Chapter 26: On What Grounds

As expected, Ning Xiu spotted Zhang Heng. At this moment, Zhang Heng was drinking with an elderly man, who Ning Xiu surmised must be Xiaocui’s father.

After a round of introductions, the old man greeted Ning Xiu with great enthusiasm. They exchanged a few polite words, but Ning Xiu, claiming fatigue from the long journey through the mountains, excused himself from the evening banquet. The old man did not insist, instead instructing the same young man from before to lead Ning Xiu to a guest room to rest.

Not long after, Xiaocui entered carrying a basin and towel. The noise from the banquet in the main hall was still clearly audible, yet this courtyard remained quiet and tranquil. Xiaocui had changed into a pale green dress, her hair slightly damp, evidently just washed, her body carrying a faint, fresh fragrance.

Just as she did every day at the Ning residence, she had come to attend to Ning Xiu’s nightly needs.

“I thought you were given a few days off? You should go and join the banquet instead. Your father’s recovery is something worth celebrating, and it’s rare for your family to be together like this,” Ning Xiu said.

“There are plenty of others there. Whether I’m present or not makes no difference. Besides, my father asked me to come…” Xiaocui deftly helped Ning Xiu remove his outer garments, her voice trailing off into a whisper, though her hands never paused in their work.

“Your father seems like a good man, a good father,” Ning Xiu remarked, watching her.

“Mm,” Xiaocui replied softly. After tending to his needs as usual, she took the basin and left the room.

Yet moments later, the door opened again.

Xiaocui came in with her head bowed, quietly closed the door behind her, stole a furtive glance at Ning Xiu, and walked slowly to the bedside.

“Young master, may… may Xiaocui sleep here with you tonight?”

Her voice was soft, almost trembling, her demeanor achingly vulnerable. She perched on the edge of the bed, twisting the hem of her sleeve with her fingers, lips pressed tightly together, her thin dress rising and falling with each breath.

Such a display of youthful shyness was an irresistible temptation for any man.

Ning Xiu looked at her, a bright smile breaking across his face. “Sure—but it’s a pity you’re not really Xiaocui.”

Before the words had faded, Ning Xiu’s right hand shot out, gripping her throat in a vice-like hold.

“Young master, what are you—” she gasped.

Xiaocui struggled desperately, her cries growing more anguished, but soon the human voice faded, replaced by the piercing yowls of a cat. At the same time, the entire scene before Ning Xiu’s eyes shifted rapidly; everything in the room turned to ruin and decay. The being in his grasp was no longer Xiaocui, but a black cat.

Ning Xiu twisted its neck with a sharp motion and tossed the carcass aside.

He did not yet know that this creature was called a Yin Fiend, and the black cat merely its vessel. The Yin Fiend itself was not powerful, but its illusions were cunning and persuasive. All he had just witnessed had been a carefully woven fantasy—convincing, but fatally flawed in several ways.

Xiaocui’s father, gravely ill days before, had suddenly made a full recovery. The tonics Ning Xiu had sent were quite ordinary; if they truly possessed such miraculous effects, Zhang Heng’s own mother would not have died. That, perhaps, could be rationalized as a miracle, but the second flaw was harder to overlook: Zhang Heng was a taciturn man, yet the illusionary Zhang Heng drank and laughed with Xiaocui’s father. Ning Xiu knew that ever since Zhang Heng had retired from the martial world, he had not touched a drop of alcohol in years—why would he break his vow here?

The greatest inconsistency, however, lay with Xiaocui herself. In truth, she harbored grievances toward her parents. Her father had been a degenerate gambler whose debts nearly forced her into a brothel, and if not for the Ning family’s intervention, she would have been lost. Though time had dulled her resentment, scars remained—she might believe her father a good man, but never a good father.

Just now, when Ning Xiu tested her with a casual remark, she had shown no reaction at all.

And finally, there was Xiaocui’s uncharacteristic behavior that evening—enough to rouse Ning Xiu’s suspicions.

As events proved, his instincts had not been mistaken.

Ning Xiu immediately rose to leave, but as he approached the door, a sudden gust of wind slammed it shut. The candlelight in the room flickered wildly, casting deep shadows, and a low, eerie whistling sounded in the air.

Clearly, something did not want him to leave.

Ning Xiu’s expression darkened. He grabbed the door, trying to open it, but something heavy pressed against it from the other side.

“Uncle Yang!” a familiar voice shouted from outside.

Frowning, Ning Xiu gathered his internal energy and smashed the door to pieces, his body shooting out into the street like an arrow.

The street was littered with corpses, every one of them horribly mutilated. As he moved forward, he did not see a single body left intact.

“Found them!”

Following the source of the earlier shout, Ning Xiu finally located the missing Xiaocui and Zhang Heng. This time, he was certain it was no illusion.

Zhang Heng, bloodied but not yet dead, stood protectively before Xiaocui, gripping an ancient broadsword. Facing him was a woman in a blood-red dress, her long hair unbound and wild.

Just as the blood-clad woman was about to deliver a fatal blow, Ning Xiu darted forward, rescuing Zhang Heng and blocking the woman’s path.

“Be… careful,” Zhang Heng managed to gasp before losing consciousness.

Ning Xiu passed him to Xiaocui, then looked up at the woman in red. In the moonlight, she cast no shadow; she was clearly a specter—and a powerful one at that.

Ning Xiu could feel the overwhelming malice radiating from her—a rage that seemed to blot out the sky.

“Why does she live while I must die?” she screamed, her voice shrill and broken. “Why does she live while I must die? Why? Why? Why!”

With each tortured cry, her face changed, cycling through visages Ning Xiu recognized as the villagers of Gujia Village. Each face stared out with hollow, empty eyes, black blood oozing from the sockets.

“I’ll give you a reason!” Ning Xiu roared, drawing the steel saber at his waist. He stepped forward and struck.

The blade, charged with the pure Yang energy of the Nine Suns Technique, sent a wave of searing heat toward the specter. Even before the blade reached her, she felt as if she were pressed against a furnace or being pierced by a thousand silver needles, and she let out a shriek of unbearable agony.