54: Chapter 54 Empty Shell

Three days later, there was a grave under the wisteria.

He Xiaowan didn't erect a tombstone. She only buried a stone—knocked off the spiritual patterned wall at the bottom of the Cave of Ten Thousand Desires. It was the size of a fingernail, with half a spiritual pattern on it. She pressed the stone into the soil and pushed down three times.

The medicinal garden was empty—not because the herbs had been uprooted, but because He Xiaowan had buried the booklets recording the spiritual power patterns from the past three years in the cellar. Each one was wrapped in oil paper. She said she would come back to retrieve them next year—she didn't look at anyone when she said it, speaking instead to the cellar entrance.

The angelica seeds were still on the Big Sister's chest; she hadn't taken them. But she had scattered new seeds by the grave—not angelica, but unknown grass seeds collected from under the wisteria roots.

"They will bloom next spring," she said.

Qin Wu stood at the entrance of the medicinal garden, three knives strapped to his back. The white line on his wrist shimmered in the morning light—three grey marks, thin, but with some thickness now that they were side by side. He touched the line—it didn't shrink.

"Are you coming to the Xuantian Sect with me—or staying here?"

It wasn't a question; it was giving him a choice.

Qin Wu looked at the wisteria for a moment, then at He Xiaowan. She was squatting by the grave—not looking back, still pressing that stone into the ground—pressing it for the fourth time.

"I'll walk with her for a while," Qin Wu said. "She can't carry all this on her own."

Lu Chen nodded.

"Follow when you're done."

"I will."

The white line hadn't lied. The one on Qin Wu's wrist—the grey mark was half a width lighter than it had been three days ago. It wasn't the line helping him choose; it was that after he had made his choice—the line changed accordingly. The grey would shrink when he gripped his knife, and when he decided to walk with He Xiaowan—the grey shrank a little more. The knife and accompanying someone—were essentially the same. Both were about pulling something out of the grey.

In the morning, Lu Chen walked out of the Hehuan Sect mountain gate alone.

The old steward was sprawled on the steps of the front hall. He wasn't dead—he was empty. Eyes open, breathing, heartbeat present. After the Shell Mother was sealed, all the Sub-shells died—the people who had been replaced wouldn't come back. What remained was a shell—a breathing vessel. The old steward's mouth was opening and closing. It had been three days, and it was still moving. It wasn't trying to speak; it was muscle memory—before the shell died, that person would say "Please come in" at the door every day. The shell had died—but the mouth was still saying it.

A drizzle began to fall. The rain threads passed through the middle of the empty mountain gate.

The Hehuan Sect—once a major Sect of the Demonic Path. Six Halls and Twelve Pavilions, three thousand Disciples. Now, there were only one hundred and thirty-two breathing shells left, two old Disciples with ruined Dantians, one woman growing herbs, one man blacksmithing. And one person walking in the rain.

Lu Chen headed north.

By the third night, the crack in his Grey Spirit Root had spread to a quarter of his Spiritual Root. It wasn't linear—it was intermittent. With every heartbeat—the crack widened a sliver. It spread faster when his heart beat faster, and even faster when he channeled Spiritual Qi. He calculated it. At this rate—if he didn't use Spiritual Qi—he had about three months left. If he fought frequently—less than a month.

What could be done in three months? Reach the Xuantian Sect, find the Sword Tomb, retrieve the eighth Finger Bone, see Han Yuan. Foundation Establishment—could Foundation Establishment repair the crack? He didn't know. Shen Xi's notes didn't have that page. Li Xuanyi's last words didn't mention this part. Foundation Establishment was a process of reshaping the Dantian and upgrading the Spiritual Root. Could a cracked Spiritual Root withstand the reshaping—no one had tried. There were only four Cultivators with a Grey Spirit Root in total. The first two were dead and insane. The third—Shen Xi—his soul hadn't fully dissipated yet. Only he was left.

He walked in the rain, his perception robe clinging to his shoulders—the spiritual patterns on the robe were weaker than they had been three days ago. It wasn't that the robe was broken; it was that the person wearing it was regressing. The crack made his Spiritual Qi output narrower—his Dantian used to be full, but now he could only mobilize seventy percent each time he cultivated. One-third of his Spiritual Qi leaked back into the world through the crack. The range sensed by the perception robe had also shrunk from a ten-zhang radius to seven.

By the evening of the third day—the Xuantian Sect mountain gate appeared on the mountain ridge.

It wasn't the first time he had seen it, but it was the first time he had walked inside. The mountain gate was very high—four stone pillars supported a horizontal plaque. The three characters "Xuantian Sect" on the plaque were new—changed thirty years ago. Changed by Fang Jing. After the Inverted Tower collapsed, the Xuantian Sect had replaced the old plaque—the old one had read "Tianyi Sect". They had changed two characters—not because it looked better, but because they wanted people to forget the relationship between the Tianyi Sect and the Love-Refining Furnace.

Fang Jing was waiting for him in the front hall.

