Chapter 41
The night was so dark that it seemed impossible to see through; the only sounds in the corridors of the general's mansion were the footsteps of the night patrol guards and the muffled beat of the night watchman's drum.
Xiao Qiyun stood outside Shengxuan's room, the hem of his moon-white robe damp with the night dew.
He stared at the tightly closed carved wooden door, his brows furrowed tightly, his fingertips unconsciously stroking a bloodstained cult relic in his sleeve pocket—it was "soul-guiding incense" that had just been found on the body of a captured remnant, carrying a nauseatingly sweet and fishy smell.
He really didn't want to come.
Sheng Xuan, that brute, has a temper as foul as a rock in a latrine. Especially these past few days, he's been acting strangely, always arguing with everyone he meets, as if the whole world owes him eight hundred strings of cash.
But right now, these cult members are as stubborn as a thousand-year-old tortoise. We've tried all sorts of common interrogation methods, but we just can't pry a single crack in their skin.
Xiao Qiyun took a deep breath, suppressing his irritation and reluctance, and raised his hand to knock on the door. His knuckles tapped on the hardwood, producing a dull "thump-thump" sound that was particularly clear in the quiet night.
A furious growl immediately came from inside, like a lion whose tail had been stepped on: "Who?! Get out!"
Xiao Qiyun ignored him and knocked three more times with greater force.
"Bang!" The door was suddenly pulled open from the inside, and Sheng Xuan's tall figure blocked the doorway. He was only wearing an undergarment, with the collar haphazardly open, revealing a small patch of his muscular chest.
His hair was disheveled, his eyes were bloodshot and his chin was covered with a layer of dark stubble. He exuded a strong sense of ferocity and the restlessness of someone who hadn't had enough sleep.
"Xiao Qiyun?!" Sheng Xuan frowned deeply when he saw who it was, his voice hoarse as if sandpaper had been rubbed against his skin.
"What the hell are you doing in the middle of the night?! Can't you talk about it tomorrow? I just fell asleep!" His chest heaved violently, clearly furious, his fists clenched as if he were about to strike at any moment.
Seeing his murderous look, Xiao Qiyun felt even more unwilling, but he maintained his usual calm, even with a hint of deliberate indifference: "Something's up. I've captured someone, but he's incredibly stubborn and can't be pried open."
Upon hearing this, Sheng Xuan's anger flared even more, and he almost roared, "Whether you can pry open the door or not is none of my business! Are all your men useless? You're bothering me with this little thing? Get lost! Don't disturb my sleep!" He then tried to slam the door.
Just a second before he closed the door, Xiao Qiyun said in a low voice, "It's about Zhelan."
The door panel suddenly stopped half an inch from the door frame.
Sheng Xuan froze. His bloodshot eyes were fixed on Xiao Qiyun, the mania and anger within them seeming to have been paused, instantly solidified, and then replaced by a deeper, sharp look mixed with surprise and tension.
“…Zelan?” His voice suddenly turned cold, with a hint of tension that was barely perceptible. “What happened to him? Did he cause trouble at the front? Is he injured?!”
A barrage of questions came quickly and urgently, and her body involuntarily leaned forward, as if she wanted to rush past Xiao Qiyun.
Seeing Sheng Xuan's face change instantly, Xiao Qiyun felt a complex emotion—this brute's concern for Su Zhelan was impossible to hide.
He stepped aside to clear the doorway, his tone still flat: "Zelan is fine. But the cultist we caught might know something about his background, and the inside story of the attack at the temple fair. I need your help with the interrogation."
Sheng Xuan didn't waste any more words. The sleepiness and irritability on his face vanished instantly, leaving only a fierce focus.
He turned around abruptly and went back into the house. His movements were as fast as the wind. He grabbed the dark outer robe draped over the screen and haphazardly put it on. He didn't even have time to fasten the belt before striding across the threshold and closing the door behind him.
"Let's go!" Sheng Xuan's voice was resolute, filled with an undeniable urgency.
Without even glancing at Xiao Qiyun, he strode straight toward the dungeon, his dark robes fluttering in the night wind, his back straight and taut, as if the tired and irritable person from before had never existed.
Xiao Qiyun watched Sheng Xuan's figure disappear into the end of the corridor, stood there for a moment, and then followed. Moonlight fell on his face, revealing an indescribable complexity in his eyes.
Deep inside the dungeon, the stench of mold mingled with the stench of blood, thick and unbearable. A dim yellow oil lamp hung on the mottled stone wall, casting the three figures' shadows onto the damp, cold stone floor, twisting and swaying.
Xiao Qiyun was dressed in a black outfit, with the sleeves rolled up to his elbows. His exposed wrists were stained with dark red blood, indicating that he had just been "busy".
He stood outside the iron bars, looking at the cultist chained to a stone chair inside—the man wore a tattered gray robe, his face covered in strange tattoos, his head bowed, his breath weak, but a faint, unsettling, eerie smile played on his lips.
"Well? Are you willing to speak now?" Xiao Qiyun's voice sounded particularly cold in the dungeon, carrying a hint of barely perceptible fatigue.
