Chapter Fifty-Seven: The Prince of Martial Might Is Not Dead

Chapter Fifty-Seven: The King of Martial Might Has Not Died

Could it be that Lady Zhao was not the one who harmed Father? But then, why did Father throw away that bowl of tonic?

Not long after, another servant entered from outside, carrying a tray of pastries. This was the very disfigured servant whom Wu Hong had seen earlier, the one taken in by the King of Martial Might. The servant placed the pastries on the King's table and quietly withdrew.

The King of Martial Might gazed at the pastries, lost in thought, as if recalling something. Wu Hong could clearly see that the images flickering through the King's mind were memories of his life with Wu Hong's mother—the pastries were just like those she used to make. Perhaps the King was using these objects to remember someone dear to him.

He absentmindedly ate a few pastries and was preparing to rest when, all of a sudden, his expression changed dramatically. Wu Hong, observing from the side, saw the King's countenance in the mirror turn ashen and tensed up with anxiety.

Indeed, the King’s face contorted, and his body began to tremble, a dark shadow creeping across his brow. He didn’t have time to think—he immediately sat cross-legged and began to circulate his internal energy to resist the deadly poison surging within.

Who had sent that servant? Was it Lady Zhao? It seemed entirely possible. Lady Zhao might have been worried that her earlier attempt to have a servant deliver poisoned medicine to the King could be traced back to her, so she arranged a second attempt, this time with pastries reminiscent of those made by Wu Hong’s mother, hoping to catch him off guard with a series of poisoned traps.

Yet something did not add up. Everyone in the King’s manor knew Lady Zhao possessed a rare and potent poison. Even if everything were later blamed on Wu Hong, she would still be subject to investigation. How could she secure her own position?

The King of Martial Might exerted all his power to resist the poison, but this was likely the legendary Deadly Powder of the Three Corpses, which Wu Hong had heard was the most fearsome toxin in the world. Even with his formidable martial cultivation, bordering on perfection in the Bone-Refining Realm, the King could not withstand the ferocity of this poison.

Within a few hours, the King coughed up a mouthful of black blood and collapsed to the ground.

At dawn, the first servant to enter the King’s chamber to clean discovered his corpse. With a terrified cry, the entire estate was thrown into chaos, and word of the shocking event spread throughout.

Lady Zhao and Lady Li donned mourning attire, and the King’s death sent ripples of shock through the entire nation. Emperor Yang Guang, upon hearing the news, was furious and swore to find the true culprit.

A thorough investigation began. All those who had seen the King the previous night were questioned, and every clue seemed to point toward Wu Hong. No matter how he protested his innocence, Wu Hong was thrown into prison.

Later, his tendons were severed—a scene Wu Hong could not witness himself.

For all the images shown in the Mirror of the World were from the King’s perspective.

Wu Hong was deeply disappointed. He had thought the visions in the mirror would end here, that there would be nothing more of the King’s experiences to see. After all, the perspective was always that of the King, and with his death, the images should have ceased.

Yet after a haze of confusion, new scenes appeared. Wu Hong’s heart leapt—could something unexpected be happening?

When the vision cleared, the setting had shifted to the royal mausoleum. To appease the hearts of his ministers, Emperor Yang Guang had issued an edict, burying the King of Martial Might in the imperial mausoleum and granting his descendants hereditary titles.

As was tradition, a retinue of servants was buried alive with every deceased noble. That night, as autumn winds moaned, the King’s tomb shone with a radiant light. Suddenly, the massive burial mound exploded apart.

The King of Martial Might leapt out of his own grave.

“Ah! Father is not dead?” Wu Hong, watching from the side, cried out in astonishment.

In the vision, the King’s entire body glowed with a sacred light, threads of true energy visibly swirling around him, wreaking havoc in every direction. In an instant, the surroundings were utterly devastated.

The King himself looked at his hands in disbelief, as if stunned that all this was real.

Then Wu Hong recalled something his father had told him long ago: "Hong’er, the throne will be yours one day, and when you inherit it, I shall pass on to you our ancestral Heavenly Silkworm Divine Art."

At the time, Wu Hong had thought his father was merely comforting him, a worthless son, and had paid little attention. The King had only briefly mentioned the wonders of this family art.

The highest realm of the Heavenly Silkworm Divine Art was expressed in just four words, with no further explanation, no diagrams.

Despite the King’s extraordinary martial talent, he had never fully comprehended it.

