Chapter 64: The Pen of Remorse, the Scroll of Wandering

This was an ingenious design, and the very core of the Talisman Puppet. By connecting spirit stones and talismans, refining them together, the puppet could be preserved for a long time. Normally, to enhance the puppet’s strength, one would start from the talisman side; to use higher-grade spirit stones directly was truly a display of wealth. A single mid-grade spirit stone, in theory, was equivalent to a hundred low-grade ones. Market value ranged from one hundred thirty to one hundred sixty. All three present were penniless.

Song Yan, smiling cheerfully, said, “It’s all thanks to Fellow Daoist Rong’s spirit insects exploring the way that we managed to kill the puppet so smoothly. Here, you two take this.” His heart bled, but he spoke sincerely, not out of politeness—especially with Wu Huaguo present, he dared not speak insincerely.

“Alright.” The couple did not stand on ceremony. “Fellow Daoist Song, there surely won’t be just one puppet here. If we find more mid-grade spirit stones later, we’ll split them equally with you.” Song Yan nodded. He didn’t fully trust this couple, but so far, they hadn’t given him reason to suspect duplicity.

…

In the world within the painting, the Ink Pool Forest.

“Che Ning” stood before a massive black stone, carved and polished into a desk of unique form. On the desk lay brush, ink, and inkstone—but no paper or scroll. Che Ning paid this no mind. His hands trembled as he summoned his spiritual power, levitating the ancient brush before him. He spread his hands; the brush hovered between them. Looking at it, he exhaled in excitement.

“Hoo…”

A foot and three inches long, its shaft crafted from Cloud Abyss Purple Bamboo, its tip made from the fine needle-hairs of the Moon Rabbit Demon’s spine. On the pale violet shaft were engraved two characters: “Ashamed of Truth.”

“The Ashamed of Truth Brush…”

“I’ve finally obtained it…”

Che Ning seemed to lose all strength, collapsing to the ground with no trace of the master’s bearing he had before.

“The Ashamed of Truth Brush…”

“The Roaming Scroll…”

He suddenly broke into wild laughter.

“Hahaha…”

Thinking back over twelve years, every step fraught with peril, treading on thin ice—at last, he’d obtained what he’d dreamed of in his past life! This brush and scroll were a matched pair of low-grade spiritual tools. Though they had many restrictions, they were among the most coveted treasures he’d ever heard of or hoped to obtain.

As he thought of his past life, bitterness and grief pressed upon him, almost suffocating. His gaze hardened as he gripped the brush tighter.

Buzz—

At that moment, a blade’s aura sliced through the air, cleaving Che Ning’s figure in two.

But—

His form shattered, dissolving into a splash of ink.

Clang!

The long blade was sheathed again as the scar-faced cultivator strode forward. He seemed unsurprised by Che Ning’s vanishing.

“Now that’s curious…” Che Ning’s voice echoed eerily as he slowly stepped from the shadow of the black stone. “Exactly where did you get the courage to strike at me?”

The scar-faced cultivator, clearly only at the sixth level of Qi Refinement, simply chuckled, showing no fear. “In such a vast painted world, you want nothing but this ink treasure. Would old Wu not know what’s most precious?”

Che Ning’s tone was icy to the extreme. “Some things you may have the luck to claim, but not the life to use…”

“Brother, such scholarly artifacts…” The scar-faced man’s hand slid to his sword hilt, spiritual pressure rising steadily.

“Whether I understand them is none of your concern,” he replied.

“Oh?” Che Ning’s bronze mask betrayed no expression, only a soft exclamation.

“A secret art to conceal your cultivation?”

“No… not right.”

“The intent of the blade…”

“…”

Che Ning made no move, simply staring quietly at the swordsman before him.

“Both, in fact.”

The scar-faced cultivator’s spiritual power surged; in an instant, he’d reached the eighth level of Qi Refinement.

Buzz—

As the blade drew, the world above the Ink Pool Forest roiled. The man’s aura pressed close to the ninth level of Qi Refinement.

“Breaking Tide!”

From three zhang away, his blade slashed forth. His figure warped strangely, appearing in the blink of an eye right before Che Ning with the torrent of blade energy.

Che Ning snorted softly, advancing instead of retreating. With the ancient brush in hand, he met the attack head-on.

Bang!

Che Ning, along with the brush, dissolved again into a splash of ink—like a snowman melting instantly under a blazing sun.

Splash—

Black ink soaked the scar-faced cultivator’s robes.

…

A slanting smear of ink now marked his brow—left by “Che Ning” with the brush as the blade intent dissipated. Droplets slid down his face and chin, seeping into his collar. He frowned, wary of his surroundings.

“Mm…”

Che Ning emerged from behind, casually extracting a sheet of painting paper from his universe pouch and began to sketch, occasionally gesturing at the scar-faced man with his brush.

“Like a pesky fly!” The man gripped his sword hilt again. “Let’s see how long you can keep running with that wretched body of yours!”

“Mm…” Che Ning suddenly nodded in satisfaction. He set his brush to sign his work.

In an instant, the scar-faced cultivator stared blankly at his sword. He’d been raised with a blade, carving a fearsome reputation long before he ever entered the world of cultivation, and by chance had grasped a sliver of blade intent. Yet now, the sword he’d always known felt utterly foreign in his hand.

Che Ning gazed with intoxicated relish at the brush in his hand.

“This brush is called the ‘Ashamed of Truth’.”

“Setting aside tales of romance and legend, as for its function…”

Che Ning approached, step by step.

“Recording.”

The scar-faced cultivator’s eyes widened.

“It can record the appearance of anything in the picture at a single moment…”

“Spiritual power…”

Che Ning’s voice grew hoarse, tinged with arrogance.

“Or… aura.”

The man’s heart sank utterly, but he wouldn’t go down without a fight. His blade intent was sealed by this sinister brush, but his sword skills remained.

“Bind!”

Spiritual power turned to ink, surging and twisting into chains that pierced his protective spiritual garment, binding his hands and feet.

“Ha!”

The man’s spiritual power roared, shattering the ink and slashing toward Che Ning. Yet Che Ning did not evade, instead pouring all his spiritual power forth, his reserves draining rapidly.

Thud.

At some point, he heard a drop of ink fall—

The scar-faced cultivator found his blade sheathed, standing before the black stone, his protective garment dispelled, back to Che Ning—just as when he’d first sheathed his sword.

“Brother, don’t you see…”

“You’re inside the painting now…”

In truth, Che Ning had many ways to kill this man. But like a child with a brand new toy, he had to show off its most delightful function at this moment. Though he relied on the spiritual power left within the brush by a Foundation Establishment predecessor, Che Ning still felt utterly content.

Before the man even realized it, countless ink marks had accumulated on his body, all bursting forth in that instant.

Bang.

Blood, mixed with ink, slowly pooled on the ground.

The scar-faced cultivator’s eyes widened in unwillingness, life fading from him.

Che Ning strode calmly past, taking his universe pouch.

“In this world, everyone has their own opportunities and fortunes.”

“But some, arrogant and conceited, are unworthy of such gifts.”

“Even with luck, one must know how to grasp it well.”

“Rather than relying on talent and looking down on others.”

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