Wandering Swordsman |

Baron Mason's robe swept across the marble floor as he walked briskly, making a soft, rustling sound.

He hadn't even had time to fasten his cloak properly; the silver-gray brocade fluttered in the night wind like a shattered cloud.

As he walked through the corridor, his footsteps almost crushed the ground, his high-heeled boots striking rapid drumbeats on the stone bricks, as if even time itself was chasing after his anxiety.

The candlelight along the way flickered in the wind, stretching his shadow long and distorted, casting it onto the stained glass window, where it resembled a black crow about to take flight.

"Hurry up!" he growled, his voice hoarse like worn-out leather.

Several servants hurriedly retreated behind the pillars, holding their breath, afraid of disturbing the lord's current madness.

Shen Mo's gaze swept over the trembling figures, noticing one of them moving rapidly in another direction—it was the same panicked young servant from before. This made Shen Mo even more convinced that the Earl's eldest son's matter was not so simple.

The wooden doors of the east wing dormitory creaked and groaned as if welcoming the uninvited guest.

When Baron Mason pushed open the door, a strong smell of medicine mixed with the stench of rotting blood hit him.

The room was filled with a dim, yellowish light. The wax dripping from the copper candlesticks had long since piled up into a small mountain, but the wicks had never been trimmed, allowing the black smoke to condense into spiderweb-like patterns in the air.

The human-shaped figure on the bed was curled up in the scarlet bedding, its skin appearing eerily bluish-gray.

"Adrian!" Baron Mason almost lunged at the bedside, his trembling hand touching his son's burning forehead.

The touch sent a shiver down his spine—not long ago he was a perfectly healthy person, but now he was like a dying ember, barely clinging to life.

The young man on the bed coughed violently, dark red blood foam spilling from his throat, splattering on the silver-threaded pillow like broken pomegranate seeds.

When he opened his eyes, his pupils were filled with a chaotic mist, as if even his mind was being devoured by the miasma.

Upon seeing his father, he suddenly ripped off the covers, revealing his arm covered in purple spots, and his voice was hoarse, as if a mournful cry was being squeezed from the depths of his chest: "Father... there's no need to trouble yourself anymore. Let me... let me die a quick death."

Baron Mason's hand froze in mid-air, his knuckles white from the force of his grip. He knelt beside the bed, his forehead almost touching his son's hand, tears streaming silently down his face: "No, my child, the Holy See's envoys have come! They can save you!"

Hua Tianyou and Shen Mo stood side by side at the doorway; the former wore a spotless silver robe, while the latter was dressed in ink-black attire.

The candlelight cast a soft glow on Hua Tianyou's face. He slowly stepped forward, his fingertips lightly touching the edge of the bed, a movement as gentle as brushing away dew from flower petals.

Shen Mo remained in the shadows, his gaze sweeping across the room like a blade—the medicine bottles scattered on the carved wooden cabinet, the incense burner piled up in the corner, and even the bloodstains left in the cracks of the window, all spoke of the long and cruel nature of this illness.

His pupils suddenly contracted—if he hadn't seen it with his own eyes, who would have thought that the noble youth who once led three hundred elite soldiers into the Wanli Canyon was now so weak that he needed help to even turn over?

"Your son's life is more precarious than I imagined," Hua Tianyou finally spoke, his voice so low it almost blended into the night.

He slowly approached the bed, his gaze falling on the winding purple marks on Adrian's arm—marks of the miasma corroding his meridians. If it were delayed for another month, the poison would completely attack his heart, and even the Holy Envoy himself would be powerless to save him.

He looked down at his outstretched hands, where a faint golden light appeared in his palms—this was the "Holy Power" simulated by the demonic energy within his body, a symbol of high-ranking figures in the far west.

Adrian's withered, bony hand suddenly gripped Hua Tianyou's wrist, his nails almost digging into the flesh.

The force was disproportionate to his dying body, as if he had concentrated all his remaining life force into this desperate grip.

His eyes were sunken, his cheekbones were high, and his lips were dry, cracked, and purplish, but his eyes suddenly lit up in the candlelight—not a faint glow in the dying moments, but the almost beastly will to survive that burst forth when a dying man grabs a piece of driftwood.

"Help me! Help me!" His voice was hoarse, like sandpaper rubbing against iron. Every word carried the stench of blood and foam, yet each word was like a nail, crashing heavily into the silent room.

"I don't want to die... I don't want to die in this bed! I dreamt of poisonous fog in the canyon... it burrowed into my bones and gnawed at me... it felt like a thousand centipedes were biting me!" He arched his back suddenly, veins bulging on his neck like vines, his other hand clutching his chest as if trying to tear open his chest and pull out the poison that had invaded his body. "Please... quickly use your holy power to burn it! Burn it clean! I'll do anything!"

Baron Mason shuddered, tears welling up in his eyes.

He hugged his son's trembling shoulders tightly, his voice choked with sobs, almost incoherent: "Adrian... my child, you've finally spoken! You've finally... chosen to live!"

He turned to look at Hua Tianyou, his eyes gleaming with almost manic joy—just a few hours ago, he thought his eldest son had lost all hope and only wished for a quick death; but now, this desperate cry had descended like a divine decree.

An indescribable gratitude welled up in his heart: Heaven has shown mercy! It must be that the gods sensed his prayers and sent these two holy messengers to appear before him at this moment!

Hua Tianyou remained unmoved, letting Adrian's fingernails leave crescent-shaped bloodstains on his wrist. He gently patted the young man's hand and said softly, "Don't rush, Young Master Adrian. We've come here to expel the evil miasma and rekindle the flame of life."

He stepped aside, his gaze fixed on Shen Mo, who remained standing motionless, and said in a solemn and clear tone: "Fu Shou, step forward and, in the name of the Holy Spirit, cleanse your body with the power of faith."

Shen Mo understood, and slowly stepped forward, his black robe brushing the ground silently.

He leaned down and stared at Adrian—beneath that bluish-gray skin, toxins slithered through his veins like living creatures, each heartbeat pushing him toward the abyss.

Shen Mo only needs to press his palm on the Tanzhong acupoint to induce the Heavenly Demon True Essence to flow in reverse through the twelve meridians, which will force out the miasma.

However, at that very moment, a hurried cry rang out from outside the door: "Father! Eldest brother!"

The door was suddenly pushed open and slammed against the wall with a loud bang.

Mason Leonard strode in, his blond hair disheveled, his face as pale as paper, his chest heaving violently as if he had just run from a hundred meters away. Behind him followed the young servant—who was now looking down, his fingers tightly twisting the hem of his clothes, his knuckles white.

Shen Mo's gaze pierced the servant like an icicle, and he understood immediately: it was indeed the one who tipped him off. The Second Young Master's arrival so quickly was no coincidence.