160: Chapter 160 Illusion

Chen Hao set the wine jar down on the stone table, but he failed to control his strength, causing the liquid inside to slosh around with a glugging sound.

The aroma of the wine seeped through the sealed clay of the jar's mouth—it was a potent liquor specialty of Flame Peak that burned the throat just from the smell, packing quite a punch.

"Drink," Chen Hao said, plopping down onto the stone bench and patting the empty spot beside him. "High Grade Level 1 Spiritual Qi wine, good stuff."

His eyebrows twitched as he spoke, and his eyes were bright.

With his sleeves rolled up above his elbows, his exposed arms were covered in tiny scars from splashing sparks—dense and numerous, with new ones layered over the old.

He removed the clay seal roughly, digging his fingernails into the seam and snapping it in two with a loud crack, his movements as exaggerated as if he were dismantling a Magical Artifact.

Lin Xuan stood where he was, unmoving.

He caught the scent of rust mixed with sulfur on Chen Hao—the distinct odor of a Disciple from Artifact Refining Peak that could never be washed away.

He saw a fresh burn mark on Chen Hao's forehead, his hair matted to his brow by sweat; it was obvious he had just run over from Artifact Refining Peak.

He knew this was not real.

At this moment, Chen Hao was still hammering iron at Tiangong Pavilion, quenching the city-breaking crossbows on the front lines.

The Disciples of Artifact Refining Peak had all been conscripted. Chen Hao's Master, Han Lie, had accepted a batch of urgent orders to carve dense Formation patterns onto the city-breaking crossbows, and Chen Hao, as a Named Disciple, had been busy working himself to the bone.

The last time they met was over half a year ago, when they had sent word of their safety via a Jade Slip.

Everything this Chen Hao in the illusion said, laughed at, or drank was pieced together from fragments of his memory—the days they spent Cultivating together, the encouragement in the dead of night, the details of slapping each other on the shoulder and cursing "Let's go, brother"—all dug out from the depths of his memory by the Heart Mirror Platform and reassembled into a vivid, living Chen Hao.

But the terrifying thing about a Heart Demon is not that it makes you believe the illusion is real—it is that it makes you experience genuine emotions because of the scenes in the illusion, even while you know it is fake.

The feeling of his heart being clutched was real. The sourness rising from his throat was also real.

It does not force you to believe; it digs out the softest spot hidden in your deepest depths, places it right before your eyes, and asks if you dare to look.

"Why are you standing there like a fool?" the Chen Hao in the illusion beckoned to him, slapping the stone bench with a loud smack. "Come over, come over, the Spiritual Qi will dissipate once it's opened. Let me tell you, I almost blew up the Earth Fire Furnace at Master's place today, and Master scolded me for half the day—"

Lin Xuan closed his eyes.

The spirit control tower trembled slightly in his Sea of Consciousness.

Clear light surged from the tower, like a basin of cold water poured from head to toe.

This chill was not the bone-piercing kind of cold, but a gentle, soothing coolness that seeped down through his Sea of Consciousness, flowed along his Meridians into his chest, and pried open, finger by finger, the invisible hand clutching his heart.

Chen Hao's voice grew blurred amidst the clear light.

It grew more and more distant, as if coming from a long, stretched-out pipe.

The aroma of wine faded, the rusty smell of Artifact Refining Peak dissipated, and the rustling of the wind through bamboo leaves stopped.

He opened his eyes.

The small courtyard drifted away before his eyes like shredded paper.

The crooked tree, the stone table, Chen Hao, and the two jars of Spirit Wine shattered piece by piece.

Each fragment still held a remnant of the scene—Chen Hao's smiling face frozen on one fragment, his hand still in the posture of patting the stone bench frozen on another—before being swallowed by the purple light in the Void Realm and turning into nothingness.

The Void Realm fell silent again. The pale purple halo above his head began to spread in circles once more, moving very slowly, as if to remind him—the Heart Demon was not over yet.

Lin Xuan adjusted his breathing, exhaling the sourness in his chest bit by bit.

He clenched his fingers, released them, and clenched them again—his knuckles made a crisp cracking sound when gripped, a tangible sensation that helped him stay clear-headed.

A second illusion followed in quick succession.

This time, the world changed abruptly.

It was not a smooth transition from the Void Realm to a scene—but rather as if he had been shoved violently into a deep well.

The surrounding light vanished in an instant, and even the pale purple halo above his head was extinguished.

His vision was filled with chaotic darkness—not the transparent black of the Void Realm, but a viscous, textured darkness, as if his entire body were wrapped in invisible mud.

Breathing became difficult; he had to exert effort to draw in every breath.

Then, a beam of light shone down from above.

It was not sunlight, nor moonlight, but a glaring, temperatureless white light that shone upon him, casting his shadow onto the ground as an extremely thin, black silhouette.

Lin Xuan found himself standing on a high platform of white jade.

The high platform was massive, dozens of zhang in diameter, its surface paved with solid white jade; the jade was translucent, with fine, dense spiritual patterns flowing across its surface.

The high platform was surrounded by a circle of white jade railings, and beyond the railings were tiers of spectator stands.

The stands were packed with people, a dense, dark sea of them, uncountable, all eyes focused on him.

Those gazes were cold, mocking, gloating, or indifferent—but not a single pair of eyes held any kindness.

He was no longer wearing that drab outer Sect robe, but the silver-white uniform robe of an Inner Sect Disciple of the Sanyang Sect.

Embroidered on the chest of the robe was a thunder-patterned cloud, the mark of a high-ranking Disciple of the Sanyang Sect. Hanging at his waist was not the startling thunder whip, but a Flying Sword with a luxurious scabbard.

The thunder seed in his Dantian was far more powerful than it was now, at least at the Foundation Establishment Stage.

He stood in the center of the high platform, with a complex binding Formation drawn beneath his feet.

The lines of the Formation glowed with a dark red light, coiling around his ankles in circles; every time they pulsed, they tightened, causing his ankle bones to ache faintly.

He wanted to lift his foot, but those dark red rings of light pinned him in place like iron hoops.

Lin Xuan looked up.

Directly in front of the high platform sat a row of chairs, with over a dozen elders seated upon them.

The one in the middle was the Sect Master of the Sanyang Sect, Master Qingyang—he had seen him from afar during the Sect war; he was the very existence whose voice had resonated throughout the entire Sect when he announced that Qi Tianyuan had succeeded in Undergoing Tribulation.

At this moment, Master Qingyang's gaze was not as gentle as it had been when announcing the Golden Core Major Achievement; there was no expression on his face, as if he were looking at an object, not a person.

The few seated beside him were also the Peak Masters of the Golden Core peaks—Master Xuanyue of Houtu Peak, Chen Yufei's Master.

The Peak Master of Flame Peak, Chen Hao's Grandmaster.

There were also a few faces he did not recognize, but judging by the position of their seats and the patterns on their robes, they were all experts at least at the Middle Stage of the Golden Core.