Chapter 145: Old Man Gung Suhe

Night draped the Azure Peaks in a shroud of stillness, the sky a vast canvas of stars pricked against the dark. Jiang Feng sat by the threshold of Sung's blacksmith shop, the wooden door at his back a quiet barrier between him and the world within. His mind drifted to Ji Moran—her fierce yes cold eyes, her unyielding spirit—and he wondered how she fared, what tides now churned through the Obsidian Woodlands, what hiccups she might be experiencing.

The shop perched on a remote ledge of the mountainside, a solitary outpost amid the rugged expanse. Gusts of wind howled past, fierce and untamed, sweeping flurries of snow into swirling dances that gleamed faintly under the moon's pale gaze. Yet this solitude was not absolute; scattered homes and shops dotted the slopes, and every so often, figures trudged through the snow—hunters, traders, or wanderers—passing like shadows in the night.

He watched them come and go, their silhouettes blurred by the cold, the closed door behind him a shield against their notice. His eyes flickered, unbidden—now an inky black, deep as the void between stars, now a steady gray, calm as a frozen lake. 'Ruler's Eyes, what are you?' he mused, the question a whisper in his skull as he continued observing what lay before him. The more he pondered, the more he observed, the deeper his ignorance grew, a chasm he couldn't bridge, at least not yet.

He knew little of the Azure Peaks beyond these walls, and though the urge to explore had tugged at him time and again, caution held him fast. His name and likeness had spread like wildfire—sketches of his face traded in markets, tales of his deeds whispered in taverns and talked about at homes. 'This isn't good,' he thought, fingers tightening around the cold stone beneath him. 'I can't keep hiding like this forever.'

"Young man, is Blacksmith Sung in?" The voice, weathered and thin, snapped him from his reverie. Turning, he saw an old man leaning on a gnarled walking stick, his frame hunched beneath a cloak dusted with snow. Gray hair spilled from his hood, a tangled mane framing a face etched with wrinkles and spotted with age—a man teetering on the edge of life's end, one foot already brushing the grave.

Jiang Feng rose smoothly, his gaze sweeping over the stranger before he clasped his hands in a respectful greeting. "Apologies, elder, but Master Sung has passed. Might you be Gung Suhe?" Sung's notes had mentioned a single true friend, a man to whom he'd bequeathed a few cherished possessions. Jiang Feng felt a quiet duty to see that will be honored—his own lineage of blacksmiths stirred a kinship with the old craftsman's legacy, and that was also why he chose to craft several more blades while he was at it.

"Ah!" The sound broke from the old man like a shard of glass, sharp and pained. Tears welled in his rheumy eyes, tracing paths down his weathered cheeks, sorrow clouding his eyes. Jiang Feng held his silence, stepping back to grant him space as the grief unfurled. After a time, the old man steadied himself, bowing low. "Yes, I'm Gung Suhe. Old Sung had no kin—his life was this shop, his forge. Sigh... how swiftly the years fade, how the seasons turn."

He shuffled to the spot Jiang Feng had vacated, easing himself down with a groan. Jiang Feng followed, settling beside him, and drew a folded paper from his sleeve—the last testament of Blacksmith Sung. He handed it over without a word. Gung Suhe took it, his trembling fingers unfolding it as his eyes traced the script. A smile flickered through his tears, fragile and bittersweet. "That fool Sung... he hoped an old relic like me could carry his final work into the light. As if the moon could sprout grass—I'm too worn for such dreams."

He pressed the paper back into Jiang Feng's hands, shaking his head. Jiang Feng accepted it, though its charge no longer bound him. Sung's last creation, the Twilight Blade, shimmered in his memory—a weapon teetering on the cusp of Enchanted Tier, its potential vast yet unrealized. In these peaks, it could have blazed a legend, but Sung's time had run dry before its dawn.

"I'll be leaving soon," Gung Suhe said, his voice a rasp against the wind. "Young man, I hope you'll watch over this place. Sung would be glad of it—I can smell the ash and steel from within. You've been forging, haven't you? May I see?"

