44: Chapter 44 Old Friends

The night was as dark as ink, thick and impenetrable, pinning the entire Xuanyuan Mansion into a deathly silence.

This was no ordinary stillness—it was the stillness of a Vicious Beast lurking in the abyss, the murderous intent restrained when a sharp blade returns to its sheath; even the wind dared not breathe, and even the moonlight could only creep in, crawling along the ground.

The moonlight did indeed arrive, but it was shattered, cold, and stingy, like a layer of dying silver gauze barely draped over the flying eaves and arched brackets.

But it failed to illuminate anything; instead, it made the sleeping mansion resemble an Ancient Tomb submerged at the bottom of a lake—every shadow concealed an unspoken cry, and every roof tile was crusted with old, indelible blood scabs.

In the study, the candlelight was the only living thing, yet it flickered with trepidation.

Xuanyuan Zhandao stood before the desk, his shadow pinned to the wall by the candlelight; he was as towering as a mountain, yet also like a sword about to be unsheathed—the sword had waited too long, and the sheath could barely contain its killing intent any longer.

He held an object in his hand.

It was a Profound Iron Token, pitch-black, as if carved from the deepest part of the night.

It was no ordinary iron—it was heavier than iron, weighing down the hand; colder than jade, chilling to the bone.

The surface was engraved with patterns, with clouds and thunder intertwined, and Dragons and snakes coiling; these were not mere decorations, but ancient runes, words worn down by time until only their essence remained, the blood oath of the Xuanyuan lineage that had never dried in a thousand years.

His fingertips traced those engravings, the rough chill creeping from his fingertips up to his chest.

He could feel it—the power sealed within was heavy and scorching, like a heart still beating.

He placed the token in the center of the sandalwood desk.

His movements were slow and gentle, as if laying down a heart, or perhaps placing the first piece on a chessboard—he would stake everything on this game.

Beside the token, a half-rolled map was spread open.

It was the map of the Great Xia territory, where mountains and rivers wound like the Bloodline of a human body.

And amidst the eastern mountains, one place was heavily circled in cinnabar—the Xuantian Sect.

This ring of red was too thick, too vibrant, vibrant like a pool of freshly ignited blood, dancing, burning, and roaring under the candlelight.

It seared his eyes and burned the thing buried deep within his heart for over a decade—a fire that had never been extinguished, burning with guilt, obsession, and his very soul.

The candle popped, bursting into a flower of flame.

Xuanyuan Zhandao stared at the dancing flame, his eyes deeper than the fire and harder than iron.

His gaze pierced through the window, through the night, and through thousands of mountains and rivers, landing on that misty immortal mountain, and on a lonely youth.

"Zhanxian." He spoke.

His voice was not loud, but it sounded like a stone falling into an empty valley, thudding again and again, shaking the candlelight.

His face flickered in the light and shadow, but that determination burned brighter than the candle flame.

"This time, your uncle is here."

He paused, as if wanting to nail every word into his bones.

"No one can—"

He paused, his voice grinding out from the depths of his chest, carrying the metallic tang of blood and the ruthlessness to sever everything: "Ever be disrespectful to you again."

At the darkest moment before dawn, the world seemed to have its mouth and nose covered by a giant hand; even the wind was suffocated.

Chu Zhanxiao's door was pushed open silently.

He was fully prepared.

He wore fine silver scale armor close to his body; it was not heavy, cumbersome battle armor, but so light he could barely feel its weight, yet every scale shimmered with a cold, frigid light—as if he had draped the galaxy over himself.

He stood under the porch, his figure straight.

The frivolousness of youth had faded from between his brows, leaving behind a touch of sharpness and stability.

He was like a spear, forged a thousand times and finally unsheathed; though it had not yet tasted blood, its sharpness was already intimidating.

He took a deep breath.

The cold air poured into his lungs, carrying the unique fragrance of vegetation before dawn, washing away the last trace of fatigue, but it could not suppress the drum-like heartbeat in his chest.

He knew that by taking this step, his fate would be rewritten.

In the secluded bamboo path, dew condensed on the tips of the bamboo leaves, on the verge of falling.

Chu Changsheng was waiting there.

He was still wearing that plain white Daoist robe, his sleeves fluttering gently in the faint morning breeze.

