One person: Starting with the Snow Drinking Blade

The mornings at Longhu Mountain should be filled with the melodious sound of bells and the rising mist.

But today, the morning mist is filled with the smell of smoke and scorched earth, and the distant tolling of bells has been replaced by suppressed cries. Bloodstains are visible on the stone steps of the mountain path, like a winding scar etched on the backbone of this thousand-year-old tradition.

The old Celestial Master Zhang Zhiwei carried the unconscious Nie Lingfeng, walking step by step back to the Celestial Master's Mansion. His Taoist robe, which had remained untouched for a century, was now tattered, the left sleeve torn to the elbow, revealing a deep, bone-revealing wound on his forearm. Dried bloodstains lingered at the corner of his mouth, and he walked steadily with each step, but deep within his eyes, which had never shown any signs of fatigue in a century, lay an unfathomable darkness.

Along the way, ruins were everywhere. A once-majestic side hall was half-collapsed, its beams and pillars leaning precariously amidst the rubble like broken bones. Young Taoist priests, their eyes red with tears, cleared away the debris, while the older ones silently bandaged the wounded. Cries came from the east wing—where the fallen disciples of the previous night were temporarily housed.

"Master..."

A young Taoist priest, barely seventeen or eighteen years old, rushed over. Seeing the pale-faced Nie Lingfeng in the old Celestial Master's arms, and then noticing the bloodstains at the corner of his master's mouth, his voice trembled uncontrollably: "You're injured? Senior Brother Nie, he..."

"It's nothing." The old master's voice was very soft, as if afraid of disturbing something, yet it carried the majesty of a mountain. "Go and do your work."

As the young Taoist bit his lower lip and stepped back, he secretly glanced up—he saw his master holding Senior Brother Nie's arm, his knuckles turning white from the force.

The old master continued walking forward.

Passing through the collapsed mountain gate, one of the stone lions, which had been passed down for three hundred years, was broken off; passing through the charred scripture pavilion, the burnt paper ash swirled in the wind like black snow; passing through the chaotic training ground, the bluestone slabs were cracked with crisscrossing fissures, and dark red blood seeped into the cracks.

His face was expressionless, but every disciple who saw him subconsciously lowered their head—not out of fear, but because they dared not look directly into the turbulent waves surging in his eyes, waves that seemed about to burst forth from his body.

"Master, Master!"

A hoarse, distorted voice came from the end of the corridor.

Rong Shan practically crawled over. His face was smeared with blood and tears, his left arm hanging at an unnatural angle, the bone protruding through his flesh. He knelt on the gravel ground with a thud and kowtowed heavily.

"Master! This disciple deserves to die! This disciple deserves to die!"

The dull thud of a forehead striking the stone was chilling; one strike, two strikes, three strikes—the gravel was stained with fresh blood.

The old celestial master's heart sank into an icy sea.

"What about Jinzhong?" he asked, his voice eerily calm.

Rong Shan raised his head, tears mingling with blood, carving two deep lines down his face: "Uncle-Master... Uncle-Master..."

He couldn't continue speaking, but he pointed towards Tian Jinzhong's room, his intact right hand trembling like a withered leaf in the wind.

The old master asked no more questions.

He closed his eyes and took a deep breath—the air smelled of blood, of burning, and a faint, familiar scent of herbs he had known for nearly a century, the scent that had perpetually lingered in his junior brother's room. When he opened them again, all emotion in his eyes was frozen, leaving only a chilling coldness that could pierce to the bone.

"lead the way."

---

The door to Tian Jinzhong's room was ajar.

The old master paused for a moment in front of the door, then reached out and pushed it open—the hinges made a dry, creaking sound, like a sob.

The room was a complete mess.

The wheelchair that Tian Jinzhong had used for sixty years lay overturned on the ground, its wheels spinning aimlessly; the teacup on the table was shattered, and the tea had soaked the scattered scriptures; there were three deep scratch marks on the wall, running from the head of the bed to the doorway, as if someone was being dragged along in despair.

As for Tian Jinzhong himself...

The old Celestial Master stood at the door, watching quietly.

He looked at his junior brother's eyes, which hadn't closed for decades—since they were teenagers, Tian Jinzhong had vowed "never to close his eyes in this life," for fear of missing something, for fear of forgetting something. At this moment, those eyes finally closed, the eyelids slightly sunken, like two withered leaves.

He looked at his junior brother's broken body—a body that had lost its limbs decades ago and was held together by sheer willpower, but now it no longer needed to struggle. The Taoist robe was neatly draped over his body, but the skin on his neck exposed at the collar was covered with hideous bruises.

