Three’s Company (8)

Before Lin Qianshuang could digest the full meaning of Mu Weiyin’s words, the woman released her hand. The fleeting emotion that had glimmered in those ice-cold eyes vanished; she was once again the untouchable beauty carved from frost.

Disciples of the Emotionless Path sever every thread of love and desire; such fiery feeling could only have been a trick of the light.

Lin Qianshuang was certain she had seen wrong.

Mu Weiyin said, “This City Lord once promised to take you to the Tianshu Sword Mound¹ to choose a suitable weapon. Now that you are my Tianshu Tower Master, I shall accompany you personally.”

In the great cultivation world, the hierarchy mirrors a predator’s chain: a mere step or two divides the weak from the strong, yet the gulf in power is vast, and the higher’s natural pressure strikes the lower like fang and claw.

So when Mu Weiyin stepped closer without warning, Lin Qianshuang’s nerves flared with nowhere to hide.

Lin Qianshuang could sense, faintly, that this was utterly unlike the spiteful demands Mu Weiyin had made during cultivation or the helpless protectiveness she had felt in the Penglai Immortal Sect’s underground tomb. Beneath the crushing pressure she could feel genuine tenderness and concern.

Perhaps this was more than mere exploitation.

The City Lord clearly knew the conditions for removing the Tianshu Mirror; if her words were turned around and spoken plainly, they sounded like a confession.

[“Everyone under heaven knows that I, Mu Weiyin, cultivate the Emotionless Path and dislike others drawing near; you are the only person besides Lanle permitted to stand at this City Lord’s side.”] Wasn’t that the same as saying: apart from Xiao Lanle, you are the one she loves most?

Then there was: [“If you want the Tianshu Mirror, come and take it yourself.”] Host, shift your viewpoint, that means stop hunting for matchmakers, what she wants is romance with you.

The System chimed in unbidden, its laughter syrupy and teasing. [Host, this mission is flowing with the current. See? The target already confessed her fondness. Xiao Lanle’s hatred for Mu Weiyin runs deep; without mutual affection how can Mu Weiyin ever truly feel? Why not go along with the tide?]

Lin Qianshuang hugged the Cold Cicada Zither tighter, looked toward the unseen system, and said, fingers pressed to the instrument, “My heart is small; it has room for only one person. Right now I can’t afford a single misstep. I would loathe myself, and my choice even more.”

Hell, Host, these people are all avatars your wife manifested after her primordial spirit split. Why hesitate? Finish the quest fast, that’s what matters. Boss is breathing down my neck, half his pay is frozen in the account, and he wants it before New Year.

Typical: the emperor isn’t worried but the eunuch is.²

The donkey-eared man perched on the desk nudged his slipping glasses, used the back-end OS to block the boss’s feed for ten seconds, and a glint flashed across the lenses. Time to bait the Host with a little lie. Meanwhile, on the other end, the system fell silent, then beeped a warning.

“Host, the Cold Cicada Zither will automatically disintegrate and vanish within ten days. Once Xuan Luowan’s soul disperses, the mission to rescue the designated target, Xuan Luoqing, will be judged a failure. You will suffer brain death in the real world and be completely erased from this one. Host, please take care!”

Lin Qianshuang froze. She remembered that when Xuan Luoqing handed her the zither, he had mentioned no deadline, only warned her to stay away from the Demon Region. Xuan Luowan was Xuan Luoqing’s own sister; if the two could share one body without harming each other, why would either willingly endanger the other?

Eyes pensive, she slid the Cold Cicada Zither back into her storage jade. The system had merely said the instrument would collapse; in a cultivation world that never played by the rules, a broken zither simply meant finding another soul-capable artifact.

She glanced thoughtfully at Mu Weiyin walking ahead. With a powerhouse city lord on hand, replacing Xuan Luowan’s vessel would hardly be a problem.

System: “%＊#*？@.”

It had only wanted to sharpen her vigilance and nudge her closer to the city lord, so why did the Host’s brain skip sideways, choosing the long road when the shortcut lay right in front of her?

Lin Qianshuang watched the system fall silent, vanish with a single beep, and then pursed her lips. When she’d first arrived, the system had acted like a novice-zone mentor, but as she grew familiar with this world and the rules behind its assignments, she began to suspect its motives. From the very start it had nudged her into goodwill-grinding tasks; by the time she sensed something off, she was already in too deep to pull free.

She pinched her chin and thought for a moment, coldly deliberate: trust the system’s words only when she must, lest she be led about by the nose.

The Sword Mound beneath Tianshu City was one of Mu Weiyin’s treasures. The ruins took the form of a soul lamp whose wick, deep-sea kraken oil, could burn for a thousand years. Now the pale-blue flame was guttering, revealing countless scraps of copper, iron, and lacquer half-buried in the ash, each flecked with the silvery glint of kraken scale.

Mu Weiyin walked ahead, lamp in hand. “Every weapon here possesses a spirit; some are ill-tempered. If you choose one and it does not respond, do not touch it again.”

Lin Qianshuang studied the artifacts flickering in and out of view. She had seen plenty of sentient arms before; The Purple Heavenly Sword, for instance, was the fiercest god-tier weapon she had encountered, retraction required a blood offering, and it would even rebel against its master and strike on its own.

