These words were like a sudden thunderclap, plunging everyone—not just Feng Yun’ai—into a dead silence.
Feng Yun’ai’s hand, usually as steady as a mountain when holding a sword, gave an involuntary, microscopic tremble.
Though the movement was nearly imperceptible, it caused her blade to bite into the side of Zhou Gui’s neck, drawing a thread-like line of crimson.
Feng Yun’ai remained silent. She was naturally stoic, and with her face hidden behind the veiled hat, no one could guess what she was thinking.
The blood feud between the Borderlands and the Central Plains martial arts world had not faded in the slightest over the years. Even now, merely mentioning it over tea was enough to make people’s eyes turn red with rage.
It was an eternal scar on the world of martial arts, like the roots of an ancient tree that only grew deeper in the hearts of the people.
Sang Chencao, sitting behind the red-lacquered long table, let out a scoff. It cut through the silence like a cold arrow. “Why only ask her and not me?” she asked with casual nonchalance. “Is it because I’m not wearing a veiled hat?”
The monks from Cuiyu Temple in the distance had long reached the end of their patience. Hearing this, their leader barked out a single word: “Demoness!”
Sang Chencao gave a soft “shush.” “Let’s set personal grievances aside for a moment.”
Feng Yun’ai did not withdraw her sword despite Zhou Gui’s deliberate provocation. She asked coldly, “What does this have to do with you harming Feng Rong?”
Though Zhou Gui had regained her senses, she still looked half-mad. She laughed. “It’s true that Feng Rong came from the Moonlight Sect. But if she also adopted the child of a Borderlands devil, how do you explain that? Is my action not a case of removing an evil for the sake of the people?”
“The child is innocent,” someone muttered.
Another person countered, “The people from back then are all in the Yellow Springs. How can anyone prove that’s Yin Wulu’s child?”
“I heard that Qiu Xianpei only practiced techniques for charming and confusing the mind because her physical constitution was wretched. She possessed the Emerald Smoke Bone, a rarity seen once in a century. Has anyone here heard of the Emerald Smoke Bone?”
Feng Yun’ai’s heart jolted. She had read about it in a book, but she had never imagined that she… she might also have it.
The field fell silent for a long time. Finally, someone spoke up: “I’ve heard that for those who study the poison arts, their bones and blood become saturated with toxins. If this continues for three generations, their descendants are highly likely to have the Emerald Smoke Bone—bones carrying poison, marked with green, smoke-like patterns. People with this constitution are born with poor foundations; it is extremely difficult for them to practice ordinary martial arts. And the descendants of those with the Emerald Smoke Bone will also possess it.”
“Are you suggesting we skin her alive to verify the truth?” an old man roared in anger.
“The fact that she refuses to remove her veiled hat proves she has a guilty conscience!” Zhou Gui shouted, her eyes bright and terrifying, as if dipped in venom.
Ever since the figure in white had used the Lonely Heart Sword Technique, many in the crowd had been curious about her appearance.
Although the Sun Chasing Cult had been destroyed, its memory remained a deep scar burned into the soil of the Central Plains. Even now, the mention of it made people’s hearts tremble.
Any cult member who had managed to escape back then was considered a lingering blight upon the world, and the descendants of Qiu Xianpei and Yin Wulu would be even worse.
It was impossible for the crowd to be entirely free of prejudice and loathing.
Sang Chencao sneered. “If she is, and if she knew nothing of the truth yet had to carry this blood debt and be executed by you all in public… how would you be any different from that cold-blooded, ruthless demonic cult?”
“One reveal will tell us everything,” Zhou Gui said, her gaze burning. “Let everyone see whether Feng Rong was truly of one heart with the world, or if she harbored ulterior motives long ago by raising a demon’s whelp.”
After a long silence, Feng Yun’ai reached for her veiled hat. But before she lifted it, her hand reached underneath the veil, pressing against her own eyes.
Her heart, which had been pounding violently, suddenly went as still as a pool of dead water—or perhaps like a monolith sitting steady beneath her chest.
It wasn’t the stillness of death; it was a profound certainty. She blocked off every other path of retreat, leaving only a tiny bottleneck for herself to choose.
Sang Chencao tapped the table anxiously, the sound exceptionally loud.
Yet Feng Yun’ai did not change her mind. She merely brushed her fingers over her eyes once before lifting the white veiled hat.
Beneath the veil, there were no gray eyes unique to the Borderlands. There was only a pair of unremarkable black eyes—though they lacked spirit, looking weary and indifferent.
