“Jun’er!” Song Zhenguo froze in shock. He rushed forward and pulled her into his arms, his face twisted with worry. “What happened to you? What happened!? JUST WHAT’S GOING ON?!”
Held tightly in his embrace, Jun’er gave a faint, helpless smile. “Elder Brother Song… I… I…”
Lu Sheng stood silently to the side. He had long suspected that Jun’er might not be human—and now, that suspicion was confirmed.
Perhaps every woman aboard the boat shared the same fate. Not living, not truly dead—spirits of the departed, bound to the vessel by some unseen power. Their beauty was not their own but a lure, a tool for some darker purpose.
Without a word, Lu Sheng turned away, careful not to intrude on their grief. He stopped at a quiet clearing, glancing over at Chen Jiaorong, who still lay unconscious. Sitting cross-legged, he began to circulate his inner energy. The familiar rhythm of the Black Tiger Jade Crane Skill steadied his breath; faint tingling rippled through his wounds as the flesh beneath began to knit itself together.
By the time an incense stick’s worth of time had passed, Song Zhenguo returned. His eyes were bloodshot. Jun’er was gone—vanished without a trace.
“Come, let’s go back…” he said hoarsely, his voice hollow.
Lu Sheng silently pieced together what must have happened. Jun’er had likely been part of the Scarlet Decks’ haunting all along. When the boat was destroyed, so too were its lingering souls. Song Zhenguo must have realized it as well.
They made their way back toward Mountain-Edge City in silence, carrying Chen Jiaorong between them. Neither spoke a word. Only when the city gates came into view did Song Zhenguo finally break the stillness.
“Brother Lu,” he said abruptly, eyes filled with grief and resolve, “can I learn martial arts from you?”
Lu Sheng halted and turned to face him. After a long moment, he sighed deeply. “There’s a powerful hand behind what happened to Jun’er,” he said quietly. “Otherwise, the yamen of Mountain-Edge City would never have allowed a ghost boat to moor openly on the lake, preying on humans. They must have tolerated it for a reason… perhaps waiting for the right moment to act.”
Song Zhenguo smiled bitterly and shook his head. “I understand all that you’re saying. Brother Lu has already slain that white-dressed ghost—the one ultimately responsible for Jun’er’s death—and avenged her. There’s no more trouble now. It’s just… I don’t want something like this ever happening again.”
Lu Sheng studied him quietly. In Song Zhenguo’s eyes, he saw the weight of helplessness and grief—a man cornered by fate, clinging to the only strength he could still reach for.
“You should understand,” Lu Sheng said calmly, “that in this world, ordinary martial arts can be learned by anyone willing to pay the price. But the true ones—the exclusive arts—are not passed down lightly.”
Song Zhenguo’s gaze hardened with resolve. “Then what will it take for Brother Lu to teach me? Should I formally become your disciple? I have no objections!”
Lu Sheng shook his head slowly. “No… there’s no need to rush. I can’t say for sure whether you even possess the aptitude for martial cultivation. You’ll need to undergo some tests first.”
He himself had only stumbled into the path of martial arts halfway through life and had no proper means to gauge one’s potential. At most, he could only observe and use Song Zhenguo as an experiment.
Besides, the inheritance of martial arts was not something to be taken lightly. True martial skills were forged through blood and pain—through endless nights of trial and error, years of sacrifice, and sometimes, the ruin of one’s own body. They were not treasures one handed over without cause.
Who would give away an art born from such struggle to a stranger? It would be no different from a wealthy merchant entrusting his life’s empire to someone he had just met. Impossible.
That was the unspoken law behind heirloom martial arts—they were kept within the family, handed down through generations, not given to outsiders.
Lu Sheng had heard of exceptions—those who carelessly shared their arts with others. But more often than not, such people had obtained their knowledge too easily, and because of that… they never learned to cherish it.
He couldn’t be bothered by such trivialities. With the Modifier, no one could possibly rival him in martial cultivation. His progress was leagues beyond ordinary men—what others achieved in years, he could master in months, perhaps even days.
What truly concerned Lu Sheng was something else entirely: exposure. If word ever spread that his martial arts were self-created—pieced together from countless techniques into something entirely his own—it would draw unwanted attention from every corner. That was not what he wanted. His plan was to grow in silence, unseen, until the time was right.
