"...Who are you?"
An Jing, who had still been somewhat immersed in past memories, recovered his wits swiftly. Instead of answering the question, he countered, "Why do you ask?"
[What is it that you desire?] The voice continued gently, ignoring An Jing's inquiry.
An Jing narrowed his eyes, then suddenly chuckled. "So that's how it is. This is the ritual?"
He teased, "Lord Fuxie, isn't this the Extramundane Demon you slew? How is it not dead?"
[Heh. A defeated foe, nothing more than a wisp of a remnant soul in hiding,] the Sword Spirit sneered, a rare trace of emotion coloring its voice. Then it warned An Jing solemnly, [Continue with the ritual. I must focus entirely on searching for the whereabouts of my fragments. I cannot help you for now.]
"Understood." At this moment, An Jing clearly sensed that the other eight people connected to his mind were all ensnared in desires of various kinds.
For instance, Gu Yeqi, who regarded him as an elder brother: what she desired was to return to the Northern Frontier, bring enough food back to her father's side, find her missing mother, and share a sumptuous meal as a reunited family. For some reason, An Jing's own shadow even appeared within her dream.
For instance, that short girl, Qin Yunye: she trained the hardest of all just so she could grow a bit taller and stronger. That way, she could protect her parents and kin in the future, slaying those villains instead of merely hiding beneath pine needles, forced to watch her parents butchered and devoured by bandits.
And for instance, Cang Linzu: he loved martial arts, and all he wanted was a tranquil place to cultivate, with enough opponents to hone and temper himself. Life at Suspended Fate Manor was precisely what he desired most—training every day, cultivating martial arts, sparring, eating, and sleeping. If he could, he would gladly live like this for an entire lifetime without a single complaint.
If possible... Cang Linzu also wanted to challenge him. He did not believe he could win, but he sought An Jing's recognition.
Seeing this, An Jing could not help but shake his head faintly. He had long since recognized these companions; it was only that to conceal his true trump cards, his demeanor had been somewhat distant.
And there were others—other familiar faces.
Having led the team for more than three months, An Jing could not claim to know these "little companions" inside out, but he was at least well acquainted with their pasts.
All these desires, longings, and hatreds now leaped into his eyes like words inked on paper.
As the members of his group gradually sank into the illusions, wisps of jet-black demonic qi surged into their minds, dragging them into deeper depths.
That was the demonic qi contained within the "demon flesh."
Without demonic qi as a conduit, the Extramundane Demon could not bewitch them. Therefore, from the very beginning, those too easily influenced by demonic qi were eliminated. Yet this was not a "waste," for the demonic qi would also trigger an instinctive reaction from a person's Heaven's Mandate, causing divine marvels to manifest, which in turn turned them into raw materials for the "Great Medicine."
At the same time, even for those with constitutions capable of resisting demonic qi, consuming demon flesh day after day over such a long period would cause demonic qi to accumulate excessively within certain bodies, leaving their minds exceptionally prone to being seized by the Extramundane Demon.
Such an outcome was inevitably death—a death predestined, one that even An Jing could not avert.
Fortunately, ever since learning the truth about the demon flesh, An Jing had secretly instructed his group members in quiet meditation to dissolve the demonic thoughts within their minds.
Because they did not have to accompany An Jing in extra training and could enjoy rare periods of rest through still meditation, everyone practiced diligently. Thus, the demonic qi within the First Group was not excessive; at the very least, it was not a fatal predicament.
Not to mention, the ritual chains linked them together, allowing them to pull on one another and slow the speed of their descent. Each person's mind could help another navigate mazes they could not escape on their own; that was the meaning of "teammates."
However, the effect of teammates had its limits. Unless their own souls shone with brilliance, An Jing could be certain that as the ritual progressed, at least one person in his group would be completely corrupted by demonic qi.
He himself, on the contrary, possessed a luminous soul and utter lucidity, entirely unaffected by the ritual.
[What is it that you desire?] the voice asked once more, and countless illusions surged from the darkness.
In some, An Jing had returned to the Northern Frontier. There was no Frost Calamity, no barbarian army; he and his parents lived peacefully in their old home, becoming a prominent merchant family renowned far and wide.
In others, An Jing had mastered his family's martial scriptures, achieving great mastery of Inner Breath, and decided to set out and travel the world in search of his Destiny Pattern, his parents bidding him farewell.
In still others, An Jing had mastered the Eight Texts and Thirteen Classics, embarking on the path of imperial examinations. He advanced step by step to become a xiucai, a juren, and a jinshi, before entering the Divine Capital, receiving the liturgical registers, obtaining an audience with the Sage, and attaining eternal life.
There were many, many more An Jings as well. Their garments, builds, ages, and temperaments all differed, yet bore subtle resemblances, like derivatives branching infinitely through boundless parallel realms of time and space.
Yet An Jing's eyes remained bright throughout, utterly unmoved.
Because he knew full well that none of these were him, none were choices he would ever make.
Because he was no ordinary youth of the Northern Frontier. He was a person endowed with Innate Wisdom, carrying the intellect of another world.
Moreover, he had the Sword Spirit's recognition and could travel to another world.
The choices he would make, the path he would tread, could never be so ordinary.
[What is it that you loathe?] Sensing this, the voice changed its question.
This time, concrete figures and things emerged one after another: cauliflower, carrots, the vagabond who had cheated him out of his candied hawthorn when he was small, a picky horse that spat saliva... These silhouettes were very ethereal, all flickering and hazy memories.
An Jing merely furrowed his brow, then broke into an amused smile. "Turns out neither I nor the horse like eating carrots and cauliflower."
Yet what materialized next grew far more tangible, causing An Jing's relaxed smile to fade away, replaced by a solemn expression.
He saw it.
Bandits setting the county town ablaze and plundering supplies.
—A blood-dripping blade.
Starving refugees trading lives and boiling flesh.
—Bones gnawed white.
Guards standing high above, refusing passage.
—People kneeling on the ground.
Gentry bribing soldiers to drive away refugees.
—Those eyes full of disdain and disgust.
And... most important of all.
Those dead children, the medicine vats on a rainy night, the dungeon, the horrific scenes within dreams.
—Those lives that perished and were forgotten before anyone even knew, those faces still filled with bewilderment to their very end.
Figure after figure, objects either blurred or distinct. They were abstract, or concrete, a mere fleeting glance, or an actual, living person.
Screams, white bones. Wails, flesh and blood. Blades, corpses. Glances, oblivion.
Jackals, wolves, tigers, and leopards; calamities and unbroken disasters—none matched the tightly shut city gates.
The slaughter of war, the great perils of life and death—none matched the slow fade into oblivion.
At this moment, An Jing could not smile.
Facing Heaven's Mandate, he was utterly indifferent, for he believed not in illusory futures, but only in the path beneath his own feet.
Facing what he desired, he did not care, for what he wanted was far greater than whatever this darkness could conjure.
But... facing these people and things he loathed, those arrogant and condescending eyes, those realities that filled him with rage and heartache, sorrow and indignation, realities he was powerless to change yet refused to close his eyes to...
He could not ignore them, could not brush them aside.
He could not let them go.
Chapter 35