Destroy What He Hated

"...Who are you?"

An Jing, who had still been somewhat immersed in memories of the past, quickly came to his senses. He did not answer the question, but instead asked, "Why do you ask?"

[What is it that you desire?] The gentle voice continued asking, paying no heed to An Jing's question.

An Jing narrowed his eyes, then suddenly laughed. "I see. So this is the Ritual Sacrifice?"

He teased, "Lord Fuxie, is this the Heavenly Demon you slew? Why isn't it dead?"

[Hah, a defeated foe. It merely hid away a wisp of its remnant soul.] The Sword Spirit rarely showed such emotion; it sneered, then earnestly instructed An Jing: [Continue the Ritual Sacrifice. I need to focus completely on locating my fragments, so I can't help you for now.]

"Understood." At that moment, An Jing clearly sensed that the other eight people connected to him in spirit had all fallen into various desires.

For example, Gu Yeqi, who saw him as an older brother, wanted to return to the Northern Frontier and bring plenty of food back to her father. She wanted to find her missing mother, then have a hearty meal with her whole family. For some reason, her dream even included a shadow of him.

For example, the little runt Qin Yunye. She trained harder than anyone, all so she could grow a little taller and become a little stronger. That way, she could protect her parents and loved ones in the future, and kill those evil men, instead of being hidden beneath the pine needles, forced to watch as bandits killed and ate her parents.

Then there was Cang Linzu. He loved martial arts, and all he wanted was a quiet place to practice, with enough opponents to hone his skills and improve. Life at Xuanming Manor was exactly what he wanted: training, practicing, sparring, eating, and sleeping every day. If he could, he would live like that for the rest of his life without a single complaint.

If he could... Cang Linzu also wanted to challenge himself. He didn't think he would win, but he wanted to earn his own recognition.

Seeing this, An Jing couldn't help shaking his head slightly. He had acknowledged these companions long ago; he had simply acted a little distant, perhaps to conceal his true trump cards.

There were others, too—other familiar people.

After leading the team for more than three months, An Jing couldn't say he knew these "buddies" inside and out, but he at least knew their pasts in great detail.

All their desires, their wishes, their hatreds—now they were like words on a page, leaping into his eyes.

As his group members gradually sank deeper into the illusions, streams of pitch-black demonic energy poured into their minds, dragging them down into the depths.

That was the demonic energy contained in the "Demon flesh."

Without demonic energy to serve as a lure, the Heavenly Demon couldn't bewitch them. So from the very beginning, those too easily affected by demonic energy were eliminated. But that wasn't "waste," because demonic energy could also provoke their Heavenly Fate to react on its own, causing Divine Anomalies to manifest and turning them into ingredients for the "great medicine."

At the same time, even those with bodies capable of resisting demonic energy could accumulate too much of it after consuming Demon flesh year after year, leaving their minds vulnerable to being seized by the Heavenly Demon.

The result was inevitably death, a death An Jing couldn't prevent either, an ending that had been set in stone long ago.

Fortunately, ever since learning the truth about Demon flesh, An Jing had secretly taught his team members to quiet their minds and meditate, dissolving the demonic thoughts in their hearts.

They didn't have to join An Jing for extra training, and they got the rare chance to rest through quiet meditation, so everyone practiced diligently. As a result, there wasn't much demonic energy in the first group's bodies—not enough to make their deaths inevitable, at least.

What's more, the chains of the Ritual Sacrifice linked them together, allowing them to pull one another along and slow their descent. Each person's mind could help someone else find a way out of a maze they couldn't escape themselves—that was the meaning of "teammates."

But even their teammates could only help so much. Unless their own souls shone with light, An Jing could tell that, as the Ritual Sacrifice continued, at least one person in his group would be completely consumed by demonic energy.

He himself, on the other hand, had a crystal-clear soul and was perfectly lucid. The Ritual Sacrifice had no effect on him at all.

[What is it that you desire?] The voice asked again, and countless illusions surged forth from the darkness.

In one, An Jing had returned to the Northern Frontier. There was no Frost Calamity, no barbarian army. He lived peacefully with his parents back in their hometown, and the three of them became a renowned merchant family.

In another, An Jing had mastered the family's Martial Classic and reached the height of Internal Breath cultivation. He decided to travel the world in search of his Fate Grid, while his parents saw him off.

In yet another, An Jing had mastered the Eight Writings and Thirteen Classics and embarked on the imperial examination path. He rose from licentiate to provincial graduate to presented scholar, then entered Shenjing, obtained the Dharma Register, met the Sage, and attained immortality.

There were countless other versions of An Jing, all different in clothing, build, age, and temperament, yet bearing some resemblance to one another. They were like offshoots of infinite parallel worlds, branching without end.

But An Jing's gaze remained bright and unwavering.

Because he knew very well that none of these were him. These were not choices he would make.

He was no ordinary youth from the Northern Frontier. He possessed Past Life Wisdom—the wisdom of someone from another world.

Besides, he had the Sword Spirit's recognition and could travel to another world.

The choices he would make and the path he would walk could never be so ordinary.

[What is it that you hate?] The voice seemed to have noticed this, so it changed the question.

This time, one concrete figure or object after another appeared: cauliflower, carrots, the vagrant who had tricked him out of candied hawthorns when he was a child, the horse that was a picky eater and spat everywhere... These shadows were hazy and indistinct, all wavering memories.

An Jing merely frowned, then smiled in understanding. "So neither I nor the horse like eating carrots and cauliflower."

But the people and things that appeared next were far more vivid. An Jing's easy smile gradually faded, and his expression turned grave.

He saw them.

Bandits setting the county town ablaze and looting supplies.

—The bloodied blades.

Starving refugees trading lives and boiling flesh.

—The gnawed bones.

Guards perched high above, refusing to let anyone pass.

—The people on their knees.

Gentry bribing soldiers to drive away the refugees.

—Those looks of disdain and revulsion.

And... most important of all.

The dead children, the medicine vat on that rainy night, the dungeon, the horror of the dream.

—Those lives that had died without anyone knowing, then been forgotten; those bewildered faces that remained so until the very end.

One figure after another, one object after another, some hazy, some clear. They were abstract or concrete, no more than a single look, or an actual person.

Screams, bones. Wailing, flesh. Blades, corpses. Eyes, oblivion.

Wolves, tigers, and leopards; calamity piled upon calamity—all were better than the city gates shut tight.

War and slaughter, life-and-death disasters—all were better than slowly fading from memory.

Now, An Jing couldn't smile.

Faced with Heavenly Fate, he was utterly indifferent, because he didn't believe in an illusory future. He believed only in the Dao Path beneath his feet.

Faced with desire, he didn't care, because what he wanted was far better than anything this darkness could conjure.

But... faced with the people and things he hated, those arrogant, condescending looks; the realities that filled him with anger and grief, sorrow and resentment, that he had no power to change yet could not bring himself to shut his eyes to...

He couldn't ignore them or remain indifferent.

He couldn't let them go.