As Mo Yuan slowly drifted away into nothingness, Song Mingzhen at last emerged from the surface of the river of memory. His return to reality was abrupt and sudden by contrast, his head breaching the frigid surface of the underground river and his lungs aching as he gasped for breath as cold and chaos struck him all at once with a powerful blow, battering his body and filling his lungs.
Before the memory’s revelations even had the chance to sink in, he was plunged into a new surge of confusion and terror. It was dark as midnight, and the water was cold, and he flailed his arms and legs before instinct kicked in and drove him to lift his head above the surface. He had been deep in his meditative trance when the Xuelian blades and his unstable cultivation had broken open the floor of the cave, so he had no idea where he was, or how he had gotten here— and indeed, after being submersed within that memory for what felt like an eternity, he could hardly even recall what had happened before then.
But he didn’t have time to think of that now.
He was too busy swimming for his life, his lungs already aching and burning from the first lungful of cold water he had inhaled after awakening.
The current was swift and tumultuous. It was quite an ordeal to even keep his head up, and though he could probably use his spiritual power to get himself out of the river, his senses told him that right now he was being carried through a narrow passageway, with no shore on either side.
It would be better just to ride it out.
As he thought this, he was caught up in a swirling eddy that drew him down underneath the water. He quickly sucked in a breath as the icy water closed over his head once more and he was dragged toward the riverbed. He reached out, trying to steady himself amid the unstable flow, and felt the smoothed stones and pebbles at the river’s bottom beneath his hands. It wasn’t very deep— just deep enough that he couldn’t stand, but not enough to make his head start aching from the pressure.
The turbulence distorted his spiritual sense, which was still struggling to return to normal after the jarring transition from memory to reality. Everything around him was suffused in white foam, leaving him grasping for something to hold on to. His lungs ached and burned, his mind racing— how had he ended up here? Was this even reality, or was it simply another one of the Fragrance of Memory’s illusions?
Finally, his fingers caught hold of something— the fabric of someone’s sleeve. There was a faint silvery flicker in his whirling senses as the rush of water and the painful screaming of his mind quieted just enough to allow the spiritual aura of the person he’d caught to filter through.
It was Ning Feiyun.
He must have been caught within the whirlpool as well. When Song Mingzhen caught him, he didn’t respond in any way.
It seemed that he was already unconscious.
There was no time to think about how they’d gotten here, about what had gone wrong, even about all of the things that were revealed in the memory— if they didn’t get out of the water soon, both he and Ning Feiyun would die.
He gripped Ning Feiyun’s sleeve tightly and kicked off from the ground, using his spiritual power to generate momentum that sent them swiftly downstream and toward the surface. He breathed fresh air into his own aching lungs, then hoisted Ning Feiyun above the surface of the water so he could breathe as well. Slowly, his mind and body adjusted to the turbulence, and the obstacles and twists and turns of the passage became more apparent in his spiritual sense, letting him better navigate and avoid any dangerous rocks or rapids. A few times, he had to hold his breath again and duck beneath the surface, and he feared he might have to keep on swimming forever. At long last, though, the passage opened up, the swift flow of the underground river beginning to slow down as they reached the end of the bottleneck.
Now, on either side of the river, there was a small, rocky shore. Spiritual qi flowed through the walls and the ceiling in a soft, persistent pulse. They must be close to Baidong Mountain’s spirit caves now— though these spirit veins were mere trickles compared to those deep within the caves, they were still radiant enough to be a more-than-welcome sight, and provided a beacon that guided them easily to shore.
He continued to hold on to the unconscious Ning Feiyun, pulling him up onto the shore on shaky legs as water droplets flew in every direction, running down his body to pool in his boots before spilling out in great puddles on the ground. Leaving the puddles behind, he brought Ning Feiyun all the way up the bank and then set him down, kneeling next to him to feel his pulse and check his breathing.
Though his body felt cold as ice, his heart was still beating within his chest, and the warmth of life had not entirely faded from within— after all, he was still a cultivator, and he wouldn’t die easily from something like that.
