“Yan’er… is still alive?”

Ning Zhifeng’s voice was soft, as though he hardly dared to speak, much less to actually believe the words of the man who he presumed to have killed his daughter.

His disbelief was hardly surprising. The strange red blades had pierced twice through the girl’s body, and she’d fallen limp to the ground, blood quickly soaking the snow that surrounded her. Besides that, she wouldn’t have been the first to die in that fight. Song Mingzhen clenched his jaw tightly, shoulders stiffening. He’d not meant to kill anyone that day, and yet in the end only two had survived, one of them seriously injured.

This was the first time he’d been in a real fight after his five-year recovery, and that he should be so unstable, so easily agitated… it was troubling to say the least.

Now he understood, perhaps, why the man wished to speak to him alone, why he told him all these things. It must be an attempt to stir up some guilt or regret within him… whether to cause some change or just to make him feel some fragment of the pain he had inflicted, Song Mingzhen wasn’t certain.

Either way, he couldn’t deny that the attempt was at least somewhat successful.

“Yes,” he answered, nodding his head. “As of when we arrived here, she is still alive. The wounds are severe and she is still unconscious, but the physicians say that her condition is fairly stable for now.”

Ning Zhifeng’s expression, which until now had been dulled by despair and faint resentment, suddenly changed. His brows knit together, then rose up, gaze lifting to meet Song Mingzhen’s. Within his eyes was first disbelief and wariness, but then, almost despite himself, there was a faint glimmer of hope. “So… then it’s true what I saw,” he murmured half to himself. Then, he quickly shifted and bowed his head to the ground. “Gongzi— please, save my daughter’s life. I no longer care about any of this, if only Yan’er can live…”

Song Mingzhen startled a bit at the sudden change in demeanor, and hurried to urge the man to raise himself up. “What does Qianbei mean by this?” he asked, “I cannot make that kind of promise. Her life is in the hands of the physicians now, and the Qin clan’s judgment after that— I have no power over it.”

Ning Zhifeng lifted his head, but remained on his knees, a smudge of dirt now adorning his forehead where it had touched the ground. “On the contrary, it may very well be your own hands that hold it now. Gongzi… you are that Song Mingzhen who defeated our Great General, aren’t you?”

Unsure what that had to do with anything, Song Mingzhen nonetheless nodded his head. Despite his missing memories, everyone assured him that it was he who had defeated Mo Yuan, the Great General of the Nameless. There was no one else it could have been.

“Then… it must be that something strange happened during that battle. Though I myself did not fight in the war, I was fortunate enough to meet the Great General personally one time, before he had become known by that title. This was not long after I left my clan, and it was not widely known among the rogue cultivators that I was friendly to their plight. When the young man crossed paths with me, he assumed I was still his enemy, so I became acquainted with his newly-forged vital weapon,” Ning Zhifeng explained. “I thought I must be seeing things when I saw the art which Gongzi used to defeat Yan’er— that my vision was unclear, or that I was mistaking a fragment of Yan’er’s Chiyi silk for something else— because it appeared to me that Gongzi was using our Great General’s infamous Xuelian twin blades. But if you were the one to defeat him after all…”

A chill ran up Song Mingzhen’s spine when he heard these words, running from his core up to the base of his head and making him feel light-headed and dizzy. His heart began to beat fast in his chest, and he quickly shook his head as a poignant sense of alarm set his entire body alight. “Qianbei is mistaken,” he replied, perhaps a bit more emphatically than necessary. “I have yet to cross the Jiedan boundary, and even so, how could I wield another’s vital weapon?”

Ning Zhifeng paused, suddenly realizing just how unlikely his theory sounded. He lowered his gaze once more, shoulders slumping. “Ah… I see. I suppose it was only a desperate hope, that perhaps something happened when Gongzi fought our Great General beneath the Yantai Mountains, considering the power of that demonic sword.”

Song Mingzhen suddenly stiffened. “That demonic sword” was no doubt referring to the demonic tool that had been guarded by Dayuan’s Song clan since ancient times, sealed deep beneath the Yantai Mountains— Qinguang sword. It was said that this blade could take the lifespan and cultivated power of those who it cut down and deliver them to its wielder instead. The entire reason Mo Yuan had attacked Ruijian Pavilion, after all, had been to obtain that demonic weapon.

The more Song Mingzhen thought about it, the more uneasy and unsettled he felt. Because he didn’t know exactly what transpired that day, he couldn’t say whether or not chance and circumstance had led him to wield the Qinguang sword against his opponent. The possibility had never crossed his mind before— but there was no doubt that he had wielded a strange, unfamiliar art during the fight in the snow-covered valley. If Ning Zhifeng had faced off against Mo Yuan’s vital weapon before, then he would surely recognize it.

