Bi Yao froze for a moment, then looked again with care. The four lines of characters were rendered with a brushwork and vigor far more delicate than the stone inscriptions in the chamber just now — clearly the work of a different hand.
Yet judging by the meaning behind those words, they sounded like the plaintive murmurings of a lovesick woman — which made it all the stranger that such words should appear here, in the Dripping Blood Cave, a most sacred ground of the Demon Sect.
She had pondered for a long while yet still arrived at no answer, and was shaking her head, on the verge of giving up, when she turned around—and there, to her shock, was Zhang Fan, who had slipped out of that stone chamber at some unknown moment without making a single sound, now standing right behind her. The expression on his face was strange: part grief, part surprise, and threaded through with a hint of bewilderment. His brow was deeply furrowed, the muscles of his face faintly twisted—almost to the point of looking fierce.
Bi Yao was startled out of her wits, unable to hold back a sharp cry as she stumbled a step backward. The delicate little bell at her waist trembled softly, its crisp and melodious *ding-ling* ringing out and lingering through the cave.
Zhang Fan heard the sound of the bell. His body gave a start, as though he had suddenly been jolted awake, and the expression on his face gradually settled into calm—only to be replaced by one of confusion.
Just moments before, he had been inside the stone chamber, racking his mind over the carved stone texts, when the fire poker at his side suddenly blazed to life as if startled from slumber—no, that icy coldness had spread through his entire body almost in an instant, and then, as if driven by pure instinct, he had walked out, until he saw that heap of shattered bones.
Zhang Fan glanced toward the fire stick bound to his left side, and saw that it still glowed, casting a faint cyan light directly upon the shattered skeleton that had crumbled to the ground — as though mourning an old friend.
Zhang Fan did not know why the thought had come to him so suddenly, yet gazing upon that skeleton, a strange sorrow stirred in the depths of his heart. He knew full well that whoever had perished here must have been a figure of considerable importance within the Demon Sect's Blood Refining Hall—quite possibly the very person Bi Yao had spoken of, the Black-Hearted Elder himself—and yet, inexplicably, he felt a faint sense of kinship with these bleached bones.
The fire staff's radiance slowly faded, reverting to its dull, ugly black, lying perfectly still. Yet Zhang Fan continued to stare at the skeleton, then—under Bi Yao's watching gaze—slowly walked forward toward it.
Bi Yao let out a snort and swiftly stepped in front of him, saying with a cold sneer, "Though I have no love for that black-hearted old ghost, and we may hail from different factions, we are both disciples of the Holy Sect — both have sworn solemn oaths before the sacred throne of the Youming Holy Mother, Sha Ming King. If you intend to lay a disrespectful hand on his dharma body, I will not allow it."
Zhang Fan shot him a glance, unable to help himself from retorting: "He's nothing but shattered flesh and bone now — I'd say that's entirely your handiwork, isn't it!"
Biyao's face flushed crimson, yet her tongue yielded not an inch. She said with absolute resolve: "I will naturally confess my wrongs before the Holy Mother Ming Wang — but I will *never* tolerate your insolence as well!"
Zhang Fan glanced at him, then suddenly said, "That's not what I meant."
Bi Yao was momentarily taken aback. Seeing his calm expression, entirely free of hatred, she could not help but feel that this young man from Qingyun Sect seemed unlike the righteous cultivators she had encountered before — those who forever had benevolence and virtue on their lips. She was still hesitating when Zhang Fan walked past her without a word. She stood there for a brief moment, then turned to look after him.
Zhang Fan walked up to the pile of skeletons. The bones were ancient beyond reckoning, their pale white surfaces suffused with a faint, eerie greenish luminescence. The blow Bi Yao had landed moments ago had scattered everything below the ribcage; only the skull remained intact, resting atop the scattered remains, its hollow eye sockets fixed directly upon Zhang Fan.
Zhang Fan shuddered, vaguely sensing that those eyes still seemed to harbor a lingering soul within them, watching him. Yet he pressed forward all the same, slowly reaching out to gather the scattered bones into a pile. A bone-deep chill seeped into his hands, yet the terror and dread he might have expected had vanished entirely.
As if they were old friends of many years!
Deep in Zhang Fan's heart, it was as if a weight had lifted — the relief of having done what needed to be done. Strange as it was, he truly felt that way. Yet a thought quietly surfaced in his mind: *This fire-stoking staff is far too peculiar. If I survive this, I must ask Master about it.*
Having finished the task, he was just about to straighten up and rise when, at that very moment, the corner of his eye caught something — at the spot where the skeleton had been sitting moments ago, the very place he had swept the bones aside, faint characters were now barely visible, revealed by the clearing of the remains. He couldn't help but let out a sound.
