As for how Fan Xian would deal with the Temple, I thought for a long time and prepared countless philosophical questions, including things like paradoxes. Later, when I wrote it, I scratched my head. Damn, aren't I just a novice? Other than knowing how to play mind games, I haven't even read many books. How could I have this kind of grace?
Other than the three great vulgarities in my mind, there is only the three great vulgarities. Now, I am fighting against the three vulgarities, so let's be more direct, more violent, and then … more warm, more sensational, and more romantic. Let me report to everyone, my favorite character in Wang Shuo's novels is still the air stewardess.
…
…
Fan Xian's left hand gripped tightly around the metal drill in his chest. He felt the waves of coldness from the metal. As fresh blood gushed out, he felt a cold sweetness in his nose and throat. Even his body grew cold.
The black cloth that was right in front of him was still not stained by a speck of dust. That plain and clean face with a hint of immaturity and not a single wrinkle seemed to be telling a story that had lasted for hundreds of thousands of years.
Fan Xian stared in a daze at this familiar face. He found that he could no longer find a trace of familiarity on this face. It was clearly still this face, clearly still this black cloth, but he knew clearly that the person in front of him was no longer Uncle Wu Zhu. At least, in this instant, he was not Uncle Wu Zhu.
This person was clearly that person, but this person was not that person. They had known each other for 20 years. Now, they met like strangers. What a sorrowful and depressing thing it was.
…
…
When Fan Xian saw the large chest on Thirteenth Wang's back, a warning rose in his heart. He did not feel the joy of finding Uncle Wu Zhu and completing the greatest goal of his trip to the Temple because he acutely sensed a problem. For the Temple, Uncle Wu Zhu had once been its most powerful and experienced emissary. Now, he was its greatest traitor. Because Uncle Wu Zhu protected his mother and himself, countless emissaries of the Temple had died at his hands. Since the Temple had finally controlled Uncle Wu Zhu, how could it casually leave him in a place where Thirteenth Wang could easily find him?
Unless the Temple was certain that it could completely control Wu Zhu, it would not care about Wu Zhu's movements. Based on this judgment, Fan Xian immediately ordered Thirteenth Wang to take the box and break out of the Temple. He firmly believed that as long as he left the Temple's boundary, the Temple would no longer be able to control Wu Zhu. However, all of this was too late.
A streak of black light flashed through the air. The chest cracked open. Wu Zhu, covered in a black cloth, instantly moved from behind Thirteenth Wang to in front of Fan Xian. He skewered his body like a shrimp. It was as if he didn't know Fan Xian at all. It was as if he had never risked his life for Fan Xian and his mother and never abandoned them.
The moment he saw the black light, Fan Xian couldn't help but think of the scene Sir Xiao En had told him many years ago. When the doors of the Temple opened and the four-year-old ice and snow fairy Ye Qingmei escaped, a black light also flashed out. With only one move, Ku He was smashed into a rolling gourd.
Fan Xian stared at the black cloth on Wu Zhu's face and felt the sharp pain in his chest. He knew that the Temple had probably used some method to erase Uncle Wu Zhu's memory again. It had even erased it into a blank.
Fresh blood surged out from between Fan Xian's lips. His face was pale, but his gaze was determined. With great difficulty, he quickly raised his right hand and stopped Haitang and Thirteenth Wang's shocked and furious attacks.
He knew that when faced with Uncle Wu Zhu, Haitang and Thirteenth Wang had no power to retaliate. Once they entered the battle, only death awaited them. If he wanted to escape from the most dangerous situation in front of him, he could only rely on himself.
…
…
Fresh blood sprayed out. Fan Xian curled up in pain on the metal drill. He looked unusually wretched. However, he could still think and did not immediately die. He could even raise his right hand and stop Haitang and Thirteenth Wang's movements in their grief. This only proved that Wu Zhu's unusually powerful and accurate stab had not struck a vital spot.
