Wēn Ruòhán was dead and the war that once ravaged the cultivation world had finally come to an end, but its aftermath gave rise to a new era of challenges.
Jīn Guāngshàn, a driven and ambitious Sect Leader driven by his insatiable thirst for power a...
Lying gravely wounded and senseless atop that rough bed of stone was none other than the infamous Wēn Níng — the dreaded Ghost General, one of the most fearsome and deadly beings in the entire cultivation world.
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The cultivators stared at the mirror with their eyes wide and mouths agape. When they had first thought of the Ghost General, they had expected him to be a towering, muscle-bound figure exuding an aura of menace and power. A warrior whose very presence could instill fear into the hearts of even the most seasoned fighters.
But the man lying motionless on the rock bed before them was a far cry from their expectations. The same Ghost General who was rumored to be ruthless and fierce enough to rip a person apart with his bare hands, appeared weak and sickly, his body emaciated and frail. Shallow eyes sunken deep into their sockets, cheeks hollow and gaunt, his entire demeanor a shadow of the fearsome reputation that had preceded him.
The Ghost General looked nothing like the tales had described.
"Is this really the infamous Ghost General?" Niè Míngjué asked, his voice tinged with disbelief and disappointment. He could not mask the letdown he felt upon seeing the decrepit figure before them.
After hearing countless stories of the Ghost General's strength and ruthlessness, he had eagerly anticipated the opportunity to test his own mettle against such a formidable opponent. To challenge the very embodiment of power and ferocity, and prove his worth in combat against one so renowned. But now, faced with this frail, sickly form, Niè Míngjué found himself questioning whether the rumors had been greatly exaggerated – a mere fabrication spun to strike fear into the hearts of their enemies.
"Yes, this is Wēn Níng, the Ghost General. He was lying on the same rock bed when I visited the Luànzàng Gǎng last time," Jiāng Wǎnyín confirmed, his expression grim, though a fleeting glimmer of guilt flickered across his features, visible only to his sister, Jiāng Yànlí, whose watchful gaze missed nothing.
Every pair of eyes in the hall turned toward Jiāng Wǎnyín as he spoke, their focus drawn inexorably to the young sect leader like moths to a flame. Jiāng Wǎnyín shifted uneasily under the weight of their scrutiny, masking his discomfort behind an ill-tempered scowl. Zǐdiàn crackled menacingly at his fingertips, a silent warning to any who might dare provoke his notorious temper further.
The other cultivators quickly averted their gazes, fearful of incurring the wrath of the volatile leader. An oppressive silence blanketed the hall, thick and suffocating, as they all waited with bated breath to see what would unfold.
Lán Xīchén's brow furrowed slightly as he processed Jiāng Wǎnyín's words. If the Yúnmèng Jiāng Sect leader had indeed witnessed the Wēn survivors under Wèi Wúxiàn's care – innocent civilians by all accounts – why had he remained silent? Why had he not spoken up to the other sects, providing the truth that could have potentially swayed the tide of public opinion?