He looked at the faint, almost imperceptible smile on his junior brother's face, a smile that seemed to come with relief.

Then, he saw the finger marks on his junior's neck.

Those were no ordinary strangulation marks. The marks were blackish-purple, deeply embedded in the flesh, with fine blood spots around the edges—the result of nails digging deep into the flesh. The direction and spacing of the marks indicated that the assailant attacked from the front, the fingers slowly and firmly tightening, watching life slowly slip away from this mutilated body.

"Who did it?" the old master asked, his voice still calm.

Rong Shan knelt at the door, trembling all over: "It's...it's Gong Qing."

"Gong Qing..." The old Celestial Master repeated the name, each syllable grinding between his teeth, "Gong Qing, the acting leader of the Quanxing Sect?"

"Yes," Rongshan said, crying. "He infiltrated Longhu Mountain for three years, disguised as Xiaoyuzi... Every morning he brought his master's food, helped him turn over in bed, and talked to him... This disciple is incompetent; for three whole years, I failed to see through him..."

Where are they?

"They...they escaped..." Rong Shan's voice trailed off. "They took several Quanxing masters and fled down the mountain in the chaos...I wanted to chase after them, but my uncle...my uncle's last words were...'Don't chase them, protect the mountain gate'..."

The old master remained silent.

He simply walked to Tian Jinzhong's side, bent down, and reached out his hand. That hand, which had once suppressed an era, now hung in mid-air, trembling slightly.

He gently stroked his junior brother's eyelids.

The movements were very light and slow, as if afraid of waking a light sleeper. The skin touched by the fingertips was already icy cold, and that chill crept up the fingers and into the heart.

"Junior brother," he whispered, his voice so soft that only he could hear it, "go to sleep. This time, your senior brother will watch over you."

He straightened up and looked out the window.

Outside the window, the sky was gradually brightening, but dark clouds were gathering from all directions, pressing down on the mountaintops. A distant rumble of thunder signaled an impending downpour.

"Rongshan".

"Disciple is here!" Rong Shan suddenly looked up.

"Issue my decree, Celestial Master." The old Celestial Master spoke each word clearly, his voice not loud, yet it struck everyone's heart like a heavy hammer. "From this day forward, Longhu Mountain is closed. All disciples shall observe three years of mourning. During this period, they shall not descend the mountain, shall not have contact with the outside world, and shall not participate in any conflicts involving extraordinary individuals."

Rong Shan was taken aback: "Master, what about Quanxing...?"

"Quanxing," the old master interrupted him, slowly turning around to look down the mountain, his gaze piercing through the layers of rain and landing on an unknown distance, "I will handle it personally."

Each word is like a stone pulled from an ice cellar—cold, hard, and heavy.

After he finished speaking, he bent down and picked up Nie Lingfeng again—the boy's white hair was scattered in his arms, with a few strands stained with blood, the red color glaringly bright.

When I stepped out of the room, there was already a large crowd gathered outside.

Zhang Chulan stood at the front, his face pale. Xu San pushed up his glasses, his eyes bloodshot behind the lenses. Xu Si bit a cigarette—it wasn't lit, just distorted from being chewed. Feng Baobao stood at the edge of the crowd, her clear eyes glancing at the Old Master, then at Nie Lingfeng in his arms, and finally settling on Tian Jinzhong in the room.

"Master..." Zhang Chulan's voice trembled. He wanted to ask something, but he didn't know where to begin.

The old master glanced at him, his gaze complex and indescribable—concerned, scrutinizing, and deeply weary.

"Chu Lan," he said, "Do you still want to accept the Celestial Master's Degree?"

Zhang Chulan opened his mouth.

He wanted to say "I want to." That was his grandfather's last wish, the source of his struggles these past few days, and the reason he was standing here. But looking at Tian Jinzhong's peaceful yet cold body in the room, the word "I want to" stuck in his throat, like a red-hot coal, burning him so that he couldn't make a sound.

The old celestial master seemed to see through his thoughts and shook his head.

"No rush," he said, his voice softening. "The gates of the Celestial Master's Mansion will always be open for you. Longhu Mountain is also your backing, your support."

He paused, then added, "As long as I'm still alive."

That's a very strong statement.

The weight caused Zhang Chulan's eyes to redden, and tears rolled down his cheeks without warning. He wiped his face forcefully, straightened his back, and bowed deeply.

The old master stopped looking at him and turned to Xu San and Xu Si.

"Gentlemen," he said, "I'm afraid young friend Nie cannot travel with you for the time being."