Having just emerged from the tomb, the King snorted coldly, as if he already knew who had plotted against him. His energy surged, and within several kilometers, the royal cemetery was battered by a gale of true energy, nearly destroyed.

Suddenly, the King coughed up blood, his expression bewildered. He threw his head back and roared in rage, as if questioning the heavens.

His power was overwhelming, yet he continued to cough blood, and Wu Hong, watching from the side, was filled with dread. “Innate… Innate…” This was undoubtedly the Innate Realm.

Yet for reasons unknown, every time the King unleashed this world-shaking energy, he would vomit blood. No one could understand why.

With every burst of anger, the spiritual energy of heaven and earth around him was thrown into turmoil.

To think that not only did his father survive, but his power had greatly increased—why then would he cough blood each time he used his newfound energy?

Wu Hong could not understand, nor could the King in the vision.

Suddenly, a point of light appeared in the sky, and in the blink of an eye, it descended before the King.

Wu Hong saw it clearly, as did the King in the mirror: the point of light was a person, riding a flying sword through the air.

The newcomer appeared to be in his thirties, surrounded by a misty aura of immortality. Wu Hong could not make out his features, only roughly guess his age.

The King’s face paled with shock, and Wu Hong, watching, was equally stunned. The newcomer landed before the King and spoke words that Wu Hong could not hear. The King’s face changed from blue to red, a complex mix of emotions—resignation, unwillingness, and more flashed across his features.

The mysterious figure produced a scroll. As he unfurled it, a beam of light shot skyward. In a flash, both the King and the newcomer vanished from the scene.

The Mirror of the World’s depiction of the King’s life after reaching the Bone-Refining Realm ended abruptly, fading into stillness. Wu Hong stared dumbfounded at the now plain and ordinary stone mirror, unable to utter a word for some time.

After a while, Wu Hong murmured to himself, “Father didn’t die. Why does he cough blood each time he uses his new power? Why didn’t he return to the King’s manor to reveal the truth to the world? And who was that mysterious flying man?”

Wu Hong realized that having witnessed the latter half of his father’s life, not only had he failed to discover the true culprit behind his father’s misfortune, but even more questions had arisen.

Lady Zhao and Lady Li’s sudden appearances and their relationships with the King merited scrutiny.

Was his father truly poisoned a second time by Lady Zhao? Who, then, was Wu Hong’s real enemy?

Who was that immortal-like figure who appeared so suddenly?

And what was that seven-colored glassy energy within Wu Hong’s own body, locked in battle with the dark force?

What were those black and white energies, constantly shifting at the periphery, that even the King could not sense?

Wu Hong felt his mind overwhelmed by a storm of questions.

“It seems that once I leave this small world, I must return to the capital!” he said quietly.

The Mirror of the World could only reveal one person’s life after reaching the Bone-Refining Realm. If one wished to view another, fifty years would have to pass until the next opening of the Celestial Book Grotto.

As the vision faded, tiny characters appeared on the surface of the mirror, describing its purpose.

Wu Hong had no idea how long he had been watching; his stomach ached with hunger. Clearly, he had been so absorbed in the images that he had lost himself completely.

Looking around, he suddenly noticed that many snake carcasses had already been stripped to the bone, as had the remains of several unknown beasts.

Little Kun Kun was watching Wu Hong with wide eyes. Wu Hong smiled gently. All these animal remains had clearly been hunted by Kun Kun, who must have been hungry. Ever since they boarded Wu Hong’s wooden boat, the little beast had survived on either Wu Hong’s grilled fish or Zhou Ling’er’s spirit fruit.

Since arriving at the grotto, Wu Hong had lost all track of time watching the mirror. Clearly, Kun Kun had grown hungry and caught some beasts to eat. The neatly picked-clean bones were proof enough.

But Kun Kun, fearing Wu Hong would be hungry when he came out of his trance, had thoughtfully left some meat for him.

Wu Hong was unexpectedly moved. He had not imagined this little beast would care for him so much. He wondered just how many people in this world still cared for him.

He could not help but lament the fickleness of the world. Once he lost his status as the favored son of the King of Martial Might, he was scorned by all. Hunted by enemies, betrayed by former kin—if not for certain experiences he’d shared with Wu Songran, that little girl would likely have continued hunting him relentlessly.

Wu Hong reflected on the past year and more, and suddenly, for no reason, recalled a pair of gentle eyes. Those eyes belonged to Li Ruolan. He wondered, after his escape from the desert inn, how Ruolan was faring. Had the imperial armies been dispatched to destroy her and her band of mountain outlaws?