Chapter Seventy-Five: Separation

The eleven-year-old boy’s scarred face was twisted with a wildness bordering on madness. What was real anymore? What could he possibly believe now? If Lan Zhi truly was the one who killed Han Feng and the others, why had she treated him that way? And if she wasn’t, why had she appeared at the scene, leaving behind her own identity token?

“Lies. Everything is a lie. There is nothing true in this world… Even the medicinal pills are lies. I’m not even wounded, I don’t need any medicine at all.”

Che Wuyou felt the terrifying green medicinal power surging within his dantian, endlessly mending his battered body, but his eyes brimmed over with bitter mockery. Since he began drinking the green decoction five years ago, the force gathered in his dantian now rivaled that of cultivators in the Core Formation stage.

He looked at the pill he’d flung away, and a sneer curled his lips. With his current understanding of medicinal pills, with his attainments in the alchemical arts, he could perceive the trap Miao Shilin had set for his body, could sense the green power transforming him in subtle, insidious ways—an evil so profound it filled him with unease and dread.

“You…” The tall, thin figure suddenly raised a hand, as if stunned by Che Wuyou’s madness, by his rejection of all goodwill. He seemed unable to believe Che Wuyou could utter such words, as if he were a different person entirely.

“Go ahead, strike me. Kill me if you can… It would be a release. There’s nothing left in this world for me to care about. Saving me is a waste of your effort… Kill me, and I’ll thank you for a lifetime, even in the underworld, I won’t forget your compassion today,” Che Wuyou said to the shadow, his expression half mocking, half earnest.

“You… just take care of yourself.” The hand hung suspended, then the tall figure, almost in anger, abruptly dropped his arm. He glanced coldly at Che Wuyou’s despairing form, then turned and strode into the distant darkness.

“Senior Sister… Lan Zhi…” As the tall figure receded, Che Wuyou could bear it no longer. He suddenly shouted after the retreating back, wild with desperation, “Don’t you want to know what I found on his body?”

“What did you say?” The figure’s shoulders shuddered; he stopped, but didn’t turn around, as if waiting for Che Wuyou’s answer.

“Senior Sister, didn’t you say that no matter what happened, I would always be your junior brother? Didn’t you say that even if the entire Miao family disowned me, you would still treat me as your brother… So why did you save me, but not dare to show your true face?” Che Wuyou gazed at the tall, thin back, all madness and levity gone, leaving only deep respect and heartfelt longing.

After a long time, the figure let out a faint sigh. Slowly, she removed the black veil from her face and untied the prosthetic limbs from her legs. “So, you recognized me after all.” Her voice, though gentle, held a trace of joy even she hadn’t realized was there.

Liu Lanzhi turned and walked up to Che Wuyou, peering closely at his scarred face, her tone tinged with sorrow. “Wuyou… promise me, live well. No matter what happens, you must live on… Who knows, perhaps one day we will meet again.”

After speaking, Liu Lanzhi took a black bundle from her robe. “Wuyou, take this. Study what’s inside carefully—I believe it will be of use to you.” She seized his hand and placed the package in his palm.

“Lanzhi…” Che Wuyou saw the earnestness in her eyes, her reluctant demeanor, like a young wife sending off a husband about to set out on a long journey…

His heart was both stirred and confused. Did Lan Zhi not believe he had killed Han Feng and the others? Or did she know he was being framed? If she knew, why had she acted as she had? Was she hiding something for a reason?

Che Wuyou’s mind was in turmoil. He wanted to speak, but all his words melted into a single, lingering call.

Seeing his hesitation, Liu Lanzhi sighed softly. “Take care, Wuyou… I’m leaving.” She turned to retrace her steps along the path.

“Lanzhi, do you believe I’m innocent? I never killed Han Feng or Senior Sister Lu.” Che Wuyou called out his doubts to her back.

“Does it matter whether I believe you? Only you know in your heart what you have done,” Liu Lanzhi’s voice turned cold. She truly wished this matter would never be mentioned again. If it were possible, she’d want that night to last forever.

But fate was not theirs to control, and in the end, the issue could not be avoided. At this moment, a chasm seemed to open between them, widening the distance in an instant.

“Lanzhi, when have I ever lied to you? I really didn’t kill them. Someone set me up, tried to frame me… This morning, I heard a sharp voice suddenly cry ‘Little Sister!’ I was scared for you, so I chased after it without thinking…” Che Wuyou tried to explain, desperate to understand what had happened.

“Hmph… You say someone set you up. Then tell me, who would do that? Who in the Miao family hates you enough? Only Han Feng bore you such a grudge, and now he’s dead. Who else could have framed you? Unless you think I, Liu Lanzhi, would do it? Or Master Miao Shilin?” Liu Lanzhi interrupted, clearly skeptical.

She continued, her tone growing colder. “You say you’ve never lied to me—is that true? Then tell me, how did Senior Brother Yang Cheng die? Did you know it was him when you killed him, or did you not know and kill him by mistake?” Her voice was now as icy as a glacial wind.

“I… I truly didn’t know it was Senior Brother. If I had, how could I have done it? Haven’t you asked me this before?” Che Wuyou’s voice was heavy.

“That’s enough, Che Wuyou! That night, I saw Senior Brother Yang Cheng remove his mask with my own eyes. I saw you drive your sword into his body… I was so shocked and disappointed—I couldn’t believe you’d do such a thing. I lied to everyone, saying you didn’t know his identity and killed him by mistake… But I couldn’t help asking Hong Shun, and his account matched mine exactly. He said your eyes were blood-red, your killing intent towering, so fierce that even he was afraid.”

“Senior Brother’s death was at your hands, yet I forgave you, because he struck first; even if you hadn’t killed him, the sect would have punished him. But then you turned your wrath on Han Feng, intending to kill him before my eyes. If not for my presence, can you say you wouldn’t have killed him?”

“I feared you would act rashly, given your history with Han Feng. So I warned you—no matter what, you must not harm him. Han Feng himself said he would leave Miao Manor, seek his fortune elsewhere, and no longer be your enemy. He should have found a wider world… Yet soon after, he died. And not just him—Senior Sister Lu was silenced too. In Miao Manor, who else but someone with a supreme-grade treasure could have killed her before she had a chance to call for help? Tell me, how am I supposed to believe you? Speak! Why are you silent?”

Liu Lanzhi’s face was streaked with tears—she had never felt such sorrow, nor intended to unburden herself so fully. She only wished to see Che Wuyou off in peace, unburdened by guilt. But these deaths weighed on her heart, the lives of three dear comrades, her closest kin. If she did not speak, she would carry the guilt forever.

Che Wuyou was left speechless by her questions. Yes, he had killed Yang Cheng—and lied about it. But he felt no regret. Anyone who threatened Liu Lanzhi, anyone who harbored lethal intent toward her, he could not let live.

Yet how could he confess this to Liu Lanzhi? However vile Yang Cheng may have been, however murderous his intent, he was still her senior brother. Liu Lanzhi had grown up an orphan, her senior brothers her only family. No matter their faults, she would always forgive them.

So Che Wuyou made the choice for her and killed Yang Cheng. Partly because Yang Cheng was too great a threat, too unpredictable. But also because, in that moment, Che Wuyou was consumed by a strange, overwhelming urge to kill; reason deserted him, and instinct drove him to strike.

Afterward, he considered telling Liu Lanzhi the truth, yet could not. He could not take that risk. He feared she would turn away from him—he would rather she never knew. The dead cannot return, and telling her would bring nothing but more pain, more burdens for her to bear.