Chương 114: Do I Still Need Her? (2/3)

"We will first set down the rules," Shi Yan said coldly, his voice cutting through the sulfurous haze like tempered iron striking stone. The words carried no warmth, no negotiation—only the blunt finality of tactical necessity.

"Keep a distance of two zhang between us. I will walk in front. With this armor and this body, if danger appears, its first strike will naturally fall on me."

His gauntleted hand gestured briefly toward his own chest, the movement economical and precise. The corpse-light caught along the edges of his armor plating, throwing shadows across the pitted iron surface.

"You will remain behind and use your Yin arts to restrain and support. But if you leave our formation without warning, deliberately lure us into an ambush, or expose my back to danger—" Shi Yan paused, letting the silence stretch between them like a drawn blade. The miasma churned lazily in the space separating their bodies, coiling and uncoiling in serpentine patterns. A simple formation, at least, she should understand. As for betrayal…

"—then this alliance ends at once. From that moment on, I will regard you as an enemy. I do not permit enemies to stand behind me."

The woman's expression remained utterly still, her scarred face carved from the same unforgiving stone as the plaza beneath their boots. But as the weight of his words settled over her like falling ash, one dark brow rose with deliberate slowness. The corner of her lips curled upward—not in pleasure, but in something far more cutting. A sneer, bitter as winter frost and twice as sharp.

"That's it?" she asked, her voice dropping into a dangerous quiet as her eyes narrowed to slits. The green corpse-light reflected in her pupils made them appear hollow, spectral—the gaze of something already half-dead.

Silence crashed down between them like a collapsing tomb ceiling. The only sounds were the distant rhythmic drip of poison weeping from the ancient Stele and the faint hiss of reactive Yin-Qi coiling between her boots.

Then she let out a mocking laugh—short, sharp, utterly devoid of humor. The sound cut through the oppressive atmosphere like breaking glass.

She had seen too many sect elders and wandering cultivators speak honeyed words of fellowship, their voices sweet as spring wine and twice as poisonous, only to turn their blades on others the moment a treasure came into view. How many "righteous" masters had smiled with benevolence while their hands tightened around sword hilts? How many sworn brothers had become corpses before the ink on their oaths had dried?

It is not as though I am not anticipating this. A cold glint flashed through her gaze, hard as black jade and just as unforgiving. Once this was over, this young master could report her to his backer—whether sect or clan—and perhaps even use the map as leverage against the Cloud-Mirror Sect themselves. The mirror in her possession was not merely a tool; it was proof of her sect's forbidden secrets, evidence that could condemn her entire lineage.

Of course, that could just as easily mean killing her. Simpler. Cleaner. No witnesses, no complications.

Yet beneath her watchful gaze, piercing and unrelenting as she studied every minute shift in his stance—

"When the matter is concluded, the agreement ends," Shi Yan said evenly, his tone carrying the same inflection one might use to discuss the weather or the quality of rice.

"We divide what should be divided. We leave this place. Thereafter, each walks his own road."

The words landed between them like stones dropping into still water.

She stared at the unreadable Iron-Yaksha mask before her, its demonic features frozen in eternal snarl. The green corpse-light played across the cruel angles of its forged face, highlighting eyeholes that revealed nothing but shadow and intent.

No lofty vows sworn before Heaven's gaze. No blood oath carved into jade tablets. No karmic threads binding soul to soul. Only a few plain words from a man whose face she had never even seen, delivered with all the ceremony of discussing a merchant transaction.

Was he mocking her? Did he think her so desperate, so foolish, that she would accept such hollow reassurance?

For an instant—just a single, fleeting heartbeat—the sheer absurdity of it pierced through her taut vigilance like a needle through silk. The ridiculousness of standing in this death-soaked plaza, beneath a weeping monument of corruption, negotiating terms with a masked stranger who offered nothing but his word.

"Ha." A short, cold snort escaped her throat, sharp as exhaled frost. It was followed by a brief laugh devoid of any warmth whatsoever—brittle and cracking, like ice fracturing under sudden weight. When she lifted her head again, that fleeting amusement had already vanished like morning mist, leaving behind only frostlike indifference carved into every line of her scarred features.

"A spoken promise in these times—how naive," she said dryly, each word precise and cutting. Her voice carried the weight of someone who had watched promises crumble like rotted wood beneath the weight of greed.

"Forgive me if I do not at once entrust my life to your 'rules.' But for now…"

Her voice trailed off as her fingers finally loosened their death grip on the jade needle hidden within her sleeve. The knuckles that had been bone-white with tension slowly regained their natural color, though her hand remained poised, ready to seize the weapon again at the first sign of treachery.

She had no other choice. Even if he lied. Even if every word was poison wrapped in silk.

Her gaze shifted away from the Iron-Yaksha mask, turning instead toward the dark stone monument standing like a grave marker in the center of the corrupted plaza. Its surface seemed to drink in the corpse-light rather than reflect it, creating an absence in the air—a wound in reality itself. Somewhere within this ruined realm, buried beneath layers of ancient cipher and death-curse, lay the cure her master desperately needed.