Qi Refining Level 7. Grey robes. Just over thirty—but there were wrinkles at the corners of his eyes. Not from age—from worry. Among the thirty-two replaced names—the Xuantian Sect had accounted for one. Fang Jing's Senior Brother. He had investigated for three years—he couldn't find out. Fang Jing knew the Hehuan Sect had things that didn't belong to the Hehuan Sect—but he didn't know what they were. Lu Chen knew what they were. But he wasn't in a hurry to say.

"You are ten days later than expected," Fang Jing said.

"Something happened at the Hehuan Sect."

"What happened?"

"The entire Sect is empty."

Fang Jing was silent for a moment. Not in shock—but digesting the information. He connected "the Sect is empty" and "the replaced people" in his mind—that line had been broken before Lu Chen arrived.

"The Shell Mother?" Fang Jing asked.

"Sealed. It might break again in three years. But now—it's dead. At least everything it produced is dead." Lu Chen placed the Green Jade Token on the table. "Your Wind Listening Technique Restriction—I've heard enough. Take it back."

Fang Jing didn't take the token. He was looking at the direction of Lu Chen's Dantian—Cultivators couldn't see the Spiritual Roots in others' Dantians. But a Qi Refining Level 7 Cultivator's perception was sharp enough—sharp enough to detect the turbulence in a person's Spiritual Qi output. Lu Chen's Spiritual Qi was leaking—not continuously, but in pulses. With every heartbeat—a sliver leaked.

"Your Spiritual Root is cracked."

"Yes."

"Bitten by the Shell Mother?"

"Before the Seal closed—the last bite."

Fang Jing stood up and walked to the bookshelf, flipping to the third shelf—an old booklet. Not a Cultivation Technique. It was the Xuantian Sect's research records on the two Grey Spirit Root Cultivators over the past thirty years. The first two were dead and insane—the research records were full of anatomical diagrams and Spiritual Qi decay curves. He flipped to the last page—blank.

"This page was left for you. I originally planned to fill it in three years," Fang Jing said. "But you're cracked—three years might be too long to wait."

"So what are you prepared to do?"

Fang Jing didn't answer. He was thinking—the three-year observation plan had become a joke in the face of the crack. A Grey Spirit Root that was about to shatter—what was there to observe? Observe how he died? Where the blood flowed? How fast the Spiritual Root fragments drifted? That wasn't research. That was collecting a corpse.

"The Wind Listening Technique Restriction," Fang Jing said. "Can you break it yourself?"

Lu Chen raised his hand. The grey-lined Meridians surged from his wrist to his fingertips—not releasing Spiritual Qi, but absorbing it. The Wind Listening Technique Restriction in the Green Jade Token was a miniature eavesdropping array—an external Restriction. The grey-lined Meridians wrapped around that layer of Restriction—not to nourish it, but to devour it. The essence of the Grey Spirit Root was to take—the Shell Mother took, and the Grey Spirit Root did too. The Restriction was crushed from the inside. A fine line appeared on the surface of the Green Jade Token—then it shattered into three pieces.

Fang Jing coughed, blood seeping from the corner of his mouth—not an external injury. It was a wisp of Divine Sense bound to the Restriction that had been chewed up by the grey-lined Meridians. It wasn't intentional on Lu Chen's part—it was that the grey-lined Meridians recognized the scent of Divine Sense in the Restriction. It was similar to the Shell Mother's scent. Both were foreign objects. Both had to be cleared.

"You don't need to worry about the three-month deadline," Fang Jing said, wiping the blood from the corner of his mouth. "The eighth Finger Bone is in the Sword Tomb—go towards the North Mountain. Three miles away. There is a stone platform with swords stuck in it—the rusty one at the very back."

"For me?"

"Not a gift. An exchange. All the data on how you survive—give it to me. Send it back to the Xuantian Sect before you die. Send as much as you can."

"Fine."

Lu Chen stood up. He paused at the door. He didn't turn back—speaking to the doorframe.

"Your Senior Brother isn't dead. But he's not in the Hehuan Sect anymore. The Shell Mother produced Sub-shells to replace people—once the Sub-shell dies, the person doesn't come back. The remaining body breathes—but there's no one inside. If you want to come and see—go anytime. No need to fight. Stand at the door and call his name—see if anyone answers. I tried it myself. No answer."

The rain outside the door grew heavier.

The North Mountain. The Sword Tomb. It wasn't a tomb—it was a stone platform filled with swords. No graves. Only swords. Rusty, notched, broken, shattered—stuck into the stone. The one at the very back—wasn't an iron sword. It was a bone sword. The blade was made of thirteen Finger Bones pieced together—not human bones. They were Yao Beast Finger Bones. But on both ends of the guard, a human Finger Bone was embedded—the eighth on the left. The one on the right wasn't—it was someone else's.

He obtained the eighth Finger Bone. Just like the previous seven—it had warmth when held in his palm. The warmth of bone—cold. Not really cold. It was the body temperature of its owner. This person's body temperature was lower than Li Xuanyi's—the cultivation attribute leaned towards cold. It might be Li Xuanyi's third or sixth Disciple.

He tucked the Finger Bone into his robes. Eight down. Two more to go. The first one had shattered at Qingniu Ridge—the content had already been absorbed. The ninth, the tenth—one unknown, the other at the "place where he came from". The place where he came from—the village where he was born. In the erased memories, only a vague outline remained. Mountains. Cows. A person.