“How about this—I'll give you a test first, before deciding whether or not to teach you martial arts,” Lu Sheng said evenly. He preferred to take things step by step. If Song Zhenguo truly had talent, he could start by imparting a simple foundational skill.
“Great!” Song Zhenguo’s eyes lit up. He already knew that passing tests was customary in martial arts tales—every hero went through the same ritual before earning a master’s teaching.
Carrying the unconscious Chen Jiaorong between them, the two entered Mountain-Edge City one after another. At once, the shopkeeper of a clothing store near the gate spotted Chen Jiaorong and dashed off to spread the word.
Given his current disheveled state, it was inconvenient for Lu Sheng to appear publicly. He handed Chen Jiaorong to Song Zhenguo, instructing him to deliver the man safely to the Chen Family and give an explanation. Meanwhile, Lu Sheng slipped away quietly, heading home through the winding streets.
Along the way, he drew curious glances. Passersby whispered and children trailed after him, their eyes wide as if watching some rare street spectacle.
Lu Sheng could only quicken his pace. When he finally reached home, he fumbled through his clothes—only to find his key and money pouch gone, lost to the flames.
‘That’s a huge loss… all the silver notes were inside…’ He stood there, blank and miserable, the weight of exhaustion settling on his shoulders.
Dong, dong, dong.
With no other choice, he knocked on the door.
“Coming, coming!” Little Qiao’s light footsteps pattered across the floor. “Who is it?”
“It’s me,” Lu Sheng called out. “Lost my key. Open up, Little Qiao.”
The moment she heard his voice, Little Qiao hurriedly swung the door open.
The door creaked open, revealing Little Qiao’s bright, pretty face. She looked up with her usual cheerful smile—until her gaze landed on Lu Sheng.
For a moment, she froze. Then her eyes widened to the size of saucers. “You… you, you…!!!”
Before she could finish, her pupils rolled back, and she collapsed to the floor in a dead faint.
Lu Sheng could only sigh. Hearing the startled commotion from the shopkeeper downstairs, he quickly slipped inside, lifted Little Qiao, and laid her gently on the bed. Then he busied himself fetching water and setting a fire to heat it in the wooden cask.
Steam soon filled the room as he stripped off his tattered clothes. He scrubbed the soot and grime from his body until the water turned an inky black. Not yet satisfied, he filled another basin, wiping himself down with a towel until even that water ran gray. Only then did he feel remotely clean again.
By the time he had washed and changed into fresh clothes, Little Qiao began to stir. Her lashes fluttered, and when she opened her eyes, she nearly fainted again. It took several blinks and a long, hesitant stare before she finally recognized the man before her.
“Y-Young Master Lu? Is… is that really you?”
Lu Sheng smiled faintly and explained everything—how he had been caught in a sudden fire, how his clothes had burned away, but how, by some luck, he had escaped without serious injury.
Panic replaced her confusion, and before he could stop her, Qiao’er darted out to fetch a physician. Thankfully, there were still a few taels of silver left for household expenses—just enough to pay for treatment.
When the physician arrived and began applying ointment to the burns covering Lu Sheng’s arms and shoulders, Little Qiao stood by the bed, tears brimming in her eyes. Her hands trembled as if she wanted to reach out and comfort him, yet she dared not touch, afraid to cause him pain.
After the wounds were dressed, Lu Sheng decided to remain at home and rest. He didn’t even return to the study hall.
Half a month later, most of his injuries had healed. Only one change lingered—his once-thick hair was completely gone. Where it used to grow, now only smooth, pale skin remained.
What was truly strange was that, despite the fire, Lu Sheng’s body bore not a single scar. His skin was unblemished—smooth as polished jade—but every strand of hair had been burned away. He was completely bald: no hair, no eyebrows, not even a trace of a mustache. His entire appearance gleamed slick and bare.
After taking a leave from the academy and resting at home for some time, the days soon slipped by, and it was already the season of the Annual Examinations.
As for Song Zhenguo, he had vanished without a word since their last encounter. No letters, no visits—nothing. Chen Jiaorong, on the other hand, had sent a single letter of thanks for saving his life. Yet within it, there was not a single mention of the ghostly events aboard the Scarlet Decks. It was likely that Song Zhenguo had kept the matter to himself—or perhaps Jiaorong simply wouldn’t have believed such a tale.
