Chapter Fifty-Eight: The Road Home

Turning through winding corridors, Zhou Yu followed behind Nan Fenglang, his gaze lingering upon her voluptuous and well-proportioned silhouette. He could not help but marvel inwardly—she was truly enchanting to the extreme.

Upon reaching a waterside pavilion built over a small river, Nan Fenglang came to a halt. She stood by the plain wooden railing, her hands white and delicate as scallion stalks bracing against the banister. With her back to Zhou Yu, she asked softly, “Did you...?”

“He?” Zhou Yu was momentarily taken aback, not quite understanding.

“His hand...” Nan Fenglang’s voice trembled ever so slightly.

Suddenly enlightened, Zhou Yu realized she was asking about Liu Yueming. But how could he divulge such matters? He replied, “What is it that you already know?”

Nan Fenglang turned around, leaning back against the railing. Her eyes fixed unblinkingly upon the tips of her white shoes peeking from under her skirt. After a moment’s silence, she asked, “Did he really lose his hand? Without his hand, he can’t wield a sword. Without a sword, where can he go? What can he do? Do you know where he is? I want to find him.”

Zhou Yu had always believed women to be the world’s greatest actors, yet the worry Nan Fenglang now displayed was utterly genuine, untainted and only so composed because she was forcing herself to hold back.

He sighed, his gaze drifting to the verdant lotus leaves floating on the river. “His right hand was indeed severed by Liu Wujian. When he left, I was unconscious, so I do not know where he went...”

Suddenly, a sob broke the silence. Zhou Yu glanced at Nan Fenglang and saw two streams of tears, clear as pearls, rolling down her cheeks. Though she bit her lip tightly, desperately trying not to cry aloud, a sob still escaped her.

That sound twisted one’s heart. No longer able to restrain herself, Nan Fenglang squatted down, hugging her knees, her face buried deep in her dress as she wept.

Watching this incredibly alluring woman shuddering more violently with each sob—listening to those broken, ever-louder cries—Zhou Yu was moved. Even the corners of his own eyes grew moist.

It was early summer. The lotus leaves on the river floated like jade plates atop the green water. In the waterside pavilion stood a woman as beautiful as a flower, weeping...

From Nan Fenglang, Zhou Yu learned that, in this incident with the Sacred Beast, Ling Realm had lost both soldiers and generals—the beast had escaped, several outstanding disciples were lost, and Hua Queyue was gravely injured, raising the cost to an unprecedented height. Practitioners as skilled in healing as Hua Queyue were rare, and he had already set both feet in the ranks of B-level masters. If not for Liu Wujian, Hua Queyue would have been the brightest star and most powerful among the younger generation.

But there were no ifs. Hua Queyue was ruined.

The meridians in his arms were destroyed, most of the bones crushed. Even with the secret medicines and elixirs of Ling Realm, such wounds were hard to heal. It was not until half a year later that Hua Queyue could perform the simplest of movements with his hands.

Much happened during that half-year.

On the third day after Zhou Yu’s return to Ling Realm, the old man came back.

His bloodshot eyes and mane of white hair made him look like a giant albino rabbit. Without a word, he swept past Zhou Yu at the door, heading straight inside.

Zhou Yu, holding a large plain bun, stared after his master, dumbfounded. Did he not care to even glance at his own disciple, or was something inside more important?

Soon, a ruckus erupted inside—boxes and drawers thrown open—then a triumphant shout. The old man burst out, his face now as red as his eyes and neck.

“Found it... Thank heavens I have two wine flasks!”

He uncorked one, tipped his head back, and poured it down his throat as if drinking water.

Watching his master guzzle like a parched ghost, Zhou Yu said helplessly, “So it was wine... Worth more than me, apparently.”

After draining half the flask in a single draught, the old man slammed it on the stone table outside, wiped his mouth on his sleeve, snatched Zhou Yu’s bun, and devoured it ravenously.

Zhou Yu brought out a large plate of buns, setting them on the table. Thus, their reunion became an unspoken, audience-free contest of eating.

When the last bun was gone, master and disciple both rubbed their bellies and smiled at one another—everything understood without words.

Some days later, all the search parties sent by Ling Realm had returned. The major sects and factions gathered once more in the council hall.

Jin Buhuan, fully recovered, sat at the head of the hall in a golden robe, chin resting on his hand, gaze lost in the sunlight streaming inside—so absorbed he did not notice the room had filled.

By then, the events of the struggle for the Sacred Qilin and its aftermath had spread to every ear. The Beast Sect accused Ling Realm of betrayal and left the alliance in outrage, refusing further aid against the Demon Clan. Morrison departed with them.

