Wandering Swordsman |

On the other hand, after Shen Mo and the bookworm landed on Erhai Lake, he took out the two stolen manuals—"Martial God Hammer Technique" and "Martial God Sword Technique".

"Brother Shu," he handed over the manuals, his gaze resolute, "please take these two manuals back to the Martial Alliance for me."

The bookworm was taken aback, a complex look flashing in his eyes: "Brother Shen, you stole this manual, so you can keep it. There's no need to hand it over to the Martial Arts Alliance!"

Shen Mo shook his head, a slight upturn at the corners of his mouth, but no real smile: "Brother Shu, what I want has never been martial arts. What I want is... to see her safe and sound."

The bookworm stared at him for a long time before finally taking the manual and sighing softly, "Go. I will report on the matter of the Martial God's Tomb. I will send you a message after the Martial Alliance has released its decision on this matter."

Shen Mo nodded, turned and left, his figure quickly disappearing into the vast night. At that moment, he felt as if he had unloaded a heavy burden, but then he took on another, even heavier concern.

......

For two whole days, Shen Mo had not closed his eyes.

Having escaped from the abyss-like tomb of the God of War, he set off like an arrow towards the solitary journey to Jiangnan. Behind him lay the blood-soaked tomb of the God of War, a battlefield of swords and shadows; ahead lay the misty rain of Jiangnan, and the beautiful figure in his heart—Murong Qing.

The night wind, sharp as a knife, sliced ​​through the mountains and fields, ruffling his dust-stained robes. He moved with the speed of the wind, his figure like a shadow, traversing the dense forests and secluded valleys. Each step he took released a faint black aura—the surging, ceaseless flow of demonic energy within his meridians. This powerful force had become his reliance for rapid travel day and night. It devoured fatigue, suppressed pain, and even dispelled the biting cold of the night.

"Qing'er...you must be safe." He murmured softly, his voice barely audible in the wind, yet like a vow etched into his very bones.

......

After more than twenty hours of travel, he finally set foot on the land of Jiangnan.

A fine drizzle fell silently, turning the bluestone pavement a deep indigo hue. In the distance, the waters stretched out in a vast expanse, with willow-lined banks and flower-covered embankments. Soft Wu dialect drifted from the streams and bridges, like a traditional Chinese ink painting slowly unfolding. But Shen Mo had no interest in the scenery. His gaze, sharp as a hawk, swept across the streets and alleys, heading straight for the building in the city with its gray tiles, high walls, and upturned eaves—the Jiangnan branch of the Martial Alliance.

He pushed open the door and entered, looking travel-worn, which drew the attention of several disciples in the hall.

"Excuse me..." Shen Mo's voice was hoarse, yet each word was clear, "Do you know the whereabouts of Murong Qing from the Martial Arts Alliance Elite Academy?"

A middle-aged deacon looked him up and down, his brow furrowing slightly. "Who are you? What business do you have with Miss Murong?"

"I'm her fiancé!" Shen Mo refused to elaborate, only saying, "Tell me quickly, where is she now?"

The steward hesitated for a moment, then said in a low voice, "Three days ago, Miss Murong went to Xishan Island in Taihu Lake to wipe out a group of bandits who had been entrenched there for many years. That group was ruthless and specialized in kidnapping children; more than ten children have already gone missing... but she has not yet returned."

"What?!" Shen Mo was struck dumb, his expression changing drastically.

The case of the missing child—this was precisely the mission Murong Qing was assigned to in Jiangnan! Situ Changkong actually knew about it! He wasn't lying to me!

In an instant, countless thoughts flashed through his mind like lightning: How did Situ Changkong know? Is there a traitor within the Martial Alliance? Are those bandits connected to the evil cultivators overseas? Or... is there something else going on?

He dared not think about it anymore.

"Please tell me, senior, where is Xishan Island?" Shen Mo's voice was hoarse, yet it cut through the silence of the hall like a blade, each word carrying the dust of the world and anxiety.

The steward hesitated for a moment, then raised his hand and pointed to the misty, rain-shrouded distance outside the window: "It takes an hour to reach the lake by boat from the lakeside dock to the west. However, the wind and waves have been rough lately, and the river bandits are cunning and ruthless... Ordinary boats dare not approach."

Before he finished speaking, Shen Mo had already turned and strode away, his robes stirring up a gust of wind that made the pages on the table rustle.

"Hey! Young man—" The deacon hurriedly stood up and reached out to stop him.

"Bang!"

The heavy wooden door slammed shut, silencing the rest of the sentence inside.

Shen Mo's figure shot off like an arrow, disappearing into the drizzle. The rain, like needles, slanted and dense, striking his face with a chilling cold, trickling down his forehead, mingling with the sweat and dust of two days' journey, leaving streaks of mud on his cheeks. But he was oblivious, his mind resonating with a single, thunderous thought:

Taihu Lake... Xishan Island... Murong Qing...

Half an hour later, Shen Mo stepped onto the lakeside pier.

Suddenly, everything became clear.

The vast Taihu Lake stretches to the horizon, where water meets sky. Low-hanging, hazy clouds seem to press down on its surface. A fine drizzle, like smoke, falls on the lake, creating countless tiny ripples, like a thousand silver needles piercing the mirror-like surface. In the distance, a few lone boats bob in the wind and waves, as small and helpless as duckweed.

Just a dozen miles away, a bluish-green island stands quietly amidst the misty waves—Xishan Island.

The island, shaped like a reclining dragon, was covered in lush forests and shrouded in mist, seemingly serene and picturesque. Yet, Shen Mo sensed a hint of bloodshed and sinister energy emanating from the deep shadows of the woods. His eyes, sharp as an eagle's, were fixed on the winding coastline of the island, as if he could pierce through the rain to see if Murong Qing was safe and sound.

"Qing'er..." he murmured softly, his voice swallowed by the wind and rain. Only the Tai'a sword, tightly gripped in his palm, trembled slightly, as if responding to its master's anxiety.

Just then, several boatmen surrounded them, dressed in straw raincoats and hats, their faces weathered and worn.

"Sir, would you like to cross the lake? It's cheap to go to Yangxian City on the other side!" someone greeted enthusiastically.

Shen Mo's gaze remained fixed on Xishan Island, and he coldly said, "I'm going to Xishan Island."

The boatman's smile froze instantly, and he waved his hands repeatedly: "No, no! That place is incredibly eerie! Others have taken people there before, but in the end, they never came back; the boats just drifted back on their own, covered in blood!"

Another person chimed in, "Exactly! Someone saw green flames erupting from the island in the middle of the night yesterday, accompanied by ghostly wails and howls! Going there is practically suicide!"

The boatmen chattered amongst themselves, their expressions filled with fear, and they all retreated, as if Shen Mo were not a guest, but a soul guide returned from hell.

Shen Mo said no more, and didn't even glance at them.

He took a deep breath, his internal energy slowly circulating. The demonic energy surged like an undercurrent, merging with his internal energy to create a strange balance. He lightly touched the ground with his toes, and with a leap, he soared several feet like a wild goose, landing directly on the lake surface!

"Whoosh—"

I thought it would splash water, but—

No.

His feet seemed to be treading on invisible solid ice, as light as a feather, without even stirring up a ripple!

The lake was as smooth as a mirror, reflecting his tall and straight figure, making him appear like an immortal walking on the water.

"This...this is impossible!" A boatman exclaimed, his eyes wide, not even noticing his straw hat slipping off.