Chapter 19: 19 A Single Thought to Kill

◎She became the new target everyone was entitled to slay. That was all.◎

The night’s sleep was fitful; she had done nothing at all, yet woke aching from head to back. Waking, she couldn’t tell the hour—the hall was dim. You Fusang remembered only dreams of varying depths, and in them someone pointing a sword at her: “A Devil Seed after all.”

She had no defense to offer, and heard that person continue:

“Fusang, Fusang… Perhaps from the very start I should never have picked you up, but executed you on the spot there in Fusang Land. A hundred years ago I chased that Pagoda devil qi to the sunrise edge of Fusang Land; the qi entered the body of an unarmed child—you—and vanished without a trace. I had sworn never to let a single evildoer go free, yet neither could I slaughter the innocent wantonly. A mass of world-ending devil qi; an innocent child. I deliberated, torn—and seeing your eyes brimming with tears, I truly did lose my judgment. Stirred to pity, I took you back to the Yan Sect, and for a hundred years I sought some way to excise your Devil Bone.

“I always felt I had wronged you. My kin died within that devil qi, and my vengeance for her was cut short the moment it entered your body—I could never have much goodwill toward you. In your days at the Yan Sect, I treated you poorly. Apart from your difficulty cultivating, you were no different from anyone else, and I gradually let down my guard. Sometimes, watching you laugh and talk with Rushi, I actually fell into the delusion that you were my child too. How absurd. I am not surprised you came to this day. What is laughable is only myself—one moment’s muddle, a hundred years of regret, actually dreaming that a born Devil Seed could walk the Righteous Path…”

That night Yan Qingjue said a great deal. You Fusang stood helpless before her, dazed, unable to lift her head—until at some moment, she could hear nothing anymore.

Her head buzzed, and she was abruptly back in the Sea of Clouds Trial, at Jiang Ru’s curses hurled in her face: “Useless trash!”

Jiang Ru was in a fury. “It’s your fault I lost that Cloud-Mud Inkstone! And now nothing can be hunted at all. You’re content to scrape the bottom of the Sea of Clouds Trial, You Fusang—I haven’t your thick skin!”

Jiang Ru was a Spell Cultivator, and spell cultivation demanded the rarest of natural treasures; as an Outer Mountain student, she could only beg for what Inner Sect students had discarded. Fortunately, she had her “friend” You Fusang.

A few tears shed; kneeling on the ground, eyes wet with apology: Little sister Fusang, what happened at the cliff that day truly wasn’t intentional. Forgive me, won’t you? Forgive me, won’t you…

You Fusang stared at her for a long while, suddenly remembering the old Outer Mountain days: too many people had been curious about her relationship with Yan Qingjue, then gravely disappointed upon discovering her appalling talent. They had distanced themselves, needled her openly and in secret, deliberately looked through her. Only Jiang Ru had said: “Be my friend! Stay with me from now on, and you’ll never be lonely.”

You Fusang had no friends and didn’t know how to make them. Jiang Ru had offered those two words, promising heart for heart—and You Fusang believed her.

Not knowing that people can wear masks.

Jiang Ru—in the eyes of the Outer Mountain students a refined, understanding, kind-hearted gentle elder sister—had from beginning to end held one person in deepest contempt: You Fusang.

Sometimes she concealed it; sometimes she mocked and teased without the slightest attempt to hide it.

Those Outer Mountain days had been too bitter. A scrap of kindness—even a false one—You Fusang had treasured like gold.

After You Fusang was taken in by Yan Qingjue, that “contempt” gradually curdled into jealousy and hatred.

Jiang Ru was the eldest daughter of the Jiang Chaosheng Sect, outstanding among her peers from childhood; the elders who sent her to the Yan Sect had placed great hopes upon her.

Who would have thought she would fail the very first round of Inner Mountain selection.

Watching those students selected into the Inner Mountain, Jiang Ru offered her congratulations aloud while disdaining them inwardly: They merely have better family backgrounds, better talent, better luck than I. What is there to be proud of? If I had such standing, I would outdo every last one of them.

As for Yan Rushi—merely a lucky womb! With the Sect Master of a great worldly sect for a mother, how could she not be formidable?

But You Fusang—why You Fusang? Why her? Anyone could have been taken in by Yan Qingjue—anyone but You Fusang!!

