Chapter 10
Ling Xu, who until now could only endure and roll away, had begun to match every movement of Whou Ming, even though her cultivation stage was still at the First Level of the Lower Star, while Whou Ming himself was already on the verge of the Third Level of the Lower Star, two levels above her.
"Hey," Huan Zheng called casually as he leaned his back against a large rock, folding his arms across his chest as if watching a puppet show at a night market, "don't die, Miss Poison. I'm not bored yet watching you poison people."
Ling Xu did not respond.
She did not even hear him, because all her concentration was focused on Whou Ming's movements, which were growing faster, wilder, like someone who realized his prey was not as easy as he had imagined.
Whou Ming felt something strange in every strike he launched.
Not because Ling Xu had suddenly become stronger, for it was clear her Qi was still weak like a candle on the verge of going out, but because there was something inside her body that was moving, something unfamiliar, something that made the hairs on his neck stand on end even though there was no wind.
"What are you hiding, damn goddess?!" shouted Whou Ming as he unleashed a purple energy slash larger than before, but Ling Xu—with movements strangely slow yet precise—merely tilted her body a few centimeters to the left, and the strike shot past her left ear without touching a single strand of hair.
Ling Xu herself did not understand what was happening.
She only felt something within her chest—not her consciousness as the talkative Goddess, but something older, darker, hungrier—that suddenly awakened after a long slumber, and without realizing it, the tips of her fingers began to emit thin grayish-green threads, like fungal roots creeping through damp soil.
"Cancer..." whispered Ling Xu, her eyes widening as she realized what had just emerged from her body.
"This... this is the Cancer plague... how could—"
But before she could finish, those threads had already shot toward Whou Ming at an impossible speed, piercing through his Qi defenses like wet paper, entering the pores of his skin before he could even scream.
Whou Ming felt a strange warmth in his chest.
Not the warmth of fire, nor of blood, but the warmth of something growing, like a seed sprouting in the soil after the first rain.
He looked down, and there, beneath his purple robe embroidered with golden vines that once made him appear majestic, his skin began to swell.
Not one or two lumps, but dozens, hundreds, growing at a speed visible to the naked eye, like flesh suddenly rebelling against its owner.
"No... no! WHAT IS THIS?!" screamed Whou Ming, his voice turning into a shriek that almost sounded like laughter—the hysterical laughter of someone realizing he no longer controlled his own body.
From those lumps emerged a strange fragrance, not the stench of rotting flesh, not the metallic scent of blood, nor the fishy odor of death, but a sharp, piercing aroma—like a mixture of tuberose flowers, vinegar, and something burned, a distinctive scent that had once made the entire universe tremble years ago, when the plagues of Cancer and Tumor spread without regard for cultivation levels, from the Lower Star to Humanity, from lowly goddesses to even the Wheels of Cultivation.
"You... you carry that plague?!" shouted Whou Ming, his body already losing its shape, the lumps merging into massive bulges that oozed clear fluid, and amid the unbearable pain, he caught a glimpse of Ling Xu—the girl stood upright, her eyes dim, and around her, grayish-green threads scattered like serpents dancing in celebration.
Ling Xu did not answer.
She only stared at the dying Whou Ming, and in her mind, her mother's voice—once violated and torn apart—whispered.
"My child, remember… sometimes the most dangerous enemies are not those who come at you with drawn blades, but those who silently sharpen their knives when your back is turned."
In the distance, Huan Zheng, who had been leaning against the rock, suddenly sat up straight, his pale blue eyes widening for the first time that night.
Not out of fear, for he had seen death too often for fear to remain familiar, but because he recognized that plague.
He recognized the sharp fragrance emanating from Whou Ming's body, which was no longer human, having turned into a writhing mass of swollen flesh as though something inside was trying to break free.
"Cancer," muttered Huan Zheng, his voice barely audible, "the plague that forced me and those two damned people to hide for months in the deepest cave at the edge of the universe..."
He looked at Ling Xu, who now stood between the glowing dust of Xing Haoran and the corpse of Whou Ming, whose human form was no longer distinguishable, and for the first time, Huan Zheng saw something in the girl's eyes that he had never seen before.
Not hatred, not vengeance, but awareness—the awareness that she carried something more dangerous than any poison, something even the Wheels of Cultivation feared to touch.
Ling Xu stood before the shapeless mass of flesh that once bore the name Whou Ming, her breath still ragged, and at her fingertips, the grayish-green threads still pulsed softly like serpents not yet satiated.
She stared at the writhing lumps— as if the Cancer plague within Whou Ming had not finished its feast, as if the flesh itself still screamed even though its owner had long lost consciousness.
"Do you want to tear me apart, Miss Ling Xu?" Ling Xu whispered to herself, mimicking Whou Ming's voice in a mocking tone, then she smiled—a smile no longer warm, no longer bitter, but one of pure despair in its most honest form.
She raised her right hand, and at the tip of her index finger, a strand of gray thread began to extend, ready to rip, to shred, to destroy whatever flesh remained—even if it was no longer alive, because just this once, she wanted to know how it felt to be the executioner, not the victim.
"Just one tear," she murmured, her eyes darkening, "let me feel how satisfying it is—"
But before the thread could touch Whou Ming's corpse, a hand landed on her left shoulder.
Not a hard slap, nor a gentle pat—but a lazy tap, like someone nudging a friend who was too serious at the dinner table because the soup had gone cold.
"Hey, Miss Poison," Huan Zheng said from behind her, his voice returning to how it used to be—lazy, slightly mocking, like someone who had just woken up in broad daylight, without the remnants of blue flames in his eyes, without the aura of the 10 Cosmic Falling Crystals that cracked the sky, just the usual Huan Zheng with his tattered robe and messy hair that looked like he hadn't bathed in a week.
"Don't waste your energy on a corpse. Trust me, corpses don't run. But we—"
He glanced to the west, where from behind a small hill flickers of red light appeared like eyes blinking in the darkness.
"... We have to run. Now."
Ling Xu clenched her fist, the gray thread at her fingertip trembling as it resisted the urge to shoot forward.
"No, Huan Zheng. Let me—"
She was about to snap, but Huan Zheng had already stepped in front of her, blocking her view of Whou Ming's corpse with his lazy posture that somehow felt like a wall of stone.
"You hear that?" Huan Zheng cut her off, his lazy eyes suddenly narrowing toward the east, then south, then north, like a cat hearing footsteps of mice from four directions at once.
"Six sides, Ling Xu. Six borders of Xuelan Camp—every one of them indicates forces of humanity. Not scouts, not thieves, but war troops. They're coming to take over this territory, and they won't care whether you're a goddess, a slave, or a corpse—they'll kill everything that moves."
To be continued…