Chapter 6
Chapter 6: Dust Warden Interrogation (Part 1)
Mo Ting Feng’s eyes were razor-sharp. Compared to the man she’d met when she first woke, he felt like someone else entirely as he advanced on Song Wei Chen step by step.
“I’ll make it clearer.”
He stopped close enough that she could feel the cold coming off him.
“You becoming He Duan here—was it truly an accident, or was it deliberate?”
“The mist forest where I found you… ordinary cultivators can’t even enter it, let alone a normal person stuck in the Dream Realm. Who brought you in?”
“The White Robe’s life force vanished without warning. Across the world, only a handful could harm him. What did you do to him?”
“Who are your accomplices? What’s your goal?”
As he spoke, the pressure in the room intensified until Song Wei Chen could barely breathe. For a moment, she couldn’t even force out a sound.
Mo Ting Feng leaned down, staring straight into her eyes as if he could pry the truth loose from behind her pupils.
Song Wei Chen wanted to turn away, but her mind screamed: don’t.
If she couldn’t prove herself now, she was going to die on the spot.
He’d said it himself—death in the Dream Realm was real death. She didn’t think living here was particularly worth celebrating, but she didn’t want to die for no reason, either.
She forced herself to meet his gaze. “If I’d been sent here on purpose, I would’ve prepared a more reasonable story instead of giving you answers that sound this fake.”
Her throat worked. “But if you throw me into prison and torture me, I’ll confess to anything just to survive. Then you’ll let the real culprit go.”
Their faces were close enough to share breath. In any other scene, it might have been charged with tension.
This was not that scene.
Song Wei Chen’s heart slammed against her ribs—pure fear.
Mo Ting Feng’s hand shot out. His fingers closed around her throat and tightened, slow and deliberate.
Blood rushed to her head. Her temples throbbed. The room tilted. She clawed weakly at his iron grip.
“Listen carefully,” he said, voice cold as a sword’s edge. “If you want to stir up trouble in the Dream Realm, with me there is only one road—death.”
He leaned closer. “I’ll ask one more time. Is a single word of your answer false?”
Song Wei Chen couldn’t answer. Her ears rang, her vision swam, and his moving lips became a silent blur.
Mo Ting Feng’s intent wasn’t cruelty for cruelty’s sake. He was sealing her meridians, testing her foundation. And what he found was exactly what she looked like—no cultivation, no spiritual power, not even martial arts or inner force.
A true mortal.
He released her at once.
Song Wei Chen collapsed forward, coughing and dragging in air until her lungs burned.
“I don’t know how to cherish delicate flowers,” he said, voice still hard. “You’d better not lie to me.”
Yet as he watched her gasp, something twisted in his chest—an ugly, unexpected pang. His heart stirred, and the feeling annoyed him even more than her answers had. Regret flashed through him, sharp and unwelcome, for being so rough when it had been only a test.
“You can doubt me,” Song Wei Chen rasped, lifting her head, “but shouldn’t you also give me a chance to prove I’m innocent?”
The White Robe Venerable’s disappearance was no small matter. Until he understood what was happening, Mo Ting Feng couldn’t let more people know she existed—not even those inside the manor.
After a brief pause, he set a barrier spell over the room.
“Fine. Stay here for now. Think about how you’ll prove your innocence.”
He turned toward the door, hands clasped behind his back. “Don’t try to run.”
The moment the hallway fell quiet, Song Wei Chen shot upright.
What kind of two-variable equation nonsense was this? If she didn’t run, she’d be insulting the fact that this room came with a door.
She bolted for it.
Halfway there, she slammed into an invisible wall and rebounded hard, crashing to the floor. Stars burst behind her eyes. She lay there a long time before she could push herself up, trembling.
This time she moved carefully, feeling around. The space near the bed was accessible, but everything else—the desk, the shelves, even the far corners—was sealed off by transparent walls.
After all that struggling, she was drenched in sweat.
Fury rose, hot and helpless. She yanked off the White Robe, threw it on the ground, and stomped it like it had personally betrayed her.
“You thousand-year ice block, ten-thousand-year iron slab, cold-faced grim reaper!”
She kicked it again.
“So heartless, so inhuman—what are you being smug about?”
Again.
“A bat wing with chicken feathers tied to it—what kind of bird do you think you are?”
She paced, pointing at the empty air as if he were standing there.
“Acting all high and mighty—what, because some animal protection group has your back?”
“And you just leave whenever you want. What, in a hurry to go eat in a latrine?”
“I tell you the truth and you can’t even tell! Is your brain missing, or did it get moldy from damp?”
She poured every insult she’d ever learned into the walls.
Far away, above the Blackwater of the River of Oblivion, Mo Ting Feng sneezed—once, twice, then several times in a row.
Even in daylight, the River of Oblivion felt steeped in yin qi, bone-deep and eerie.
Mo Ting Feng frowned at his own reaction. As a top-tier cultivator, “catching a cold” was impossible. He’d nearly forgotten what sneezing even felt like.
While he was still frowning in confusion, a man’s voice sounded behind him, sharp with displeasure.
“Your Dust Warden Manor is getting more and more unruly. Do you think you can come and go from my territory whenever you want?”
The voice lifted, mocking. “Even the Realm Lord has to announce himself before coming to the River of Oblivion!”
“Lord Cang Yue,” Mo Ting Feng said, already knowing who it was. He turned and saluted. “Long time no see.”
A tall, imposing figure hovered in midair. He wore a silver-moon brocade robe; his long hair was bound beneath a silver coronet. Half his face was covered by a finely carved mica bird-beak mask. Even with the mask, the man’s beauty was unmistakable—cold and dazzling, edged with killing intent. His long phoenix eyes held a disdainful arrogance, as if the world itself were beneath him.
“Our manor’s White Robe went missing here last night while carrying out official duties,” Mo Ting Feng said evenly. “Do you have any guidance, Lord?”
“What, you lost a dog and came to me to demand it back?”
“I wouldn’t dare.” Mo Ting Feng’s expression didn’t change. “Lord Cang Yue understands the River of Oblivion better than anyone. I came to ask for help.”
“And if I’m not interested?”
Mo Ting Feng smiled.
He hovered with his hands behind his back, making no visible move—yet behind him, countless strands of sword qi formed and spiraled, encircling him like a storm.
The Blackwater below seemed to sense it and began to churn.
“In that case,” Mo Ting Feng said mildly, “I won’t trouble Lord Cang Yue. I’ll search on my own.”
Sword qi plunged into the surface.
The Blackwater split—only a little at first. Then more and more sword qi tore down from every direction, layer by layer, carving through the river’s skin until the River of Oblivion looked ready to boil.