This was a difficult matter to understand. Given Wu Zhu's realm, who, other than the Great Grandmasters in the world, could escape death? Furthermore, Fan Xian was already heavily injured and ill. Presumably, even the Temple had not thought that Fan Xian could survive under Wu Zhu's hand. Thus, the voices ringing out from all directions fell silent. It was as if they were waiting for Wu Zhu to judge whether Fan Xian lived or died.
No one could avoid Wu Zhu's attacks, but Fan Xian could.
Ever since Wu Zhu offered the kitchen knife in his hand to Fan Xian in that grocery store, on the precipice in Danzhou, accompanied by the slightly salty and moist sea breeze, Fan Xian had welcomed Wu Zhu's rod education every day. After the cowering little yellow flower had been smashed tens of thousands of times, it had finally become much more resilient.
After thousands and tens of thousands of attacks, countless bruises had appeared on Fan Xian's body. Fortunately, it was because of this that he had the ability to survive in this world and unusually exquisite movements. More importantly, he was the person in this world who understood the direction and speed of Wu Zhu's attacks the best.
However, in the thousands and tens of thousands of attacks in the past, Wu Zhu's hand had always held a wooden rod. Today, his hand held a sharp metal rod. Fan Xian could not completely avoid the stab, but in the instant before the black light approached his body, he relied on his practiced, almost instinctive, evasive movements to forcefully turn and move the metal rod's path away from his heart and lungs. It looked like blood was spurting out, but in reality, it only injured the pit of the heart below his ribs.
Wu Zhu's head was slightly lowered. The black cloth fluttered in the cold breeze. There was not a trace of emotion on his face. It was impossible to tell whether this exceptional warrior was surprised that the human in front of him was able to avoid his stab. In the eyes of the bystanders, he only maintained his position and impaled Fan Xian on the metal rod.
"If this gets out, even my mother won't believe it." These were the words Fan Xian said as he coughed up blood.
After these words, Wu Zhu was silent for a moment. Suddenly, he opened his mouth and asked coldly, "What is your mother's surname?"
It was this ray of light, like a ray of light, that instantly occupied Fan Xian's mind, allowing him to see a glimmer of a chance of survival. He stared fixedly at the black cloth and said, "My mother's surname is Ye."
Wu Zhu did not respond.
"You call her Miss." Fan Xian looked at the indifferent Uncle Wu Zhu. For some reason, sorrow rose in his heart, even more than the pain of his wound. He spoke in a raspy voice.
Wu Zhu still did not respond.
"She is Ye Qingmei. I am Fan Xian. You are Wu Zhu." Fan Xian spat out the bloody foam at the side of his lips and looked at Wu Zhu fiercely. However, this affected the wound in his chest. A wave of pain made his vision go dark.
Wu Zhu still did not respond. It was as if these names, which he should have known best and were closest to, had long disappeared from his mind. Although he had said these words earlier, his entire body was permeated with a chill. It was like a block of ice between heaven and earth that would never melt.
Looking at the block of ice and the black cloth on it, Fan Xian seemed to see a familiar soul gradually turn into spots of light and leave the body in front of him. It flew into the air and gradually disappeared.
This reality made Fan Xian feel boundless terror and sorrow. He faintly felt that he would never see that Uncle Wu Zhu again in this life. Such sorrow made him forget that he was still impaled on the metal rod, heavily injured, about to die, and about to bid farewell to this world.
For Fan Xian, who had seen thousands of changes, death was not scary. What was scary was that when he died, the person closest to him in front of him would not recognize him. He glanced hopelessly at Wu Zhu and spat out a mouthful of fresh blood. Dispiritedly and powerlessly, he knelt on the snowy ground.
Wu Zhu slowly pulled back the metal rod. He didn't even glance at Fan Xian kneeling in front of him. With a bend of his elbow, the thin cloth sliced through the air and directly smashed back Thirteenth Wang, who finally couldn't resist launching a sneak attack from behind.
Then, the blind man with the black cloth steadily walked past the stone platform covered in light snow without any fluctuation of emotion. It was as if he had calculated the distance of each step. He walked to the only undamaged building in the Temple and sat down.