BiYao, who had been standing to one side watching Zhang Fan's strange actions with cool indifference, suddenly heard him let out a low exclamation as though he had discovered something. Curiosity stirred within her, and she walked over as well, glancing in that direction—only to find that several lines of characters had indeed been carved there.
Her tender heart aches with grief, yet she forces herself to look back no more.
Too late for regret; too hard to be together.
The golden bell rings clear and crisp, yet blood-devouring leads astray,
Throughout one's life…
By the fourth sentence, the brushstrokes grew increasingly feeble. The third character in particular had deteriorated into a near-illegible scrawl, and the last was reduced to a single cursory sweep before the writing ceased altogether. It seemed that by this point, the hand that held the brush could carry on no further.
Inside the cave, Zhang Fan and Bi Yao both fell into silence. They could each vaguely sense that between the lines of those two inscriptions lay a tale of heartbreak—the woman had suffered a broken heart, and in the end, the man too had been consumed by endless regret.
Zhang Fan fell into a quiet daze. Though he had never known this nameless couple, somehow, standing before these remnants—remnants he wasn't sure could even be called a final testament—thousands of years on, he still felt a quiet ache.
Biyao, standing to one side, furrowed her brow deeply, her eyes fixed upon those few lines of text, muttering under her breath: "The golden bell, clear and crisp, the blood-devouring mistake… the golden bell, clear and crisp, the blood-devouring mistake… the golden bell—the golden bell!"
She seemed to have thought of something and let out a joyful cry, her delight written plainly across her face. Zhang Fan was startled and asked in surprise, "What's gotten into you, Jin Ling?"
Bi Yao seemed extremely excited, her face radiant with joy. "Does Lady Golden Bell not know?"
Zhang Fan shook his head blankly. Bi Yao let out a huff and shot him a glare, then said with gleeful delight: "Lady Jinling was a great figure in our Holy Sect from a thousand years ago! It is said she possessed peerless wisdom and profound cultivation, and had attained deep enlightenment in the sacred texts of our sect. She single-handedly founded the Hehuan lineage within the Holy Sect — the foremost woman our sect has ever produced!"
Zhang Fan instantly lost all interest. Just from listening to her, he could tell that this Lady Golden Bell had been a figure within the Demonic Sect a thousand years ago — apparently quite formidable — yet the very name she had given her founded faction, "He Huan," was enough to reveal that the old woman had been no decent sort. Bi Yao, however, seemed to hold this Lady Golden Bell in considerable admiration.
Zhang Fan let out a soft snort, ignoring her words, and turned to rearrange the pile of bones he had disturbed while trying to read the inscriptions. Yet a strange thought crept into his mind: *Looks like you were a lovesick fool too—I'd wager you also died for a woman.*
The dead naturally paid him no mind, but Zhang Fan, lost in his own wandering thoughts, somehow found himself feeling yet another measure of closeness toward this skeleton.
Bi Yao beside her had been laughing to herself for a good while, murmuring under her breath: "Who would have thought that Lady Jinling actually developed feelings for that damned black-hearted old fiend. It must have been the black-hearted old fiend who broke her heart — a heartless wretch like him, he deserves to be struck by lightning! Dead would be best!"
"Hu!" Zhang Fan suddenly called out from the side.
Biyao was taken aback, struck momentarily speechless. It was only after a long pause that she came back to her senses. She stared at him for a good while before asking in bewilderment: "What did you say?"
The moment the words left Zhang Fan's mouth, he knew something was wrong. He was a man of the righteous path — yet he had inexplicably spoken up in defense of a vicious demonic sect fiend from eight hundred years ago. If word of this ever reached the ears of his Qingyun Sect elders, swift and heavy punishment would follow without question. But in that instant, he had no idea what had come over him — his heart had surged and the words tumbled out before he could stop them. Now, met with Biyao's sharp retort, he found himself embarrassed and tongue-tied, unable to utter a single reply.
Biyao shot him a strange glance, then suddenly recalled something. In an instant, Zhang Fan was forgotten entirely. She snatched the golden bell from her waist, trembling with excitement, and burst out laughing: "Could this be none other than Lady Golden Bell's 'Harmonious Union Bell'?" Even as she spoke, she quickly flipped the bell over and examined it closely. Sure enough, there on the inner wall of the bell, she found three characters inscribed.
Harmonious Bliss Bell!
Zhang Fan saw Bi Yao's face aglow with delight, so overjoyed she was nearly laughing herself breathless. It seemed this was an extraordinarily powerful Artifact that had fallen into her hands by sheer chance. A ripple of unease stirred in his chest, and he said coolly, "Have you found a way out?"