He personally led a team to ambush the lone "tongue" last night, finally catching him at an abandoned post station on the border, at the cost of a new wound on his arm.
Inside the iron bars, Sheng Xuan stood with his back to Xiao Qiyun, his tall figure almost blocking the entire cell door. He was wearing dark casual clothes, but the collar was open, revealing his taut neckline, and his hair was somewhat disheveled, clearly indicating that he had just been dragged out of bed.
Upon hearing Xiao Qiyun's voice, Sheng Xuan turned around abruptly, his eyes bloodshot and his chin covered in stubble. He looked like a startled and extremely displeased trapped beast.
"You fucking have the nerve to ask?" Sheng Xuan's voice was hoarse from the previous night and filled with anger. He irritably ran a hand through his hair.
“I just lay down!” He pointed at the man in the chair. “This bastard is so stubborn. I pried him open for ages, but he didn’t utter a single useful word! And he even got my clothes dirty!” He disgustedly brushed off the bloodstains on his clothes.
Looking at his irritable and disheveled appearance, Xiao Qiyun felt a strange mischievousness lighten his tense mood of the past few days and the gloom of the interrogation just now. He subtly curled the corners of his mouth, his tone tinged with mockery.
"Oh, what's wrong with Second Young Master? Why are you so angry?" He deliberately looked Sheng Xuan up and down. "Or...did you do something wrong last night and didn't sleep well?"
"Get lost!" Sheng Xuan's face darkened even more after Xiao Qiyun hit the nail on the head. He glared at Xiao Qiyun fiercely. "Stop talking nonsense! Spit it out! If you can't get anything out of the interrogation, hurry up and deal with it. Don't keep me from catching up on my sleep!"
Xiao Qiyun's smile faded, and he said seriously, "This man is tough; ordinary methods won't work. But he carries a 'token,' a token used by the cult's higher-ups to communicate, so he must know a lot. I need your help."
Sheng Xuan frowned: "What can I do to help? Torture me? I'm not an executioner!"
“You don’t need to lift a finger.” Xiao Qiyun took a step closer and lowered his voice. “You just need to stand here and release your ‘fierce aura.’ He’s afraid of you.”
Sheng Xuan was taken aback for a moment, then understood. He snorted and didn't refute it anymore. He simply crossed his arms and stood closer to the iron bars. His tall figure almost blocked most of the oil lamp's light, casting a heavy shadow over the prisoner.
The cultist seemed to sense something, and his body twitched almost imperceptibly.
Xiao Qiyun seized the opportunity, his voice as cold as ice, piercing the prisoners' eardrums: "Tell me, why did you attack that boy in the wheelchair on the day of the temple fair? Why did you call him 'Holy Son'?"
The prisoner kept his head down, emitting a strange, hoarse laugh that sounded like a broken bellows.
Xiao Qiyun continued to press, speaking slowly but with each word like a knife: "What happened to that scar on the back of his neck? Did you do it? What is that powder?"
When the prisoner mentioned the "scar on the back of his neck," his body stiffened abruptly, and his head drooped even lower.
Sheng Xuan, standing to the side, joined Xiao Qiyun's interrogation, and suddenly took a step forward, his boots slamming heavily onto the stone ground with a dull thud.
He didn't speak, but his bloodshot eyes, like those of a ferocious beast ready to devour its prey, were fixed on the prisoner, and an invisible pressure pressed down on him as if it were a tangible thing.
"Speak!" Xiao Qiyun shouted sharply.
The cultist was finally driven to the brink of collapse by this double pressure and suddenly raised his head!
His eyes were wide open, bloodshot, but the pupils were unusually cloudy, swirling with a near-frenzied, twisted light. He stopped his smirk, instead grinning, revealing bloodstained teeth, and let out a sharp, piercing, inhuman roar:
"Holy Son! You mere mortals! How dare you comprehend the greatness of the Holy Son?!"
He writhed wildly, the chains rattling as he tried to break free and lunge at the two: "That's a miracle! A bridge connecting the mortal realm and the divine! What do you know?! You filthy, blinded ants! How could you possibly sense the divinity flowing in the flesh and blood of the Holy Son?!"
His voice grew increasingly louder, filled with a morbid excitement and extreme obsession: "The Holy Son... is the incarnation of the Gu God in the mortal realm! His flesh and blood, his marrow, are all supreme holy medicines! They are the keys to unlocking the gates of immortality! That day... that day we only wanted to welcome the Holy Son back! To bring him back to where he belonged! That powder? Hahaha! That was the catalyst to awaken the Holy Seal! It was the holy medicine to allow the Holy Son to return to his origin!"
He stared intently at Sheng Xuan and Xiao Qiyun, his eyes greedy and crazed, as if he could see some priceless treasure through them: "You...you felt it too, didn't you? The aura emanating from him...so pure, so...tempting! Just one bite...just one bite of the Holy Son's flesh and blood, and you'll touch the edge of godhood! Where have you hidden him?! Hand him over! He's ours! He's God's!"
