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The sound of the zither grew heavier, stirring the grass and whipping up the wind.

Wen Hemian's long lashes drooped, and a faint curve touched his pale, tightly pressed lips.

The girl truly felt it; she had heard the increasingly desolate core within his melody. Not only did she reveal an even more sorrowful expression, but tears also streamed down her face incessantly. It had been so long.

Finally, someone was willing to come and see this cripple forgotten by the world; finally, someone could understand his music.

A kindred spirit is hard to find, and a song, once begun, is hard to end.

The young man, lonely for so long, did not begrudge his music in gratitude to the unknown girl, and he continued to play with a flick of his hand.

He saw the girl crying continuously and assumed she must have been reminded of some sad past, moved by the scenery.

Everyone hides secrets in their heart that cannot see the light of day. He did not wish to disturb her, so he sat quietly in place, waiting with great patience for her to finish crying.

And so, Ning Ning's toes remained swollen.

The curses she directed at him in her heart strung together like a rap, keeping pace with the chugging rhythm of the zither.

Chapter 9

Wen Hemian, known by the title Jiangxing, was one of the six great elders of the Xuanxu Sword Sect and a sword-cultivation genius who had once shocked the world with a single strike.

It was a pity that he had been severely wounded during the war between immortals and demons. Since then, he had retreated to Qingxu Valley, ignoring worldly affairs and spending his days accompanied only by the sounds of the mountains and his zither.

There were even rumors that he was cold-hearted and detached, distant as a flower on a high peak—a textbook example of a beautiful, powerful, and tragic character.

At this moment, the mountain mist was largely dispersed by the zither music. Through the ethereal, shifting white smoke that resembled light gauze, the figure of the man not far away quietly emerged.

His long hair was unbound, drifting gently in the light breeze like a cascading black waterfall, brushing against his fair, slender neck and his pristine white robes.

He sat beneath another ancient tree opposite Ning Ning, where dark brown roots twisted and turned, hidden by lush, verdant greenery that cast a heavy shadow over the young man.

Sunlight leaked through the gaps in the leaves, dampening his glass-like, lustrous black eyes. His refined brows and high-bridged nose were striking, while his lightly pressed lips were devoid of color, like thin, pale paper.

Sunlight spilled over him, and a faint luster flowed across his cold, white skin. White mist entwined with black hair, and a gentle breeze lifted a corner of his white robes; he looked like a god descended to the mortal realm.

If anyone else were to see this scene, they would surely sigh in heartfelt admiration at such a celestial appearance. However, Ning Ning let out a cold sneer from the bottom of her heart.

What is more infuriating than being left to die without help?

It is when that person lets you fend for yourself while occasionally looking up at you, their eyes actually holding a hint of gratification, as if they might burst out laughing at any moment.

Elder Jiangxing had undergone professional training and would not laugh easily—

Unless he truly couldn't help it.

Is it that funny? Huh? Isn't it just her lifting a rock only to drop it on her own feet?

Idiot! Bad guy! Stingy jerk! Fine, don't help me then. In the time it takes to burn a stick of incense, she'll be a hero again!

These were the most vicious insults Ning Ning could muster in her head.

In the original text, Wen Hemian wasn't supposed to be this black-hearted.

Pei Ji was born thoroughly dark, and the Senior Brother was a black lotus that couldn't be trifled with. Only he and the Little White Dragon, Lin Xun, had maintained a pure Daoist heart from beginning to end; they were the truly righteous characters.

—Lin Xun was like the foolish son of a wealthy landlord, while Wen Hemian was the embodiment of a long-lasting Daoist heart and awe-inspiring righteousness.

In his youth, everything went smoothly for him; he hadn't experienced much of the malice of human nature. Later, after achieving fame and success, although he developed a cold, indifferent personality and didn't like to interact with others, his heart remained as clear as a mirror.

He disdained bullying his juniors and refused to curry favor with those in high positions. He always walked alone, and even when faced with the original owner's repeated provocations and insults, he chose to treat her with cold indifference, disdaining any form of retaliation.

How did he end up like this now?

Later, she became numb from the pain and simply stood there expressionless, letting the cold wind slap against her face at will. She didn't know how much time had passed before the paralysis spreading throughout her body finally began to fade.

Ning Ning gritted her teeth and tried to move her right leg.

The congealed blood gave a sudden jolt, darting around like a spasm. A tingling electric current spread from the sole of her foot all the way to her knee. Since her strength hadn't fully returned, she lost her footing and immediately collapsed to the ground.

The sound of the zither stopped abruptly, and Wen Hemian frowned in silence—

It seems she was so overcome with grief and anxiety that she actually cried herself into a faint. What kind of experience could cause such an understanding young lady to be this distraught?

Although he disliked outsiders, he had rarely found a kindred spirit today, so he approached Ning Ning without much thought and leaned down, reaching out a hand toward her: "Fellow Daoist?"

His voice was as clear and cold as ice and snow on a distant mountain, devoid of any emotion.

Ning Ning lifted her head from the grass, which smelled of a lush green meadow, and the first thing she saw was the hand inches away from her.

The fingers were slender and as white as jade. They bore the thin calluses common to all Sword Cultivators, but they were still very handsome.

Although Wen Hemian's sea of consciousness was destroyed, his incredibly deep foundation had not disappeared. The scent of the Soul-Bewitching Flower had no effect on him, so naturally, he didn't realize that the little star-like white flowers surrounding them were actually a potent poison.

Coming here to play the good guy now.

Ning Ning slandered him internally and replied with great backbone: "I'll do it myself."

She had no strength left, and her voice was no louder than a mosquito's hum. Although she tried to use an assertive, slightly angry tone, under the weakness of her voice, every word softened into a gentle, lingering sound.

Coupled with the crimson flush of anger on her cheeks and the traces of tears in her eyes that she hadn't had time to wipe away—

Wen Hemian understood. It seemed this young disciple was naturally introverted and shy, embarrassed to have too much contact with a strange man like him, so she had blushed and gently refused.

It was his fault for having been away from others for so long; he had been too abrupt.

The toxins of the Soul-Bewitching Flower were likely still lingering in her body. To maintain her persona as a vicious female supporting character, Ning Ning exerted a great deal of effort to finally crawl up from the ground.

However, before she could steady herself, the moment her legs straightened, that familiar electric sensation surged from the soles of her feet again. It stung so much that she gasped, and her entire body tipped over to the side once more.

This time, she at least didn't fall to the ground.