Chapter 82: Even in Blindness, He Remains Unmatched

“What a coincidence!”
“Isn’t it just?” Wang Xi replied with a hollow laugh. If it weren’t for her master’s orders, she would have already grabbed this little chicken spirit for a barbecue.
This was just one among countless times they had shaken off this master and servant pair, only to be shadowed and then greeted with this exact exchange.
“Where is your master?” For the first time, the man spoke to her directly.
Usually, their master was always present, but now, her master had used a diversion and gone off on her own.
“When disciples go out to train, masters don’t accompany them,” Liang Si explained. This time, it was still just her and Wang Xi out hunting demons and upholding righteousness; ever since Yang Wennan advanced, he’d been called away to study the star charts.
Back when they’d been with Grandmaster, Liang Si had heard their master didn’t believe in such things, but yesterday’s conversation with the senior master had sparked her interest—it seemed the two had come to some conclusion.
Yet these two persistent shadows in front of them were the first task their master had assigned them.
“Become my servant,” the man said.
Stars seemed to burst in his eyes, swirling like vortices that could draw in everything.
But all he heard was, “Let me tell you, my royal brother used to love gouging out the eyes of people like you. Heterochromia was the best—gorgeous on the city wall, understated luxury with meaning. That wall of eyes is one of Qianyan’s great sights.”
“I do hope I get a chance to see it someday.”
“You’re my senior brother; of course you will. Besides, aren’t we just on the road? I still don’t know why Master insists on walking when we could be flying on swords.”
“We’ll talk about it later.”
After their conversation, the two turned as if just noticing the people around them, feigning surprise. “Is there something else?”
The man’s eyes twitched and he fell into deep thought.
Why hadn’t his eye technique worked? By all rights, these two should have become his servants and told him where Wen Jinge had gone.
Why?
“Da—” Wang Xi couldn’t decide how to address him.
“Fellow cultivator! We’re not doctors. If your eyes hurt, we can’t help. And stop blinking like that.”
“Especially don’t blink at my third senior brother. He’s been practicing so much he’s gone blind—he can’t see you anyway.”
The man: …
…
“Truly blind?” To say he wasn’t regretful would be a lie.
In the past, Wen Jinge had only heard, “He’s bald now, and also stronger.”
But now, Yang Wennan made a living pretending to be blind and telling fortunes, and ever since his recent breakthrough and the bloody scene he’d witnessed, his sixth-tier cultivation had both refined and solidified.
But he really was blind.
Because now, whatever he did, there was no need to open his eyes.
“Open your eyes, let me see.”
“Master, I can see, but when I look, my sword intent goes astray. It’s better not to look.”
Wen Jinge: …
“That’s what you get for teaching blindly!” Lu Wei, watching with amusement, finally spoke up when Wen Jinge glared at him. “Isn’t it that thing called ‘glasses’ that’s the problem?”
“No, no, Master, Senior Master, what I mean is, I can see, but I prefer to listen or smell rather than look.”
Wen Jinge waved her hand, unwilling to press further, worried more such incidents would occur. “If there’s anything you don’t understand, best to ask your Senior Master. I, your master, am only half-competent—never had disciples before you lot.”
“Master… you’re already very good,” Yang Wennan said, sincerely grateful.
Every bit of guidance had deepened his understanding of sword intent—his master was a good person, just too playful.
“If you really can’t figure something out, you can always ask me. I’m good at guiding thoughts—can even make it up on the spot, and guarantee it’ll open your mind.”
Lu Wei took a deep breath, mustered his courage, and was about to ask where she got such wild ideas when his eyes fell on the booklet tucked under Yang Wennan’s arm.
That booklet was the very one he’d been perusing days before, found on an old bookstall along the road.
“Aren’t you most invested in Qiao Yu?” Lu Wei said sourly.
Of all the disciples, Qiao Yu’s progress was the slowest—almost at the sixth tier, yet still weak. Despite Lu Wei’s constant urging, Qiao Yu had only risen to the eighth tier.
Look at Yang Wennan—he’d started at eighth tier, now he was sixth, and he’d been an ordinary person to start with.
How could Lu Wei not be anxious?
Moreover, Wen Jinge had first hinted Qiao Yu should learn a little of everything—talismans, magic, even Buddhist techniques—and now even had him studying star charts, all in the short time since he’d joined.
“Because I value him, I left him to you. Long ago I said he’d be the next Sword God, worthy of your legacy as the God of War. What normal disciple could I possibly teach?”
Again, Lu Wei was left speechless.
He actually missed the man who’d once claimed to be a god. When that man was around, he’d been exasperating, but so was Wen Jinge.
“Wuwuwu…”
“Help! Help! Someone help!”
“Save me! Save me…”
“Woof woof woof…”
“Run! Someone’s coming!”
A woman’s piercing screams, a child’s wails, a man’s death throes, flames roaring to the heavens, frantic horses neighing, dogs barking, people shouting in excitement, and the thunder of hooves fading into the distance.
“Mother! Mother! Don’t go!”
A basin of cold water splashed down, and he opened his eyes in a daze, only to be kicked to the ground before he could even cry out. Then a barbed whip lashed down from above.
Crack! Crack! Crack!
Outside, a woman’s cries of pain echoed in the courtyard. Soon, in the midst of men’s mocking laughter, only a single scream remained.
The boy wiped the water from his face. Shivering from the cold, his lips were bitten so hard they nearly bled.
Life here was harsh; only pain kept him alert.
He knew clearly—only by escaping could he see the light again. He didn’t want to see the corpses of familiar faces piling up before him anymore.
“What are you thinking about, brat?”
The man before him was their overseer. The children called him Steward.
The character “prisoner” was carved into his forehead, and two long scars slashed across his face, as though his head had been chopped to pieces and stitched back together.
There were many children like him—some older, some younger—all snatched away and now staring at the Steward in terror, their fear his greatest amusement.
But the boy touched his heart and found it dead.
Since he could remember, he’d never known joy or sorrow; his face was almost expressionless. Even trying to mimic the others’ fear, he was always a beat too slow—the whip landed on him again.
“Later, you lot, move quickly!”
The boy didn’t cry out or shed a tear. He climbed slowly to his feet and stood numbly.
The Steward, bored by his lack of reaction and ruined face, pointed outside. “You, go clean up! The rest, go serve the Holy Son!”