The small courtyard lay in utter silence, yet there was a strange sense of peace. The wind stirred the river with a rustling murmur, filling the air with boundless serenity.
Mu Yunle suddenly came to her senses. With a cry of surprise, she hurried forward and caught Meng Qi, who was swaying on the verge of collapse. "Master, Master, are you all right?"
Her gaze drifted toward Meng Qi's chest. The wound was hideous, the flesh completely black. The long sword formed from light had vanished, having pierced straight through his heart, yet not a single drop of blood had spilled, nor was there the slightest sign of healing. It was horrifying beyond words.
"I won't die." Meng Qi smiled faintly, his expression peaceful. Several weathered wrinkles seemed carved into the corners of his eyes, while something appeared to be buried deep within his gaze, like emotions entombed beneath layer upon layer.
Hearing that Master Zhen Ding's tone and voice were normal, Mu Yunle secretly let out a breath of relief. She subconsciously looked ahead, at the spot where Daoist Jiesha had stood, and asked with familiar ease, "Master, why, why was she crying?"
What rescue favor? What tangled debts and enmities? Her imagination ran wild, and having found an opening, she boldly spoke up.
"Freed from the cage, cleansed in body and mind—how could she not weep bitterly?" Meng Qi's breathing was slightly labored. His injuries were indeed severe, but his tone remained as calm and unruffled as ever.
Mu Yunle glanced back. She felt that Master Zhen Ding seemed a little more relaxed, and that his withered appearance had improved somewhat, yet that deeply buried feeling had grown heavier.
"Because that sword dissolved her hatred?" She racked her brains but could not think of anything that could dissolve