He stood there as if he had stood for a thousand years, merging with this bamboo forest and this sky—ethereal, serene, as if he did not belong to this mortal world.

Chu Zhanxiao approached.

He did not speak, only nodding very faintly; there was a galaxy swirling in his eyes, yet they were as calm as an ancient well.

Then, he flicked his wide sleeve.

There was no sound, no trace.

Their figures faded and dissipated just like that, like a drop of ink melting into the dark night.

Only a few startled bamboo leaves spiraled and drifted down slowly.

At the same moment, deep within the Xuanyuan Mansion, a muffled roar of a beast tore through the final silence before dawn.

Xuanyuan Zhandao strode out.

He had changed his attire.

No longer in casual clothes, he wore a deep black brocade robe, embroidered with a cloud-treading tiger in dark gold thread.

As he walked, the tiger seemed to appear and disappear in the faint morning light, baring its fangs and brandishing its claws, as if about to burst out of the fabric.

He wore a purple-gold crown, with a dark blue gemstone as deep as the sea.

The jade pendant at his waist was smooth and warm, yet carried the heavy pressure of a thousand-year-old aristocratic family.

That Profound Iron Token was placed close to his chest.

Through the clothing, he could feel its coldness and its pulsing rhythm, synchronized with his own heartbeat.

"General, the Ink Dragon carriage is ready. The thirty-six elite cavalry guards are assembled and awaiting orders outside the mansion." The old steward, Uncle Fu, bowed, his voice kept very low.

Xuanyuan Zhandao swept his gaze over the black-armored figures standing silently in the courtyard and nodded slightly.

There was no command. He simply strode towards the mansion gate.

Every step he took on the bluestone slabs felt like stepping on the joints of fate—heavy, steady, and irreversible.

His goal was only one: the Xuantian Sect. To retrieve someone, to sever all the humiliation and all the shackles placed upon him.

For this, even if it were a mountain of blades or a sea of fire, even if immortals or Buddhas stood in his way—he would simply trample them flat.

The Ink Dragon hovered in the air above the square in front of the Xuanyuan Mansion.

This was no ordinary Dragon.

It was hundreds of feet long, its entire body covered in scales as black as solidified night, shimmering with a cold metallic light.

It had a single horn on its head and four hook-like claws beneath its belly.

It just hovered there quietly, its massive shadow and the pressure from an ancient Vicious Beast causing the air in the entire street to freeze.

Xuanyuan Zhandao leaped onto the Dragon's head. The thirty-six black-armored elite guards followed silently.

The Ink Dragon let out a low roar—that sound came from the Nine Heavens, from the primordial era, from every wandering soul it had devoured.

Then, its thick body twisted, tearing through the clouds and turning into a streak of black light, speeding towards the east.

Evil Qi soared to the heavens.

The threads of fate were quietly weaving beneath the vast firmament.

As Chu Changsheng took Chu Zhanxiao, shrinking the distance with every step, their figures appearing and disappearing among the mountains and rivers, rapidly approaching the Xuantian Sect, Xuanyuan Zhandao was riding the Ink Dragon, wrapped in wind, clouds, and murderous intent, piercing through the sky from another direction.

They had not heard or seen each other.

But two stars were already destined to collide on the same orbit, sparking a fire that would consume the plains.

At sunset, the sky was burned through.

This was no ordinary sunset glow.

It was the heroism of the setting sun exhausting its last breath, burning the clouds into ash—crimson gold, orange-red, deep purple, splashed on layer by layer, dyeing half the sky into a boiling sea of blood and a molten river of gold.

It was so heroic that it made one afraid to breathe.

Under this burning canopy, Chu Zhanxiao and Chu Changsheng stopped.

Ahead, the gate of the Xuantian Sect stood towering, bathed in the blood-colored setting sun.

The portal, towering into the clouds, was built of white jade, but was now plated with a layer of flowing gold and red—sacred, majestic, and carrying a kind of near-cruel brilliance.

On the massive plaque, the three ancient seal characters for "Xuantian Sect" possessed the force of a thousand jun, every stroke appearing to contain supreme Dao essence, shining brilliantly in the sunset, stinging the eyes so one dared not look directly at them.

In front of the mountain gate, a thousand stone steps rose straight up, disappearing into the swirling clouds, with no end in sight.

Chu Zhanxiao looked up. His chest rose and fell slightly.