The one she had most despised had now climbed over her head. Jiang Ru was mad with jealousy.

Day and night she thought in bitter hate: Fortune is so unreasonable! Why was it not I, Jiang Ru, who fell from that cliff into Yan Rushi’s arms that day?

In terms of raw talent, she had been the finest in the Outer Mountain—how had You Fusang stolen the prize? Why should someone like that become the Sect Master’s personal disciple? Why should someone like that be the Eldest Senior Sister of the Yan Sect?

You Fusang deserved none of it!!

These feelings grew day by day, but Jiang Ru hid them well.

For no other reason than this: Jiang Ru meant to use You Fusang to obtain more Inner Sect resources.

Flatter an easily flattered person, then reap the fine resources closest to the Sect Master’s heir—what was not to like?

And this You Fusang had her “self-awareness,” knowing that heaping resources upon a talentless piece of trash was a waste. A few smooth words from Jiang Ru, a few teary, wretched wails, and the resources in You Fusang’s hands would be shared out to her…

“You Fusang, you really are stupid. How dare you be so kind to someone who already shoved you off a cliff in the Yan Sect’s Inner Mountain trial?” Jiang Ru couldn’t be bothered to pretend anymore, saying it plainly. “You really are a pitiful worm. Someone tosses you a crumb and you come crawling up wagging your tail…”

“You think clinging to Yan Rushi settles everything? Sooner or later she’ll find you useless too! Look—without a dead-weight senior sister like you dragging her down, she’s already hunted the Cloud Sea Serpent and taken first place among all the sects—she is to be the Yan Sect Master. I’d stake anything that in her heart she despises you too, and sooner or later, just like Sect Master Yan, she’ll look at you the way one looks at a dog!”

“…”

You Fusang watched her without emotion. “Jiang Ru. Spare me your projections.”

“Projections?” Jiang Ru slapped the wall beside You Fusang’s shoulder, shoving her stumbling back several steps, sneering. “The whole Yan Sect can see it—Yan Qingjue looks at you exactly the way one looks at a dog. She despises you!!”

Her gaze swept over the sword at You Fusang’s waist, and a scheme bloomed. “Well then—since you lost my Cloud-Mud Inkstone, that Rainbow Wood Sword will pay for it! You haven’t the aptitude for the sword anyway, do you?”

You Fusang stood unmoving, asking coolly in return, “If I don’t, then you do?”

“You—”

Jiang Ru’s brows arched; bluntly, she moved to seize the sword.

You Fusang could not beat her.

But in this moment—strangely, hazily—You Fusang felt something gathering in her palm, vines climbing through her blood, straining to burst through the barrier.

Jiang Ru plucked away the Rainbow Wood Sword effortlessly, laughing in high delight. “Fight back, You Fusang! Go on—beat me to death if you’re so capable! Word is you still can’t even choose a sword technique that suits you. I’d love to see what a piece of trash like you looks like in a real fight!”

Shut up.

“I’m a Spell Cultivator; this sword’s no use to me, true—but better than rotting on you! Trash should know its place. Didn’t you understand that well enough before?”

Shut up.

“Someone really ought to let Young Sect Master Yan come watch a certain trash senior sister’s ‘glory’—unable even to guard her own sword… hahahaha…”

SHUT UP!!

The rage seemed to take form. For the first time in her life, You Fusang felt power surge as she clenched her fist; countless brambles spread outward like arrows, like blades—and in an instant wrung through a fragile neck.

In the flash of a spark, the head hit the ground, a smile still frozen on her lips.

Jiang Ru stared at her with those black-hole eyes. She would never speak again.

The devil qi dispersed. The Sea of Clouds Trial turned suddenly black as night; everything around grew cold. Scalding blood splattered over You Fusang and drew cold sweat from her instead, her teeth chattering. In the distance a cold star crossed the quiet sky. The Sea of Clouds Trial’s barrier broke open, and she was returned to the desolate, silent night of the Yan Sect.

All things dead-still; the night cold as blood.

The severed head rolled on the ground before her, eyes open in death, staring at her.

Jiang Ru was dead—and the devil qi that had served as the weapon lay quietly in You Fusang’s palm.

It was not her power. Yet it was, unquestionably, her doing.

