“Can I trouble his lordship to remind me?” I asked, my tone careful.

He sighed theatrically, as though disappointed in me. “Once upon a time,” he began, his voice taking on a faintly mocking lilt, “I visited Frost Mountain to meet your master. While we were discussing important matters, a sniveling five-year-old boy stormed into the hall, crying so loudly that your master was utterly mortified. No matter what he did, the boy wouldn’t stop. When disciples came to take him away, he clung to your master’s leg like his life depended on it.

“Your master, exasperated beyond measure, decided then and there to send the boy to the orphanage. He claimed a crybaby wasn’t suited to be a disciple of Frost Mountain.”

He delivered the story like a tale from a children’s book, his tone almost playful. But I ignored his theatrics, focusing instead on the details. A five-year-old crying in Frost Mountain’s main hall…

I frowned, racking my memory. My master had always maintained a minimum age requirement of ten for disciples. Surely, he wouldn’t have taken in a child so young.

“I don’t recall my master taking in a child that young,” I said, skeptical.

He sighed, this time with exaggerated patience. “You have such a short memory,” he said, almost chiding. “Most people can recall things from the age of five. Can’t you?”

I froze as realization dawned. Could he be referring to… me?

I hesitated, piecing together fragmented memories. “Lord Lan, were you… referring to me?”

He laughed, a deep and resonant sound that sent a chill down my spine. “Who else?”

My cheeks burned, a wave of embarrassment washing over me. I had never imagined that anyone outside Frost Mountain would know about such a humiliating moment from my childhood.

It was true. I had been a crybaby back then, a timid child overwhelmed by grief after losing my father. My uncle had sent me to Frost Mountain, leaving me in the care of my master, and I had clung to him out of fear of being abandoned again.

If I remembered correctly, the event he described had taken place shortly after I arrived. I’d woken from a nightmare to find myself alone and had panicked. Unable to find my master, I’d run through the halls in tears until I was told he was entertaining an important guest in the main hall. Desperate, I’d burst into the hall to make sure he hadn’t left me too.

More heat burned my cheeks as I recalled that embarrassing event. “So that was you.”

“Mmm. You’ve just recalled?”

I nodded. “That was almost twenty years ago.”

“Ah… Has it been that long already? Time flies,” he said, his tone carrying a faint wistfulness.

I nodded again, though something still gnawed at me. “However, if I remember correctly, my master’s guest at that time did not appear very young. He was an adult, and I recall my master addressing him as an elder. I assumed he must have been older than my master, who was already in his forties then. Almost two decades have passed since. At present, that guest should be in his sixties, at least. But your lordship’s voice… doesn’t sound that old.”

His laugh was louder this time, echoing faintly in the quiet room. “A-Fan, if a face can deceive, so can a voice.”

I was momentarily at a loss for words. Guessing a person’s age from their voice was a game my sect brothers and I used to play, and I’d always been quite good at it. Yet here, I seemed to have misjudged.

I knew this man was a high-level cultivator, and I was well aware that advancing through cultivation slowed the process of aging. Still, I had never heard of anyone in their sixties sounding as youthful as someone in their mid-twenties. Even Liang Hu, the legendary cultivator who lived over two hundred years, began showing signs of aging after fifty. While he retained a middle-aged appearance until his death, his voice betrayed his years.

If this man was telling the truth, he defied everything I knew about cultivation and aging. To believe him, I would have to place him on a pedestal as high as Liang Hu’s. But there were few grandmasters in the entire continent, and none bore the name “Lan.”

“You still don’t believe me?” he asked, cutting through my long silence.

I hesitated, then said, “If I may ask, your lordship… how exactly did you save my life back then?”

“Try to recall,” he said smoothly, “what I did when your master threatened to send you to the orphanage.”

I remembered it all too well. That moment was seared into my memory. “You grabbed me from my master, set me on the table, and glared at me. You said that if I didn’t stop crying, you’d eat me. And that every time I cried, you’d crawl out of the ground and devour me.”

“Exactly,” he said, his tone brimming with satisfaction. “And you stopped crying immediately.”

How could I not? I was a terrified five-year-old, face-to-face with a stranger who seemed like the devil himself.

“How did that save my life?” I asked, the skepticism clear in my voice.

“If I hadn’t stopped your wailing,” he replied coolly, “your master would have ordered his disciples to take you to the orphanage. And we both know what happens to most orphans there. They’re neglected, half of them die before reaching ten, and those who survive often run away to live on the streets as thugs until they meet an early death. Be glad I was there, or you might have suffered the same fate.”