Xu San and Xu Si exchanged a glance. Xu San adjusted his glasses and said in a deep voice, "Old Master, Xiao Feng, he..."

"He's fallen into demonic possession." The old master looked down at the unconscious Nie Lingfeng in his arms.

The boy's striking white hair and pale face, though still emanating a chilling aura, lingered even in his unconscious state. Even more eerie, dark red lines could be faintly seen flowing beneath his exposed skin, as if something alive was crawling within his veins.

"You didn't see the battle last night," the old master said slowly, each word carrying weight. "He fought alone against the four madmen of Quanxing and the weapon refiner Yuan Tao, forcing Lu Jin to open the third level of Reverse Life. In the end, he even triggered his inner demons, his white hair was stained with blood, and the demonic sword was initially formed—I saw that sword. When the sword was completed, the grass and trees within a radius of forty feet withered and birds fell to the ground."

He raised his eyes: "If I hadn't arrived in time, Xia He and Dou Mei would have died by his blade as well."

Xu San and Xu Si gasped.

They knew Nie Lingfeng was strong, but they didn't expect him to be this strong—what was the concept of the Four Madmen? They were the top combat power of the Quanxing Sect, capable of putting even a master like Lu Jin in a difficult battle! And Yuan Tao was an old monster among weapon refiners!

"The demonic energy within him hasn't dissipated yet; the Qilin blood and the demonic blade's killing intent are clashing in his meridians," the old master continued. "Once he awakens, if he can't control himself, the consequences will be unimaginable."

Xu Si frowned: "Old Celestial Master, what do you mean...?"

"What I mean is," the old master said calmly, "besides me, how many people in this world could subdue him when he's possessed by evil without killing him?"

Xu San and Xu Si fell silent.

Yes. Although they didn't witness the battle last night, the horrific destruction on the scene—the giant crater several meters deep, the forty-meter-long trench cleaved by a single slash, and the ancient trees drained of their life force and instantly withered—all indicated that Nie Lingfeng, now possessed by demonic possession, had crossed a dangerous line.

Lu Jin was seriously injured and fell into a coma. Of the four madmen, two died and two escaped. The fates of Yuan Tao and Han Dan were unknown.

Such combat power, such bloodthirstiness...

Aside from the undisputed "top expert" before us, who else could subdue him? And who would dare to subdue an out-of-control demon with overwhelming combat power?

"Then... I'll leave it in your care, Elder Master." Xu San bowed deeply, his waist bent low. "We will take good care of Chu Lan. As for Xiao Feng... he's in your hands now."

The old master nodded and was about to speak when Feng Baobao suddenly spoke up.

"Grandpa," she looked at the old Taoist priest, her expression almost innocently earnest, "Xiao Feng, take good care of him. I'll bury the bad guys for you."

She said it so naturally, as if she were saying, "I'll take out the trash for you."

The air went still for a moment.

The old master paused for a moment, then smiled.

That was the first time he smiled since Tian Jinzhong died. The smile was faint and bitter; the corners of his mouth twitched slightly, but it was indeed a smile.

"Little girl," he said, "you just need to take good care of Chu Lan for me. You bad guy..."

He looked down the mountain, his eyes turning cold, a chill carrying a murderous intent unseen for a century.

"I'll bury it."

Feng Baobao nodded, seemingly satisfied with the answer. She pulled Zhang Chulan, who was still in a daze, aside: "Let's go."

Zhang Chulan struggled: "Sister Bao'er, wait, I haven't..."

"There's no time to wait." Feng Baobao was surprisingly strong, dragging him out like a reluctant sack. "Grandpa has things to do, and Xiaofeng needs to sleep. Don't cause trouble."

"I'm not trying to cause trouble! I'm just..."

"You are," Feng Baobao interrupted him, glancing back at the Old Master and then at Nie Lingfeng. A faint, indescribable something flickered in those usually clear and innocent eyes.

Then she grabbed Zhang Chulan and left without looking back.

Xu San and Xu Si bowed to the old Celestial Master and followed.

The room fell silent again.

Only the Old Celestial Master and the unconscious Nie Lingfeng remained.

And on the bed, Tian Jinzhong, forever asleep.

---

The old celestial master placed Nie Lingfeng on the soft couch by the window and covered him with a blanket. When he placed his fingers on the boy's wrist, his brows furrowed slightly.

The pulse is very irregular.

Sometimes strong, sometimes weak; sometimes fast, sometimes slow, like two armies clashing within the meridians. One was fiery, violent, and full of life—that was the blood of the Qilin; the other was icy, ferocious, and ruthless—that was the killing intent of the demonic blade.