The Truth

The tall cultivator whose body had undergone Liberation by Violence silently watched the Nascent Soul cultivator who had appeared before him.

He opened his mouth.

Black-red vapor poured out.

Wu Zhu neither dodged nor avoided it.

Surprise and anticipation surged in his honeycomb-crystal eyes.

He had thought that, in the next moment, the news he wanted would spill from that cultivator's mouth.

Yet he was destined to be disappointed.

Tu Shan Jun lowered his eyes and said nothing.

The Old Devil was poor at lying and rarely spoke falsehoods.

Perhaps a lie would have done no harm. It might even have counted as consolation, becoming a source of comfort.

But he still did not want to say it. He did not want to betray that anticipation. Even if they were strangers, he found it difficult to utter a fabricated lie.

So he could only remain silent.

Silence was always heavy.

And easily misunderstood.

"Where did it come from? Who taught you?"

Wu Zhu stared fixedly at the Old Devil.

The only response he received was a prolonged silence.

Even when the cultivator before him opened his mouth and his throat moved, not a single word emerged.

The anticipation in Wu Zhu's eyes did not dim.

He still clutched the shattered body of the soul fragment as though, so long as he held it tightly enough, the cultivator's fleshly body before him would not collapse.

As long as the body did not collapse, there would always come a time when he learned the news.

Tu Shan Jun did not magnanimously claim that he understood, either. Feelings in this world might be similar, but they were never identical. No one could fully understand another. For people like them, empty words and affected sympathy were not as good as telling the truth.

Yet