Qilin pressed his lips tightly together, his face pale and shadowed. Whether it was due to his recent battle with the Renmian Bird or some other reason, he appeared weak and drained of blood. The usual lively and talkative demeanor was nowhere to be seen. His gaze was fixed on Zhang Hai Xing, silent and unwavering.
In an instant, the space beyond the Bronze Gate fell into complete silence.
Qilin saw behind Zhang Hai Xing a mass of bizarrely shaped miasmic clouds. Some were enormous, vast stretches of gray mist that seemed to have no end in sight. Others were only the size of a fist, flickering with dim golden light that pulsed intermittently. Some were wispy strands, shifting between blue and green, drifting unpredictably. The space they occupied seemed cramped, suffused with these grotesque mists, making it impossible to discern the actual environment. Qilin knew that these fumes were all highly toxic—especially the blue-green strands that floated freely. Just the slightest touch would cause the skin to fester and corrode.
Zhang Hai Xing’s tone had completely changed. The obsequious deference was gone, replaced by an air of aged authority.
“Qilin, why did you leave Wang Bai Mountain? If King Mu finds out you sneaked out, that would be disastrous.”
Qilin acted as if he hadn’t heard, his gaze fixed instead on the black-gold blade in Zhang Hai Xing’s hand. The blade had unmistakably absorbed his blood, its surface now an oily black, gleaming like polished obsidian.
I should have realized it sooner, Qilin thought. Only the black-gold blade of the successive Zhang Qiling lineages could resonate so strongly with Qilin blood. When Zhang Hai Xing first approached me with this blade, I should have sensed it. Even when I first used it to cut granite, I should have noticed—this is the black-gold blade of the Thirteenth Generation Zhang Qiling.
And I failed to recognize it—it was my father’s blade.
Zhang Hai Xing asked again, “How long have you been out? Have you taken off your mask? Has anyone seen your face?”
Only then did Qilin finally speak. “Who are you?”
Zhang Hai Xing smiled. “I am your uncle, Zhang Qi Shan.”
Qilin lunged forward in an instant, his unnaturally long index finger pressing against Zhang Hai Xing’s brow—or rather, Zhang Qi Shan’s brow.
“Zhang Qi Shan—you are a traitor to the Zhang family.” Qilin’s voice trembled with fury. A bead of blood seeped from his fingertip, though he didn’t know whether it belonged to Zhang Qi Shan or himself. “Did you kill my father?”
Zhang Qi Shan did not flinch, nor did he deny it. His smile merely froze in place.
“I’m sorry, Qilin.”
“I will kill you.” Qilin’s teeth clenched as he drove his finger violently into Zhang Qi Shan’s skull, piercing a deep hole in his forehead.
Yet, no blood flowed. Qilin could not even sense any flesh beneath the bone. It was as if Zhang Qi Shan were an empty shell—a hollow man.
Zhang Qi Shan gave a bitter smile. “Child, you cannot kill me, for I have not been truly alive for a long time.”
Qilin withdrew his finger, his expression filled with disbelief.
Zhang Qi Shan continued, “Ninety-six years ago, I secretly consumed King Mu’s elixir of immortality. This is what I have become.”
He reached up and peeled away the skin of his face, revealing the bare skull beneath—an eerie, fleshless cranium crawling with countless centipedes, each with twelve writhing antennae. They varied in size and length, an uncountable swarm wriggling across the bone, a truly horrifying sight.
Qilin shuddered, nauseated at the realization that his own hand had just pierced into this grotesque nest.
Calmly, Zhang Qi Shan pulled the flayed “Zhang Hai Xing” face back over his head and said, “It’s better if I keep wearing a human face when speaking to you. It makes things more comfortable for both of us.”
Qilin asked, “What exactly happened ninety-six years ago?”
Zhang Qi Shan sighed. “It is a long, long story.”
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