Hua Queyue was crippled, Liu Wujian vanished, and rumor had it even the Elder Tianxing was seriously wounded.

Liu Wujian had cut off his own son Liu Yueming’s arm, yet Liu Yueming had unexpectedly been recognized by the Sacred Qilin as its master.

Even the ancient power Xuan Zhan, missing for a century, had been summoned, and a mysterious black-robed demon had appeared.

Tales and rumors spread swiftly among hushed conversations.

Suddenly, a cough broke Jin Buhuan’s reverie and the murmurs of the messengers.

A corpulent figure appeared at the council hall’s entrance—Elder Tianxing. Two disciples in white Ling Realm garb immediately fetched a chair for him, then closed the heavy redwood doors.

With a creak of the hinges, Tianxing plopped onto the specially-made chair, which bent slightly but did not break.

His bulk seemed to overflow, yet he exuded a mountain-like presence.

“What thoughts have you all?” Tianxing began the meeting with a simple question. Jin Buhuan remained silent throughout.

In the end, the council reaffirmed the alliance against the Demon Clan. The absent Ling Realm master, Ling Youzi, was named leader; Liu Wujian and Liu Yueming were declared wanted fugitives, and all factions were assigned their responsibilities. The Nan Feng family, situated far to the south and skilled in Wind Mastery, was tasked with logistics and monitoring the Beast Sect, which now harbored rebellious intentions.

While the meeting convened, Zhou Yu was in Hua Queyue’s room discussing cultivation. Though crippled, Hua Queyue’s own strength and experience were unmatched.

Taking Zhou Yu’s specific circumstances into account, Hua Queyue devised a thorough training regimen for him, focusing on raw power. With his arms unsealed and vast energy reserves, Zhou Yu’s arms were his greatest asset. Though officially still F-rank, he could now unleash C-rank combat strength in brief bursts.

He could also use his master’s Blood Sword technique to extend this window. Combined with Du Niang’s electric attacks, Zhou Yu could stand toe-to-toe with most C-rank foes; if he used the Clone Technique, his odds of victory increased.

“In this way, you’ve reached a very strong level. If you keep training and lengthen your bursts, your strength will match that of a lower Demon General,” Hua Queyue said from his bed, his face pale but spirit undiminished—no sign of despair despite his ruined hands.

“Thank you,” Zhou Yu said sincerely. Repaying kindness and avenging wrongs—these were his guiding principles.

“No need for thanks. You came first in the competition, so by custom you’re my junior disciple now. This is only fitting,” Hua Queyue replied with a gentle smile.

“How is your injury?” Zhou Yu was puzzled by Hua Queyue’s composure. Shouldn’t someone so powerful, now crippled, be devastated?

Hua Queyue raised his bandaged hands. “Few know my left hand’s secret. To others, I’m merely wounded—not destroyed. I don’t care how others see me, but since I once broke through the meridians in my left arm and benefited immensely, I believe I can do so again—this time with both arms.”

Zhou Yu nodded. “I only managed to break through with your help. I’m sure you can succeed again.”

“Perhaps, but the pain and risks... To be honest, I’m not eager to endure them again,” Hua Queyue admitted, shifting slightly.

Doubts, dark as storm clouds, gathered in Zhou Yu’s mind. He hesitated, but his thoughts did not escape Hua Queyue’s notice.

With a sigh, Hua Queyue said, “You’re clever. Sometimes, it’s better not to dig too deeply.”

Hearing this, Zhou Yu felt no resentment—only relief. Curiosity kills the cat. It was his own curiosity and impulse that had led him to follow Nan Fenglang to capture the Sacred Qilin, nearly getting his master killed. That lesson taught him: without strength, this world is truly dangerous. The only answer is to grow stronger, and fast.

As Hua Queyue said, Zhou Yu now possessed, for brief moments, the strength of a low-ranking Demon General. But he couldn’t maintain it, so quick, decisive battles were essential. Until he could advance further, he resolved to focus on extending his burst duration—mastering energy flow and maximizing efficiency, the two hardest aspects of cultivation. Yet Zhou Yu was not one to accept defeat.

After chatting a while longer, Zhou Yu took his leave.

As the door closed softly behind him, the corners of Hua Queyue’s mouth drooped, his brows knit. He sighed quietly, “Being too clever isn’t always a good thing...”

Outside, Zhou Yu’s expression was grave, his back slightly damp. When he’d nearly voiced his question, he had sensed a chilling murderous intent rise from Hua Queyue, so he’d held his tongue.

At that moment, a voice spoke: “You should trust your own judgment. Do what you wish. Become who you want to be. Otherwise, all I’ve sacrificed for you would be for nothing, wouldn’t it?”