Jiang Feng's head was bowed, lost in the currents of his thoughts, but at the request, he stirred. A moment later, he nodded, rising to open the door. "Come in," he said, stepping aside as Gung Suhe hobbled past. The door thudded shut behind them, and Jiang Feng's eyes flared—black to gray, gray to black—an intense flicker as his aura thickened, a silent storm coiling around him.

Gung Suhe paused inside, his gaze sweeping the cave. Then his eyes caught the gleam of the Twilight Blades, newly forged and stacked with care, their violet edges a whisper of dusk. Beside them rested armor—sleek, ice-infused plates crafted to match. His breath hitched, hands trembling as he leaned on his stick and shuffled closer. The shock rippled through him, evident in the quiver of his fingers as he reached out, only to hesitate. Jiang Feng crossed the room in silence, lifting one of the blades and turning it in his hands, its craftsmanship a quiet song under the forge's glow.

"Tell me something, old man Gung Suhe," he said, his voice low and steady, eyes fixed on the steel rather than the figure beside him. The old man's excitement faltered, questions bubbling unspoken on his lips.

"Go ahead, young man," Gung Suhe replied, easing himself onto a stool he'd found amid the clutter. His body still shook, though whether from awe or something else, Jiang Feng couldn't yet tell, but he had a bold assumption.

"You carry a killing aura—murderous, thick with malice." Jiang Feng's frown deepened as he spoke, his words deliberate as he turned to look at the old man. "If I'm right, your hands have claimed countless lives, hundreds even. And that greed in your eyes—it's ravenous. Did you cut a bloody path to reach this place?"

From the moment Gung Suhe had appeared, Jiang Feng's Ruler's Eyes had peeled back the veil. Dark spirits wailed in his vision, their cries a cacophony around the old man, shrouded in a black aura that pulsed like a living thing. Threads—some snapped, some taut—tethered to his form, their purpose a mystery Jiang Feng couldn't unravel at least not yet and with his current understanding of his Ruler's eyes and comprehension of darkness. But he knew this sight was a gift of his eyes, and it had held him rapt, puzzling over its meaning.

"Huh?" Gung Suhe froze mid-step, his back to Jiang Feng as a chill slithered down his spine. The shock in that single sound—and the sudden stiffness of his frame—confirmed more than words ever could.

Jiang Feng set the blade down with a soft clink, turning toward the table where his teapot sat. "I reckon you're not Gung Suhe at all. Sung's notes said his friend was younger, stronger—healthier than he was. You came here too frail, too ancient I'm appearance, and that gleam in your eyes at the Twilight Blades? Gung Suhe knew them well; he'd seen them forged a hundred times. You, though—you couldn't hide your hunger. So tell me, who are you really?"

He busied himself with the tea, pouring hot water into the pot with a steady hand, then preparing a second cup for the stranger. Behind him, the old man stood rooted, surprise etching his features. Jiang Feng noted the subtle shift—the trembling hand on the walking stick steadied, the wobbling gait firmed into something solid. A mask was slipping, and beneath it, the man's true intentions would be made known.

'Who is this kid?' the man thought, clinging to his guise with the desperation of a cornered beast. His mind raced, but his face held the weathered calm of Gung Suhe, a frail elder undone by grief—or so he hoped to appear.

-//—

"This old man doesn't quite follow, junior. Surely you're mistaken," Gung Suhe said, shaking his head as a flicker of confidence crept back into his tone. The more he mulled it over, the less reason he found to fear. This youth—barely past thirty, by the look of him—wore a face too fresh, too unscarred by time. Yet those eyes, steady and unyielding, held a quiet assurance that gnawed at the edges of his composure.

