Chapter 76: The Truth is Just a Veil
This novel is translated and hosted on Bcatranslation
Night fell, and Falling Moon City gradually dimmed, fading into true darkness. In his room, the Sunstone flickered, its light nearly gone. Qin Ming sat still, his face hidden in the shadows, only his eyes still holding a glimmer of light.
He looked back, seeing his fourteen-year-old self once again. Back then, he cared a lot about people, couldn’t let go, couldn’t say goodbye. His young self trembled, desperately wanting to take one last look at his parents and younger brother because he knew—he might die this time.
When he turned around, all he saw were their fading silhouettes. Tears brimmed in his eyes, but fourteen-year-old Qin Ming forced himself to stay strong. He turned quickly, and without another glance, set off with the elderly of the Cui Family.
They were ambushed, just as they expected. Though they tried to flee, they were always found in the end. The elders from the Cui Family—frail and nearing the end of their lives—unleashed terrifying power. Their resolve, their utter disregard for death, scared even the Li Family.
“Some of those old men are powerful figures from the Cui Family’s main line. The older they are, the stronger they get,” whispered someone in the dark among the Li Family’s group. “I saw Cui Chong He among them. He might even become the next leader.”
There were several pairs of eyes watching the Cui Family fugitives from the shadows of the Li Family’s camp.
“Cui Chong He hasn’t walked the Path of Awakening yet, but it’s said he has a rare talent. There’s even talk that he’s destined to tread the path of the People Beyond the Boundaries,” one murmured. “Maybe these crazy old folks are trying to break through to take Cui Chong He to the Land Beyond the Boundaries, to see the legendary elder—his future mentor.”
Qin Ming saw a lot of blood and bones. Some belonged to the elders of the Cui Family, some to the warriors of the Li Family. Eventually, they broke through, disguised themselves in ragged clothes, and hid in a village the Cui Family had long prepared as a safe haven.
After several fierce battles, the Li Family seemed to realize something and slowed down their pursuit.
“Maybe the Li Family has figured out that there’s another group of our Cui Family moving elsewhere,” an elder whispered.
“Or maybe…” another elder added thoughtfully, “the old ancestor who disappeared two hundred years ago has walked out again.”
In the village, the remaining elders of the Cui Family gathered, their voices low. They were gravely injured, on the brink of death, with no strength left for another fight. Most had already fallen on the journey here, and those who remained were mere shadows of themselves—a group of old men with little time left.
It was their madness, their fearlessness, that made the Li Family hesitate. If only the Li warriors had pushed a little harder, they might have completely annihilated their opponents.
Young Qin Ming stood silently among them, knowing that these elders were spending what they called their “final embers.”
One elder, his face wrinkled and stained with blood, gave a smile that looked almost eerie in the dim night. He sighed as he looked at Qin Ming. “You’ve got remarkable talent, boy. You were meant to walk the Path of Awakening, but practicing that Silk Script was a waste. You can’t continue on that road.”
Another elder, his expression complicated, turned to Qin Ming. “Wait a bit longer. Little Seven should come to save you once he hears the news.”
In the inn, Qin Ming observed the scene with a heavy heart. It was clear to everyone in the Cui Family that his Seventh Uncle, Cui Hao, was the one who cared for him most. Even the elders knew it.
“Are you Seventh Uncle’s… real grandfather?” fourteen-year-old Qin Ming asked. The things he had witnessed on this journey made him realize something. He looked back at the past, feeling deeply lost.
The elder nodded. “Yes, Little Seven is my favorite grandson. He has a fatal weakness—he cares too much about people. Come, sit by my side. No one will touch you while I’m still breathing.” He patted the ground next to him.
Qin Ming sat down, pondering the words. Was caring for people really a fatal weakness? It seemed to be his nature too.
“You old guys, stay away from me!” Seventh Uncle’s grandfather snapped, glaring at the bloodied elders nearby.
One of them spoke up, his voice calm. “We’re all going to die here anyway. There’s nothing left to regret—we’ve already taken out so many of the Li Family. They wanted to rise by stepping on us, to show their power and gain prestige to join the Millennial Clan. But it’s cost them dearly. Whether they’re being pushed by others or not, they won’t be the winners in the end.”
“But this boy here, he’s still young. He shouldn’t die here. You guys, move over there,” commanded Seventh Uncle’s grandfather, pointing further away.
The elders got up and moved away, keeping their distance.
In the present, Qin Ming recalled those events, his gaze shifting to the other elders. Seventh Uncle’s grandfather led him to a shabby house in the village.
“Knowing Little Seven, he’ll come for you once he knows,” the old man said. “But they’ll probably hold him back. The clan can’t afford to lose him—he’s one of our strongest. But if he insists, they might send someone to help. Let’s just hope they get here in time, and don’t miss the chance.” He coughed violently, blood spilling from his mouth.
Qin Ming rushed forward, unsure how to help. The elder waved him off. “I’m done for. Listen, I think the old ancestor has returned. Both sides seem to be retreating now. You might just make it out alive.”
He glanced at the door and whispered, his voice only audible to Qin Ming, “I’ll be gone soon. Don’t leave this room. Tell them I’m recovering and don’t want to be disturbed.”
