“You cold-blooded, heartless monster!”
Ming Zhao let out a faint sneer. He walked over to the weakened Ming Zhu and sat cross-legged on the ground beside him, saying nonchalantly, “If I were truly cold-blooded and heartless, I would have let Xi Chu kill you the moment he saw you. I certainly wouldn't have let you stand here and lecture me on right and wrong.”
Ming Zhu froze. Only then did he realize why Xi Chu, who clearly intended to kill him, had stopped short upon drawing near. That cryptic phrase, *“I cannot kill you,”* had been because this old bastard was secretly protecting him.
The thought only fueled Ming Zhu’s disgust. With a flick of his finger, the Kua Yu Sword, which had been hovering in mid-air, suddenly streaked back into his hand. He gripped it and pressed the blade directly against Ming Zhao’s throat. Because his limbs were still weak, the sword nearly slipped from his grasp, but he quickly regained his composure.
“I don’t need your hollow kindness,” Ming Zhu said coldly.
Ming Zhao didn't spare the razor-sharp blade a single glance. Instead, as if nothing were wrong, he reached out toward Ming Zhu. “Give me the Neidan.”
Ming Zhu almost laughed from sheer rage. He pressed the Kua Yu Sword down, the edge slicing into Ming Zhao’s neck and leaving a thin trail of blood. “So you really did come for Xi Chu’s Neidan. What’s the matter? Has the famous Manor Lord Ming failed to even seize a mere Spirit-Suppressing Lamp, such that he must shamelessly beg a junior like me for scraps?”
Manor Lord Ming’s expression remained unchanged. He looked at Ming Zhu with a frigid gaze. Ming Zhu’s androgynous face was filled with a rare, feral ferocity—like a young cub who feared no death, squaring off against a terrifying, monstrous beast.
“Son,” Ming Zhao said slowly, “you denounce me as cold-blooded and heartless. But have you ever considered that you, who carry the blood of such a man, could ever be a good person?”
“I am nothing like you,” Ming Zhu spat.
“Blood ties, my son,” Ming Zhao said in a haunting tone. “On the surface, you appear gentle and harmless. But in truth, the cold, unfeeling blood flowing in your marrow will, sooner or later, turn you into a heartless, emotionless monster as well.”
“Shut up!”
Ming Zhao blinked, watching as Ming Zhu gasped for breath. He mercifully refrained from further provocation, fearing the boy might actually faint.
It took a long time for Ming Zhu’s breathing to steady. He let out a cold laugh. “Since you killed Mother with your own hands all those years ago, why are you putting on this pathetic act of trying to bring her back now? Aren't you afraid that if she truly returns to life, she’ll condemn you for the sanctimonious hypocrite you are?”
At this moment, Ming Zhu felt nothing but hatred for Ming Zhao. He aimed his words specifically at Ming Zhao’s "reverse scales," each syllable intended to pierce the heart. “Everyone under heaven knows you are a piece of scum who murdered his wife and abandoned his son. Mother is dead. Who are you putting on this display of devotion for? If her spirit is watching from above, she would surely find it disgust—”
Before Ming Zhu could finish, Ming Zhao, who had been watching with cold detachment, suddenly reached out and gripped the Kua Yu Sword at his throat. With a slight application of force, the sharp blade let out a low, trembling hum at his touch.
Ming Zhao looked up, his demon eyes filled with a sinister gloom. “Shut up.”
Seeing that Ming Zhao had finally torn away his false mask, Ming Zhu felt suffocated by the terrifying killing intent radiating from the man. Yet, he broke into an unprecedented fit of laughter. “Shut up? Why should I shut up? Did I say something wrong, or did I strike a nerve, Manor Lord Ming? The things you did back then—”
Ming Zhao wrenched the Kua Yu Sword from Ming Zhu’s weakened grip. He looked at the reckless youth with a chilling expression. “Zhu’er, I have committed so many atrocities that I truly wouldn't mind adding ‘kin-slayer’ to my titles. Do you wish to provoke me further?”
Ming Zhu’s cultivation was nothing compared to Ming Zhao, who had already reached the Mahayana Stage. Facing a man who had clearly developed a murderous intent, Ming Zhu parted his lips in a wild, defiant smile.
“Come then,” he whispered. “Try it.”
Ming Zhao expressionlessly grabbed him by the collar and stepped onto the edge of the high tower. He held Ming Zhu suspended in mid-air, the fierce winds howling around them and whipping their robes into a frenzy.
“This isn't the moat,” Ming Zhao said coldly. “If I let go, you’ll end up just like that little fox—a pile of shattered bones and mangled flesh. Well? Do you want to try?”
Ming Zhu, who should have been paralyzed by fear, was trembling all over, yet he found a surge of courage from some unknown depth. He stared deathly into Ming Zhao’s eyes and hissed, “Let go, then.”
“You…”
Ming Zhao held him with an outstretched arm, the bright moon hanging behind them as the gale roared past.
“Just let go. See if I’ll cry and beg you like I did ten years ago!”
