Chapter Fifty-Two: The Lethal Intent from the Imperial City

Halfway through the journey, Daoist Liu announced he would take his leave. After parting ways with him, Su Fan walked alone along the road back to Luocheng, where the crops growing beside the path were thriving. A casual sweep of his spiritual sense revealed that many arrays had been set up around the farmlands—some to repel insects, others to gather spiritual energy. Thus, although the land was parched and wholly unsuited for agriculture, the crops remained lush. From the placement of the arrays, Su Fan could faintly sense Liu Yuanwai’s spiritual presence.

A strange fondness stirred in Su Fan’s heart for this dangerous, cunning, and cruel man. If a cultivator could spare a thought for the survival of ordinary folk, he could not be entirely evil. Yet, in every heart, some obsession takes root. Su Fan drew this conclusion, and a measure of ease stole over him.

Cultivators in mortal guise could be seen everywhere around the city walls of Luocheng; had Su Fan not been familiar with their faces, he might never have recognized them. The entire wall was shrouded in profound defensive and offensive arrays, each among the finest of its kind. Su Fan was plagued by questions, unable to fathom what calamity had befallen Luocheng.

He entered the city and made for the General’s Manor at once. Ten miles from the manor, rows of Black-Armored Guards stood sentry. Upon seeing Su Fan approach, they called out in unison, “Welcome, Young General!”

Su Fan managed a bitter smile, walked past their ranks, and entered the manor. Inside, silence reigned. The solemn architecture exuded a heavy sense of oppression. Entering the main hall, Su Fan saw a pink-clad figure with her back to him—so achingly familiar. That pink silhouette had haunted his memory countless times, the pillar that had sustained him through many arduous days. It was she who, in his moment of utmost peril, had resolutely chosen to sacrifice herself for him.

Softly, Su Fan whispered her name: “Fan Ruoyu.”

He could not say how often he had murmured that name, how deeply he had pondered it in his heart. Fan Ruoyu’s eyes were tinged with a hint of surprise, perhaps puzzled by the strangeness of Su Fan’s expression. His face, at this moment, was indeed odd—even he would have laughed, had he seen it in a mirror. But Fan Ruoyu did not laugh. Gazing at Su Fan’s tearful yet smiling visage, she could not help but let her own tears fall.

She hurried forward and took his hand; Su Fan pulled her into a tight embrace. The world fell silent. They clung to each other, wordless, unmoving. Who could say how long they remained thus before finally parting?

A dry cough broke the stillness—Su Fan instantly recognized it as Yuanwai Zhao, though Zhao’s cultivation was so profound that, even with his senses, Su Fan could not detect his presence. Hastily, Su Fan said, “I have completed the task.”

Yuanwai Zhao smiled in satisfaction. “I have delivered your great reward. Are you pleased?”

“I am,” Su Fan replied gratefully.

“Then you accept the post of Young General,” Zhao went on.

Su Fan quickly protested, “Such an important office should be entrusted to someone more worthy.”

Yuanwai Zhao’s smile faded. “So you are dissatisfied with the position? I could take you as my disciple. One day, the general’s mantle will be yours.”

With a forced smile, Su Fan replied, “I wish only to leave with Ruoyu. I will not return.”

A shadow of anger crossed Zhao’s face. “Are you dissatisfied with me?”

“I meant no such thing,” Su Fan explained.

“Then why do you refuse my reward?” Zhao’s voice was cold.

“I desire only an ordinary life. The world of cultivation does not suit me.”

Zhao thundered, “You have entered the realm of cultivation—there is no leaving it. Even in another lifetime, you will not escape.”

Su Fan said nothing.

Realizing his loss of composure, Zhao moderated his tone. “If you become Young General, I will help all the people of this city, ensure they live well forever.”

A trace of impatience appeared on Su Fan’s face. “Yuanwai, do not think setting a few arrays in the fields can deceive me. Your arrays not only repel pests, but keep common folk from entering. Is that truly helping them?”

Zhao knew he was in the wrong, but still insisted, “That was a small oversight. I will correct it.”

“If it was truly a mistake,” Su Fan pressed, “then what of Shopkeeper Qian’s teahouse? You forcibly requisitioned it, turning it into a place of pleasure for cultivators. Was that also an oversight?”