With a chill in his fingertips, Song Mingzhen realized that he couldn’t fully discount this possibility. His knees felt a bit weak, and he had to reach out to support himself against the wall so that they didn’t buckle beneath him. That now-familiar panic was rising up like bile in the back of his throat, a voice in the back of his mind urging him to flee, but he refused to appear so weak and afraid in front of a prisoner like Ning Zhifeng.

Still, it seemed that the man had noticed his face turning paler and the shakiness of his breath. He raised up his hands. “Song-gongzi… I did not mean to needlessly alarm you. I only thought there might be some slight possibility that you had inherited this power.”

The secrets of the ancient demonic tools were known only by the leaders of the five clans, and passed down to their successors just before they took on the role themselves. As far as everyone else knew, there were only rumors. None of the rumors said that the Qinguang sword could also transfer the vital weapons of its victims, but if lifespan and cultivated power could be stolen, who could say that was the end of its abilities? Perhaps it really could do something like that, and perhaps, in a moment of desperation fighting against an enemy stronger than he was, Song Mingzhen had actually taken up that demonic sword in order to win the battle.

The problem was that the role of the great clans was to guard and seal the five demonic tools. They were not to be used, for fear of the destruction that could be wrought upon the mortal world— not even in the most dire of situations. Song Mingzhen, who had been set upon the righteous path since birth, surely wouldn’t have broken that taboo.

Right?

… the truth of the matter was that he simply didn’t know, and until he managed to recover his memories of that day, he wouldn’t have that answer.

That is, unless there were some way to find out now.

He took in a breath, doing his best to conceal the tremor that rose up along with it. “This weapon, Xuelian twin blades, let’s suppose that I had become its master,” he said, his voice low. Though the cell was sealed off from the outside, so they wouldn’t be overheard, he couldn’t help but feel a little anxious even voicing the possibility aloud. “Why would that make it any easier for me to save the life of your daughter?”

Ning Zhifeng looked a little surprised. His lips pressed into a frown. “I had assumed that Gongzi would already be aware of the weapon’s unique traits,” he noted. Then after thinking for a moment, came to a conclusion— “Perhaps, though, you never witnessed their capabilities firsthand as I did. I cannot say precisely the way that it works, but the Great General was able to exercise some control over the wounds he dealt with his vital weapon. It was as if a bond of blood was formed between himself and his opponents, that he could turn the wound more mild or severe as he wished. If he wanted them to live, they lived, and if he wished them dead, they would surely die.”

A chill raced down Song Mingzhen’s spine. So that was the sort of power that the Great General wielded. He’d heard rumors and tales, and of course skimmed through the records, but there hadn’t been much detail— and since that person was already dead, Song Mingzhen hadn’t seen the need to ask for anything more. Or perhaps few had lived to experience the full extent of Mo Yuan’s power— if he were as vicious and bloodthirsty as people said he was, then he would have surely inflicted death upon the majority of his victims. Ning Zhifeng was probably an outlier here, someone who Mo Yuan had use for, so he’d spared his life.

“I see…” Song Mingzhen murmured, still feeling quite unnerved. “So if I had this power, you think I would be able to heal your daughter’s wounds.”

The wounds he himself had inflicted, with a vital weapon whose origin and power he didn’t even understand… he quickly cut off that train of thought. It was just a speculation for now, who knows whether it was true or not.

“Not heal, precisely,” Ning Zhifeng shook his head, “But at least you would be able to ease them. In my case, the damage was not entirely undone, but the bleeding was stopped and it seemed that the wound was shallower than before. It didn’t take long to heal after that.”

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“But her condition is stable now,” Song Mingzhen countered. “Why not simply leave it to the physicians?”

If it really was true that he had obtained Mo Yuan’s Xuelian blades, it would still probably be better to leave it to those experienced in medicine, rather than attempting to use a skill he was unfamiliar with that could make things worse if not done correctly.

“Perhaps, but… just as a wound from the Xuelian blades can be healed by its wielder, it can also be prolonged. It may well be that the wound will never heal unless it is permitted to, even if it has been treated. When I attempted to heal my own wound by circulating my spiritual qi, it was useless until the Great General had retracted his power,” Ning Zhifeng replied.

So this was the true nature of the “bond of blood” that he had described. What a terrible ability! Even a small wound could cause endless agony, and there was little chance of escape— because it was the power of a Jiedan stage cultivator’s vital weapon, only those whose boundary surpassed its wielder’s would be able to resist or counter it. Within the entire cultivation world, there weren’t many that could even hope to reach that level. It was no wonder that the Great General of the Nameless had become so infamous in such a short time.

With each new bit of information Song Mingzhen learned, the more his stomach turned and twisted itself into knots. What had really happened five years ago, beneath the Yantai Mountains? Had he really wielded a demonic weapon and gained such a terrible power?

