Chapter Forty-Three: Wei Zhuo

“Warden of the Fire Domain!”

Surrounded on all sides, the leader was, as expected, the Warden of the Fire Domain. Although Shangguan Chuci’s heart jolted at first, she quickly regained her composure.

With a crisp flick, her folding fan snapped open, and the fire of logic quietly kindled in her eyes.

In her vision, the world before her was instantly deconstructed.

Among the dozen black-robed heretics encircling them, most radiated the aura of ordinary cultivators of the Heart-Setting Realm. Yet, their presence was rootless, drifting like duckweed, shrouded in a false, inky haze. Only four of them exuded a dense vitality.

Seeing this, Shangguan Chuci inwardly breathed a slight sigh of relief. If all of them were real, their chances today would be slim to none; now, at least, there was a sliver of hope.

She whispered softly to Lu Chenyuan, “Be careful, Brother Lu! Among these men, some are real and some are fake—a portion are mere ink conjurations of this heretical art, but four of them are genuine!”

Wei Zhuo, hearing this, revealed genuine astonishment on his gaunt face for the first time. He had believed his art of blending reality and illusion was flawless, trapping any foe in a mire where true and false blurred together. To be seen through at a single glance by this refined young gentleman was a surprise indeed.

He regarded Shangguan Chuci with interest, praising her, “Sharp eyes, indeed. The heart-fire you wield must be no common flame—could it be the rarest spiritual fire of all?”

But Shangguan Chuci had no desire to waste words. She turned to Lu Chenyuan and said, “Brother Lu, this battle is perilous. Only by joining forces with all our might do we have a chance. I’ll discern the real enemies—you’ll find their fatal weakness, just as before!”

“Understood!” Lu Chenyuan replied gravely.

Shangguan Chuci could distinguish truth from illusion, while his own unique perception of the Turbid Stream allowed him to spot the flaws in their adversaries’ cultivation techniques.

Together, they were the bane of this bizarre painted formation!

Yet Wei Zhuo seemed in no hurry to attack, instead speaking politely, “I have come for just two reasons. If you comply, much suffering can be avoided, and I need not waste ink.”

He lifted his brush slightly, smiling. “After all, to capture the scenery of this courtyard—along with your visages and demeanor—within my ‘Banquet of the Night at Zhenhai’ will be quite a taxing endeavor.”

Seeing the other’s lack of urgency, Lu Chenyuan’s eyes flickered as he replied, “Go on, we’re listening.”

In their current predicament, the longer they could delay, the more likely Shen Guizhou and the others could hold out until the Demon Suppression Bureau arrived. Every moment counted in their favor.

Wei Zhuo seemed to see through his thoughts, but continued at his unhurried pace, “I act on my master’s orders. First, to retrieve the puppet; second, to invite you to accompany me. The puppet is a most ominous thing. It would be best for me to keep it safe, rather than you carrying it and courting disaster.”

Lu Chenyuan asked, “So that Daoist Li is your master?”

“Indeed,” Wei Zhuo replied.

Shangguan Chuci sneered. “Who doesn’t know the ways of your Turbid Stream cult? Asking Brother Lu to follow you is no different from sending him to his death.”

“You are mistaken,” Wei Zhuo replied. “What you do not know is that your Brother Lu is a rare Dao Source Vessel—a once-in-a-century talent, perfectly suited to cultivate our Turbid Stream arts.”

“Were he to come with me, not only would his life be spared, he might even become our sect’s Holy Son. Would that not be far better than living out his days as a mere inn worker in Zhenhai River?”

Shangguan Chuci frowned, about to retort, but Lu Chenyuan interjected, “What is a Dao Source Vessel? And how do you know who I am?”

Wei Zhuo regarded him. “If you wish to know, come with me. I promise to answer your every question in full.”

Lu Chenyuan stared intently, knowing the man would not be so easily manipulated.

Shangguan Chuci said, “Brother Lu, there’s no need to waste words. Leaving aside whether this talk of a ‘Holy Son’ is true or not, that puppet must never fall into their hands.”

Wei Zhuo gave a dry cough, his frame seeming even more frail, and with a twisted smile, addressed her, “Young master, we hold no grudge. Why risk your life for someone unconnected to you? If you withdraw now, I’ll act as if nothing happened.”

Lu Chenyuan frowned, immediately recognizing the attempt to sow discord.

Before he could reply, Shangguan Chuci smiled, waving her folding fan with easy composure. “You’re mistaken. How could Brother Lu and I be unconnected?”

She pointed her fan bone at Wei Zhuo, then at Lu Chenyuan, speaking unhurriedly, “Look, you wish to kill him, and I wish to protect him. Is that not a connection? You, with your own hands, have forged a bond between us. If I did not see it through, would I not be ungracious?”

Lu Chenyuan was taken aback, but then a warm feeling welled up within him, and a faint smile tugged at his lips.

He understood well that Shangguan Chuci, with her unique brand of logic, had deftly dispelled the other’s attempt at division with light, effortless words.

Though she seemed to be reasoning with him, every sentence made it clear: “I stand by his side.”

In this life-or-death moment, not only did she show no trace of fear, but she even found the leisure to spar with the enemy—a quality that inspired genuine admiration in him.

Wei Zhuo sighed. “So, there’s nothing left to discuss.”

No sooner had the words left his lips than he drew the tip of his brush lightly across the palm of his left hand.

“The First Gate.”

In an instant, a wave of sinister energy swept forth.

The gray-yellow robe he wore seemed to be soaked by an invisible force; every fold transformed into strokes of ink, deep and shallow, as if he wore a bizarre robe of painted paper.

Beneath that paper robe, a more terrifying change began.

His right side, clutching the brush, slowly fused with the paper garment. All trace of flesh vanished, and his arm now looked like damp, wrinkled paper.

Streaks of pale ink seeped from the lines on his robe, blooming across his skin as though water spreading through parchment.

At the same time, droplets of blood began to ooze from the shaft of the ebony brush in his hand, staining the once-black wood in mottled, lurid patterns.

The wooden casing flaked away, revealing at last a segment of human bone, carved from white marrow, exuding a baleful aura—the true form of the brush.

Behind him, the painting on the wall seemed linked to his very life force; from the outlines of bleak stones and withered trees, threads of blood began to seep.

Suddenly, the courtyard fell into a dreadful silence.

As Wei Zhuo raised the bone brush, a soft, scraping sound could be heard—like a brush gliding across rice paper.

The black-robed heretics who had stood so eerily still now became blurred and distorted, as though an ink painting were being washed away by water.

Their movements lost all semblance of humanity; they became puppets, manipulated by invisible strings, converging on the two from all directions with grotesque and unnatural postures.