Chapter Sixty-five: The King of Hell Takes Up the Pen

“Borrowing the tiger’s might?”
Upon hearing these words, Lu Chenyuan’s mind was instantly illuminated.

He lowered his gaze, letting his spirit sink deep within, attempting to rouse that recalcitrant, unruly curse seething inside him.
Yet the force that usually raged like a wild beast, threatening to burst forth at the slightest misstep, now merely lounged in slothful hibernation—like a satiated predator in deep slumber. At its master’s summons, it remained utterly indifferent, offering not the slightest response.

This sight, instead of angering him, made him laugh in exasperation.

With a thought, he mused inwardly: “Very well. If it refuses to come forth willingly, I shall force it out!”

He focused his mind, striving to recall those things that once drove him to the brink of fury.
The insolent, mocking visage of Zhao Chengde, Marquis of Pingyang, and the vile words with which he had insulted his master, all surfaced in a flash, fanning the flames of wrath in Lu Chenyuan’s core.

Yet as soon as anger arose, another image unexpectedly intruded—Zhao Chengde, face bruised and battered, bowing and scraping, addressing him as “Brother Lu” in abject humiliation.

The two scenes clashed, and his rage, like a blaze doused by a sudden deluge, was instantly extinguished.

He tried to recall the pain of his master’s silent departure, the desolation of abandonment swelling from the depths of his heart. Yet almost at once, a gentle warmth suffused his memory, evoking that night when Shangguan Chuci, disregarding all peril, had drawn him into an embrace.

That searing, soul-deep agony melted away into a faint, bittersweet ache, incapable of stirring up any great storm.

Shangguan Chuci, watching by the side, observed the shifting play of emotions on Lu Chenyuan’s face—sometimes dark, sometimes clear, brows now furrowed, now relaxed—as if locked in a silent struggle with some unseen adversary.

The sight was both earnest and faintly comical, prompting her to smile as she asked,
“Brother Lu, your spirit seems to have wandered far afield. Are you perhaps sparring with some invisible master?”

Lu Chenyuan opened his eyes, meeting her bright, laughing gaze, and on impulse replied,
“Master Chuci, would you strike me—just once?”

Startled, Shangguan Chuci shot him an exasperated look.
“Brother Lu, you’re already grievously wounded. If I were to lay a hand on you now, would I not be bullying the weak and infirm? Such a deed is beneath me.”

Lu Chenyuan could only say with resignation, “You misunderstand. The beast within me stirs not unless my emotions are inflamed, my body grievously hurt, or I encounter some vile, corrupt energy. Otherwise, it absolutely refuses to awaken.”

“I see.”
Now understanding, Shangguan Chuci suddenly recalled Wei Zhuo’s horrifying act of blinding himself with a pen made of human bone. A chill crept over her heart.

She had no wish for a talent as rare as Lu Chenyuan to follow that path of madness—clashing with foes only after stabbing himself thrice, as if that were the proper way of things.

Inwardly, she thought,
“He may seem steady, but at heart he is hopelessly stubborn. I cannot let him stray down that dark road. Should he collapse along the way, who then will help me find the thread that leads home?”

Turning these thoughts over, she smiled and said,
“If force won’t do, Brother Lu, let us try a gentler approach.”

Lu Chenyuan was puzzled. “Gentler?”

Shangguan Chuci smiled. “If you cannot force it out, why not entice it? Demon or not, I believe it too possesses desires and aversions, its own joys and sorrows. Think—what is it most drawn to?”

Lu Chenyuan pondered her words.
Suddenly, he remembered: whenever he underwent transformation, the arm sprouting demonic eyes would stretch out its tongue to lick that sinister sacrificial doll.

“Of course!”
His heart leapt. “Perhaps the doll will do the trick. Yet this thing is strange—it is neither friend nor foe, and borrowing its strength may unleash dire consequences…”

But with no other recourse, he reminded himself that fortune often favors the bold. Why not take the risk?

Determined, he reached for the doll lying on the couch, but the movement pulled at the wound on his chest, making him gasp in pain.

