The inside of the wooden building was far worse than what he had seen in the illusion.

As soon as Chu Xinghui entered, the overwhelming stench of rotting wood made it hard for him to open his eyes.

Inside were several wooden pieces of furniture, already decayed into heaps of rotted planks. The material matched that of the building itself, and there were no traces of human use. A small pile of leftover timber was stacked in a corner.

The four walls had once been adorned with decorative couplets and paintings, but those once-bright decorations had rotted away with time, leaving behind only faded scraps of paper and cloth, barely hanging onto the walls and crumbling to dust at the slightest touch.

It seemed the original builders had never gotten the chance to move in, sealing the place off hastily for some reason.

Chu Xinghui circled the first floor but found nothing useful besides rotten wood, so he headed upstairs.

The staircase, like the furniture, was rotten—visibly fragile, as though a single leaf would collapse it. Yet some strange force seemed to support it. When he stepped on it, it creaked painfully but didn’t break, stubbornly remaining in place, fulfilling its duty as stairs.

He didn’t linger and quickly ascended to the second floor.

At a glance, he frowned.

Had he not been standing on the staircase himself, he would’ve thought he hadn’t left the first floor at all.

The layout of the second floor was exactly the same as the first.

Chu Xinghui scanned the floor with his spiritual sense but found no flaws. He continued upward to the third floor.

Still the same.

Each floor was identical to the first—even the positions of the cobwebs and the small pile of rotten timber in the corner matched exactly. After a while, it gave the illusion that he had been going in circles on the same floor.

He counted each level as he passed. By the time he reached the twentieth floor, he began feeling dizzy.

It was a natural physiological response to seeing the same thing too long.

But there might be other causes.

Chu Xinghui marked the wall and then, without hesitation, cut his own arm.

The pain brought him some clarity.

He kept climbing.

The thirtieth, fortieth… all the way to the eightieth floor.

Even if the building looked towering from outside, eighty floors was excessive.

And it still wasn’t the top.

Chu Xinghui, enduring the dizziness, expressionless, drew a third cut on his arm.

He stepped toward the stairs to the eighty-first floor.

He could feel it—the aura that drew him here was close.

The mark Xie Liufeng had left on his brow began to chill. Then, suddenly, a bell rang in his ears.

Instinctively, he looked up. The next instant, everything went pitch-black.

Chu Xinghui immediately drew his spiritual sword.

With a soft pop, a candle lit in front of him.

A youth in white clothes held a candlestick before him and spoke cheerfully: “Did I scare you?”

His voice was pleasant, though his pronunciation was strange, as if he couldn’t properly control his throat.

Chu Xinghui stared at the boy in a daze: “You…”

The youth leaned closer with the candlestick and sniffed him lightly: “I don’t know how you got in here, but you smell good. I like it.”

His eyes were covered with black gauze, under which faint bloodstains were visible.

Chu Xinghui gazed at him, heart nearly stopping from fear. His hand trembled as he reached toward the boy’s eyes.

His fingers passed through the youth’s face—no physical contact.

Everything was an illusion.

Sensing Chu had stayed in one place too long, the youth looked toward him with that familiar mix of gentleness and mischief and pointed to his own ear: “Are you speaking to me? Sorry, I can’t hear.”

Chu Xinghui stared at the boy—so familiar, yet so strange.

He knew exactly where he was and how dangerous it was to let his emotions be swayed by an illusion, but he simply couldn’t look away.

The youth, used to being ignored, walked the room with his candlestick, lighting other candles.

Only then did Chu Xinghui see the room clearly.

It was a small ancestral hall. On both sides, ancestral tablets were arranged from tall to short, taking up most of the space—barely any room left to move.

The tablets all bore unfamiliar names—but they all shared the surname “Xie.”

The youth leaned against the offering table and idly touched the flame. Sensing Chu was still motionless, he reminded him: “You came here for something, didn’t you? Stop staring at me. I won’t bother you, and I won’t report you.”

