, and Motai Studio has brought in new goods. Want to go check it out? We can get Qifu Zhao too.”

Su Hansheng put on a solemn face and turned a page of his book. “I can’t afford to waste any more time on idle pleasures…”

Nearby, Wu Baili added in a dry tone, “They say Motai Studio got two Divine Tree Vines, both over three thousand years old. Going to the highest bidder.”

Su Hansheng shut his book at once. “Let’s go after class. For your sake, I’d risk bankruptcy for a vine so you can reclaim your title as the Divine, Hundred-Shot Marksman.”

Wu Baili shot him a look. “Be serious. How much do you have now?”

If it wasn’t enough, maybe the three of them could pool their savings for one vine.

Su Hansheng pulled out his pouch and rummaged inside, producing a handful of spirit stones.

“…Is this enough?”

Wu Baili stared at the handful of faintly glowing stones on the table. “Perhaps you’d better hold onto this ‘colossal fortune,’ Young Master, lest someone eyes it and decides a little murder is worth it.”

Su Hansheng: “…”

**