Song Mingzhen placed his fingers over a few of Ning Feiyun’s acupoints, channeling some of his own power into the other man’s body, using it to clear the water from his lungs and chase away the cold. It was then that he realized his fingers were shaking, so much that he could barely keep them in position.
It was all so overwhelming.
When he entered the memory and discovered that he was not in Song Mingzhen’s memory, but Mo Yuan’s, his first thought had of course been that it must be some kind of trick. After all, it wasn’t like Yang Anxiang had proven herself to be the most trustworthy of people, and though Ning Feiyun seemed reliable, even he wouldn’t be able to control whatever it was she put into his mind.
It had been a risk, and he’d suspected there might be foul play— he’d decided just to watch it through until the end anyway. After all, within every falsehood there could be found a reflection of truth.
He hadn’t realized he would be watching the attack on Baidong Mountain, and all that led up to it.
More than that, he hadn’t realized just how much it would affect him.
The further into the memory he had gone, the less he felt like he was watching another’s life from a distance. Gradually, the disconnect between his observing mind and Mo Yuan’s actions disappeared. He had experienced every emotion, every pain, every movement like it was his own, and had forgotten by the end that he was within a memory from seven years ago, and that he and “Mo Yuan” were not the same person.
Unless…
Unless they were.
That was the true question here, after all.
Yang Anxiang claimed that he was Mo Yuan, not Song Mingzhen.
Ning Feiyun, too, had suggested that possibility.
And there was the matter of the crimson blades… the Xuelian twin blades that Mo Yuan had wielded within the memory, forged from the arrows that were meant to end his life, were precisely the same blades that he himself had manifested during the skirmish in the valley.
He reached between the panels of his robe to touch his side, in the place where Mo Yuan had been shot by the mountain prison’s guards. There, he could feel a small, slightly raised knot in his skin. A scar that had not healed during his ascension.
Ning Zhifeng had been right after all.
Song Mingzhen… no, Mo Yuan… no…
Who was he, really?
What was happening to him? What had happened to him?
His head was pounding and his chest felt tight. Even though he’d already cleared the water from his lungs, he still felt like he was drowning.
Once he was sure that Ning Feiyun was stable, he drew back, moving to rest against the wall of the cave, his arms looped around his knees as he bent down his head, jaw tightly clenched to keep his teeth from chattering. Every muscle in his body was wound tight as a bowstring, and no matter how hard he tried, he just couldn’t relax. He couldn’t shut out the voices that ran through his mind, nor push away the images that played one after another, over and over again.
Mo Lan… Qiu Wei… Ning Feiyun, once called Luo Qian…
All of those names, all of those people— it was terrifying, but he felt close to them, like he knew them better than he knew his own brother.
But was Song Minghan even his brother at all?
Song Weicheng had never given an indication that he was not who he said he was, and when Song Mingzhen had looked into the mirror, he did in fact resemble both his father and half-brother… how could that be, if he were actually some nameless rogue cultivator of unknown origins and no family background?
But then… how had he so easily slipped into Mo Yuan’s role within the memory? And why had he recalled Mo Yuan’s life instead of Song Mingzhen’s? That wasn’t how the Fragrance of Memory worked.
The Fragrance of Memory could only show a person their own memories, those things they themselves had experienced.
It didn’t make sense.
He recalled the weight of Mo Lan’s body in his arms, thin and emaciated, punctuated by the metallic stench of blood that hung in the air. It was too real, too haunting. Song Mingzhen had never met Mo Lan, at least not that he knew of. So why had the boy’s final moments hurt so much? Why had it felt like he was losing his own family?
He could feel dark blood soaking into his sleeves, the vicious, stinging hum of the Xuelian blades vibrating at the edge of his control. He could see the former leader of the Qin clan, his body torn open, blood spilling all over and drenching the floor for just a fraction of a second before the backlash hit.
Stolen novel; please report.
The blood of a clan leader, one among the greatest of those who had lived in the past century, was on his hands.
Was it?