Time slowed. Cold sweat had soaked Ming Zhu’s clothes, but he continued to glare at Ming Zhao, refusing to yield. This brief moment was perhaps the most audacious of Ming Zhu’s life. He was facing his two greatest fears simultaneously—death and heights—yet he did not wail or succumb to terror. Instead, bolstered by a sudden, fierce pride, he stood his ground against the ferocious beast.
After a moment, Ming Zhao lowered his eyes slightly and let out a scoff. He reverted to his usual lazy, nonchalant demeanor. “The boy is grown; he really is difficult to discipline.”
As he spoke, he casually threw Ming Zhu back toward the clock tower behind them, showing no mercy.
Ming Zhu’s body felt like water. His back slammed hard against the stone wall, the impact spider-webbing the masonry. Even though he couldn't feel the full extent of the pain, he couldn't stop himself from coughing up a mouthful of blood. He felt as though his internal organs had been turned upside down.
By the time his dizzy vision cleared, the Kua Yu Sword had somehow pierced through his shoulder, pinning him firmly to the clock tower.
Inside his spiritual sea, the Kua Yu Sword was wailing and crying, apologizing incessantly. The noise turned Ming Zhu’s already muddled brain into a chaotic mess.
He gritted his teeth, his hands shaking as he tried to pull the sword out. “Shut up!”
The Kua Yu Sword trembled violently. Perhaps because the tip was embedded too deeply into the wall, Ming Zhu failed to budge it despite several attempts. Instead, he only made the wound more gruesome.
“Ming Zhao!”
Ming Zhao walked over leisurely, his pipe clenched between his teeth. He mumbled, “I remember when you were small, your mother once calculated your destiny.”
Ming Zhu’s head was spinning; he couldn't understand a word the man was saying. He struggled to lift his head and glare at him.
“Oh, you probably don't remember.” Ming Zhao leaned against the wall, sounding distracted. “Su Yan’s health was already failing back then. After calculating your fate once, she was bedridden for half a year. Ah Zhu, do you want to know what your destiny is?”
Ming Zhu breathed heavily, his face pale, his vision flickering with darkness.
Ming Zhao gently lifted Ming Zhu’s chin with the stem of his pipe and uttered four words.
“*Things go against heart.*”
Ming Zhu’s eyes snapped wide.
“A person with the destiny of ‘Things Go Against Heart’ lives their entire life as a joke,” Ming Zhao said, his eyes narrowing, his words like ice. “You will love but never reach; you will seek but never obtain. When you seek life, you shall find death; when you seek death, you shall live forever. Nothing will go as you wish; everything in this world will run contrary to your desires.”
Ming Zhu’s body began to shake violently. The piercing, harsh words of the man with the halberd from five years ago in the Hundred Sword Mountains echoed in his ears once more.
*“You shall never obtain what you seek in this life… those you love shall be buried like withered jade, and those you hate shall live for a hundred years…”*
Ming Zhao watched him struggle desperately to pull the sword from his shoulder, his eyes devoid of pity or sympathy. “Things go against heart. One cannot defy destiny, Zhu’er.”
Ming Zhu’s blood-stained hands fell limp from exhaustion. He hissed with a cold laugh, “One cannot defy destiny? Then why are you trying to bring the dead back to the world of the living? Is that not defying destiny?”
Ming Zhao reached out and casually collected a few drops of blood from Ming Zhu’s wound. Then, he took the hairpin he had bought from Ye Weiai and tucked it into Ming Zhu’s disheveled hair.
“The one I want to resurrect,” he whispered, “was never Su Yan.”
Ming Zhu froze. Just as he was about to speak, the sound of a blade cutting through the air whistled past his ear. Ming Zhao turned lazily, black demonic energy swirling in his hand as he parried a longsword aimed at his vitals.
“Thirteen!” Ming Zhu cried.
Zhou Fuxue held the Wuxin Sword, his face as grim as still water as he lunged at Ming Zhao. With two sharp *clangs*, the demonic energy in Ming Zhao’s hand was actually dispersed by the strikes.
Ming Zhao looked at a small cut on his finger with curiosity, as if finding it amusing. He murmured, “Truly worthy of being the one I chose…”
When Zhou Fuxue saw Ming Zhu pinned to the wall and covered in blood, his eyes instantly turned red. Without a word, he raised his sword and tapped the void. The Wuxin Sword transformed into countless illusory shadows, surging toward Ming Zhao with unstoppable force.
To Ming Zhao, Zhou Fuxue’s meager cultivation was like a child’s play. Even the most ferocious sword intent hitting him felt like nothing more than an itch.
Ming Zhu struggled frantically, shouting, “Thirteen… Zhou Fuxue! Don't fight him head-on! Go down and find your Seventh Senior Brother…”
After a few exchanges, Zhou Fuxue also realized the gap between them. Yet his expression remained unchanged. With a wave of his hand, he shattered Ming Zhao’s demonic breath. His pupils constricted as he swung the Wuxin Sword down toward Ming Zhao at point-blank range.