Zhao’s anger deepened. With a cold snort, he demanded, “Will you stay or not?”

Su Fan was about to answer, but Fan Ruoyu interceded with a gentle smile: “Yuanwai, perhaps it would be best if Su Fan and I took some time to consider. This is no small matter.”

Zhao’s expression softened slightly; he glared at Su Fan, gave a final snort, and departed.

Butterflies flitted about the garden, flowers bloomed in profusion, and the room was richly appointed—evidently all meticulously prepared for Su Fan. Yet an unaccountable restlessness welled up in him. He wanted no part in the intrigue of the General’s Manor, nor the endless bloodshed of that world. Always, he had yearned for tranquility, and the years of hardship had left him weary of the path of cultivation.

Now that he had found Fan Ruoyu, a sense of belonging finally filled his heart. He wished only to return to the life they once had at the Dustbound Inn.

Fan Ruoyu was pruning the branches, her expression intent—a clear sign of her love for flowers. Su Fan smiled faintly and entered the elegantly furnished room. On a table lay ink, brush, paper, and inkstone; a row of brushes, thick and thin, were arranged in perfect order. A thought stirred in Su Fan—he picked up a brush and, in a bold, free hand, wrote his own name. The characters danced like dragons, revealing his unrestrained nature.

Time passed. Night deepened, and the cicadas began their song. Su Fan sat, quietly contemplating the characters upon the table, when suddenly a shadow flashed past the window. He leapt to his feet as a dagger flew in; Su Fan caught it with ease. The dagger was exquisite—clearly no ordinary weapon, nor did it belong to the General’s Manor. Embedded in its hilt was a large gem. With a press of his finger, Su Fan shattered the stone, revealing a tightly rolled brocade slip inside.

Unfurling it, he read the brief message: “Outside Luocheng, Little Snow Mountain. Your death awaits.”

Little Snow Mountain lay a hundred miles from Luocheng, its slopes sealed in ice year-round, the snows falling ceaselessly through the ages. Su Fan quickly understood the note’s origin—the words “Imperial City” were elegantly engraved on the dagger. He knew the reason instantly: it was for the death of Su Wenyuan, a high official second only to the ruler in the Imperial City.

Husband to a princess, pillar of the Imperial City—such a man’s death would drive the court to any lengths to avenge him. Liu Yuanwai had warned of a powerful force lurking in the Imperial City’s shadows; Su Fan had not taken it as a jest. Now, with the note in hand, he remained silent, for Fan Ruoyu had not yet returned.

Stepping outside, Su Fan looked down the empty corridor and sighed. In a blink, he vanished.

Given his status, Su Fan would have to undergo a thorough inspection to leave Luocheng, which meant the city was at a critical juncture. But none of this mattered to him now. Night had fallen, and Su Fan unshackled his cultivation, speeding through the sky. Though only a hundred miles away, the journey seemed to take an eternity, and dawn was breaking by the time he arrived.

Watching the rising sun, Su Fan smiled faintly. For countless days, he had watched the sunrise. Yet now, he wondered if he would live to see another. A strange feeling tugged at his heart—a sense of guilt toward Su Wenyuan, despite the wrongs Su Wenyuan had done him.

On Little Snow Mountain, flight was impossible. Su Fan had to climb, step by step. Snowflakes fell upon him, but he paid them no heed, nor did he use his cultivation to dispel them. He let the snow settle on his gray hair. One question lingered: who had sent the message? The General’s Manor was under heavy guard—few could enter. Did the Black-Armored Guards bear him ill will? Was it Yuanwai Zhao? That answer, though unwelcome, was at least possible. Yet perhaps there was one more painful still.

Su Fan stopped in his tracks, for the one who had come to kill him now stood before him. That silhouette—so familiar. Once, it had given him hope and warmth. Now, the very same figure meant to kill him, as if lifting him to the heights only to dash him down.

He stared in silence.

The person turned and, in a low voice, said, “I’m sorry.”

Su Fan’s smile was calm. “Do it.”

The other hesitated, eyes reddened, whispering, “Su Fan…”

But Su Fan had already raised his hand and darted forward, his fingers forming a fatal seal.