Even though Song Mingzhen was generally considered to be his generation’s most promising rising star, Mo Yuan was still a major boundary above him. It wouldn’t be easy to defeat him. Hearing about how this person had all but single-handedly challenged the five great clans, and especially the chaos he caused within Baidong Mountain, Song Mingzhen couldn’t help but wonder if he would have been able to come out victorious without the aid of something like the Qinguang sword. Coupling that with the instability in his cultivation that he’d experienced ever since his awakening, and it seemed far more possible than he would like it to be.

He sighed, reaching up to press a hand against his brow. His head was starting to throb, that now-familiar sense of dizziness becoming impossible to ignore.

“I will at least check on her condition,” he said at last, “but I cannot promise that I’ll be able to help in any way.”

Even if it all was true, he wouldn’t know how to properly use a vital weapon that wasn’t his own, and if it wasn’t… Song Mingzhen wasn’t a physician, nor was he well-versed in healing arts beyond the basics.

Ning Zhifeng bowed his head, and his expression had turned dull once more. “Thank you,” he replied, though it sounded half-hearted. “I only hope that she will live. If she does not…”

He shook his head, his voice trailing off into a sigh of deep resignation.

Somehow, Song Mingzhen understood what he meant.

Even from the beginning, Ning Zhifeng would have known this outcome was inevitable. Even a much larger force, with formidable leaders like Mo Yuan and the other six generals, the Nameless had still been defeated and the uprising crushed. A small group like theirs wouldn’t stand a chance, especially after drawing so much attention to themselves. Still, both he and Yan’er had chosen to fight— in this scenario, to choose to fight almost meant the same as choosing to die.

Thinking about this made Song Mingzhen’s chest feel tight, throat aching as if he were the one who had made such a desperate play, facing a bleak and empty future. His head began to pound even more than before, and he’d broken out in a cold sweat. It felt like something inside of him was revolting, as though a terrible beast had been bound up inside his ribcage and was now thrashing about, trying desperately to escape, even as Song Mingzhen fought to keep it buried.

He reached out to steady himself against the wall, trying to reign in his racing thoughts.

If Ning Zhifeng noticed his interrogator’s unsteadiness— which he almost certainly did— he didn’t react to it beyond a slight raise of his brows. He simply watched from his place in the corner, waiting until Song Mingzhen managed to collect himself.

It took a few moments, but eventually the pain in his head abated, the dizziness lessening to a bearable amount. He opened his eyes again, and his vision was still a little hazy. Perhaps he shouldn’t have agreed to this after all… but he still couldn’t ignore the chance to find answers.

At the same time, though, when he compared the story Ning Zhifeng had told him about his life after defecting to the recent attacks, the situation didn’t add up.

“Even if you and your daughter wished to fight,” he began, trying to ignore the feeling of anxiety still simmering beneath the surface, “Why would you not simply strike out at passing patrols? Why attack a neighboring region’s capital city during a festival? Why assassinate Qin-zongzhu? More importantly… why go through so much trouble to free the Second General, only to let her disappear later? It all seems far too reckless.”

To go from hiding away in a mountain village, living the simple life of an herb gatherer, to leading a risky movement that seemed to choose its targets almost deliberately to draw attention, it just wasn’t all that believable.

Song Mingzhen narrowed his eyes slightly. “Are you truly the one who made this plan? Or is there someone else who you answer to?”

The silence that fell afterwards was like a stone dropped from the heavens. Ning Zhifeng didn’t respond right away, and stared downward at the lines and cracks of the stone floor. The anxious atmosphere that had formerly swirled around Song Mingzhen alone now expanded to the entirety of the cell, and he thought he could even see a slight shiver in Ning Zhifeng’s shoulders.

At last, the former commander lifted his gaze and began to speak—

Before a single syllable could leave his lips, though, he closed his mouth again.

Song Mingzhen’s eyes widened a bit, and the rush of his own thoughts was interrupted— what was that?

Then, Ning Zhifeng shook his head, quickly recovering. “No, there is no one else,” he said, “I am the one who planned this. Yes, it was reckless… but because of my knowledge and the tools that I brought with me when I defected, it was accomplished without too much difficulty.”

“Baidong Mountain, I can understand,” Song Mingzhen continued to press, “The woman you loved was killed, your daughter lost her family, it’s only natural to seek vengeance. But why attack Anfeng City? Your advantages would be few there, and all you truly accomplished was drawing my father’s attention.”

Once again, Ning Zhifeng hesitated before responding. Then he answered, “The festival that day, it was meant to celebrate the defeat of the Nameless and the fall of our Great General by your own hand. Should those of us who remain simply sit by and allow our destruction to be celebrated?”

