Chapter Thirty-Six: Miss Ning

Chen Pingan looked at Su Ling with a bewildered expression, his mouth slightly agape as if he had something to say, yet he held it back.

Hearing Chen Pingan's words, Su Ling nodded vigorously. "Yes, just listen to that charlatan—er, Daoist Lu—and don't let your imagination run wild."

"Brother Su, what I meant to ask was, that neighbor... was that Song Jixin, who just moved away last night?"

"What? Haven't seen you in a few years, and you've already picked up Liu Xianyang's glib tongue?"

"No, Brother Su, I’m being serious..."

"..."

Su Ling was stunned. He looked at the scratching, bewildered Chen Pingan with the gaze one might reserve for a naive child, offering a look of his own interpretation.

While the medicine was decocting, the bitter scent permeated the entire earthen house, filling the nostrils with the pungent aroma of herbs. Chen Pingan remained indifferent, seemingly accustomed to the smell that defined his dwelling. This habit was likely tied to his tragic and desolate childhood—a quintessential portrait of a life of hardship.

As for Su Ling, although he could use his own robust martial energy, comparable to the third realm of Spirit Refining, to insulate himself from the bitterness in the air, he truly could not bear to stay inside. The reason he fled was merely because Chen Pingan, holding a clean, warm cloth and hunched over the wooden bed with the cautious tenderness of a son tending to his own mother, was wiping the grime from the ink-clad swordswoman’s face.

Though the swordswoman had yet to wake, her willow-leaf brows—smooth as distant mountains—suggested that their owner felt no alarm; instead, she seemed as relaxed as if she were in her own home. Even the spirit sword, hovering in mid-air and constantly wary of Chen Pingan, turned a blind eye to his actions.

Witnessing this, Su Ling found it absurd, yet upon reflection, he realized that in the original story, they were indeed a match made in heaven—a fated couple. Could this be the legendary, karmic red-dust connection? Chen Pingan and the ink-clad swordswoman, the great sword immortal Ning Yao, were meeting for the first time—or perhaps, they had barely even met at all. Yet, they seemed like a devoted couple, devoid of the barriers between strangers. This surely had to be linked to Ning Yao’s comatose state from her grave injuries.

The scene was so saccharine and cringe-worthy that it nearly made Su Ling, a boy who had remained single to this day, shudder. Thus, out of sight and out of mind, Su Ling took the initiative to leave the house, hurrying outside to catch the breeze and enjoy a moment of peace while gazing at the distant, verdant hills.

Time passed as Chen Pingan carefully tended to Ning Yao. Before long, the sunlight outside the window climbed to its zenith in the blue sky. Ning Yao, lying on the wooden bed, felt her willow-leaf brows knit slightly, accompanied by the trembling of her delicate, elegant nose. Even her beautiful, pale features flickered, signaling that their owner was about to awaken.

At this moment, the spirit sword hovering in the air chirped with joy. The blade possessed a soul, and its constant ringing sounded as if it were about to see a long-worried loved one recover and wake up. The sword danced erratically around the room, sending Chen Pingan scurrying and ducking in a miserable state.

Within the pitch-black void of her vision, a faint glimmer first appeared, followed by a light as magnificent as a nuclear explosion. Ning Yao’s brows, sharp as a drawn sword, furrowed. Lying on the uncomfortable wooden bed, she suddenly opened her eyes, which held an undisguised killing intent. This sudden murderous aura sent Chen Pingan taking a large step back; he nearly fell, only steadying himself by grabbing the earthen wall.

The killing intent appeared suddenly and vanished just as quickly, as Ning Yao realized she was in no immediate danger. Otherwise, it would have been absolute chaos. Ning Yao’s beautiful brows remained slightly furrowed as she propped herself up with her arm, struggling to lift her weak body to lean against the earthen wall behind the head of the bed.

Her weak yet inherently imposing eyes scanned the clean, repaired face, looking around to find she was lying in a shabby earthen house. A moment later, realizing she was safe, Ning Yao took a deep breath, inhaling the bitter medicine and the scent of her own blood. She sensed that her injuries were severe and dire, but she did not immediately attempt to circulate her energy to heal, for she had already discovered that her grave wounds had been suppressed by an expert. She only needed to rest and take medicine in the days to come.

"Thank you for saving me."

Ning Yao’s initially stern expression softened considerably when she saw Chen Pingan, who was still trembling slightly nearby. However, her bloodless, vermillion lips marred this hard-won beauty, giving her an alternative, fragile allure, much like Lin Daiyu.

"N-no need for thanks. For saving your life, you should thank Daoist Lu..." The naturally honest Chen Pingan, still reeling from the trace of murderous intent that had washed over him, spoke stiffly, not quite comprehending the situation.

"Daoist Lu...?" Ning Yao closed her eyes to reflect, realizing that while she had been unconscious from her heavy injuries, a Daoist had indeed saved her. "And where is Daoist Lu now?"

"...He has already left..."

"I see."

"..."

Ning Yao said nothing more, and Chen Pingan, not daring to get close, also fell silent. The room seemed trapped in a dead end—a silence so profound it was terrifying. Only the spirit sword, still dancing in mid-air, unceremoniously let out sharp sounds as it cut through the air, looking very much like a happy dog wagging its tail for its master.

But this joy did not belong to Chen Pingan. He desperately hoped that Su Ling, outside, would hear the commotion and come to rescue him, otherwise he would die of embarrassment. Unfortunately, Su Ling, though aware of the situation inside, refused to enter. He seemed to want to continue watching their awkward encounter—a true agent of chaos.

A moment later, having had his fill of watching the pair, Su Ling finally turned and stepped into the room.

"This is Brother Su."

Chen Pingan, who had been sitting on pins and needles, saw his savior and hurriedly stepped forward, explaining Su Ling’s identity with a hint of awkwardness.

"Thank you for saving my life."

Ning Yao, dragging her extremely weak body, cupped her hands in a respectful salute to Su Ling, her attitude sincere. Yet, her frail, bloodless face and the air of a sickly beauty could not help but make Su Ling cast a sideways glance.

But in the next second, a sharp blade cut through the air, suddenly stopping in front of Su Ling. It hovered in mid-air with its tip pointed directly at his chest, radiating a chilling, murderous aura. It was as if the spirit sword would pierce Su Ling’s body if he took one step closer.

Ning Yao looked up and, seeing this, furrowed her brows. Her bloodless lips parted slightly.

"Behave!"

As Ning Yao’s weak voice, which seemed to mask an underlying strength, rang out, the spirit sword froze, as if it had turned into a stone statue hanging in the air.