“Fuxue!” Ming Zhu screamed.
By some dark sorcery, before the Wuxin Sword could touch Ming Zhao, it suddenly flew out of Zhou Fuxue’s palm. In an instant, the blade reversed, its tip coming to rest against Zhou Fuxue’s slender neck before he could react.
Ming Zhao nonchalantly flicked the tip of the Wuxin Sword, making the blade hum. He looked at Zhou Fuxue’s ashen face and smiled gently. “I wouldn't move if I were you. Otherwise, I can't guarantee you won't die by your own sword.”
Zhou Fuxue had been a stubborn soul since childhood, the type to swallow his own broken teeth rather than yield. He gritted his teeth, preparing to risk everything, when Ming Zhu’s cracked voice rang out from the side.
“Thirteen, Th—Thirteen, don't move! Don't move…” Cold sweat poured down Ming Zhu’s face. “He… he really will kill you. Please, don't move…”
Hearing the sheer terror in Ming Zhu’s voice, Zhou Fuxue reluctantly lowered his hands and stood frozen with a cold face.
Ming Zhao walked back to Ming Zhu and held out his hand. “Give me Xi Chu’s Neidan. I don't like repeating myself, as you know.”
Ming Zhu looked at him warily, his gaze flickering to Zhou Fuxue. After a long pause, he asked hoarsely, “You said just now… you aren't doing this to resurrect Mother. Then why did you seize the Spirit-Suppressing Lamp? Why do you want the demon Neidan? What is it all for?”
Ming Zhao arched an eyebrow. “Since when is it a son’s business to question his father?”
Beside them, Zhou Fuxue’s brow furrowed deeply. *They are father and son? Is there any father in the world who treats his own son like a piece of meat on a skewer?*
Ming Zhao was clearly determined not to speak. Seeing Ming Zhu’s wilted state, he let out an impatient click of his tongue and decided to take it himself.
“Zhu’er, when will you fix that stubborn, wretched temper of yours? I heard from Gui Ning that you’re usually quite gentle and easygoing.” Ming Zhao grumbled as he grabbed Ming Zhu’s tightly clenched left hand. “Could it be you’re only like this with me? Ah, that truly makes your father quite sad…”
The old bastard had seemingly forgotten who had just thrown his "gentle and easygoing" son—who was terrified of heights and death—from a tower, and who had heartlessly run him through with a sword.
Ming Zhu was exhausted, but his left hand still gripped the Neidan and the demon eye with a death grip.
Ming Zhao pried at the fingers but couldn't open them. Just as he was frowning, wondering if he should simply chop off his dear son’s hand, Ming Zhu suddenly struggled to lift his hand and placed it slowly against Ming Zhao’s chest.
Ming Zhao said, “Wouldn't it have been better to be this obedient from the start? You really are the type who needs a beating to learn—”
Before he could finish, the red lotus mark on Ming Zhu’s left hand suddenly erupted into a cluster of crimson flames. A sword wreathed in fire surged violently from the back of his hand, tearing through his own flesh in a spray of blood as it lunged straight for Ming Zhao’s heart.
Ming Zhao’s demon eyes shrank. In the blink of an eye, he threw himself backward, narrowly avoiding a fatal blow. However, the flames from the Red Lotus Sword still seared a bloody gash across his abdomen.
The Red Lotus Sword had remained inside Ming Zhu’s body ever since it entered him; this was the first time in over a decade it had emerged. The sharp blade had burst forth directly from his veins, leaving his entire hand a mangled mess of blood and exposed white bone—a truly horrific sight.
“Senior Brother!” Zhou Fuxue cried.
Ming Zhao clutched the bloody wound on his stomach. His pupils were constricted as he stared at Ming Zhu, who was now wreathed in the red lotus fire. Despite being wounded, his expression was strangely delighted. He let out a chilling, rasping laugh. “Yes… my precious son. Just like that. That is how the Red Lotus Sword is meant to be used.”
With Ming Zhao heavily injured, his control over the Kua Yu Sword broke. Ming Zhu wrenched the sword out of his shoulder and tossed it aside.
Covered in blood, he took a step toward Ming Zhao. The flaming Red Lotus Sword hummed, flying to his side and seemingly merging with the red lotus fire beneath his feet.
Ming Zhao was actually still smiling. “Zhu’er, you are so good, so obedient. Your father was right to give the Red Lotus to you instead of Fu Hua all those years ago.”
Ming Zhu slowly raised his head, his face a mask of blood. It was unclear if he was still lucid, but he slowly curled his lips into a sinister, demonic smile that was the exact mirror of Ming Zhao’s.
“Don't you love making people die by their own weapons?”
His mangled left hand twitched slightly. Guided by his will, the Red Lotus Sword lunged toward Ming Zhao once more.
Ming Zhu wore a twisted, arrogant smile. “Then dying by your own former blade… that should bring you great pleasure, shouldn't it?”
“Father…”
***
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