Bi Yao's eyes were fixed entirely on the bell before her, and she replied absently, "No, there isn't!"
Zhang Fan turned his head away and said indifferently, "Then you can just die clutching that golden bell in this cave."
Biyao was taken aback for a moment, then it dawned on her that of course it was so — the most pressing matter now was to find a way out of here first. She hurriedly asked, "Have you found one?"
Zhang Fan shook his head in silence. The two exchanged a glance, and Biyao set aside her smile, her expression turning serious. "Then let us find a way first!"
With life and death at stake, Zhang Fan nodded in silence. The two of them searched the tunnel cave together, scrutinizing every wall and every crevice with painstaking care. Zhang Fan even went so far as to examine the statues of the Youming Sacred Mother and King Shaming, brushing aside Bi Yao's fierce protests—yet even so, they found nothing.
When they regrouped before that pile of shattered bones and skulls, the sight of each other's crestfallen faces made their own expressions dim.
Bi Yao said in a hoarse voice, "Are we really going to die here?"
Zhang Fan lowered his head, his expression unreadable. Biyao fell silent as well. All at once, the shadow of death draped itself over these two young lives.
After a long silence, with neither of them saying a word, Zhang Fan suddenly leaped to his feet and turned to walk away. Biyao startled—"What are you doing?"
Zhang Fan gritted his teeth and went to search once more. "There has to be a way out. We are not going to die here!"
Yet deep in his heart, there lingered still one thing left unsaid, echoing on and on: *I will see Senior Sister Ling'er again — even in death, let me be buried on Dazhu Peak!*
Bi Yao made no move. She simply sat upon the platform, watching Zhang Fan's stern face as, in this moment between life and death, a fierce will to survive suddenly blazed within him — he searched ceaselessly, without pause.
Once.
A second time.
Three times.
Four times.
Bi Yao had long since lost count of how many times Zhang Fan had gone in and out of this stone chamber. Each time he returned empty-handed, yet somehow he never lost heart. She couldn't understand why his nature was so stubbornly unyielding — or perhaps his will to survive was simply that fierce. He kept searching without pause, searching for a way out, on and on and on...
Until his steps began to falter, until he had no strength left, until he walked past Bi Yao's side — his body swayed once, then he collapsed, crashing heavily to the ground and losing consciousness.
Bi Yao stared blankly, hesitated for a moment, then walked over and turned his body face up. She examined him and found nothing seriously wrong—he had simply fainted from overexertion, compounded by hunger and thirst. Only then did she feel relieved.
But she suddenly froze, and somewhere deep within herself, a question rose unbidden: "Why should I feel relieved? Why did I breathe a sigh of relief just because he was all right?"
The thought flashed through her mind like lightning from a struck flint.
She gazed at him intently. The young man's face, still youthful as it was, had grown haggard from injury and thirst, his lips chapped and dry.
Biyao gently set him down, gazing at him for a long moment before softly saying: "Since we are destined to die here together, I'd rather not be left alone too soon. At least having someone for company — that much is good."
She walked out, fetched some water from the pool at the cave entrance, then took out some dried rations and, mixing them with the water, tried to feed Zhang Fan.
Unexpectedly, Zhang Fan—likely on account of his unconscious state—could not eat a single bite of the dry rations, and only managed to drink a little water in a daze from Bi Yao's water pouch, yet he never regained his senses.
Having been busy for quite a while, Bi Yao was exhausted herself. After watching Zhang Fan and seeing that his condition seemed to have stabilized, she too gradually closed her eyes and sank into a deep sleep.
She had slept without knowing how long. When Bi Yao finally stirred awake, her very first instinct was to dart a glance toward where Zhang Fan lay. There he was—still resting peacefully in the same spot, not a single movement, dead to the world in sound sleep. Only then did she let out a quiet breath of relief, though she couldn't help muttering under her breath: "How does he sleep like a dead pig!"
…she found herself smiling as well. It was as though simply watching this young man had lightened her heart — even the death that loomed just ahead, drawing ever closer, was for a fleeting moment forgotten.
Yet she suddenly noticed that although Zhang Fan was still in a deep sleep, his face had turned a flushed red — something seemed wrong. She quickly reached out to check, and at a single touch she recoiled in alarm: he was burning hot. It had never occurred to her that Zhang Fan, who could have fallen ill at any other time, would choose this critical juncture to come down with a raging fever.