It had felt so real, and Mo Yuan’s rage, his pain, it was all his own— in that moment, there had been no difference between them. Mo Yuan had grieved, and he had grieved. Mo Yuan had been furious, and he had been furious. Mo Yuan had longed to burn the cultivation world to the ground— and so had he.
So that was how it had happened.
That was why the Nameless had attacked Baidong Mountain, and that was how they had shattered the barrier, nullified the defenses, and how they had come to stand on the same level with a far stronger, better-organized foe.
Mo Yuan had the blood of a great clan leader on his hands… but was his rage truly that unreasonable?
He recalled the careless, heartless expression on the old Qin-zongzhu’s face as he spoke of Mo Lan’s death… He recalled the visit to the mountain prison, and suddenly realized with a that Qiu Wei had been placed in the same cell that Mo Lan had died in. An icy shiver ran down his spine. Had it been intentional?
Qin Wenying’s father had gone down in history as the greatest of his generation, a leader surpassed by none in the cultivation world— and yet, he had cruelly condemned a young boy to die, in hopes that his death could quell an uprising. In the end, the opposite had happened. That was the spark that had ignited the war of the Nameless against the great clans…
And it was all thanks to Ning Feiyun.
He glanced toward where the other man was lying, still soaking wet, on the riverbank. He still hadn’t awakened, but he had begun to shiver again, and his spiritual flow was better, reflected by the gentle rise and fall of his chest as he breathed.
Ning Feiyun had let Mo Yuan through the barrier…
Ning Feiyun was a traitor after all— just not in the way anyone had expected.
No wonder he hadn’t wanted his secrets to be made known. No wonder he’d behaved so strangely around Song Mingzhen, who had been the one to show up and provide aid in the catastrophe that Ning Feiyun himself might have caused.
But how could he have refused? Mo Yuan… he had a way with words, each one hiding honeyed assurances or sharpened barbs, sometimes both at once. Song Mingzhen recalled his questioning of Ning Feiyun back when he visited Jieyun Hall.
He understood now.
Even back then, he’d behaved more like Mo Yuan.
His father, too, had remarked on his aggression with surprise… as if it were an incongruity.
Song Weicheng… if the Qin clan’s leaders were so heartless, were the Song clan’s leaders also similar? Song Weicheng had been close to Qin Wenying’s father, after all…
He felt his heart begin to pound once more, the heavy, thumping beats radiating from his chest, to his throat, to his ears as he drew his knees in more tightly.
Since his awakening, Song Weicheng had been ceaselessly by his side, aiding him in his recovery. Was it merely a facade? Would he also look at Mo Lan and see not a boy, but a problem and cruel solution all at once?
Would he also have tortured him to death?
If he knew the true identity of his “son,” would he torture him to death as well?
Did he already know?
Suddenly, a lilting voice cut through the ceaseless spiral of his thoughts like the clear ringing of a bell, bringing it to an end before his mind could collapse into total chaos.
“It looks like you’ve made it out alive after all.”
He jolted at the sudden interruption, lifting his head up from his knees. A soft, pale glow had washed over the riverbank, reflecting off the stone walls and rippling waters. It emanated from a small, floating orb of light that hovered just above a young woman’s shoulder.
Yang Anxiang had stepped out from one of the passages, and now stood a short distance from the two men, her long braid looped over her shoulder as she wrung out the water from it. She was a little drier than he and Ning Feiyun, so it seemed she’d reached the shore awhile ago.
“I have to admit, I did not expect a reaction like that. Nor for it to be so difficult to pull you from the memory… I was afraid I’d lost you.”
“You… did not intend for that to happen?” he asked, his voice a low whisper, as though he feared to wake Ning Feiyun.
Yang Anxiang shook her head. “I wished to return your memories, yes… but I had little control over which memories surfaced, and less control over how you reacted to them. While you were in meditation, your vital weapon activated, and your jindan destabilized… so, it must have been that memory.”
That last part seemed more to herself than him— and he couldn’t quite understand what she meant.