It was like a soulless shell had once again sat in front of the ancient ice mountain treasure and began to guard and wait. No one knew how many tens of thousands of years this wait would take.
Fan Xian's body finally fell into the snowy ground. Fresh blood seeped out of his body. Haitang half knelt by his side and futilely helped him staunch the bleeding. She forcefully suppressed the sorrow and shock in her heart, but she could not suppress the hot tears in her eyes.
Wu Zhu did not attack Haitang and Thirteenth Wang probably because, in the Temple's view, these two companions of Fan Xian could not affect the overall interests of humankind. Furthermore, it needed these two people to announce the existence of the Temple to the world. This was a simple logical judgment and did not involve anything else.
However, Haitang and Thirteenth Wang did not understand. The two warriors of the human world looked at the blind man sitting cross-legged in front of the building and felt a chill all over their bodies. Haitang, in particular, could not understand why the blind master would attack Fan Xian. She also did not understand why the blind master would sit in front of that door. There was a faint feeling that perhaps in the long years to come, Fan Xian's closest uncle, the world's most mysterious plain-clothed Grandmaster, would perhaps stand guard in the Temple for an unknown amount of time in the mountains.
Fan Xian was about to die, but Haitang looked at the indifferent and expressionless Wu Zhu sitting there. She also felt a chill and frustration that was difficult to suppress.
The Temple recovered its calm. The warm, calm, and emotionless voice did not ring out again. Light snow once again fell from the sky. The surrounding snowy mountains glowed with a sparkling and translucent light as if they did not exist.
Wu Zhu sat indifferently in front of the door, not moving at all. There was an indescribable loneliness and solitude.
…
…
The snow fell endlessly. The cold wind blew. The human heart was rain and snow. Loneliness had no beginning and no end. Fan Xian looked at the swirling snow outside through the specially opened crack in the tent. There was not a trace of expression on his face. He was as cold as the blind man in the snowy mountains in the distance.
Haitang and Thirteenth Wang had gone through many difficulties to carry him down the snowy mountains and back to their camp. They had thought that Fan Xian would not be able to last a day. Unexpectedly, Fan Xian had relied on his cockroach-like life force to survive.
From the moment he woke up, Fan Xian sank into silence. Haitang and Thirteenth Wang knew that the emotions in his heart were complicated, so they did not try to disturb him. They only briefly recounted the scene after he fainted. Up until now, Haitang and Thirteenth Wang still did not understand why the Temple wanted Fan Xian to die and allowed them to live.
Fan Xian's body was very weak. He had meditated for a number of days in a place with incomparably thick yuanqi. His body, which had gradually recovered, was on the verge of becoming useless because of the large amount of blood loss this time. However, Fan Xian did not feel a glimmer of disappointment or sorrow. He only looked coldly at the wind and snow outside the tent. He looked for many days as he carefully nurtured his body.
According to the original plan, after they left the Temple, they had to head south as quickly as possible to avoid the great wind and snow that would arrive after summer, as well as the most terrifying polar night. However, because of Fan Xian's injuries and his persistence, the camp remained behind the snowy mountains and did not move south.
The worry between Haitang Duoduo and Thirteenth Wang's brows grew stronger and stronger. Although they had gained nothing from their trip to the Temple, at least for them, to be able to enter the Temple alive and leave the Temple alive was already an impossible mission in the mortal world. They could not hope for more.
They understood why Fan Xian did not want to leave the snowy mountain. It was because the person he could not let go of the most was in the Temple in the mountain. However, they did not know what mortals like them could do when faced with the mysterious Temple.
Haitang and Thirteenth Wang were not Fan Xian. It was impossible for them to see through the truth of the Temple. They only knew that even a powerful warrior like Wu Zhu still did not dare to disobey the Temple's orders and strike ruthlessly against Fan Xian, who was closest to him. Under such circumstances, what could the three of them do by guarding outside the snowy mountains?
…
…
Fan Xian did not think so. If he had to watch Uncle Wu Zhu guard alone in the Snow Mountain God Temple for millions of years, he would not do it even if he was beaten to death. Fan Xian had already vaguely guessed Uncle Wu Zhu's true identity. However, he still used the words "alone" to describe Wu Zhu. He knew that Wu Zhu was different from the Temple.