“I’m—I’m sorry…”

“What is there to be sorry for?” a voice said by her ear. “It’s because you’re too weak that you’ve fallen to this state—any sneaking vermin dares spit a word at you!”

The voice was not human—ugly and rasping—yet utterly familiar to You Fusang.

She had heard it a hundred years ago, in Fusang Land.

Back then it had said: “Poor child. Abandoned to the rivers, and drifted all the way to Fusang Land. Keeping company with Fierce Beasts is hard, isn’t it? I will help you kill them, and you let me hide inside your body to rest and recover. How about it?”

What child of five or six understands the divide between righteous and evil? She knew only that if she did not respond, the mountain-sized Fierce Beast before her would have her torn apart and swallowed.

The devil qi gathered into a sharp blade and pierced the beast’s heart; the massive thing crashed down. And through the haze came a woman walking gracefully toward her, unspoiled as an Immortal.

But the Immortal looked at You Fusang with disgust undisguised in her eyes.

“A Devil Seed after all.”

Times had changed; stars had wheeled through a hundred years—and Yan Qingjue’s breath, her tone, her expression in saying these words had not changed in the slightest.

You Fusang had killed by mischance. The Yan Sect’s Bell of Purity, scenting blood-qi, rattled and hissed—and the Sect Master moved at the sound.

Yan Qingjue said, “I was the one who erred—dreaming a Devil Seed could cultivate the Righteous Path… I was the one who erred.”

“Teacher-Mother, no… it’s not…” You Fusang’s hands were drenched in blood, yet she tugged at Yan Qingjue’s hem, devil qi running wild through her body, her body splitting with pain, shaking—still she said, “I can hold it back—I can hold it back, I swear…”

Yan Qingjue’s smile was cold. “Your hands are stained with a fellow disciple’s blood, and you tell me you can hold it back?”

The wind on the Back Mountain was bitterly, bitterly cold, frosting layer upon layer over the body. Terror-stricken, You Fusang collapsed to her knees. Beside her lay Jiang Ru’s corpse, eyes open in death; on her own cheeks were blood and residual devil qi, somehow more horrible than any death-mark. And You Fusang herself seemed like the corpse—eyes glazed, voice silenced, aura gone cold—as if about to follow it into the ground.

“I’m sorry… I’m sorry…” She was crying, murmuring, to no one she could name.

Then her head snapped up, her face streaming with blood and tears. “Don’t drive me away—please, Teacher-Mother, I can hold it back, don’t drive me away, I have nowhere to go…”

Everyone knew the Yan Sect’s Senior Sister Fusang was a woman of few words; however poor her cultivation, she had never once begged anyone like this.

“Drive you away?” Yan Qingjue raised her sword. “I won’t drive you away.”

“Tonight, I will cleanse the sect with my own hands.”

In that instant You Fusang could hear nothing at all—only felt the pain. She looked at Yan Qingjue and couldn’t speak, could only think in broken fragments: It hurts so much… couldn’t you… help me…

“You Fusang, today—”

“Mother—!”

Yan Qingjue’s voice cut off dead at another voice, clear and bubbling with joy: “Mother, I took first place! Didn’t I make you proud? And one more happy thing—my Startled Swan Sword Art broke through too—I can finally attempt the sword practice’s last step in full!!”

Someone came laughing up the mountain path, her heart brimming with delight, lantern and sword in hand, walking on moonlight, her high ponytail bouncing in the wind, almond eyes sparkling with smiles.

At the sight of blood on the path—and a human head rolling toward her—Yan Rushi startled, thinking her night blindness had conjured another mirage, mistaking a stone for a head. Then she raised her eyes: You Fusang half-knelt on the ground, pleading something, half her body covered in blood, dripping and streaming—whose, one couldn’t tell. Yan Qingjue stood with her sword half-raised, watching her, expression grave.

“Wh-what’s wrong?” Yan Rushi faltered. “Mother, Senior Sister, you…” The next instant she saw the head clearly and cried out, “J-Jiang Ru!”

“Rushi, don’t be afraid.”

“Junior Sister, don’t be afraid…”

The two voices sounded almost in the same breath. Yan Qingjue’s tone held no surprise—colder, but carrying more force. You Fusang’s carried grief, and no conviction—for she was the killer. What conviction could she possibly have?

