Wandering Swordsman |

Upon hearing this, Situ Dengfeng frowned slightly, a hint of doubt flashing in his eyes.

He certainly understood the curator's intention—Situ Meng had been kidnapped by the Black Wind Gang years ago and used to coerce him. Now, sending the Xuanwu Saint Lord, who had participated in the kidnapping, to retrieve her was surely ironic.

Before he could speak, the curator stepped forward slowly, his plain robe fluttering gently, like a lone pine tree under the moon.

His gaze was like a deep pool, calm and still, yet every word he spoke was like a nail, striking deep into people's hearts: "Firstly, the journey to Qingcheng Mountain is long and arduous, and the Righteous Alliance has many eyes and ears. It may be difficult for Shen Mo to manage everything alone. Xuanwu Saint Lord's martial arts are superb. If he can accompany you, he can provide Shen Mo with additional assistance."

He paused, his voice suddenly turning cold, like a blade being drawn from its sheath: "Secondly, the Black Wind Gang's abduction of Situ Meng was a public outcry in the martial world. Now that they have pledged allegiance, they should atone for their sins with actions. If this trip can ensure the safe return of Miss Situ, it will demonstrate our sincerity and earn the trust of the righteous martial world."

Bringing up old stories is like a needle piercing the bone, striking straight into Li Fanglin's heart.

Li Fanglin's body trembled slightly, his knuckles tightening almost digging into his palms. A flash of anger crossed his eyes, but he knew he couldn't refuse. No matter how unhappy he was, he had to agree. Otherwise, how could he demonstrate the Black Wind Gang's sincerity?

"Your subordinate..." he lowered his head, his voice low and choked, "I am willing to go."

Shen Mo's eyes flickered slightly as he looked at the curator.

He got it.

This is not trust, but a test, and also surveillance.

If Li Fanglin truly submits, he should protect Situ Meng and wash away his sins with his actions; if he harbors ulterior motives and attempts to cause trouble, Shen Mo is the sword hanging over his head, ready to sever his throat at any moment.

"Shen Mo." The curator turned to him, his gaze as deep as an ancient well, but his voice as calm as ever, "On the trip to Qingcheng Mountain, you and Xuanwu Saint Lord must cooperate to complete this mission together."

Shen Mo nodded slowly.

He naturally understood the curator's deeper meaning—the Black Wind Gang's allegiance came too quickly and too suddenly.

Ding Chengfeng suffered a severe arm injury, the Azure Dragon Saint Lord died in battle, the White Tiger Saint Lord went missing, and the Black Wind Gang was greatly weakened. Meanwhile, the overseas evil cultivators Oda and his gang pressed forward step by step, intending to seize control of the Central Plains martial arts world.

After weighing the pros and cons, Ding Chengfeng decided that rather than being swallowed up by foreign enemies, he should join the Martial Alliance, borrow the power of the righteous path, first eliminate the powerful enemy to avenge himself, and then plan to make a comeback.

But is this "submission" genuine, or just a delaying tactic?

At this moment, only action can prove it.

"Disciple obeys." Shen Mo cupped his hands, his voice as steady as a rock.

He raised his eyes, his gaze meeting Li Fanglin's. Their eyes met in mid-air, like blades clashing, silent yet brimming with murderous intent.

Li Fanglin lowered his eyes, seemingly backing down, but Shen Mo sensed a suppressed killing intent from the slight tremor in his sleeve—not hatred for an enemy, but a humiliating anger.

The curator seemed oblivious, simply waving his sleeve lightly: "Set off immediately. On the way, I hope you will work together to overcome all difficulties."

"Yes," the two replied in unison, one calm and the other cold, like a harmony of ice and fire.

With this matter settled, Shen Mo walked out of the main hall and looked up at the moon.

The moon, like a silver plate, cast its clear light, yet it could not penetrate the shadows in his heart.

He knew that the journey would likely not be peaceful.

For Li Fanglin, Mount Qingcheng was more than just a place to receive people. But for him, this journey was also a trial.

......

The scene shifts to the medical pavilion of the Elite Academy.