In his letter, Chen Jiaorong confessed that he had been grounded. Though visiting a pleasure boat was not considered an unforgivable crime, it was hardly honorable, especially given the chaos that had followed. Nearly dying in a fire had driven his father into a rage, who promptly ordered him confined to his quarters.
A few days later, Chen Yunxi came personally to express her gratitude. She brought with her a pair of white jade qilin as a token of appreciation and conveyed an invitation from her father, the head of the Chen family, for Lu Sheng to visit their home once he had fully recovered.
When she first saw Lu Sheng’s bald, shiny head, she froze in shock. But after the initial fright faded, amusement crept into her expression. “Young Master Lu, I almost didn’t recognize you!” she said with a laugh, trying to hide her concern behind a teasing tone.
Lu Sheng merely chuckled. “Guess I’ll save on hair oil from now on.”
Yunxi pursed her lips, giggling softly. She stayed for more than half a day, chatting and laughing with him, before finally taking her leave as dusk fell.
Lu Sheng continued his quiet recovery at home. Bit by bit, his body regained its strength. Yet the explosion aboard the Scarlet Decks still haunted his thoughts. Ever since that day, something within him felt… different.
Determined to find out what had changed, he resolved to test his body’s current condition.
But before he could act on that decision, someone unexpected appeared—throwing his plans momentarily into disarray.
…………
In a bustling teahouse near the military headquarters of Mountain-Edge City, the air was thick with the scent of roasted tea leaves and murmured conversations.
On the third floor of the red-painted establishment, in a quiet private chamber, Lu Sheng sat across from a veiled woman dressed in black. Between them, a table was laid with an assortment of light refreshments—melon seeds, chicken claws, sliced fruits, and nuts. At the center sat a large vermilion teapot, its spout releasing thin curls of steam. The green tea in their cups shimmered faintly, rippling each time the table creaked.
Lu Sheng reached for a fried fig, chewing slowly as his gaze remained steady on the woman before him.
“How many times have we met now?” he asked, his tone calm but inquisitive.
Duanmu Wan let out a soft, tired laugh. Beneath her black veil, her expression seemed faintly worn. “I just happened to be passing by on my way to see a… well, a friend, I suppose. Never thought I’d run into you like this.”
Earlier that morning, she had spotted him by chance—Lu Sheng was out for breakfast, and she was riding past on horseback. Their eyes met briefly across the busy street. One thing led to another, and Lu Sheng had suggested they sit for a drink together. Strangely, she had accepted.
“Did Miss Duanmu ever find that treasure you mentioned before?” Lu Sheng asked, his tone casual but his eyes sharp. It was through Duanmu Wan that he had learned of the mysterious incident in Nine Links City. Now, he wanted to hear more—about that world she seemed so well connected to.
Duanmu Wan sighed softly, her voice faint beneath the veil. “Yes… I went after it. But there are many who seek that thing… too many.”
Her black gauze cloak draped elegantly over her frame, veiling her from the light. The wide conical hat that usually concealed her face now hung neatly on the stand beside her. Had Lu Sheng not looked up at her from the street earlier, he might never have realized who she was.
Lu Sheng’s gaze drifted to her hands—slender, fair, and trembling faintly as they rested on the table. The sleeves of her cloak were torn, edges frayed and crusted with dried blood. Mud flecks dotted her trousers, yellow stains from hurried travel along wet roads. Beneath the brim of her veil, faint shadows lingered under her eyes, the unmistakable mark of sleepless nights.
“You’re really tired,” Lu Sheng said quietly, his tone more observation than question.
Duanmu Wan gave a weary nod, letting out a faint sigh. The coquettish charm she once carried when they first met was gone, replaced by a dull fatigue that seemed to seep from her very bones.
“Some people,” she began softly, her voice edged with bitterness, “always believe victory belongs to them alone. No matter what you say, they refuse to listen. They think they’re always right. You can show them proof, spell it out plain as day—but it’s useless. Tell me, isn’t dealing with people like that just… a pain in the neck?”
Lu Sheng was silent for a moment, his eyes steady on hers. Then he nodded slightly.
“A pain in the neck indeed.”
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