The No. 1 Hunfen King in the Entire Server [Interstellar] Chapter 91

Withered Death Granny continued playing chess.

“Not only that, Xue Chaoyue died when Xue Wenqing was thirteen. Xue Wenqing, having had his demonic thoughts forcibly extracted, was frail and sickly since childhood, requiring his mother’s heart blood to sustain him. But without Xue Chaoyue, what could they do? Feng Wuchen turned his sights on the Grand Princess of Diyang. Did you really think the Devouring Shadow Sect wiped out the entire Princess’s household for no reason? Hahahahaha.”

She laughed strangely. The outcome on the chessboard had already been decided. Her time was near. White smoke curled around her, rising from head to toe.

Inch by inch, flesh turned to bone. Inch by inch, bone turned to ashes.

“I heard Feng Wuchen perished to his inner demons, his body exploding.”

The last astrologer saintess, who could see life and death, chuckled hoarsely. “That’s why people should sin less when they’re young. Every wicked cause leads to a wicked consequence, returning to oneself.”

Wicked cause, wicked consequence.

After her final words, she was reduced to ashes, drifting away alongside the incense on the table, floating silently out the window.

Chu Feihuan sat stiffly on the bed, gazing into the distance, like a jade statue.

Afterward, he emerged from Wangchuan River, taking the Spring Water Sword back to Peach Blossom Valley. He was too calm—so calm that Lin Jing thought he had lost his mind.

But perhaps Chu Feihuan should have lost his mind by now.

Lin Jing followed behind him in silence, belatedly recalling his own carefree speculation upon entering this game—

In this life, kin are not kin, foes are not foes, friends are not friends.

In the end, love and hate reversed, right and wrong blurred, truth and falsehood became indistinguishable.

And then, his words became prophecy.

Beneath the stars and moon, crossing the mountains.

By the time Chu Feihuan returned to the peach forest, it was deep into the night. Silver lightning slithered across the sky, and torrential rain poured down.

Clad in black, gripping his emerald sword, he was drenched in blood, like a rakshasa.

“Feihuan?” Gu Xiangsi was already awake. Draped in a flowing water-blue robe, she held a lantern, her clear eyes filled with shock and sorrow. She furrowed her willow brows. “Feihuan, what’s wrong? You’re bleeding so much. The rain is too heavy outside—come in quickly, let me bandage you.”

Chu Feihuan raised his eyes, rainwater dripping from his lashes. His azure pupils were cold and cruel.

Gu Xiangsi was startled, parting her lips. “Feihuan—”

Chu Feihuan ignored her, brushing past her with his sword. He entered and pointed it directly at the divine physician’s throat, his voice hoarse and dry. “Tell me, why did you take my heart blood?”

The divine physician was grinding medicine, his skeletal fingers unhurried. His gaunt face remained expressionless.

Thunder rumbled outside, casting snake-like shadows on the walls.

Chu Feihuan said no more. His sword pierced through the divine physician’s throat.

Blood splattered onto his hair.

It seemed the divine physician had long anticipated this day. Blood trickled from his lips, yet he smiled—a strange, relieved smile. He spoke in a broken, gasping voice: “Dying by your hand… is fitting. It repays Xue Chaoyue’s kindness and avenges Chu Huachi. The dungeon beneath the peach forest… go there…”

With his final breath, the divine physician slowly closed his eyes. The pestle in his hand fell to the ground. His face bore an eerie mix of relief and grimace.

“Feihuan, what are you doing?!”

Gu Xiangsi’s eyes widened in disbelief, her voice rising in a scream.

But Chu Feihuan ignored her. His figure remained solitary and rigid as he walked out, gripping his sword. At the edge of the peach forest lay a dungeon.

Lin Jing, in his spirit form, still felt every step unbearably heavy.

Chu Huachi—the name of the Grand Princess of Diyang.

The dungeon was pitch-dark, filled with rotting animal carcasses and white bones. Venomous snakes and centipedes crawled freely. Chu Feihuan strode forward until he reached a tightly sealed stone door.

He slashed it open with his sword. As the mechanisms shattered and stone crumbled, it was as if he had also cleaved through the haze of his past life.

Revealing the cruel, icy truth of fate.