“Destabilized?” he echoed, resting a hand over his lower abdomen. Now that he focused, he could indeed feel a core of energy within himself. It was dull, though, without the bright radiance a jindan ought to have, and it felt like there were fractures lacing back and forth across it…
While a Zhuji-stage cultivator might have high spiritual concentrations within their dantian, there would be no distinctive core there. He just hadn’t noticed his own because of its fractured state and because he’d simply assumed that his boundary was a full stage lower than it actually was. Now, all of the trouble he’d had with his cultivation made sense— not only was he trying to cultivate the Dao in a way he was not accustomed to, but he had also been oblivious to his own cultivation level.
Something so absurd as that was hard to believe, but here he was. It felt as though his cultivation, like his memories, had been concealed behind a veil— and only after enduring the voyage down the river of memory had that veil been lifted.
Now, there was a possibility that Song Mingzhen had ascended during the battle with Mo Yuan at the end of the war, of course, but…
That seemed almost less likely than the other possibility. Without a doubt, someone would have noticed a heavenly tribulation occuring, and he’d heard of no such thing.
“So… what do you think?” Yang Anxiang asked, softly now after giving him time to mull it all over. “Were my suspicions correct?”
He didn’t respond at first.
Of course the memories proved her point. But what if she’d been the one to put them there in the first place?
Could such an intricate, extensive, and emotional vision even be fabricated? Yang Anxiang may be a talented illusionist, but to conjure up an experience so realistic and vivid as that… he wasn’t sure it was possible.
“I… don’t know,” he admitted, shaking his head. “That is… I don’t understand.”
His voice sounded strange.
It was not the voice of the golden-clad young man from the memory, the one who had arrived to end the battle, the one who Mo Yuan had chosen not to fight directly. That youth who wielded a sword that radiated the dawn’s light, the same sword which now hung from his own belt— that was Song Mingzhen, without a doubt. The voice that came from his own mouth now was not his.
It was Mo Yuan’s.
He spoke with Mo Yuan’s voice. He wielded Mo Yuan’s vital weapon. The Fragrance of Memory drew up Mo Yuan’s memories.
The answer was obvious— and yet it still made no sense.
Ning Feiyun knew Mo Yuan well. How had he not recognized him, then, at Jieyun Hall? How had Song Minghan not realized that his brother had been replaced by a different person? What about Song Weicheng— did he know, or was he also fooled?
And how had he, if he truly were Mo Yuan, managed to fool everyone— including himself?
Mo Yuan was notorious, he was infamous, he was the cultivation world’s greatest villain in five hundred years. If that was his true identity, and not the young hero Song Mingzhen, then how had he gone without being recognized all that time?
Why did the mural in Anfeng City’s market square depict his own features, when he had been unconscious at the time of its painting?
It was too confusing.
Yang Anxiang, seeing the dilemma and struggle continue to play out on his face, exhaled softly and shook her head. “I think… you already know the answer,” she said, glancing off toward the passage she had just exited.
“How… how did you get here?” he said, trying to change the subject.
“After your cultivation destabilized, I tried to neutralize the effects of the incense— but before I could bring you back to consciousness, the floor of the cave collapsed and we all fell down into this underground river. I am smaller and lighter than you two, so it only makes sense that I would move more quickly… I washed ashore here and went to have a look around,” Yang Anxiang replied, gesturing toward the passage. “There is a way out that way. It’s far enough from Baidong Mountain, and inconspicuous enough that you likely won’t be noticed as long as you’re careful.”
“If you’ve found a way out already, why did you come back?” he asked.
“To find you, of course,” Yang Anxiang asserted. “The last thing I wanted was for you to die… so I planned to fish you out of the river if I had to. Fortunately, you were already here when I returned.”
“Why does it matter to you whether I live or die… even if… even with what you showed me, that hardly changes anything,” he shook his head, straightening up and rising up from the ground. His legs were still shaking so hard that he had to lean against the wall.