Tears welled up in Qin Ming’s eyes, and he nodded, watching as the elder closed his eyes and lay still.
The Sunstone in the inn finally went out. Qin Ming, now alone, whispered to himself, “Before I lost my memory, I… I knew so much more than I thought.”
In the broken-down house, fourteen-year-old Qin Ming took a piece of charcoal and wrote a single word on the wall: “Abandon.” Then he fell silent, unwilling to speak.
Now, as Qin Ming recovered those memories, he relived the emotions of that moment. It felt worse than when his skull was shattered, worse than being slowly cut open. Sitting there, he felt like he could barely breathe.
He shook his head vigorously, trying to rid himself of those feelings. It was like he was talking to his younger self from two years ago, saying, “You think you discovered the truth because of everything you saw? It’s just another layer of the curtain, another illusion.”
The Faintly Yellowed Book of Memories turned its pages again, dust vanishing as Qin Ming looked back at the past. Once again, he saw Li Qing Xu—the Feather-Clothed Youth—approaching, his presence otherworldly and clear, attacking without hesitation.
Cui Hao’s grandfather had been right. The Li Family hadn’t sent a large group of warriors, but a small elite team leading local followers, enough to destroy the village.
In the inn, Qin Ming chose not to skip over that memory, instead revisiting the pain of broken bones and shattered skull. He quietly reviewed every detail, determined to fully uncover the truth.
Seventh Uncle never came. Instead, just as the old man had said, Cui Hong and a woman with a red mole in her right eyebrow arrived, whisking him away through the night. They passed by Falling Moon City without entering, choosing to keep moving.
“Where we’re going doesn’t matter, as long as it’s somewhere far away,” Qin Ming muttered to himself in the inn. He watched Cui Hong and the woman, knowing they were taking him to Black and White Mountain.
Two years ago, a beam of light had pierced the night sky, falling on Black and White Mountain. Cui Hong and the woman were already planning to investigate, and it was far enough from everything—it fit their needs perfectly. And so, Qin Ming ended up in that remote place.
“Two years ago, I already sensed something. Was it really a weakness to care too much about people?” Qin Ming whispered to himself, his voice low.
He added, “I was young then, not knowing as much as I do now.”
The most important thing was that Qin Ming had succeeded in practicing the Silk Script, using it to renew his body and walk the Path of Awakening. The Silk Script was magical—ever since his Awakening, it made his subconscious hyperactive, allowing him to see himself at around three years old while in a half-dreaming state. And these were not memories lost when Li Qing Xu smashed his head. They were simply childhood memories that had faded over time—the kind most people forget as they grow older.
“Silk Script… it wasn’t useless after all,” Qin Ming murmured. “It showed me my youngest self when I needed it the most, and maybe it saved my life because I trained for all those years.”
Qin Ming suspected that practicing the Silk Script hadn’t been fruitless. Perhaps it had always been accumulating something. When Li Qing Xu shattered three parts of his skull, he should have died. Under normal circumstances, there’s no way he would have survived.
“My childhood was rough. I wore patched clothes, shoes with holes, probably worse off than ordinary kids. The old man who taught me letters and gave me the Silk Script, he was just an ordinary person, with rough hands and worn clothes like mine.” Qin Ming’s voice was tinged with a sadness that made it sound raw.
In the Cui Family, Fifth Grandfather and Seventh Uncle told him that the grandfather in his memories had “cut off all ties,” walking his own path, heading to the Capital of the Great Yu Kingdom. The old man, his grandfather, who had been with Qin Ming in his early years, was clearly just an ordinary person. But they’d told him he was some kind of great master. If that were true, why had they lived so poorly?
Qin Ming’s heart ached for his younger self. Through the Faintly Yellowed Book of Memories, he gazed back at the past and felt all those emotions again.
In the Cui Family, as Qin Ming grew older, those early memories naturally faded. But there was still a hazy impression, a sense that there had been a grandfather who was close to him.
“I miss him… my grandfather.” Those were his words from the past, eyes red as he longed to get back his Silk Script.
But the Cui elders refused, saying it was an ancient relic, fragile and easy to damage. They told him to master the Awakening Method from the beginning of the Silk Script before looking at the rest.
From that point on, Qin Ming, even as a young boy, never stopped training—through wind and rain, he practiced for years without a break.
All of it was because he wanted that Silk Script. He wanted his grandfather, the one in his memory. It was the deepest feeling in his heart.
Over time, his memory of his grandfather faded completely, eventually vanishing. But practicing the Silk Script had become instinct—a drive that pushed him, though he didn’t know why.
In the early days at the Cui Family, someone had clearly guided him, making him believe that if he wanted to see his grandfather, he had to practice the Silk Script.
Now, as Qin Ming looked back, many things began to make sense.
“Was Uncle really just drunk when he let it slip? Was Fifth Grandfather’s advice just too perfectly timed?” Qin Ming muttered in the dim room. There were too many details that didn’t add up, too many things that felt wrong.
“All of it, the whole sequence of events… If there’s just one more person behind it, everything makes sense,” he whispered, pushing open the window and looking out into the dark night. If that was true, then his life was more tragic than he had imagined.