Chu Xinghui wanted to ask him why he had ended up like this or why he was here—but he knew he wouldn’t get an answer. He also knew this was just a memory. So, in the end, he said nothing.

He began inspecting the ancestral hall.

There wasn’t much to note—except for one tablet in the corner with no inscription.

Chu Xinghui stared at that blank tablet for a long time.

Perhaps due to his connection with the illusion, or perhaps the illusion was simply not that refined, he could sense that this tablet was the key to breaking the illusion.

But he didn’t touch it right away.

Instead, he reached past the blank tablet and found a book.

It should’ve been a blank one, but the pages were filled with messy doodles of turtles. When he flipped to the end, he found a name written in familiar handwriting.

“Xie Liufeng.”

The writing was more childish than years later. Because the writer couldn’t see, it was sloppy—but still showed hints of the grace he would have in the future.

Chu Xinghui’s eyes trembled. He closed the book and couldn’t help looking back at the youth.

The boy sat quietly in place, either observing imagined air or simply spacing out.

Chu Xinghui never imagined he would associate the word “quiet” with this person.

In his memories, this person was never quiet. Even alone, he would always find something to amuse himself with.

“Leaving already?” the youth asked, turning his head toward Chu’s direction with a smile: “If we meet again, bring me a flower.”

Chu Xinghui nodded and finally uttered one word: “Okay.”

The youth couldn’t hear, but kept smiling in his direction.

Chu Xinghui looked away and, steeling himself, reached for the tablet.

The moment he touched it, the blank surface revealed a name:

Xie Liufeng.

The illusion receded like the tide.

The eighty-first floor was still identical to the first.

The only difference was a jade box sitting on a half-collapsed wooden shelf.

Chu Xinghui stepped forward and opened it.

Inside… was a bone.

A piece of bone carved from a human body.

Chu Xinghui was familiar with the aura it carried.

It was the source of what had drawn him into the wooden building.

His rational mind reminded him that he had seen Xie Liufeng before entering the secret realm—whole and unharmed. There had to be another explanation.

But every part of his emotion screamed that he had to confirm Xie Liufeng’s safety right away.

Clutching the jade box, he turned to leave—only to stop abruptly when he reached where the stairs should’ve been.

It was only smooth floor. No stairs.

Maybe… there had never been any stairs at all. He had been caught in an illusion the moment he entered.

Suddenly alert, Chu Xinghui looked up at a point in the air and raised his sword in front of him without hesitation.

—

Outside the secret realm.

With Xie Liufeng’s support, the others quickly managed to contact the cultivators still inside and urged them to leave as soon as possible.

With their lives at stake, the cultivators soon began exiting one by one.

Cheng Yu waited three days outside the wooden building. With time almost up, he gritted his teeth and dragged the newly awakened Ming Xiao out first.

But as soon as they exited, Xie Liufeng intercepted them.

His gaze swept past the two, and not seeing Chu Xinghui, he asked: “Chu Xinghui isn’t with you?”

Ming Xiao had just regained consciousness and was still dazed—clearly not reliable. So Xie Liufeng turned to Cheng Yu.

Recognizing his voice, he stepped forward and explained everything.

Xie Liufeng’s eyes darkened. He nodded: “Understood. Thank you.”

Then, without hesitation, he entered the secret realm.

Cheng Yu was stunned: “Wait… how did he just go in? Isn’t there a cultivation limit?”

That guy clearly wasn’t within the restriction range—how did both brothers manage to be exceptions?

“He’s like that,” Shang Ling said, having somehow joined the younger group. His gaze was complicated: “There aren’t many rules in this world that can restrain him.”

He suddenly recalled the years when everyone in their generation was always getting crushed by Xie Liufeng’s cultivation speed.

Even though his own strength had fluctuated over the years, he always left the others far behind.

After his nostalgic sigh, Shang Ling noticed the two stunned juniors beside him and urged: “Stop standing here. Go rest. With him inside, your friend won’t be in danger.”

 

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