Chapter 131: Burial

Wang Yili followed the clues regarding that person downward, and in the process, she encountered a physically and mentally exhausted He Songning.

Seeing the utter numbness on his face, Wang Yili's lip twitched. "Don't you have your cultivation to support you? You shouldn't be feeling tired, right?"

"No... you don't understand..." He Songning shook his head slowly. It was true that beneath his eyes there were no dark circles—cultivators didn't even need sleep, making them the ultimate workers of destiny.

However, his eyes were dim and lifeless, lacking the high-spirited energy he once possessed.

Not needing sleep and not feeling physical fatigue didn't mean one couldn't be heart-weary!

"No wonder they say those who truly want to cultivate the Dao shouldn't become Sect Leaders or Masters..." He Songning muttered in a low voice while closing a scroll. He looked up and asked, "Is there something?"

"..." Wang Yili acted as if she hadn't heard him, ignoring the bright "are you here to share my workload" look in his eyes. With a casual wave of her hand, a phantom image of the clothing that man had worn appeared in mid-air. "Does this have something to do with the South?"

He Songning hadn't truly expected anyone to take over for him—to be honest, he'd rather do it himself than let a local from the Demon Realm manage things.

"This style... seems to be the regulated attire of the Black Soul Sect, the largest sect in the South," He Songning leafed through a pile of scrolls, accurately finding a single official document amidst the chaotic mess of papers. "Here."

Wang Yili said her thanks and took it.

The Black Soul Sect, as the name implied, was a cult that worshipped black souls. They spent every day preaching that humans become black souls after death, and that worshipping the Black Soul would increase the soul's density, allowing for a rebirth.

...To be frank, it was a very cliché sales pitch.

"They went to the North?" After hearing Wang Yili’s information, He Songning pondered for a moment. "It’s probably just missionary work. These people preach everywhere."

Wang Yili: "..."

That actually made a lot of sense.

But why had she noticed that person back then? She couldn't figure it out. Was it intuition?

Yet at this moment, her intuition was empty and silent, giving her the creeping sensation that she was making a mountain out of a molehill.

Wang Yili: "No, I’ll go check again."

He Songning: "Take care, I won't see you out."

His face remained expressionless. Previously, he had to suppress his laughter due to his low sense of humor, but now he had lost the ability to smile entirely.

Thank you very much; he no longer loved to laugh, and his "low-threshold humor" had been cured without treatment.

On a fine, sunny day, Zora woke up. After Vane finished combing her hair, she was supposed to cultivate diligently, just as she used to—reading and practicing whenever she had nothing to do. But on this day, she took out a bundle and walked out of the room.

Vane was slightly stunned but said nothing, following after her.

Zora turned left and right, eventually finding a large tree. It was very close to the Master's residence, and the soil at its roots was soft enough by Demon Realm standards.

The sun in the Demon Realm was notoriously unfriendly, but this kind of light—which would be called "scorching" in the mortal world—was considered "fine and sunny" here.

Zora stopped in her tracks. She tilted her head to look at the towering tree above her. Fragmented sunlight filtered through, scattered like spots; the rare green leaves of the Demon Realm revealed a vibrant vitality.

"I think the best place is right by my side," Zora said suddenly.

Vane understood her meaning instantly and answered without hesitation, "Yes."

Zora looked pensive. "If I move away again later, I'll just bury it another time."

Having said that, she crouched down and began to dig a hole.

Vane did not move. He knew this was something she wanted to do by herself.

Using her sword, she easily dug out a small pit. Zora gently placed the box containing Zhou Shijin's relics from her storage bag into the hole.

She then carved the tombstone with her own hands. She did not write "My Teacher," nor did she write "December Sect," nor did she write "The Pride of Cultivators." She wrote only the three characters:

Zhou Shijin

. It was as if she were a wisp of wind, coming empty-handed and leaving the same way, leaving behind only her true name.

Zora stood up and looked at the fresh cenotaph, repeating Zhou Shijin’s words: "Find a scenic treasure-land, put the body in a coffin, bury it, and set up a headstone. It’s roughly something like that."

Without a body, she used relics.

She truly had no research into "scenic treasure-lands," nor did she think the cultivation world was particularly auspicious. Logically, Zhou Shijin’s lifelong glory and disgrace occurred within the cultivation and mortal worlds, but Zora felt for some reason that it probably didn't matter to her Master.

Zhou Shijin didn't despise the Demon Realm; she had even indulged her disciple’s plans to go there.

She had lived for over a decade as a mortal in the human world, and later ascended the immortal gates. Her long, magnificent years eventually returned to silence. After people sighed, they forgot her pride, but the woman hadn't cared at all, spending her days drinking and making merry. Even when she faced setbacks, she released them easily within her wind-like heart.

She truly had no shackles. She didn't treat the human world as home, so she could leave easily. She didn't treat the cultivation world as home, so she could leave forever without a trace of regret.

A long life was, to her, merely traveling from one end to the other, doing what she wanted to do, saying what she wanted to say, and slowly waiting for her own end. Or perhaps the end was waiting for her; once she had followed her whims enough, she reached it.

Zora stood for a while before belatedly realizing she was missing her.

Death had taken her life; a tombstone would not bring her soul back, nor would it have any effect on the deceased.

Dying of old age is the happiest ending, but at this moment, Zora truly felt a sense of longing. She didn't hope for her to return to life, nor was she in mourning; it was merely a weightless, gentle longing.

So, burial and erecting a headstone were for the living to remember.

Zora frowned in confusion.

It wasn't for the dead to sleep peacefully—she knew her Master’s soul had already dissipated like the wind.

In that case, the so-called "scenic treasure-land" was indeed by her side.

Zora thought with certainty.

Vane stood quietly behind her. She was not like ordinary people during a rite; she didn't kneel, bow, or burn incense and paper.

Zora simply stood there, as if in a silent exchange of gazes with the headstone. This was her "worship."

Spots of sunlight fell across her face, highlighting the fine peach-fuzz on her skin. There was no sadness on her face; she was very calm, making one feel only a sense of peace when looking at her.

A long time passed.

Vane suddenly found himself recalling the cultivation world. He wasn't thinking of Song Zhihuai and the others, nor was he thinking of Jin Chuyang, and certainly not the December Sect. He only thought of a snowy day, the polar opposite of this sunlight.

A vast, thick snowfield. Bitterly cold. A snowfield where even blood would freeze.

At their first meeting, he had been at death's door, lying on the ground looking up. The snow was boundless, the trees were withered and dead; she was the only vibrant life.

Then, she had cut his wrist, so he could no longer attack.

She had cut his ankle, so he could no longer leave.

The meridians in his hands and feet felt a phantom heat; perhaps it was an illusion, but he suddenly felt as if he had never recovered.

She had cut him, and so, he could no longer leave.