Such divine blades were ancient and proud. A cheat-level prodigy like Liang Jingxuan still couldn’t fully control one; how could an ordinary human cultivator hope to manage it? One day the sword might seize its wielder and drive them into demonic madness.

She swept her gaze over the dense, glittering swarm of swords. A sword cultivator who fought close, she needed a blade that felt like her own hand; her quiet nature made her prefer letting the weapon choose her rather than the reverse.

Any spirit sword that answered her, whatever its rank, was the right one, later she could raise it with materials. Aside from Taotie, she had no other villain on her mind just now.

As she walked through the candle-ash drifts, Lin Qianshuang’s eyes regained their deep blue. A thread of demonic light spiraled into each pupil, and her consciousness unfurled as wisps of violet mist. They shaped themselves into two birds that wheeled above the ruins, wings wide, calling.

From a corner thick with broken blades came a sudden hum. The birds melted back into mist, whirled downward, and shrank into her palm.

Found it.

Joy flared in her chest; she quickened her steps toward the sound. Every weapon in this tomb had once belonged to someone, gathered by Mu Weiyin in her travels. To be chosen by one of them was rarer than rare.

The sword-tassel drifted down like a pale ribbon. A slender hand brushed the ashes from the blade, and the metal’s deep indigo gleam reappeared. Near the hilt, two unfamiliar runes remained, half-erased by soot.

Mu Weiyin perched on a snapped sword wedged in the lamp wall, watching Lin Qianshuang draw the Thousand Rain Sword. A faint smile shimmered in her dazed, midnight eyes.

A century after its forging, the sword meant for her had finally met its mistress.

Lin Qianshuang, Mu Qianyu, probably nothing more than a misunderstanding born in a downpour.

Through the marriage-and-life contract, their senses braided together; Mu Weiyin tasted Qianshuang’s quiet elation. The unfamiliar warmth struck her numbed heart, and her own lips curved without permission.

“Mu Weiyin, your failure to ascend isn’t a flaw in your Emotionless Path.”

“Then why?”

“Because you’re still missing the love tribulation you failed a hundred years ago. Find the one Heaven intended for you and the final gate of the Emotionless Path will open.”

Fifty years later those words spoken by the Heavenly Dao still echo inside Mu Weiyin. She once believed Xiao Lanle was that predestined person; thankfully, she did not miss her again and found her at last.

Seated on high, spine straight in meditation, Mu Weiyin says, “This sword is named Qianyu³, a water-aligned spirit blade that suits you. The sword-spirit is a stream sprite born in Kunlun’s Spirit Creek: docile, considerate, and in no need of taming.”

Lin Qianshuang, unable to set it down, flicks the weapon from hand to hand and bows in heartfelt gratitude. “Many thanks for the City Lord’s gift; your subordinate truly loves it.”

Mu Weiyin watches at leisure while Qianshuang tests the blade. The fierce arcs of her swordplay and the swift overlap of her steps make her look dashing, the scene slowly overlaying a corner of Mu Weiyin’s memory until her thoughts drifted.

A terrifying aura surging toward the Sword Mound snapped Mu Weiyin’s attention away; she slipped from the broken blade and reappeared at Lin Qianshuang’s side, instinctively catching her arm. “Someone’s outside. Leave the Mound, but stay on guard.”

Lin Qianshuang looked up. In the image cast by the Tianshu Mirror that Mu Weiyin had lifted into the air with a flick of her sleeve, Chen Sanxuan, Sect Leader of Lingxiao Sword Sect, stood beside Xiao Lanle. They were not alone: almost every great sect-head was gathered there. In front of them, the Buddhist temple’s Demon-Locking Pagoda roared with fire; smoke billowed skyward. At its blazing summit a black-cloaked youth stood calm, while a flood-dragon coiled up the tower and nuzzled his cheek.

With a sweep of his arm the youth hurled the Purple Heavenly Sword downward. The dark-violet blade struck the ground before the assembled cultivators, splitting stone and sending debris flying, forcing the crowd back several paces.

“She’s already dead,” he declared. “I’ve nothing left to fear.”

Liang Jingxuan gazed down, unclasped his cloak and let it fall, baring his face. He jabbed a finger toward the empty air. “Lord of Tianshu City, I know you’re peeping through your little mirror. Our score needs settling, show yourself!”

When no ripple answered his summons, fury flashed across Liang Jingxuan’s eyes. The flood-dragon tightened its coil; with a crack like thunder the pagoda snapped, crushed to rubble that thundered to the ground.

He sprang to the ground and drew the Purple Heavenly Sword, kicking the garish pink scabbard away. The kick seemed to sting his toes; he lost his footing and nearly sprawled flat.

Liang Jingxuan glared at the scabbard rolling in the dust, then swung toward the snickering cluster of disciples and rolled his eyes. “What’s so funny? Keep giggling and I’ll tear down every last Demon-Locking Pagoda!”

Among them, Xiao Lanle, Sect Leader of Penglai Immortal Sect and once his junior sister, should be the first to speak. She stepped forward without hesitation. While Liang Jingxuan muttered broken curses, contempt flickered across her eyes; her voice was ice. “Liang Jingxuan, you nearly ruined Penglai and loosed demons to drown the world in fire and blood. What fresh calamity do you crave now?”