This was it. A new starting point. And perhaps the center of the storm.

Just then—

"Roar—!!!"

A roar that could pierce metal and crack stone, like thunder from the Nine Heavens, violently tore apart the tranquility of dusk!

Rolling in from the far horizon! Wherever the sound wave reached, the mountains and forests trembled, and the birds scattered in panic!

Chu Zhanxiao turned back abruptly!

The brilliant sunset glow in the western sky was torn apart by an overwhelmingly domineering force!

A massive black shadow, like a demonic Dragon breaking free from the abyss of the netherworld, broke through the clouds and dove down! It was so fast that it dragged a long trail of distorted air behind it—

It was that hundreds-of-feet-long Ink Dragon!

On the Dragon's head, a man stood with his hand on his sword!

His black robe fluttered, and the golden tiger pattern seemed like a living creature in the setting sun, ready to jump down and devour people!

His expression was resolute, his gaze like cold stars and lightning, locking firmly onto the Xuantian Sect's mountain gate from a great distance.

In his gaze, there was urgency, worry, and even more, an unquestionable determination—burning even more intensely than the sunset glow!

The Ink Dragon, carrying the momentum of destroying cities and pulling down fortresses, descended violently onto the open space in front of the mountain gate amidst the deafening roar of wind and thunder!

The moment it landed, the earth shook violently. The whipped-up gale, carrying a fishy stench and Evil Qi, blew Chu Zhanxiao's silver armor into a clatter and made his hair fly.

Xuanyuan Zhandao leaped down from the Dragon's head.

The moment his black-gold dragon-patterned boots touched the ground, his gaze, sharp as a knife, swept over the two people in front of the mountain gate—one old, one young, both with extraordinary Auras.

His brows furrowed almost imperceptibly.

These two... why did they appear at the Xuantian Sect mountain gate at this moment?

Especially that figure in white.

Their Qi was so obscure that even he could not see through it.

But at this moment, the concern for Zhanxian burning in his heart was too intense, and any doubts had to be suppressed.

Almost at the same time, Chu Changsheng's gaze also fell upon this black-robed man who had arrived on a Dragon, his presence astonishing.

Two gazes met in the air.

One was dressed in white as snow, ethereal and untainted by the world, his eyes deep as the vast starry sky, calm and waveless.

The other was in black robes like the night, filled with awe-inspiring Evil Qi, his gaze sharp as a freshly forged divine weapon, his edge fully exposed.

No words were spoken. No clash of Qi occurred.

But the moment their gazes met, the surrounding air suddenly froze!

An invisible, scalp-tingling tension, like mercury spilling on the ground, instantly spread!

Even the howling gale held its breath at this moment.

At the mountain gate, the Xuantian Sect Disciples who were originally lazing on guard duty had already been scared out of their wits by the momentum of the Ink Dragon's arrival.

Seeing Chu Changsheng now, they were like drowning people grabbing a piece of driftwood, hurriedly putting away all laziness, bowing in unprecedented respect, their voices trembling:

"Pay... paying respects to Grand Elder Chu!"

Chu Changsheng seemed completely unaware of the earth-shaking commotion, the soaring Evil Qi, and Xuanyuan Zhandao's knife-sharp gaze.

He simply nodded very faintly to the bowing Disciples.

Then, he flicked his robe sleeve gently.

A gentle yet irresistible force wrapped around Chu Zhanxiao beside him.

The next moment, their figures disappeared into thin air, as if they had never appeared.

Only the cold indifference belonging to Chu Changsheng and the thick, tangible Evil Qi brought by Xuanyuan Zhandao remained in the air, silently tearing at each other.

Xuanyuan Zhandao looked in the direction where the two had disappeared. Then he looked up at the Xuantian Sect mountain gate, which towered into the clouds and appeared particularly grim and solemn in the setting sun.

His eyes grew deeper and colder.

He did not linger. With a wave of his hand:

"Move!"

His voice was resolute, carrying the determination to trample the mountain gate flat.

He took the lead, stepping onto the long thousand stone steps leading into the depths of the Xuantian Sect.

Behind him, the thirty-six black-armored elite guards were as silent as iron, stepping in unison to follow.

The sound of footsteps was heavy and rhythmic, in this quieted dusk, one by one—

Beating the drum of fate.