A smooth platform laid before him. Two massive, pitch-black iron chains coiled upon it, shackling a woman’s skeletal ankles.

Her hair was disheveled, her luxurious robes caked with dried blood and grime. Her nails had peeled off, her arms marred with ghastly wounds.

Chu Huachi had gone mad. She could neither speak nor move. Having once tried to bite off her own tongue, it had been cut out. As the stone door opened, she slowly lifted her head from the ground, revealing a withered, ruined face.

Who could have imagined—

The once-incomparably noble Grand Princess of Chu had been imprisoned here for twenty years as nothing more than a blood slave.

And that blood—he had seen it countless times over the past twenty years.

The crimson liquid in Xue Wenqing’s cup.

He had said it was medicine.

“Feihuan!”

“Chu Feihuan!”

The stone door shattered, triggering a loud mechanism. Gu Xiangsi had rushed inside.

This chamber concealed the most secret and repugnant atrocity of the Jiuyang Sword Sect. Its destruction naturally alarmed the sect’s most revered elder—Xue Wenqing’s master.

“Chu Feihuan, wretched spawn! So this is where you’ve been hiding! How dare you tamper with the mechanisms!” The elder’s hawk-like eyes glared with thunderous rage.

Behind him, a group of inner disciples arrived in swift succession.

Torches in hand, swords drawn, their expressions were grim as they stared at him with loathing.

“Feihuan, what are you doing?” Gu Xiangsi was pale, her eyes swollen red. She looked at him, devastated, as if seeing a stranger.

Chu Feihuan ignored them all. Step by step, he walked forward, kneeling stiffly before Chu Huachi. He reached out, trying to embrace her. But she was mad—she shrieked and bit down on his arm.

Chu Feihuan closed his eyes briefly, then lifted her into his arms without a word. She was so light, no more than a pile of bones—like a piece of paper.

“Wretched spawn! How dare you ignore me!” The sect elder bellowed in fury, hurling his sword forward. “The Immortal Alliance failed to kill you, yet you dare walk into death yourself. Today, I shall uphold justice and rid the world of a monster like you!”

A monster.

Uphold justice.

Those words were a joke—just like the twenty years of suffering he had endured.

And so, Chu Feihuan laughed.

His low laughter echoed in the stone chamber, sending chills down everyone’s spines.

They looked up, dumbfounded, at the bloodstained youth standing beneath the cold moonlight and flickering flames.

As the daylight stretched Chu Feihuan’s shadow, it appeared both tall and desolate. His black robes billowed in the wind, revealing his pale, bloodless wrists. His once brilliant jade-green eyes now held a strange contradiction—half god, half demon. The god’s cold indifference and the demon’s bloodthirsty cruelty had somehow merged into one.

“Feihuan.”

A weak male voice called out.

Xue Wenqing had arrived after all.

He pushed through the crowd and stood in the center. His gaze was shattered, his entire being dazed and fragile.

Suddenly, the unconscious Chu Huachi in his arms tensed, her body rigid, mouth opening in a strange, silent scream.

Chu Feihuan finally lifted his eyes—rimmed with blood-red veins. In his hand, the spring water sword tore through the wind, slashing straight toward Xue Wenqing.

“You wretched beast! What are you doing?”

“Senior Brother Wenqing!”

The cave erupted into chaos.

“Feihuan! No!”

In a split second, Gu Xiangsi’s desperate cry rang out. She spread her arms like a great bird and stepped forward, shielding Xue Wenqing with her frail body.

Chu Feihuan’s sword paused for one second.

Gu Xiangsi, dressed in a flowing blue gown, stared at him in sorrow, tears streaming down her face. “Feihuan… Wenqing knew nothing about this. He is innocent. He does not deserve to die.”

Chu Feihuan laughed softly and said, “He doesn’t know. But you do.”

Each word was like a bleeding wound torn from his throat.

His eyes burned red as he whispered, “He doesn’t deserve to die. But I want him dead.”

“Feihuan!!!”

“Chu Feihuan!”

The sharp cries pierced Lin Jing’s ears, sending his mind into a numb daze.

Lin Jing didn’t want to watch anymore. He wanted to return to Yingluo Hall.

But his feet were frozen to the spot. He couldn’t move.

