Tang Lianyi, clad in a green robe, walked into the depths of the dense forest without looking back.
Blood slowly seeped from the wound at his waist, staining the golden embroidery on the pale green silk, as if the intricate peonies and vines woven into the fabric were blooming one by one. Deep in the forest stood many old trees, their leaves yellowed and withered, poisoned by the toxic powder scattered by the drifting Piaoling Meiyuan. Beneath these ancient trees lay a fresh grave.
No tombstone marked the spot—just a simple mound of earth.
He gazed at the mound for a long time, then smiled faintly.
"A single step to rule the world—so what?"
Kuang Lan Wuxing, wielding an eight-foot-long sword, had swept through the martial world, mastering the ghostly "Pearl-Spitting Breath" to become invincible. Gifted with extraordinary talent, unmatched resolve, and unparalleled insight—so what?
At some point, he had forgotten everything except how to kill.
Everyone dies.
To become a peerless master, holding life and death in your hands with a single step to rule the world—
Only means you die faster.
Tang Lianyi opened his palm, staring at the blood on his fingers and hand.
His blood was as red as any other man's.
The only difference was that, given his constitution, a wound like this should have healed long ago.
Even for an ordinary person, such a minor injury would have stopped bleeding by now.
Yet his wound still bled—slowly, but steadily.
Tang Lianyi fixed his gaze on the grave before him. He and Kuang Lan Wuxing had never been friends—they were rivals, and he had never admired the man's words, actions, or character.
But now he was dead.
Kuang Lan Wuxing's death was largely Tang Lianyi's doing.
He had killed him with his own hands.
Yet as he looked at the grave, it felt as though he were gazing upon a friend.
Those who practiced the Wangsheng Pu often died in madness, burdened by the weight of their sins.
Bai Nanzhu was dead.
Kuang Lan Wuxing was dead.
Yu Konghou... would soon follow.
Who else?
Tang Lianyi turned away. Around him, yellow leaves rustled as the ancient trees slowly withered.
Who else?
Yu Konghou had been locked away in the deepest, most secretive prison of Piaoling Meiyuan by Bai Suche.
This was originally a refuge designed by Po Cheng Guaike for himself. Obsessed with esoteric mechanisms and hidden weapons, he had infiltrated numerous scholarly families in his youth, stealing countless secret techniques. Before his martial arts reached mastery, he had spent years evading relentless pursuit. It wasn't until he turned thirty-eight and completed his own labyrinth of mechanisms that the hunt for him gradually ceased.
Po Cheng Guaike had named his mechanical stronghold "Huang Family Cave," after his own surname. Later, Yu Konghou, finding the name too crude, renamed it "Piaoling Meiyuan" after killing Po Cheng Guaike and seizing the place.
The mechanisms here were intricate and fantastical, and the refuge Po Cheng Guaike had built for himself was even more bizarre. The moment Yu Konghou was led into the chamber, the door shut automatically. Then came the sound of gears turning—creaking and groaning for what felt like an eternity—as at least five or six different locks engaged to seal the entrance. Inside, the chamber was furnished with a bed, chairs, and a table—everything one might need. The only flaw was that the escape route Po Cheng Guaike had originally prepared had been destroyed by explosives.
And the one who had deliberately blown up that escape route was none other than Yu Konghou himself.
If this was to be his stronghold, he couldn't afford to leave a secret passage connecting the inside to the outside right under his nose. After demolishing the tunnel, he had tested it repeatedly, ensuring it was completely ruined and impossible for anyone to traverse before he was satisfied.After the chamber door was locked, Yu Konghou leaned on the table and slowly sat down, letting out a long sigh of relief.
He was still alive—not dead under Kuang Lanwuxing's halberd, not killed by Tang Lichen, and surprisingly, not dead by the hands of Chai Xijin or Bai Suche either.
That was his great fortune.
And others' misfortune.
After meditating for a while and confirming that his meridians were damaged—that his half-ruined martial arts could never be restored—Yu Konghou burst into laughter.
He lit the oil lamp in the chamber, its warm flame flickering faintly in the darkness.
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