The ancient pine trees in the pavilion are vigorous and strong, with dewdrops clinging to their needles. A gentle breeze blows, and the dewdrops roll off, dripping into the cracks of the bluestone with a very soft "tap," as if time itself has slowed down at this moment.

Shen Mo stood outside the door, his black robe slightly stained with dust. He didn't need to come; the mission was urgent, and the curator had only ordered him to depart immediately. But he came anyway.

He walked in slowly, careful not to disturb Murong Qing who was resting quietly.

The room was filled with the fragrance of herbs, and silver needles hung from copper racks, trembling slightly. Murong Qing leaned against the bed, dressed in a plain white nightgown with a light blue outer garment, her hair loose and cascading down her shoulders like an ink waterfall. Her face was still pale, and there was a faint bluish tinge between her brows. Upon seeing Shen Mo's figure, she forced herself to sit up.

Their eyes met, and they fell silent for a moment.

Shen Mo stood at the doorway, the moonlight outlining his tall, slender figure. His brows were furrowed with the dust of travel, yet he remained as steadfast as a pine tree and a mountain. He wanted to smile, but only said softly, "Qing'er, I've received another urgent mission… I need to go to Qingcheng Mountain."

Murong Qing's fingertips trembled slightly, her voice as soft as a breeze across water: "To pick up Situ Meng?"

"Hmm." Shen Mo took a few steps closer, stopped in front of the bed, his gaze lowered. "The Black Wind Gang has submitted, and Xuanwu Saint Lord is accompanying us. The Master has ordered the two of us to go to Qingcheng Mountain to bring her back to the alliance."

The room fell silent for a moment, with only the gentle bubbling of the medicinal soup in the stove.

Murong Qing didn't press him about whether the Black Wind Gang had truly submitted to her, nor did she inquire about the dangers of their journey, nor did she tease him as usual, saying, "You're going to be a knight in shining armor again." She simply gazed at him quietly, her eyes like autumn water, unfathomable.

After a long silence, she whispered, "Be careful on the road."

He paused again, then added, "You must bring Situ Meng back safely. If she is injured in the slightest, I will hold you responsible."

The voice was very soft, yet each word was clear, like pearls falling onto a jade plate.

Shen Mo's heart skipped a beat. She didn't say "take care" or "come back soon," but instead urged him to complete the mission—because she knew that this mission was related to the current war situation in the Central Plains martial arts world. If Situ Meng were kidnapped by overseas evil cultivators, the consequences would be unimaginable.

She understands him.

He gazed at her pale face, his Adam's apple bobbing, a thousand words stuck in his throat, yet he remained silent. Time was of the essence; he could not linger.

He simply nodded, his voice low: "Qing'er, take good care of yourself and wait for me to return."

Having said that, he turned and left, his steps firm, without ever looking back.

......

They galloped a thousand miles, their hooves thundering.

Two fast horses galloped out from Nanjing, breaking through the night and tearing through the long wind. Shen Mo led the way, his black robe fluttering like an inky cloud pressing down; Li Fanglin followed closely behind, his black robe trailing to the ground, his face serious, his eyes downcast, like a walking corpse, driving his horse forward only on instinct.

The two remained almost silent throughout the journey.

The wind and sand whipped at our faces, and the withered trees on both sides of the official road stretched towards the sky like ghostly claws. Occasionally, a village would pass by, with wisps of smoke rising from its chimneys and children playing, but they seemed like two ghostly figures, moving among them.

Shen Mo glanced at Li Fanglin several times, trying to discern his expression, but found that the other party was moving forward mechanically—his stance, breathing, and rhythm were all perfectly synchronized, as if he were being guided by an invisible thread, only knowing how to carry out the task without asking why.

He didn't want to make a fool of himself.

He knew that Li Fanglin wasn't silent; he was suppressing his inner humiliation. Now, asking him to escort Situ Meng, whom he had personally captured years ago, was tantamount to slapping himself in the face, and slapping the Black Wind Gang in the face.

The horses' hooves shattered the setting sun, and finally, on the third day at dusk, they arrived at the foot of Mount Qingcheng.