Jiang Feng noticed the shift, the way the old man's gaze hardened, masking a tremor of doubt. No matter how he tried, couldn't pierce the stranger's cultivation base to see his level of strength—his aura was a mystery, he could be weak, he could be strong, he was veiled from his senses, his disguise a seamless shell. But the Ruler's Eyes looked past that somehow and saw deeper: no frail elder stood before him, but a killer, cold and relentless, his soul steeped in blood. Jiang Feng poured a cup of tea, his movements fluid and unhurried, his expression a mask of calm. For the first time since the man's arrival and since awakening the Ruler's Eyes, his eyes flashed and settled—gray as storm clouds, unwavering and clear.

"You've got strange eyes, child," Gung Suhe remarked, his voice casual but edged with unease as he met that piercing gaze. The gray depths unsettled him, stirring a ripple of instinct he quickly smothered.

"They are strange indeed," Jiang Feng replied, crossing the room to hand the old man the cup. The steam rose in delicate tendrils, carrying the sweet, earthy scent of Sung's cherished blend—a treasure unearthed from the blacksmith's hidden collection. He settled back onto his seat, took a sip from his own cup, and let his gaze drift to the Twilight Blades and armor gleaming faintly in the forge's glow.

"Tell me, are you a blacksmith hunting the secrets of the Twilight Blade's forging method? Or were you sent by someone who covets both the blades and their craft? It matters little either way. What I want is the method behind your disguise. You won't share it, I know—but I'm not one for patience. Finish your tea; it's sweet. Sung loved his brews, and this might well be your last."

From his spatial ring, he drew a yellow fruit, its skin glossy and faintly luminous—a prize plucked from the depths of the Obsidian Waterfall Realm. He turned it in his hand, its light casting soft shadows across his face. Gung Suhe's smile faltered, the young man's unshakable confidence sending a chill creeping up his spine. Those words, delivered with such quiet certainty, struck like a blade's edge against his heart.

The old man's eyes sharpened, his breath steadying as he shed his veneer of frailty. With a single step, the teacup in his grasp morphed—its delicate form twisting into a jagged shard that hurtled toward Jiang Feng's throat, swift and lethal. In the same heartbeat, his body blurred, a phantom of motion as he materialized behind Jiang Feng. A dagger gleamed in his hand, its tip driving toward the nape of the youth's neck with the precision of a seasoned killer.

"Sorry, kid, but you ask too much," Gung Suhe hissed, a cold smile curling his lips as the blade met flesh. Yet triumph withered before it could bloom—no blood spilled, no resistance met his strike. The dagger passed clean through as if slicing mist.

"What!" A buzzing roar flooded his mind, his instincts shrieking, sending an alarming warning throughout his body as danger coiled tight around him. His heart thundered, blood surging in his ears like a river unbound. Eight hundred years he'd walked the path of an assassin, his hands stained with countless lives, but stronger than him and full of authority, yet never had he faltered so utterly. That failure now whispered the song of death in his ears, a shadow looming closer with every breath.

"Thousand Serpent Cry—Craaaaaa!" He pivoted in a flash, his scream tearing through the cave. Sound waves erupted, a venomous tide that shattered tools into dust—hammers splintered, chisels crumbled, the air itself trembling under the assault. But his eyes widened, sweat beading on his paling brow. The room stood empty before him.

"Kneel." The word brushed his ear, soft as a breeze yet heavy as a mountain's fall. His knees buckled instantly, crashing to the stone floor as black blood seeped from his eyes, his ears, his mouth—a dark tide marking his ruined soul.

"No, please... I can—" His plea choked off as a reddish gleam flashed, swift and merciless. His head sailed free, the world spinning as his body shuddered below. From that severed height, he glimpsed his collapse, a puppet cut from its strings.

His head thudded to the ground, rolling to a stop. His fading gaze locked onto a youth standing calm and resolute, a Twilight Blade in hand. Those gray eyes met his, serene as a judge passing a sentence, devoid of rage or pity. The fear they ignited—sharp, absolute—ushered his soul into the abyss. "Who are yo—" The question died with him, unanswered, as darkness claimed its due.