Shangguan Chuci, quick-witted as ever, saw his discomfort and, without waiting for his request, picked up the doll and handed it to him with a smile.
“Is this what you need, Brother Lu?”

“Thank you.”
Lu Chenyuan took the doll, feeling a chill seep from its surface into his palm. The smile on the doll’s face seemed even more brilliant now—innocence laced with a peculiar and indescribable strangeness. Perhaps it was just his imagination.

Before he could steady his mind, the dormant beast inside him began to stir restlessly.

Lu Chenyuan quickly employed the breathing technique his master had taught him—guarding his spirit while deliberately loosening his hold just enough to let a sliver of that power leak forth.

“Master Chuci, now that I’ve lured it out, what should I do next?”

Seeing that he had succeeded, Shangguan Chuci nodded.
“Imagine yourself a hunter who has tamed a fierce tiger—grasping a thread of its power as if it were a pen in your hand. Sink into your mind’s ocean, dip your brush into the inky heart-fire, and write in the void. Let us see what comes of it.”

Following her instructions, Lu Chenyuan gathered his focus and once more descended into that world of ink and fire.

This time, the sight of his heart’s flame was utterly transformed.
The inky fire, without any urging, now danced and flickered on its own. At its core, a fawning, ingratiating air arose; a wisp of flame stretched out, offering itself to his command.

It was like a wild beast that, after a sound beating, returns to its master—no longer baring its fangs, but instead cowering and inching forward with a pitiful whine.

Such a stark contrast left Lu Chenyuan momentarily at a loss.

He thought to himself,
“No wonder the world’s heroes and tyrants alike crave power and authority, fighting desperately for it. The taste of holding life and death in one’s hands is truly intoxicating and difficult to relinquish.”

He steadied his mind, drew upon that unruly demonic power, dipped into the inky fire, and, concentrating, wrote a single character in the empty air before him.

Meanwhile, Shangguan Chuci had long since steeled herself, ever vigilant.
Within her gaze, the logic-fire—composed of shifting light and shadow—burned silently. Her bright eyes never strayed from the youth before her.

Suddenly, the world seemed to darken. The woodshed’s humble surroundings remained unchanged, yet within the illuminated “inner world” of her heart-fire, everything was different.

Lu Chenyuan’s body was still, but his shadow cast by the lamplight suddenly sprang to life.

The shadow rose up, transforming into the ill-defined form of a demonic god.

One of the god’s arms was covered in glaring, blood-red eyes.
In its hand, it gripped a dreadful bone pen, wrapped in sinew and flesh.

This was no tool of mere mortals, but the judge’s pen from the underworld—used by Yama’s minions to decide the fates of men.

Suddenly, it moved.

The monstrous, many-eyed arm twisted, dozens of crimson pupils swiveling in unison, fixing upon the empty air before it.

That void, though seemingly blank, was as a canvas to it.

The tip of the bone pen silently exuded a single drop of ink, black as the abyss.

That drop, as if alive, stretched and thinned, forming a slender line that linked the pen’s tip to the emptiness—shaping itself into the character “one.”

Yet this “one” was uncanny beyond measure. Its strokes writhed at the edges, ceaselessly disintegrating and reassembling as if alive.

With every dissolution, countless thread-thin forms seeped from the inky borders.

Staring closer, Shangguan Chuci gasped—these were no mere substances, but innumerable wriggling worms of flesh and ink!

They squirmed and gnawed at their confining space, as though intent on devouring the very fabric of the room, dragging all reality into that fathomless, inky abyss.

As her heart reeled in terror, the demonic god’s shadow and its many-eyed arm vanished without a trace.

Her attention was fixed on the solitary “one” suspended in the void. Suddenly, her pupils contracted in shock.

At the darkest, most saturated point of the character, a single blood-red eye—devoid of pupil—slowly opened, utterly emotionless, gazing coldly across the boundary between worlds and locking eyes with her.

Shangguan Chuci’s heart gave a violent leap, a chill shooting straight to the crown of her head.

By the time she recovered, all trace of that terrifying vision had vanished.