Suo Qingjun Chapter 10

Madness Hidden at the Quiet Cliff, Qing Feng Errs in Mortal Ties

On the day the three-year term ended, the spiritual mist on Cangwu Mountain was exceptionally clear, and the secluded orchids on Heart-Quieting Cliff were in full bloom. Jin Xianling wore the disciple robes of the Xuanqing Sword Sect, his posture upright. The youthful greenness had faded from his features, replaced by a sense of steady restraint. Standing at the cliff’s edge and looking toward the main peak, his fingers unconsciously rubbed the Heart-Clearing Jade in his sleeve—a gift from Qing Feng’an years ago and his only source of comfort during these three years.

Qing Feng’an arrived as scheduled, clad in a moon-white sword robe, looking as cold and ethereal as ever. “The three years are up. Have you realized your true heart?”

Jin Xianling turned and bowed, his smile perfectly gentle. “Thank you for your guidance over these three years, Master. I have come to understand that obsession only harms people. Only with a clear state of mind can one walk steadily and far.” His eyes were clear and his tone respectful; to anyone else, he looked like a completely transformed man who had truly awakened.

Only Jin Xianling knew that the obsession rooted in his marrow had never dissipated. He had simply learned to hide his madness in the deepest part of his heart, using docility and composure as a disguise. The three years of chanting sutras, practicing the sword, and sitting in meditation were merely to make himself more worthy of Qing Feng’an, to lower his master’s guard, and to allow himself to stay by his side legitimately—within reach.

Qing Feng’an looked at him, his eyes calm as if scrutinizing him. He could feel the peaceful aura around Jin Xianling, yet he also faintly sensed a hidden persistence, like a spark in the dark night—weak, but never extinguished. However, he did not expose it, saying only, “Since you have attained realization, follow me back to the main peak. From now on, you are an official disciple of the Xuanqing Sword Sect and will study the Seven Styles of Cloud Flow with me.”

“I obey your command.” Jin Xianling felt wild joy in his heart but remained calm. Only in the moment he lowered his head did a glint of near-greedy light flash in his eyes. He had done it; he could finally stay by his master’s side openly.

After returning to the main peak, Qing Feng’an arranged for Jin Xianling to stay in the courtyard next to his own to facilitate sword training. Jin Xianling remained as meticulous as ever, preparing tea every morning and organizing sword manuals every night, taking care of Qing Feng’an’s daily life with utmost devotion. He spoke gently and acted reliably, getting along well with the other disciples. Everyone praised Qing Feng’an for taking on such a good disciple.

Only when no one was around would Jin Xianling drop his mask. Late at night, he would stand quietly outside Qing Feng’an’s window, listening to the breathing inside, a crazed smile curling his lips. He would stroke the sword tassel Qing Feng’an had used, inhaling the lingering cold scent, as if he could merge with his master this way.

“Master, look, we are so close now,” he murmured to himself, his voice soft but carrying an undetectable persistence. “No one can separate us again.”

One day, Qing Feng’an took Jin Xianling to the back mountain to practice. The stream gurgled and the bamboo shadows were dense, mirroring the scene when they first met three years ago. Qing Feng’an drew his sword to demonstrate the Seven Styles of Cloud Flow, the sword light like drifting wind and returning snow, his movements elegant. Jin Xianling stood aside, watching with an infatuated gaze, his fingers clenching tightly as his nails dug deep into his palms.

“Master’s swordplay is still the best in the world,” Jin Xianling praised sincerely, his tone full of admiration.

Qing Feng’an sheathed his sword and said calmly, “Your foundation is stable. Today, I will teach you the first style, ‘Rising Clouds’.”

He patiently guided Jin Xianling’s forms, his fingertips occasionally brushing against Jin Xianling’s arm. Every touch sent a tidal wave through Jin Xianling’s heart. He suppressed the urge to embrace Qing Feng’an, trying his best to appear focused on the lesson, while in reality, all his senses were concentrated on those brief moments of contact.

Halfway through the practice, a disciple hurried over. “Sword-Master, fellow cultivators from the martial world have arrived at the mountain base, saying they have urgent matters to discuss.”

Qing Feng’an nodded. “I understand. I will return immediately.” He turned to Jin Xianling. “Practice here on your own. Remember to keep your movements steady and your mind calm.”

“Yes, Master,” Jin Xianling replied with a bow.

Once Qing Feng’an left, the gentleness on Jin Xianling’s face vanished instantly, replaced by a dark gloom in his eyes. Fellow cultivators? Who else wanted to get close to his master? He raised his hand, a faint trace of True Qi condensing at his fingertips. Over the past three years, while he appeared to be devoted to the Dao, he had secretly practiced the internal cultivation techniques of the Demonic Cult. Though he didn’t dare be too obvious, he had recovered part of his power.

He looked in the direction Qing Feng’an had gone, a crazed smile appearing on his face. “Master, you are mine. No matter who tries to take you, I will make them pay.” Only this time, he wouldn’t be as reckless as before. He would do it stealthily, so no one could ever notice.

Qing Feng’an returned to the main peak’s hall and saw that the visitors were Murong Xue of the Jiangnan Murong family and Tang Yuwei of the Sichuan Tang Clan. Both were dressed in martial attire, their expressions solemn.

“Master Qing Feng, it has been a long time,” Murong Xue bowed. “We have come to inform you of a major matter—remnants of the Demonic Cult are resurfacing. They have harmed many fellow cultivators recently, and we suspect there is a master guiding them from behind.”

Tang Yuwei added, “Furthermore, we found that the martial arts used by those remnants are quite similar to those of the Ghost-Masked Man who was once associated with Jin Xianling.”

Qing Feng’an’s expression darkened. Jin Xianling? Could he still be in secret contact with the Demonic Cult remnants?

Meanwhile, Jin Xianling, who was practicing in the back mountain, had already learned of the visitors through his hidden informants. He sat on a green stone by the stream, playing with a pebble, his eyes filled with cold murderous intent. Murong Xue? Tang Yuwei? He hadn’t managed to get rid of them three years ago, and now they were back to pester his master?

“It seems it’s time to let some people know that the place by Master’s side belongs only to me,” he murmured, throwing the pebble forcefully into the stream, creating a ripple. Water splashed onto his face, but it did nothing to cool the crazed obsession in his heart.

He stood up, brushed the dust off his clothes, put on his gentle smile once more, and walked toward the main peak. He wanted to see what kind of tricks these two death-seeking women were trying to play.

In the hall, Qing Feng’an spoke with Murong Xue and Tang Yuwei, but a sense of unease lingered in his heart. He always felt that Jin Xianling’s docility was too perfect—so perfect it seemed like a meticulously planned disguise. The obsession hidden deep in his eyes was like a time bomb, ready to explode again at any moment.

This seemingly peaceful companionship was, in fact, full of undercurrents. Jin Xianling’s mad obsession was only temporarily dormant. Once someone touched his bottom line—the one named Qing Feng’an—he would turn into a madman once more, protecting the only light in his heart at any cost.

Would Qing Feng’an be able to sense the crisis beneath the calm? Where would this entanglement between him and Jin Xianling, spanning madness and redemption, lead?