Feng Ming stood in silence, eyes narrowed, deep in thought. His gaze was fixed on the distant fortress where Wang Yu had made his stand.
"He's completely cornered now," Feng Ming mused, the corners of his lips curling slightly. "Let's hope he can hold that fortress a little longer If he falls too soon, it'll be bad for me."
A shadow flickered across his expression as memories crept in uninvited, but vivid. His thoughts drifted to a time long past, to a dusty road and a looming city under a red-hued sky.
He had been walking beside his master, the man whose presence seemed to bend the very air around him. As they neared the city gates, Feng Ming had chuckled and nudged him lightly.
"Is this your next target?" he asked, half-mocking.
The old man didn't miss a step. He shook his head slowly, his voice calm and cold.
"No. This time, it's yours."
Feng Ming blinked, stunned by the unexpected reply. For a moment, he couldn't find the words. His mind raced.
"Has this old man finally lost it? I'm a mortal, not a cultivator. What does he expect me to do? Even a mere skin-refining cultivator could slaughter dozens of me without lifting a finger."
But he kept his thoughts to himself, his lips sealed in uneasy silence.
His master turned to him, his gaze unreadable.
"Weren't you the one who chose to walk this path with me?" he said quietly. "Why hesitate now?"
Feng Ming looked away, his brows furrowing. After a long pause, he finally spoke, his voice low.
"I have no combat experience," he admitted. "How do you expect me to kill someone who's a cultivator?"
At that, the old man smiled not with warmth, but with a trace of satisfaction.
"Your mentality has taken its first step," he said. "Congratulations, kid For breaking free from the illusion of good and evil, and beginning to think for yourself."
Feng Ming didn't respond. His eyes dropped to the ground as an eerie silence settled between them.
Then, without warning, the old man raised a hand and pressed it gently against Feng Ming's forehead. In that moment, a flood of memories surged into his mind fragments of lives, pain, blood, laughter, and something else something darker.
And then, a vision.
Feng Ming saw a young man clad in white robes, seated on the bank of a quiet river. His face was expressionless, like a statue carved from ice. The sky above was grey, and the wind rustled the reeds beside him.
An old man approached, his steps slow but steady.
"What did you think of the last city?" he asked casually.
The young man didn't even glance at him. "Boring," he replied flatly.
"Oh?" The old man raised an eyebrow. "Why not make it interesting then?"
There was a pause. The young man's voice came again, cold and empty.
"I'm weak."
The old man nodded thoughtfully. "And what if you weren't?"
At those words, the young man turned slowly to face him. A strange, unsettling smile crept onto his face.
"Oh? Then do it."
He laughed. The sound echoed along the riverbank light, almost childlike. But beneath it, there was a madness that made the wind pause and the world seem just a little quieter