He was clever with his words, and his explanations were solid. Though it had seemed like he had given up before he heard of his daughter’s survival, he still held fast to those convictions. Song Mingzhen might have admired him had the circumstances been different, but as it was… he doubted that the interrogation would get much further, at least for today. Not to mention his own instability, where each turn of the conversation threatened to send him into a new bout of panic.

Perhaps it was best to leave for now. Still… he couldn’t stop wondering.

He had to make just one more push.

“The best outcome is that you spend the rest of your life confined to this place,” Song Mingzhen stated, his voice flat. “Your daughter will have the same fate. Even if she does survive, her role in all of this will not be overlooked. More likely, however, both of you will face execution.”

His gaze sharpened like a knife’s edge as he watched Ning Zhifeng’s reaction. Though the man’s face turned a bit pale, he did not seem surprised— clearly, even as he pleaded for the girl’s life, he had expected this outcome.

Truly, none of this made sense. Their lives sounded mostly peaceful aside from that one incident, so why take such a risk?

“I don’t think there will be a way to spare you, the leader,” he continued, “but if you can provide information that proves that your daughter wasn’t involved in the assassination or the prison break, then perhaps she at least might be allowed to keep her life.”

Though after seeing the long-term residence that the mountain prison provided, Song Mingzhen couldn’t say whether a life in this place would be better or worse than a swift death, especially for a child of fourteen. Another series of shivers ran down his spine, up his shoulders, down into his half-numbed fingers. All of this left a sour taste in his mouth and a bitterness in the back of his throat. Even as he himself spoke, he was gripped by a sense of dread, of displeasure…

Of disgust.

His hands felt as if they were coated in blood. With every word that left his lips, condemning a mere child to death for seeking to avenge her murdered family, offering hope that she could instead spend the rest of her life in a dark, sealed chamber, chained to the wall with her cultivation broken until she’d gone mad just like Qiu Wei…

Even if he himself would have no say in the sentencing, he knew well enough the way things would end.

The hand he wasn’t using to steady himself curled into a tight fist, gripping the bell held within it until deep indentations were left in his palm. He shut his eyes, exhaling a long, shaky breath, then shook his head.

“That’s enough for now,” he said, his voice distant over the ever-present thumping of his heart. “I will see what can be done for the girl.”

He didn’t ask Ning Zhifeng to reconsider. He didn’t threaten him— what more was there to threaten him with, even? Torture? If that was all there was, Song Mingzhen would prefer to leave it to someone else, far away from his eyes, ears, and senses. For now, he simply rang the bell, a clear note echoing off the walls of the cell.

The door opened, and Song Mingzhen turned on his heel and left, storm clouds gathered on his brow. He passed the bell back to Ning Feiyun, who gave him a questioning look as the door closed, cutting Ning Zhifeng off from the outside once more.

Song Mingzhen shook his head. “We can discuss things later,” he told Ning Feiyun. What Ning Zhifeng had told him, about Yan’er, about Mo Yuan’s vital weapon, even about his motives for the attacks… all of it was lost in the whirlwind of Song Mingzhen’s mind, spinning and crashing together, breaking apart and reforming as he tried to connect all of the pieces. He didn’t know how much of it he wanted to share, if any.

No doubt, Ning Feiyun already felt conflicted, considering their past connection.

Before Song Mingzhen could turn and make his way back toward the prison gates, Ning Feiyun’s hand came to rest upon his shoulder, stopping him.

“Are you alright?” Ning Feiyun asked.

Song Mingzhen looked up, meeting his gaze. Midnight-dark eyes reflected his own, dark brow knit with concern. For a moment, he was surprised. Was this Ning Feiyun the same cold, stiff person who had come to Jieyun Hall that day?

He took a breath that was a bit shakier than he would have liked. “There’s no need to worry,” he shook his head. “I’m only…”

What was it that he was feeling? Anger? Dread? A dull, aching grief he couldn’t quite place? All of it wrapped up together in one. He wasn’t alright. He was far from alright. But he wouldn’t say that now. It was too much to speak of, and certainly too much to trouble Ning Feiyun with. At last, he settled on an answer.

“The conversation… brought some unpleasant memories to mind.”

It was half-true. Though the mention of the Qinguang sword and Mo Yuan’s vital weapon had set off a sense of deep discomfort within him, it was not the memory itself but rather the lack thereof that was so disconcerting. As for the rest…

Well, he wasn’t sure what to make of it. Besides that, he didn’t even know if he could trust Ning Zhifeng’s words at all.

In the moment after he’d asked if Ning Zhifeng was the leader of the Nameless remnant, he’d noticed it— a barely perceptible shift in Ning Zhifeng’s spiritual flow, a flash that coiled up around around his throat and darted across his lips. Just when he was about to say something, perhaps something that would reveal who was really behind this, he was cut off.

He hadn’t just fallen silent.

He’d been silenced.