Yan Qingjue gave a light laugh, all mockery, ice-cold. Then, looking at Yan Rushi again, she repeated firmly: “Rushi. Don’t be afraid.”

Scared witless, most likely, by the blood covering You Fusang, Yan Rushi dropped her sword at once and ran over in a few strides. “Senior Sister… Senior Sister Fusang, what happened to you?… Mother, why is she…” Yan Qingjue held her sword leveled before her, but Yan Rushi threw herself heedless between them. “Mother, put the sword down! Whatever it is, we can—we can talk it through!”

The Verdant Mountain Sword rose; its light chilled the night of Yan Mountain to the bone.

Yan Qingjue said, “Your senior sister has fallen into devilhood. She killed a fellow disciple.”

“Mother, impossible—there’s been a mistake, there must be some mistake…”

But what mistake could there be?

Devil qi filling the sky, devil tattoos covering the body, a fellow disciple’s corpse sprawled before them all. You Fusang’s fall into devilhood was nailed down beyond dispute.

“What mistake?” Yan Qingjue said as well. “Your senior sister suffered a devil tribulation in the secret realm trial; a Devil Heart took root, and she killed a fellow disciple. There is no mistake.”

She raised her long sword and smiled—abruptly. “Rushi, though you have completed the Startled Swan Sword Art, you have surely never seen me use its final step—the Thunder Sword Formation?”

“Hold up your lantern and open your eyes wide. Watch.”

The words had barely fallen when the raised sword rode the clouds and mist. Black clouds massed over the Yan Sect’s night; lightning flashed, thunder rolled.

The Thunder Sword Formation of the Startled Swan Sword Art never betrayed its name: in an instant phantom swords took shape, ranked in a line, their light illuminating the dense, sullen storm clouds—exactly like lightning.

The wind howled.

The sword-light was cold and blinding; You Fusang could not lift her head for the agony, and a scalding tear rolled down from her eye.

The tear seared her face—hurting worse than the spreading devil tattoos ever could.

Within the formation, it opened on the Yellow Bell and closed on the Echo Bell, the Twelve Pitches made into twelve swords, each one aimed straight at You Fusang.

A sword formation of such overwhelming grandeur, turned against a young student who had merely stumbled into devilhood, was frankly a cleaver used to crack a nut. Wind and lightning churned here; strange phenomena descended from heaven, drawing Yan Sect students gathering from every direction—even the Elders turned out.

How humiliating… You Fusang thought.

The formation was about to fall. She readied herself to die and met the sword-light—then, as if through a haze, heard a sound like silk tearing: someone knelt neatly before her, and shadow covered her.

Whatever Yan Rushi said to her mother as she shielded her, You Fusang could no longer hear. Everything was blurred; she saw those lips opening and closing, shoulders trembling faintly, the ends of hair soft as peacock feathers brushing lightly across her eye.

“Senior Sister!” She shielded her with her own body. “Senior Sister, RUN!!!”

Run.

Scrambling away on hands and knees, those two words filled You Fusang’s mind. Run. Leaves rasped past her sides and cheeks; the north wind cut like blades, stinging like sleet, all of it scattered by the night wind. The Yan Sect grew deep and black behind her; the roaring crowd of voices fell away.

Run.

But…

She was at the end of her strength.

That whole night passed in a daze. In the instant Yan Rushi pushed her away, You Fusang could hear nothing, remember nothing—only the shame of it, not wanting anyone to see.

Run. Run. Get away.

She didn’t want anyone to see her.

It was a dream so long and tangled: in it, foul smoke churned. The pitch-black devil qi sometimes morphed into the Yan Sect’s night, sword-light like lightning; sometimes spread itself into a net, inscribed with the world’s every written condemnation.

In that frigid darkness that wrapped her: her walking toward Pagoda—had it truly been without choice? Her becoming a devil cultivator—had it truly been the only recourse—or merely the devil qi’s selfish, lucky, pleasure-seeking shortcut of a choice?

Too hard to answer. And things had come this far; anything more would be mere sophistry.

You Fusang never prosecuted what had already happened. Right, wrong, rights and wrongs—hard to retrace, past saving.

Afterward… Zhuang Xuan vanished without trace, and You Fusang became the new City Lord of Pagoda City. That was all.

She became the new target the world was entitled to slay. That was all.