TSFLIP Chapter 585

“Fengguang…” Meng Xi still wanted to say something.

But Fengguang cut her off coldly: “Move aside.”

Intimidated by the rare forcefulness in Fengguang’s tone, Meng Xi instinctively stepped aside.

“Hyah!” Fengguang snapped the reins, and the horse broke into a gallop.

Inside the Wuji Tower, the night was anything but quiet.

At the entrance, two guards stopped the girl dismounted from her horse. One of them said coldly, “Without the Tower Master’s verbal order, you’re not allowed inside.”

“I want to see Si Jia.”

At the mention of that name, the two guards exchanged glances. But still dutiful, they said, “Outsiders are not allowed in Wuji Tower.”

Fengguang smiled. “What if I insist on going in?”

“Wuji Tower kills without consequence.”

“Then let’s see if you have the skill to do that.”
She bent down, picked up a branch from the ground, and in the next instant, her entire presence shifted—she took a swordsman’s stance.

Moments later, Fengguang walked through the dim corridors of Wuji Tower. The path behind her was littered with fallen men. She hadn’t killed them—at most, she had only injured them. After all, she had never taken a life, and didn’t like to.

In the martial world, many had heard of the mysterious “Ghost Master,” a legendary healer and poison expert. But few remembered that there was also a sword immortal equally famed, though far less talked about.

When Fengguang was ten years old, her father had taken her out of the palace to visit Qingxin Temple. He wouldn’t have done so without a reason—he had seen her potential for martial arts and brought her there to become a disciple. Her swordsmanship was taught by the temple’s abbot.

It was during those early years, while traveling down the mountain with her master, that she once stepped in to save a girl being bullied by a thug. That small act had somehow spread into legend. No one knew exactly how the title “Sword Immortal” began to follow her name.

There had been hints of her martial arts skills before. Otherwise, how could she have reacted so quickly to dodge the assassin’s blade in the great hall that day? In the desert, too, it was only by remembering her strength that she had endured for so long.

Guided by directions from a captured man, she arrived at a tightly shut door. Without hesitation, she pushed it open and walked down a dark, narrow corridor. Along the way, she passed bodies sprawled across the ground—unlike her own controlled strikes, these people were heavily wounded, their clothes soaked in blood. Some had already stopped breathing; others were barely clinging to life.

Fengguang counted as she walked—forty-three bodies in total. But Daoist Liaoliao had said there were ninety-nine death warriors.

These “death warriors” had no will of their own, no sense of pain, and only one purpose: to kill their target. They would not stop until the blood ran dry or their limbs failed them. That’s what made them more terrifying than any ordinary assassin.

Suddenly, a cold gust of wind shot toward her. Fengguang’s eyes narrowed, and she raised the branch in her hand just in time to block a fierce sword strike. The sharp blade scraped along the branch, but it didn’t break—her internal energy had reinforced it.

She started to retreat, but a familiar voice called out:
“Fengguang?”

She froze—and the next second, someone pulled her into a tight embrace. His arms wrapped around her as if he wanted to fuse her into his very bones.

“It’s really you…”

“Si Jia…” she whispered. The scent of blood hit her nose. The branch slipped from her hand and fell to the floor. Her hands hovered uncertainly, unsure where to touch him. “You’re hurt!”

“It’s just a few minor wounds,” he said.

But the blood staining his white robe from top to bottom told another story. Even his face bore a long cut from a blade. Looking like that—battered and bleeding—how could he say it was just minor?