Uncle Wu Zhu had feelings and ties. He was not an ice-cold program. He was a living person. Fan Xian firmly believed in this. In the dark secret room of the Danzhou Miscellaneous Goods Shop, he had seen a smile more brilliant than a flower. Furthermore, after recovering from his injuries on Dong Mountain, Uncle Wu Zhu seemed more and more like a person.
Fan Xian didn't know when this change began. Perhaps it was tens of thousands of years ago, when the black-masked emissary wandered through the various native human tribes with the identity of an emissary and saw too many human joys and sorrows? Perhaps it was because Uncle Wu Zhu was the most powerful existence in the Temple and, after hundreds of thousands of years of evolution, had walked a completely different path from the Temple itself? Or, was it because a few decades ago, an elf-like life had suddenly appeared in the world and in the Temple for reasons no one knew of? While interacting with that little girl, something had been stirred up in Uncle Wu Zhu?
Fan Xian didn't want to investigate this. He didn't need to. He only knew that when he was reborn into this world, he was leaning on Uncle Wu Zhu's back. The first person he saw was Uncle Wu Zhu.
Uncle Wu Zhu's back was warm. Although he had never seen his eyes, presumably, they still had feelings.
Fan Xian didn't know how the Temple had regained control of Uncle Wu Zhu. Perhaps it was similar to brainwashing, reactivating, or reformatting? In any case, the intelligent and emotional life light in Wu Zhu's body could not be seen at this moment.
This reality made Fan Xian feel particularly sorrowful and angry. He could not watch as this happened while he did nothing. For him, the powerful existence guarding the Temple was nothing more than Uncle Wu Zhu's physical body. If Uncle Wu Zhu's soul was not found, it was the same as saying that Uncle Wu Zhu was dead.
More than 20 years ago, the Temple and the Emperor had worked together to clear things out. Wu Zhu had killed a number of emissaries from the Temple. However, he had also been heavily injured. Using Chen Pingping and Wu Zhu's own words, he had forgotten many things.
This kind of amnesia was certainly caused by the Temple's methods. Fortunately, Wu Zhu had forgotten some of the things from recent years but remembered recent things clearly. He remembered Ye Qingmei and Fan Xian. However, Wu Zhu in the snowy mountain did not remember anything.
Fan Xian's eyelids drooped slightly, but a bright light flashed through his pupils. His body was still weak, but he was unusually confident. He would not leave the snowy mountain. He had to return to the Temple and bring Uncle Wu Zhu back.
He had not died. Wu Zhu's stab had not killed him.
Fan Xian accurately judged that the Temple should not be able to completely control a completely different life like Uncle Wu Zhu. At least, those names, the names carved into Uncle Wu Zhu's life, had successfully interfered with Uncle Wu Zhu's actions and prevented him from killing Fan Xian.
Given Wu Zhu's abilities, determining whether Fan Xian was dead or alive was a simple matter. However, he had let Fan Xian live. This was Fan Xian's confidence. He believed that Uncle Wu Zhu would certainly wake up one day.
Many years ago, with Ku He and Xiao En's help, Ye Qingmei escaped the Temple and walked south through the wind and snow. One day, the four-year-old girl sighed and gazed dumbly toward the north from the mouth of the tent. She said, "He is too pitiful."
Many years later, the heavily injured Fan Xian left the Temple with the help of Haitang and Thirteenth Wang. He did not leave. He also did not sigh because he would not abandon that pitiful blind man and return to the bustling world himself.
Ye Qingmei later bravely returned to the Temple, took Wu Zhu, stole the chest, and left again. Fan Xian also had to return. The decades that had passed seemed to have sunk into some kind of cycle. However, this cycle did not make one feel any dryness. There was only a faint sense of warmth.
You've already exceeded your reading limit for today. If you want to read more, please log in.
Login
Select text and click 'Report' to let us know about any bad translation.