When he came down from the Sword Tomb, the sky was completely dark. A person was standing on the mountain path.

Not Fang Jing. Not a Xuantian Sect Disciple.

Han Yuan.

The man from the Ten Thousand Sword Sect stood in the night wind. Grey robes—not the grey of the Xuantian Sect. It was the color of the Ten Thousand Sword Sect—dark grey, nearly black. He had no sword in his hand—the most powerful Cultivators of the Ten Thousand Sword Sect didn't use swords. They used sword manuals. They used their Meridians as swords.

"Your Spiritual Root is cracked," Han Yuan said. It wasn't a question—it was something he could see. The Ten Thousand Sword Sect's two hundred years of Grey Spirit Root research allowed him to see the ripples of Spiritual Qi in a Grey Spirit Root from twenty paces away.

"Everyone keeps saying that to me."

"Because everyone who sees it thinks of the same thing—a cracked Grey Spirit Root is more valuable than an intact one."

Han Yuan took two steps forward. The rain slid off both sides of his body—not avoiding him, but being led by the spiritual patterns of his power. The Ten Thousand Sword Sect's Cultivation Technique governed Qi—using Spiritual Qi as a sword.

"There are two paths for the spread of the crack. One—you don't reverse the Love-Refining Furnace, and your Spiritual Root shatters within three months. Once it shatters—you die. The other—you reverse the Love-Refining Furnace and return the refined emotions. The Grey Spirit Root will shatter—but not explode. It will shatter in an orderly fashion. The crack will also disappear. The price is becoming a Mortal. Your Lifespan will revert to under a hundred years."

Lu Chen looked at Han Yuan.

"Where did you learn that reversing it could heal the crack?"

"Shen Xi's research notes. The copy you took—it was missing the last page. The original is at the Ten Thousand Sword Sect. The last page says exactly this—the essence of reversing it isn't redemption. It's allowing the Grey Spirit Root to shatter in a controlled manner. Not the kind where it's bitten to pieces by the Shell Mother—it's you shattering it yourself. Shattering it actively allows you to control the direction of the fragments."

Han Yuan had no expression when he spoke. He wasn't collecting a corpse—he was explaining a technical problem.

"Conditions."

"After you reverse it—the Grey Spirit Root fragments belong to me. I need the fragments to study a patient in the Ten Thousand Sword Sect. Once the research is done—you decide the fate of the fragments."

Lu Chen didn't answer. He looked down at his wrist. On the white line, the grey marks—he didn't know when, but another one had appeared. There were four now. Side by side. Very thin—but the four together had weight. It wasn't the line that was sinking—it was him. The grey marks had started to accelerate on the night he was bitten by the Shell Mother—every bit of Spiritual Qi lost, every additional grey mark, widened the crack by a fraction.

Qin Wu was still in the south accompanying He Xiaowan. His grey marks were decreasing. Lu Chen's were increasing.

It wasn't unfair. It was just different choices.

"Three months," Lu Chen said. "I will reach Foundation Establishment first. Foundation Establishment can reshape the Spiritual Root—burning away what's cracked and recasting it. If it succeeds—you won't get the Grey Spirit Root fragments. If it fails—the fragments are yours."

Han Yuan looked at him for a moment. The rain fell diagonally past both of them.

"Reshaping a cracked Grey Spirit Root through Foundation Establishment—no one has tried that. The probability is high that your Spiritual Root will shatter midway through Foundation Establishment—and then you will die."

"Haven't I done enough things that no one has tried before?"

Han Yuan turned and walked to the other side of the mountain path. He stopped after the seventh step.

"There is one more thing you should know. The last page of Shen Xi's research notes, besides the reversal—also contained a passage. The year the Big Sister entered the coffin, Li Xuanyi sent her a spiritual message. The message contained only one sentence—'The third method is at the bottom of the well'. Shen Xi didn't know what the third method was. The Big Sister might have known. But now she is dead."

He left. His grey robes faded into the night rain, finally merging into the darkness.

The third method. The bottom of the well. The Big Sister was dead—everything she knew had gone into the soil with her. Unless she had engraved it elsewhere on the stone coffin—on the other side of the inner wall—Lu Chen had only seen the side facing the Big Sister's face at the time. The stone coffin had engravings on three sides—he had only looked at one.

The stone coffin was still at the bottom of the Cave of Ten Thousand Desires. The Hehuan Sect was empty—no one would stop him if he went back now. But the Grey Spirit Root crack was accelerating. From the Xuantian Sect to the Hehuan Sect—a six-day round trip. How much would the crack spread in six days? If he used Spiritual Qi on the way—even faster.

Was it worth it? Li Xuanyi had spent three hundred years saying one sentence: "The third method". The Big Sister had spent three years guarding it. Whether it was worth it—wasn't something he could judge now.

Lu Chen stood by the Sword Tomb. The rain stopped. The sky was still dark—a slit appeared between the clouds. Not moonlight—it was a star. Very dim. But it was shining.

He moved his hand away from his Dantian. The crack was still spreading. With every heartbeat—it widened a fraction.