Each goes their own way.

When the dust of an event settles, it is like a ripple in clear water, calming for a moment before heralding the next surge, accumulating over days and months until the river swells and finally bursts its banks for a thousand miles.

The rekindled campfire still glimmered faintly as Zhang Ling slowly opened his eyes. Rising to his feet, his demeanor was bleak, and it took him a long while to gather his thoughts. Upon inspection, not only had his wounds healed, but inexplicably, he had also unlocked a second vital point. A gentle stream of true energy was merging with his own at a gradual pace. Zhang Ling surveyed the area: Song Linjie was sleeping soundly against a tree; the seventeen remaining members of the Azure Falcon Gang were nearby, as was Liao Yingdong, whom Zhang Ling barely recognized—his face aged, hair and beard white, life utterly departed. They kept a respectful distance. A maiden was curled up, resting her head on Liao Wenqi’s lap, asleep.

Liao Wenqi noticed Zhang Ling was awake, but Zhang Ling gestured for silence and walked straight to where Treading Snow lay in a pool of blood. He glanced around, unfamiliar with geomancy, and simply found a spacious spot. Hoisting the blood-soaked body, he carried Treading Snow over, crimson blood staining his green robe. With one hand, he used his sword to pry the earth, the other to dig, laboring for over two hours to carve out a modest pit. He laid Treading Snow within and gently covered the body with soil, leaving no gravestone.

Turning back, Zhang Ling saw Song Linjie awake as well. Everyone watched him with indifference, silent, contrary to expectations. Why such tenderness toward a horse, yet such coldness toward people?

Liao Wenqi stepped forward and recounted the previous night in detail. The assassin had originally targeted him, but Liao Yingdong, too far away, picked up a stone and knocked himself off his mount. Zhang Ling deduced that Liao Yingdong’s actions were aimed at him, not Song Linjie—because of his identity. The rest was unexpected; in the end, he could only accept his misfortune, though it had brought a blessing in disguise. Liao Wenqi handed him a secret manual: “This was entrusted to you by my father.”

Zhang Ling patted his shoulder. “I understand everything. Don’t trouble yourself; it’s not your fault, and I won’t blame anyone lightly. Don’t always be so accommodating. Your father entrusted his brothers to you, so you must shoulder that responsibility. Of course, I am unburdened, and even if you shirk your duty, I have no right to reproach you.”

Suddenly, Zhang Ling glanced aside and stepped back to avoid the maiden who stumbled to the ground, weeping bitterly. As she tried to rise, Liao Wenqi held her fast. She cried out, “You’re the one who killed my father!”

Zhang Ling watched coldly, refraining from uttering the words she deserved. Liao Wenqi merely nodded, no longer apologizing as before. He motioned for everyone to begin organizing their belongings—just a few horses and some light packs, valuables long since converted to silver and carried close. Zhang Ling leaned on a fallen trunk, paging through “Life Cultivation.”

From “Life Cultivation” to “Self Rest,” Zhang Ling read faster and faster, until he reached the final phrase: “In contrast, the Fusion of True Essence.” His heart trembled, though his face remained impassive. He suddenly recalled the old man who gave him the Eye of the Heart, along with several books. One described a grandmaster unknown elsewhere, another detailed various strange martial arts; both “Life Cultivation” and “Fusion of True Essence” were among them.

Song Linjie leaned over. “What’s wrong?”

Zhang Ling immediately closed the manual. Song Linjie assumed he was being denied a look but didn’t mind, wandering off to whistle leisurely. No matter the storms he had weathered, his heart remained unchanged. Zhang Ling took out a fire starter, ignited the self-sacrificing martial arts manual, and waited until it was nearly consumed before tossing it into the campfire. He believed cultivation was ultimately a pursuit for oneself, though he didn’t begrudge its existence. To benefit from it and then disdain it as a wealthy man might scorn money would be hypocritical.

Zhang Ling did not look away, watching it burn to ashes. He asked with his back turned, “Liao Wenqi, did you read it?”

Liao Wenqi, organizing as he replied, said, “No, because I have a reason I must survive.”

After the assassination, many people and horses had died. Zhang Ling brought over two horses. “My horse died, so I’ll take two of yours. That’s not unreasonable, is it?”

No one responded. Zhang Ling handed one horse to Song Linjie. The two walked some distance away. Zhang Ling glanced back, but no reply came, so they continued on. Song Linjie waited a while before asking, “What’s your relationship with that Sage of Medicine? I saw him use a light-foot skill similar to yours.”

Back at the Song family, the patriarch had mentioned the Valley of the Medicine King, Zhang Jingqian, and the twelve silver needles embedded in him when he awoke, as well as the Shadow Glide technique Song Linjie had described. Zhang Ling was certain Zhang Jingqian was the so-called Sage of Medicine.

Zhang Ling glared. “Don’t ask what you shouldn’t. And you, don’t go around acting the hero, pouring your heart out to strangers. If you implicate the Song family, your father will beat you.”

Song Linjie smirked. “Do you take me for a fool? I only speak that way to probe their real intentions. Besides, I only suggested the Song family host them well, not that we’d be their backers. I’ve been in the martial world for a while; openly and secretly, these things are commonplace. But there’s something odd—I’ve been wandering the martial world for a year and haven’t seen many top masters, not even a handful of fourth-rank experts. When did the martial world become so sparse?”

Zhang Ling explained, “That was the handiwork of the late emperor of Chen, who lured martial artists to serve the court. He didn’t even need threats; half the martial world was won over.”

Song Linjie sighed in regret. Zhang Ling said quietly, “No matter. Someday, we’ll wander the North together.”

Suddenly, Song Linjie changed tack, grinning. “Zhang Ling, with your cautious nature, do you really bear no resentment?”

Zhang Ling met his gaze, unflinching. “How could I not? Without the Sage of Medicine, I’d be dead. In the past, I wouldn’t have hesitated to desecrate a corpse for less. But they’ve suffered enough. If I berated Liao Wenqi for Liao Yingdong’s actions, he might never recover. I’m not so heartless.”

He sighed. “The poor suffer, but so do the rich. Yet the rich can hardly claim the poor’s simple life is enviable—such talk only invites scorn. Nor can I judge others’ faults.”

Song Linjie was perplexed. “What will happen to them?”

Zhang Ling replied, “They will rebuild their gang, recruit, expand, or perhaps mismanage, lose people, and eventually go their separate ways. Either way, Liao Wenqi won’t have it easy unless he chooses not to care at all. Yet I saw determination in his eyes; he will bear that responsibility, whether he can or not.”

After a while, Zhang Ling murmured coldly, “What does it matter to me?”

Meanwhile, the remaining Azure Falcon Gang members continued on. Liao Wenqi lingered at the rear, and after everyone had left, he took a wooden box from his breast, revealing a single pill within. He hesitated for a long time before finally swallowing it.

No one noticed the fleeting crimson gleam in his eyes.