“Doesn’t it?” She tilted her head. “Da-jiangjun… I told you, I already saw the truth. I’ve been watching you the entire time you’ve been here, and back in Dayuan as well. Though your identity has changed, who you are has not. You are not the Song-gongzi that fought against us during the war. Even from the first time you returned to the mortal world, I knew it was you— because you did not fight like one of Ruijian Pavilion’s. You fought like the man who I watched sparring with Jiejie so many times.”
He shut his eyes, taking a trembling breath. “It can’t be— wouldn’t Song Mingzhen’s own family recognize that another stood in his place?”
“Would they? You know… there are ways even the strongest can be deceived. I would know.”
“But… even the painted murals, they show my own features.”
“Then… consider that perhaps, you’ve truly become Song Mingzhen— that is, in this world, Song Mingzhen and you are one in the same, and Mo Yuan… well, those who knew him remember only his reputation and their impression of Yinmeng Xuelian, but cannot imagine his features.”
He was silent a moment, then lifted his gaze once more. “Is that… the case with yourself?”
She gave a slight nod of her head. “Indeed… and when I realized that I could not even recall your features, I became suspicious— so I went to find out the truth of what happened at the end of the war.”
“What?” he asked, eyes widening. “What was it? How… did things become this way?”
Yang Anxiang looked at him. Her dark eyes twinkled in the pale light, and a tiny smirk played at the corners of her lips. She raised her fingers, thoughtfully brushing them against her cheek and jawline.
“You have seen enough today, it’s already shocked you,” she replied. “It wouldn’t be good to share any more… you’d likely fall into qi deviation here and now. Besides, I’ve lingered here too long already. It’s time for me to take my leave.”
“Wait— you can’t leave when there is still so much I don’t know! Where will you go?” he cried.
Yang Anxiang shook her head. “There is still far too much conflict within you. If I told you… then you might come after us.”
“… us?” he echoed.
A faint smile returned to her face. “Did you forget? I came here to save Jiejie after all. Finding you… was just an unexpected surprise. I already told San-gongzi there, but we will be leaving Yinshan now, going to live as peacefully and happily as we can, with what life we have left.”
He bit his lip. So… Qiu Wei really was still alive.
Why did he feel so relieved by that?
Though he’d been tasked with recapturing the escaped rogue cultivator, after all he’d seen within the memory, he couldn’t bring himself to do so. She’d suffered enough.
He was glad she had escaped.
“If you know what happened to me,” he said, softly. “Please… tell me. I don’t know if I will ever see you again, and so much of this still doesn’t make sense.”
Yang Anxiang paused, as though considering his request. Then, she raised her hand, crystalline threads appearing at her fingertips, hanging like spider silk as she began to weave an illusion.
He simply remained where he was, too shaken and unsteady to even attempt to stop her— and not sure he would have wanted to anyway.
“Remember, nothing is absolute. What we know as ‘reality’ is determined by our perception— not some immutable truth,” she spoke softly now, almost lyrically, as thin, shining threads criss-crossed her body. “And sometimes, what we perceive is nothing more than an imperfect reflection. Take care, though— it takes only a single loose thread to unravel an illusion, and sometimes, it is better to hide behind a veil.”
With those words, Yang Anxiang turned into a cloud of smoke— vanishing from sight and sound and spiritual sense alike. He searched once more for the disruptions and void areas he’d learned to detect, and turned toward where he thought she had gone— only to hear her voice once more, this time whispered into his ear from behind.
“Whether our paths will cross once more depends on which reality you choose to inhabit. For what it’s worth… I do hope that someday, I will see you again. These past five years have been terribly lonely for those of us left behind, after all.”
The orb of light vanished, plunging the cavern back into darkness. Then, a brilliant flash lit up his spiritual sense, making him feel just for a moment like he had fallen into a spirit vein again. He stumbled, staggering against the wall, very nearly collapsing to his knees at the sudden, abrupt overstimulation.
It only lasted for an instant.
When the flash faded away and his senses returned to him, Yang Anxiang had already disappeared without a trace— and not even a single footprint remained to show that she had ever been here at all.