Feng Yun’ai sheathed her sword and descended, gathering Feng Rong’s corpse before ascending to the heights once more.
The body in her arms was cold. The branch protruding from Feng Rong’s ear was thin but rigid, resembling a spiked mace. It coiled around Feng Yun’ai’s arm, its sharp thorns shredding her clothes and drawing beads of blood.
This was far less painful than the injuries she had sustained during her years of training; as a child, she had been clumsy with the blade, and torn flesh was a common occurrence. Yet, in this fleeting moment, she felt a piercing ache in her heart.
Feng Rong was truly dead. After wounding her, the woman would never again coldly toss her a jar of ointment, nor would she ever offer words of concern.
Below, Sang Chencao looked up at the heights. She was uncharacteristically silent, the usual smirk missing from her lips. It was as if the world had suddenly grown dull and tedious, leaving her with nothing to do but listen to the wind and rain.
After settling Feng Rong’s body, Feng Yun’ai looked toward the jagged opening above, where a sliver of sky peeked through. She reached out and snapped off the half-broken branch that protruded outside.
The branch was covered in thorns. Caught off guard, she felt a sharp sting in her fingertip as a tiny bead of blood welled up.
Without the flower blocking the way, more sunlight filtered through the gap. It felt like the mysteries surrounding them were finally beginning to clear.
Everything was about to be revealed.
Feng Yun’ai gazed down at Feng Rong for a long time. Finally, she snapped the thick branch in her hand and tucked the headless Golden-Wanderer Eternal Flower into her sleeve.
“Are you keeping that flower?” Sang Chencao asked with a light laugh.
Feng Yun’ai gave a low grunt of affirmation. “I won’t let another’s flesh and blood go to waste,” she said calmly.
“You really do have the heart of a saint, Xiuxiu,” Sang Chencao said, her tone airy.
Feng Yun’ai didn’t respond. She gently brushed aside the leaves near Feng Rong’s neck and carefully propped up the branch extending from her ear. She guided the partially bloomed flower through the hole in the sword’s hilt, using it to replace the one she had just removed.
This flower was nearly identical to the previous one. Unless someone was observing with extreme scrutiny, they wouldn’t be able to tell the difference at a glance.
Furthermore, the Golden-Stone Heavy Sword was tall and difficult to climb. The small flower at its peak was like a giant’s fingernail; unless one climbed up for a close look, who could possibly recognize the swap?
A sudden thud sounded from below. Sang Chencao had lightly kicked the wooden bucket. “Should we give the Alliance Leader a taste of this ‘nourishment’?” she asked calmly.
Just the sound of the bucket being moved made Feng Yun’ai feel as though she could smell the stench of the contents. She frowned. “Do not let such filth defile my Master.”
“Fair enough. Your Master is made of flesh and blood, after all; I suppose she doesn’t need external blood to sustain her,” Sang Chencao said slowly. “It’s just a pity she’ll have to suffer staying in there for a few days.”
“It doesn’t matter,” Feng Yun’ai said, casting one last deep look at the corpse. She didn’t dare reach out to smooth Feng Rong’s brow.
“Time to go.” Sang Chencao glanced at her lazily and yawned as she waved her hand. She didn’t seem cold or disdainful, merely like an indifferent bystander.
Feng Yun’ai descended from the high stone platform. Once they were outside the stone sword, she and Sang Chencao worked together to move the mechanism back into place.
Fortunately, the next few days passed without incident. Sang Chencao did indeed leave the Dieshan Alliance briefly; when she returned, she looked quite pleased with herself, mentioning that she had drugged the two disciples again. They wouldn’t be returning anytime soon.
After several days in disguise, Feng Yun’ai was no longer as uncomfortable as she had been at the start. She sat in the courtyard, watching the clouds drift by. Without turning her head, she asked, “Are we to stay here until the Hero Recruitment Meet begins?”
“I take it you don’t want anything to go wrong, do you?” Sang Chencao sat down beside her, a flower she had plucked from somewhere dangling from her mouth.
The nectar had already been drained, and the petals had been chewed a few times, staining her lips a vivid, succulent red.
She was currently wearing someone else’s face. Had she been in her true form, she would have looked devastatingly seductive.
Feng Yun’ai glanced over, her gaze lingering for a fraction of a second on the flower juice staining the other woman’s lips.
Sang Chencao bit down on the flower, her eyes sparkling with amusement. “I’ll bring you one next time,” she said, her voice muffled. “It’s quite sweet.”
Someone approached the courtyard. The footsteps were uneven—likely the disciples returning from their shift.
Feng Yun’ai composed herself, shedding her aloofness, though her back remained as straight as an arrow. “What does it taste like?” she asked, feigning casualness.
“There’s still some left in my mouth. Do you want to taste it?” Sang Chencao suddenly leaned in incredibly close. The flower in her mouth almost brushed against Feng Yun’ai’s lips.
Before Feng Yun’ai could lean back to avoid her, the sound of a ceramic jar shattering echoed from nearby.
The crash was exceptionally sharp.
A young woman stood frozen in place, looking helpless. Broken shards of pottery lay at her feet. Her face was flushed deep red, and her eyes darted around, unsure of where to look.
The disciple beside her looked at her suspiciously, then glanced toward Feng Yun’ai and Sang Chencao, offering a stiff nod of greeting.
The blushing woman seemed to want to say something, but she remained silent, squatting down to pick up the shards with a crimson face.
Her companion knelt to help. After a moment, the companion pressed the back of her hand to the woman’s forehead. “You don’t have a fever,” she muttered, puzzled. “Why is your face so red all of a sudden?”
The woman gathered the shards in a handkerchief and dragged her companion toward their room with stiff steps. Only then did she finally let out a long breath of relief.
Feng Yun’ai glanced at the closed door. She had a faint memory of that woman but didn’t understand why she was acting so strangely today.
Sang Chencao was still leaning in. Now, the petals were fully pressed against Feng Yun’ai’s lips. As Sang Chencao spoke, her lips moved, making the flower feel like a living thing as it lightly scraped against Feng Yun’ai’s skin.
“Actually, forget it. I don’t want to bring you one next time. If you want to taste it, come and take it yourself. What do you say, Xiuxiu?”
Feng Yun’ai snapped back to her senses, her body going rigid. She turned her head away. “No.”
She truly couldn’t stand this person saying such things while wearing another’s face—especially since their posture was more intimate than ever before.