He could only watch.

Watch as Chu Feihuan killed Xue Wenqing with his sword.

Watch as he slaughtered the Sword Sect elder.

Watch as he wiped out the Sword Sect disciples who had rushed over.

Blood ran like a river.

In the end, only Gu Xiangsi remained, her eyes red with grief.

Lin Jing didn’t follow Chu Feihuan outside. He simply sat on the stone pillar where the iron chains were fastened, his Yingluo robe swaying lightly, the tiny bells chiming. He stared at Chu Feihuan’s departing figure and murmured to the system that had appeared out of nowhere:

“Does this feel like a game to you?”

The system remained silent.

Lin Jing chuckled. “Gold-tier roles require S-level mental strength and above. Real and fake, fake and real—perhaps in the end, even the player can’t tell them apart.”

His eyes turned slightly red. “System, this feels like watching a lifetime, don’t you think?”

“I think—” Lin Jing lifted his gaze. Shangguan Wan’s eyes in the game were the same as in reality—deep brown, like amber and glass.

He looked up at the sky, where dark clouds churned with flashes of lightning. Softly, he murmured, “I think… my heart aches a little.”

It was too strange.

His heart hurt.

He was grieving for an NPC, for a mere character in a game.

The pain was so sharp he couldn’t even speak.

Lin Jing returned to Yingluo Hall, picked up a brush, and hesitated for a long time. But in the end, faced with the thousand paper cranes in the hall, he didn’t write a single word.

“There’s no need,” he told himself.

Chu Feihuan didn’t need love, just as he didn’t need hatred.

In the end, all emotions became burdens.

A desolate mountain. Heavy snow.

Chu Huachi was dying.

Her mind wavered between clarity and confusion. When lost in delirium, she would claw and bite at Chu Feihuan. When lucid, she clung to him, trembling and weeping uncontrollably. Her body bore no unscathed skin. Her tongue had been cut out, leaving her only with hoarse, guttural sounds. The once radiant and noble Grand Princess of Diyang finally met her end in a tattered wooden hut.

Moments before her death, her clouded eyes gradually cleared.

Snow was falling outside. Every flake glittered like a tiny lantern, filling the barren mountain with light.

In her haze, she saw the long corridors of the imperial princess’s residence, where lanterns were lit in sequence every evening, guiding the way forward along red-painted beams. At the end, perhaps, lay paradise.

She dimly recognized the person by her bedside, opened her mouth to call his name—but only tears poured from her eyes.

With trembling fingers, she reached out to his cold, pale palm and traced, stroke by stroke: “Feihuan, Feihuan.”

Feihuan.

“Do not let hatred consume you.”

“Live well.”

Her last stroke fell weakly. The Grand Princess of Diyang’s eyes widened, a faint smile of release on her lips.

In her ears, a sacred chant echoed. She saw the long corridor of the princess’s residence, its lanterns lighting up one by one. The air was filled with the scent of feasts, the grandeur of noble bloodlines. Rows of maids and servants stood in the shadows, carrying a palanquin to take her home.

Chu Feihuan buried her beneath the snow.

With the final handful of snow covering her grave, he paused. Then suddenly, he let out a choked sound and coughed up blood.

Bright red splattered across the pure white snow—red and white, so stark it was unbearable to look at.

He stabbed the spring water sword into the snow and knelt. His long black hair spilled over his thin shoulders, as though fate had finally crushed him into submission.

The wind howled, the snowstorm raged. His senses had long been dulled. In his daze, Chu Feihuan once again heard the old beggar knocking on his clay bowl.

Dong, dong, dong.

From a dust-covered past, from a time long beyond his reach.

The beggar’s lazy, singsong voice drifted from a starry night in his youth:

“Lianhua Luo, Lianhua Luo—”

“Look, father and mother are not true kin.”

“Look, brothers are not true kin.”

“Lianhua Luo, Lianhua Luo—”

“Look, your wife is not true kin.”

“Look, your friends are not true kin.”

Lotus drop, lotus drop.

Love and hate reversed. A lifetime in chaos.

Chu Feihuan was silent for a long time. After spitting out a mouthful of blood, he let out a short, hoarse laugh. The sound echoed across the snowy wilderness, desolate and cold.