The image of her master's withered form flashed through her mind—his once-powerful meridians now cracked and blackened like drought-stricken earth, poison spreading through his foundation like roots of corrupted vegetation. Time was devouring him from within.

The poison ravaging his meridians would not wait for her hesitation or her pride. Neither would this market. In less than half an hour, the entrance would close, sealing itself until the next auspicious alignment of celestial influences—a wait that could span years. And with it might vanish the only chance she would ever have to obtain that cure.

By herself, she could not cause the hidden text to manifest. Her mirror could only reflect what already existed in the material realm, not draw forth what slumbered in spiritual dimensions. The genuine version of this novel can be found on another site. Support the author by reading it there.

"If you wish the text to appear within my mirror, you must place your hand upon the stone," she said, her tone shifting completely—all trace of mockery vanishing, replaced by the crisp professionalism of someone discussing technique and methodology.

"For all others, direct contact brings instant destruction of the mind. The soul is torn apart like wet parchment, leaving only an empty husk that breathes and moves but no longer thinks."

She paused, letting that warning settle between them like falling dust.

"And among all those present, you may be the only one capable of drawing forth its full reflection. So listen carefully."

She lifted her scarred chin slightly, the movement deliberate and controlled—a gesture of offering her own safeguard, a counter to his earlier terms. The jawline scar caught the green light, standing out pale against her weathered skin.

"You will not receive the complete route in a single stroke," she continued, her voice taking on the measured cadence of a master instructing a disciple in forbidden arts.

"I will unravel the ciphers in stages, one region at a time. Each layer must be decoded before the next reveals itself—the map is woven in ancestral script that shifts with each reading."

Her eyes locked onto his masked face with renewed intensity, ensuring he understood the full weight of what she was offering—and withholding.

"As for the final path and the exact method of entering the chamber where the cure lies, that knowledge will remain in my mind until we stand before it together."

By her explanation, delivered with the precision of someone well-versed in such treacherous arts, the ancient characters upon the stone did not shine with ordinary light like common inscription arrays. What they released was pure Soul Intent—the condensed spiritual will of whatever ancient master had carved this monument, preserved across centuries like venom sealed in amber.

The remaining cultivators seated far away across the plaza were attempting to read it with their Divine Sense—sending their spiritual awareness outward like probing fingers to grasp at the monument's secrets. A foolish act that was even now scorching their minds from within, slowly cooking their consciousness like meat over slow flame. She could sense their spiritual fluctuations growing more erratic, more desperate.

Because her mirror could reflect only physical light, and not formless spiritual intent, she needed someone to approach the monument and place a hand upon it directly. The touch of living flesh would force the monument to translate its soul-script into visible radiance—a reaction, a defense, a manifestation.

She needed a living shield. Someone whose soul was strong enough—or whose relic was powerful enough—to endure the magnified curse and force the monument to reveal its secrets in visible form that her mirror could capture and preserve.

So that is why she chose me, as a shield, Shi Yan thought, the realization clicking into place with tactical clarity, and to draw out the intent.

Without his physical touch to provoke the monument's reaction, the broken map hidden within it would remain no more than dead lines and ghostly script, unseen by mortal eyes. The spiritual information would continue cycling endlessly within the stone, inaccessible to anyone lacking the specific resonance—or the specific protection—required to survive contact.

But…

Shi Yan's gaze shifted once more toward the black stone monument, studying its surface with renewed scrutiny. The way the darkness seemed to pool around its base like congealed blood. The faint traceries of ancient script that flickered in and out of visibility across its face, never quite solid enough to read from this distance. Truthfully, he had not approached it earlier because there had been no reason to take such a risk for an unknown danger.

Caution had kept him alive through worse. Recklessness killed even the strongest.

But now…

Now there was reason. Clear, quantifiable reason.

If the secrets of the so-called shattered realm of the Cloud-Mirror Sect truly lay within that monument's cursed depths—

"If I die," she continued, her voice cutting through his thoughts with the sharp edge of her own pitiless logic, "or if you strike against me before the cure is secured, then whatever lies at the end of that map dies with me. The final ciphers exist only in my memory—no jade slip, no written record. In that case, neither of us will gain anything."

Her tone carried no emotion, only cold calculation. She laid out the terms of mutual destruction with the same matter-of-fact delivery one might use to discuss market prices.

In her mind, this was more reliable than trust. Trust was a luxury for the naive, a weakness that invited betrayal.

Trust could be shattered like porcelain. Trust could turn to poison in an instant.

Mutual restraint was simpler. Cleaner. Each party held a blade to the other's throat—perfect balance through perfect threat.

At last, after a moment's consideration that felt like grinding stone, Shi Yan gave a single stiff nod. The Iron-Yaksha mask dipped once, acknowledging the logic of her position.

"Agreed."

The word fell between them like a dropped hammer.

She sighed in relief, the tension bleeding from her shoulders in a subtle release that she immediately tried to suppress. Her spine remained straight, but the rigid coiling of energy through her meridians eased fractionally.