As a rule, those who walked the path of Cultivation possessed naturally robust constitutions, free from common ailments in ordinary times. Yet Zhang Fan had suffered grievous wounds in rapid succession over the past several days—his spirit exhausted, his body damaged to its core. In the end, he had pushed himself relentlessly through the Blood-Dripping Cave, searching desperately for a way out with no regard for his failing strength. When he finally lost consciousness from sheer depletion, a raging fever took hold of him.
His illness was truly severe — the fever lingered on and on without breaking. Bi Yao was at a complete loss; all she could do was fetch more cold water to cool him down, yet it did no good whatsoever.
As time wore on, Zhang Fan's fever refused to break, and he began to mutter deliriously. Bi Yao's heart clenched with anxious dread. The moment her mind turned to the days ahead—alone in this silent, hollow cave, waiting for death to take her—a chill crept down her spine. And yet, at this very moment, even a single rambling word from Zhang Fan, even the faint sound of his breathing, seemed almost like celestial music when measured against those coming days of terror.
Yet no matter how desperately Bi Yao wracked her mind for solutions, all she could manage in the end was to bring more water. Trapped in that mountain cave, with neither a doctor nor a single herb at hand, what could she truly do to help? Zhang Fan's condition worsened with each passing day, and his delirious mutterings grew ever more frequent.
That day, Biyao was keeping an anxious, burning vigil at the side of the unconscious Zhang Fan when she suddenly saw him roll over, his whole body curling in on itself. In a daze, he cried out in alarm: "Ghost—!" Then his teeth clenched in fury: "You killed my father and mother—killed everyone in the entire village—I'll fight you to the death!"
Bi Yao was startled, and hastily pulled him into her arms, saying over and over, "No, no! There are no ghosts here!"
Whether or not her words had any effect was hard to say, but Zhang Fan gradually grew quiet, the look of terror and dread on his face slowly fading — only to be replaced by an expression of absolute heartbreak.
His eyes remained tightly shut, and he murmured under his breath, "Senior Sister, Senior Sister, don't ignore me, I want… don't ignore me…"
Bi Yao froze. A sudden pang of bitterness welled up in her heart, yet somehow she found the courage to say softly, "Of course not! Your senior sister is right here — she won't ignore you."
A smile instantly spread across Zhang Fan's face, as though this moment was the happiest of his life, and he kept murmuring, "Senior Sister, Senior Sister…"
Bi Yao looked at his face—wracked with pain yet bearing a faint thread of fragile happiness—and felt, to her own surprise, a pang of ache sweep through her heart.
What kind of woman was she — the one he cherished so deeply, the senior sister he could not stop thinking of even as he lay unconscious?
She suddenly recalled that female disciple of the Qingyun Sect — the one Zhang Fan had so fiercely defended beneath the Nether Spirit Abyss that day, the one who had wielded a blue immortal sword. Could it be... that it was her?
Bi Yao furrowed her brow. She remembered it well—that woman had possessed a face of breathtaking beauty, so stunning it could topple kingdoms and cities. No wonder this Zhang Fan had been utterly bewitched by her. Yet no matter how clever Bi Yao was, she could never have known that the one Zhang Fan could not stop thinking about was Tian Linger, who still remained on the Grand Bamboo Peak of Qingyun Mountain.
In the days that followed, Biyao, who remained constantly at Zhang Fan's side, pieced together more of his story from his delirious ramblings—learning that he had been born in a place called Grass Temple Village, learning of the horrific massacre that had wiped out the entire village, and learning too of the woman who lived in the warmest corner of his heart: his senior sister-disciple from Big Bamboo Peak. Yet she was still not entirely certain whether this senior sister was the same woman she had glimpsed that day, blue immortal sword in hand.
Yet, in the course of tending to Zhang Fan these past days, even Bi Yao herself had come to notice it — a faint, inexplicable feeling had quietly taken root within her toward this young man. Gazing upon his haggard face each day had become almost the only way she could pass the long, idle hours.
She would often gaze at him like this, for a long, long while — yet had never once thought that in the stone chamber on the other side lay the Demonic Sect's most prized arcane tome: *The Book*.
Sometimes, after Zhang Fan had drifted off to sleep, she would slowly make her way to the passage of words that Lady Golden Bell had left behind, and stand there gazing at it for a long while before whispering softly: "My Lady, as the Sect has passed down through the ages, you once left an admonishment — that all men in this world are faithless at heart. But have you ever seen this man called Zhang Fan? He is devoted to the bone."
No one answered her question in that empty, silent cave. Yet as she turned to leave, the golden bell rang out—its chime clear and melodious—drifting softly beside her, echoing through the hollow stone chamber as though murmuring of something untold.
As if destined by some unseen force, those eyes — so achingly gentle — and that restless spirit who refused to depart, gazed upon them and wound itself around them, never letting go.