He became increasingly agitated as he spoke, saliva mixed with blood dripping from the corner of his mouth, his body trembling violently from extreme desire and unfulfilled rage: "The holy seal is on the back of my neck... it's the mark of a god's kiss! Peel back that layer of flesh... and you'll see the true words left by the Gu God! You mortals... will never understand! You'll never understand the value of the Holy Son! Give him to me! Give him to me—!"
With his final roar, almost shattering, he lunged forward, the chains snapping instantly and yanking him back onto the stone chair with a muffled thud.
Like a fish out of water, he struggled futilely in the chair, still uttering incomprehensible hoarse sounds and broken words such as "holy son...flesh and blood...gods..." His eyes were unfocused, and he had completely fallen into madness.
Only his heavy, disordered breathing and the rattling of chains remained in the dungeon.
Sheng Xuan and Xiao Qiyun stood outside the iron bars, their faces extremely grim.
The insane ramblings they had just heard were incredibly dense yet utterly chaotic, like a bucket of filthy water mixed with poison being poured in front of them.
Xiao Qiyun repeated a few keywords in a low voice, his eyes sharp as knives, trying to extract useful clues from this madness, but the cultists' undisguised greed and obsession with Su Zelan's flesh and blood made him feel a strong sense of nausea and chill.
Sheng Xuan's face turned ashen, and his fists clenched so tightly they cracked.
He stared intently at the madman who was still convulsing, thinking that this man dared to blaspheme Su Zhelan like that, and thinking of those crazy words about "tasting a bite of flesh and blood," a violent killing intent almost broke through the cage of reason.
He suddenly turned around and kicked the stone wall next to him hard, making a loud "thud" and sending pieces of stone falling down.
"Damn it! You're insane!" Sheng Xuan's voice was squeezed out from between his teeth, filled with barely suppressed anger and a hint of... lingering fear that even he himself was unwilling to admit.
The clues were there, but they pointed to a darker, more unsettling abyss. What exactly is hidden within Su Zhelan?
The chill of the dungeon and the cultists' frenzied babbling seemed to linger in the air, carrying a nauseating stench of blood and obsession. Sheng Xuan and Xiao Qiyun stood on the stone steps at the dungeon entrance. The cool morning breeze dispersed some of the stale air, but it could not dispel the heaviness in their hearts.
Sheng Xuan wiped his face hard, trying to dispel the echoes of the madman's roar of "Holy Son's Flesh and Blood" in his ears, but his movements stopped when his fingertips touched the stubble on his chin.
He turned his head to look at Xiao Qiyun beside him. The hem of Xiao Qiyun's moon-white robe was stained with wet mud from the dungeon and a few dark red spots. His face looked somewhat pale in the morning light, but his eyes, like Xiao Qiyun's, were sharp and contained lingering fear and a deeper sense of inquiry.
Their eyes met briefly in the air, but there was no spark of passion as usual, only a tacit understanding and a... indescribable weariness. For the person hidden in the military camp, they had fought for too long, argued for too much, yet seemed to be drifting further and further away from the truth, instead being dragged into a deeper fog of mystery.
"Damn it..." Sheng Xuan cursed under his breath, his voice hoarse, breaking the silence, "How much of what that madman said... do you believe?"
Xiao Qiyun did not answer immediately, but stared at the wisps of smoke rising from the military camp in the distance. After a long while, he said, "These are ravings of a madman, and should not be taken at face value."
But the repeated use of terms like 'Holy Son,' 'Holy Seal,' and 'flesh and blood divinity' is no accident. He paused, his voice lower, "Su Zelan's background is probably more complex and...dangerous than we think."
Sheng Xuan clenched his fists tightly, his knuckles turning white. Danger? Su Zhelan was right there in that military camp! Just thinking about that madman's greedy description of Su Zhelan's flesh and blood sent a chill down his spine, mixed with a violent rage.
"We can't leave him there alone!" Sheng Xuan practically roared, his voice filled with unwavering resolve. "The cult members are watching him like mad dogs! The military camp is crowded and dangerous; what if..."
“I know.” Xiao Qiyun interrupted him, her tone calm but carrying the same sense of urgency, “So, we have to go.”
Sheng Xuan paused for a moment, then looked at Xiao Qiyun: "Us?"
“Yes, it’s us.” Xiao Qiyun turned his head and looked directly into Sheng Xuan’s bloodshot eyes, which were burning with fire. “Staying suspicious of each other and sulking here is a waste of time. The secret of Zhelan and the conspiracy of the cult are beyond the capabilities of any one of us to investigate alone.”
He took a deep breath, as if making a decision, "At least until we find out the truth and ensure his safety, we... will temporarily cease hostilities."
A truce. The words carried a strange weight when spoken by Xiao Qiyun. Sheng Xuan stared at him for a few seconds, seemingly assessing the sincerity in his words.
Finally, he let out a heavy snort, which was taken as tacit agreement. For Su Zhelan's sake, cooperating with this annoying guy for the time being... wasn't out of the question.
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