Yet before she could instruct him on the proper procedure—the specific hand placement, the breathing technique required to shield one's consciousness— Shi Yan reached over his shoulder with practiced efficiency, his gauntleted hand closing around the hilt of the Demonic Heavy Saber where it rested against his back. He drew it forward with controlled strength, then returned the massive blade to his spatial pouch with a heavy, muffled thud that seemed to resonate through the obsidian beneath their feet.

The weight of a hundred and fifty pounds vanished into dimensional space, leaving only the faint spiritual ripple of storage activation.

The woman's eyes widened fractionally—the first genuine surprise she'd shown since their negotiation began.

"Before we begin, there is one more condition," Shi Yan said flatly, his voice carrying no more weight than before, as though adding clauses to their agreement was as natural as breathing. His gaze passed beyond her scarred face, beyond her acid-burned cloak, and settled upon the towering black monument that seemed to weep darkness from invisible wounds.

The Stele loomed in his peripheral vision, its presence oppressive and malevolent.

"I act according to likelihood, not certainty," he continued, each word measured and deliberate.

"Until now, this artifact of mine has withstood the dangers of this place. But this object is too strange. Its depths cannot yet be judged."

She paused, her breath momentarily stilling in her lungs. A faint frown slowly appeared on her scarred face, creasing the weathered skin around her eyes.

"What are you saying?"

"I am saying that there is still a chance that the moment I touch that stone, I will become like them too," Shi Yan said with the calm of one discussing a common matter—the possibility of rain, perhaps, or the likelihood of bandits on a mountain road. He gestured casually toward the cultivators who still sat in meditation across the plaza, their bodies rigid and unmoving, spiritual awareness trapped in endless burning cycles.

She stared at him, her pupils contracting to pinpoints.

The solemn, fearsome image of a supreme expert she had just pieced together in her heart—the invincible young master with his heaven-defying relic and crushing physical might—abruptly cracked apart like a flawed jade carving struck with a hammer.

For a long while, she simply looked at the unreadable Iron-Yaksha mask, her mouth slightly open as though words had fled entirely. The green corpse-light painted shifting shadows across both their faces.

"Are you mad?" she finally asked, her voice dropping into a harsh whisper of disbelief that bordered on genuine shock. The words came out strangled, as though forced through a too-tight throat. She gestured sharply toward the dark monument with her free hand, the movement choppy and aggressive.

"You stood there as though you were some inviolable overlord. You threatened to split me in two. And now you tell me you do not even know whether you can survive touching that thing? You are merely taking a guess?!"

Her voice rose slightly at the end, cracking the careful control she'd maintained throughout their entire exchange.

"To act with blind certainty is folly. I only weigh whether the risk is worth taking," Shi Yan replied, entirely unmoved by her anger or disbelief. He merely shrugged his shoulders, the armor plates shifting with a faint metallic scrape. The gesture was almost dismissive—the casual indifference of someone who had long since made peace with calculated risks.

For example, the Jiuli Fiend's soul attack had failed before, its spiritual pressure crashing against whatever protected him like waves against an unmoving cliff. His [Anomaly: 10] had served as a flawless barrier, an absolute negation of supernatural interference. By his judgment, based on available data and observed patterns, the monument's assault upon the mind would likely provoke the same defense mechanism.

The logic was sound. The precedent was established.

But this was still an ancient object left behind in a place so eerie that caution demanded he prepare for the worst. This entire realm reeked of something older and fouler than simple demonic corruption—something that predated the current cultivation systems entirely.

Also, this entire assumption was hers; he had never said he would be fine. She had constructed that image in her own mind, drawing conclusions from his resistance to the Stele's ambient corruption. Even if the loss here was great, what was greater than staying alive? If touching the stone truly meant death—if his protection failed and his consciousness began to burn—he would flee without hesitation.

Survival trumped pride. Survival trumped greed. Always.

She pressed her fingers to her temples with visible force, the tendons in her hand standing out sharply. Her eyes closed for a brief moment as she let out a long, weary breath that condensed into frost-white mist in the poisonous air. When she opened her eyes again, they held the hollow resignation of someone who had just realized they'd wagered everything on a cracked die.

She had tied her fate to a madman.

A madman clad in heavy armor and deadly enough to slaughter everyone here—but still, fundamentally, a madman who admitted uncertainty in the breath before risking oblivion.

"If you die upon touching that stone, I will not need to flee," she muttered darkly, her voice taking on the bitter edge of someone speaking their own eulogy. Her gaze remained fixed on the monument, calculating distances and blast patterns with morbid practicality.

"If that object truly carries such backlash, this whole plaza will likely be reduced to ruin. The spiritual detonation alone would shatter every defensive formation within fifty li. You and I alike will become ash—not even enough left to bury properly."

"Then keep your mirror fixed and your ciphers ready," Shi Yan said, his tone utterly unchanged as he turned fully toward the black plaza. His boots scraped against the obsidian with a deliberate grinding sound, repositioning his weight forward in preparation to advance.

"If I am to bear the backlash, then you had best read quickly."