I was speechless. His reasoning wasn’t entirely wrong. After that encounter, I had almost never cried again—partly because I was terrified the devil would return to devour me. The fear stayed with me for years, yet it had indirectly earned me my master’s favor. Over time, I stopped clinging to my master, and he began to see me as more disciplined and worthy of his teachings.

Even so, to call that moment “saving my life” seemed like an exaggeration. Still, my upbringing had taught me to appreciate even small impacts on my growth, no matter how coincidental.

“Let me express my gratitude to Lord Lan, then,” I said at last, bowing deeply. “Even if it is twenty years late.”

“You’re welcome,” he replied, his tone smooth and almost playful. “And since you’ve acknowledged that you owe me your life, I suppose you’d be willing to return the favor this time.”

I froze, my breath catching in my throat.

His words sent a chill down my spine. What had begun as a courteous acknowledgment of a distant memory had been twisted into a manipulative debt.

I stared at his shadowy figure, trying to keep my composure despite the growing unease curling in my chest. He was no ordinary man; that much was clear. But to use such a trivial incident to demand repayment…

This man truly was a devil.

“So,” the man said casually, his tone nonchalant, “are you willing to return the favor?”

I hesitated, gripping my stick tightly under the table. “…What favor does his lordship want from this blind commoner?”

He chuckled, the sound low and unnerving. “It’s simple. I just need you to accompany me somewhere.”

“Where is ‘somewhere’?” I asked, my unease growing.

“West,” he replied, his voice smooth yet weighty.

I stiffened. The mere mention of going westward made my stomach churn. It had taken so much pain and effort to reach the South. The idea of retracing my steps—even remotely close to Kan Empire, let alone Frost Mountain—filled me with dread. “I apologize,” I said firmly. “I do not wish to return to that place.”

“I won’t take you back to Frost Mountain or anywhere near the capital, if that’s what you’re afraid of,” he said, his tone softening slightly.

“Even so,” I replied, my voice strained, “it will only bring back painful memories. I apologize to his lordship if I must refuse, but I have my reasons.”

He was silent for a moment, then spoke with an unsettling calm. “Are you sure you don’t want to find out who’s behind what happened to you?”

“I already know,” I said quickly, though my conviction wavered.

“What if you don’t?” His voice dropped, each word slow and deliberate. “What if… what you think you know isn’t the truth?”

The bitterness in my chest swelled, and I took a deep, steadying breath. This man’s words were stirring emotions I had fought so hard to suppress. “My lord,” I said, keeping my tone composed, “forgive me, but I no longer care to find out. What’s done is done. My reputation has been shattered. My cultivation is gone. Even if I could undo it, the betrayal has already destroyed my trust. Nothing can repair what has been broken.”

He sighed, and though I could not see his face clearly, his voice carried a faint note of pity. “So you’re just going to run away from it all? Let the ones who condemned you roam free despite their crimes?”

I mulled over his words, a growing unease gnawing at me. It was clear this man knew more than I did—far more. He believed in my innocence, a rare and dangerous conviction.

“My lord,” I said cautiously, “it is heartening to know that someone out there believes I am not the monster they’ve painted me to be. But the culprits… they are powerful people. My reputation has been utterly destroyed, my cultivation nullified. What could I possibly do against them now? Who would even listen to me?”

“That,” he said, his tone firm and deliberate, “is why I am here.”

His answer stunned me into silence. I couldn’t discern his intentions, yet the conviction in his voice sent a shiver down my spine.

What is he planning to do?

“Wei Yusheng was your master,” he continued, his tone sharp now. “As his disciple, don’t you want to know the truth behind his mysterious death? Or are you content to let the world believe you were the one who poisoned him?”

I clenched my jaw, his words reopening wounds I thought I had buried. “…My lord, I appreciate your concern. You must have been a good friend to my master to care so much about uncovering the truth. But…” I hesitated, forcing my voice to remain steady. “Right now, my health is poor. It declines each day. I can’t even walk long distances. I am not capable of such a task.”

Before I could react, he reached across the table and took my hand, his grip firm but not harsh. He pulled my wrist towards him and pressed three fingers against it.

I instinctively tried to pull away, but when I realized he was checking my pulse, I stilled.

Moments passed in silence as he moved his fingers slightly, searching for something.

Then his fingers stiffened.

“Is there… something wrong?” I asked cautiously, dread creeping into my chest.

He hummed thoughtfully, pressing harder against my wrist. Finally, he sighed, and the sound was laced with something grim.

“Your inner energy is empty,” he said. “Your pulse is weak and erratic. It seems there’s… a poison inside your body.”

I froze, my breath caught in my throat. “Poison?”