Chapter Eighty-Seven: The Rod of Intimidation

If there was anything in this world that Hong Jian would rather die than attempt, it was, in the days when her grandmaster and eldest senior brother still lived, to be sent to the Demon Refining Prison. That place was a nightmare for cultivators, akin to monsters haunting children in the night. Yet now, for reasons unknown, she found herself strangely indifferent.

Indifference to life and death, gains and losses—it was as though her heart's wish had been fulfilled, and her whole body felt light. Hong Jian even felt she could transcend the confines of flesh, her spirit floating above, observing herself and those around her.

She still did not know where the mysterious Demon Refining Prison was built. If escape was impossible, then she might as well go and see it for herself.

Mr. Gong and two other elders escorted Hong Jian down from Scarlet Wheel Peak without much delay, unleashing a flying treasure to carry her northward. Perhaps seeing Hong Jian offer no futile resistance, even the clearly ill-intentioned Mr. Gong refrained from tormenting her.

The flying treasure moved slowly. The three elders, seemingly accustomed to such tasks, sat in silence, exchanging fewer than ten words among themselves throughout the day. Hong Jian felt boredom on their behalf.

Her sense only grew stronger: these three old men were not of the same faction.

Night fell before they reached their destination. Mr. Gong conferred briefly with his companions, landed the treasure in a vast, snow-covered forest below—untouched for who knew how long.

Mr. Gong cast a Daoist spell, raising walls around the treasure, isolating inside from out—it became a small cell.

He addressed the short elder, “Brother Shao, Old Jade Dust’s abode isn’t far from here. Since we’re resting anyway, if you wish to visit your friend, we can wait for dawn to depart.”

The short elder nodded, a rare smile of ease on his face. “That’s fine. I haven’t seen him in nearly a hundred years.”

He was of comparable cultivation to Mr. Gong. The treasure, enough to confine a Foundation stage cultivator, posed no hindrance to him. Straightening his attire, he stepped out.

After Shao left, the remaining two elders sat in meditation. About an hour later, Mr. Gong opened his eyes, his gaze landing heavily on Hong Jian, startling her from her near-sleep.

“In all my years, I’ve never seen a prisoner bound for the Demon Refining Prison who could still sleep on the way. Truly, youth—fearless in ignorance.”

His tone was half mocking, half scornful.

Hong Jian lifted her eyelids. She knew Mr. Gong had sent Shao away with ulterior motives. The other elder, who appeared kindly, was likely just as conniving as Gong.

Seeing Hong Jian’s languid response, Mr. Gong sneered coldly, his voice sinister: “I deal with those damned demon cultivator criminals daily—cunning, ruthless, adept at disguise, vicious. But you, so young, yet so deep in scheming—to devise such a thorough plan and assassinate your elder before all—Old Ren, have you ever seen the like?”

The elder named Ren frowned. “This girl is strange. With her uproar, rumors will surely spread. Now that she’s in our hands, we can’t dispose of her as we wish.”

Mr. Gong dismissed this. “I don’t believe a mere Foundation stage could withstand your Soul Devouring Needle torture. She’ll submit soon enough—ask and she’ll confess.”

Ren smiled. “So you sent Shao Qitian away with this in mind.”

Hong Jian listened to their exchange, realizing they intended to torture her for interrogation. She curled her lip in contempt as Mr. Gong said, “Old Shao hates demon cultivators most. I feared if he stayed, recalling the deaths of his kin, he might lose control and kill her outright.”

Hong Jian opened her eyes, fixing Mr. Gong with a cold stare. The old man met her gaze, eyes gleaming with the excitement of a cat toying with a mouse, suddenly seeming decades younger. His tone was gentle, coaxing: “Will you not kneel and beg us for mercy? Perhaps you’ll earn a chance to redeem yourself.”

Inwardly, Hong Jian condemned the old man to death a hundred times, her lips curled with derision. “Redeem what? The sect’s Jade Slip isn’t with me, so you’ll be disappointed.”

Mr. Gong’s face darkened instantly. Elder Ren said, “Whether she’s innocent or not, with such defiance, she won’t be cowed without a lesson before entering the prison.”

Ren smiled. “The Execution Rod?”

As he spoke, he suddenly cast a spell. Hong Jian had no time to react before a sharp pain pierced her mind, as if fire ants burrowed into her consciousness, biting and trampling relentlessly.

Hong Jian grunted, her face flushing from pale to red. Toppling to the ground, she trembled uncontrollably, covered in cold sweat, barely able to restrain herself.

Her consciousness was first to suffer. Hong Jian’s spiritual sense surpassed others at her stage, so she managed to endure a little longer. In her mind flashed the image of her eldest brother writhing in agony under the “Living Talisman,” and she too now felt such torture. Gasping as she lay prone, she thought bitterly, “Jing Li, that scoundrel, died too quickly—he got off easy!”

After spiritual sense collapsed, it was the soul’s turn. Ren’s spell, the Soul Devouring Needle, was cultivated specifically to torment the prisoners of the Demon Refining Prison—vicious and cruel beyond measure.

Hong Jian felt her sea of consciousness go numb, her body growing weaker, her mind blurring. She refused to give the old men satisfaction by crying out, biting her lip hard, eyes wide open.

Whenever hallucinations arose, she bit down harder. The pain snapped her to clarity, the taste of blood anchoring her to the memory of loved ones lost.

As Ren continued his spell, Hong Jian ceased struggling. She lay motionless, sweat-soaked bangs framing vacant eyes, pupils barely shifting as their light dimmed, like the flame of her soul flickering out.

Though Mr. Gong was dissatisfied with her uninspiring reaction, he at last intervened, “Enough, Ren. Any more and she’ll be a halfwit.”

Ren stopped, replying offhandedly, “At most she’ll be a little dull, she won’t turn idiotic so easily.”

Hong Jian’s breathing was faint, already unconscious.

Ren stared at her for a while, muttering, “Such a lovely flower, about to wither in the prison. Why didn’t she simply behave, find someone powerful to rely on, instead of seeking suffering?”

His musings ended, he turned to Mr. Gong and asked curiously, “Why are you worried she’ll become a halfwit? Could she be telling the truth—do you really want the sect’s Jade Slip from her?”

To live as long as Gong and Ren, neither was a fool. Mr. Gong’s slight abnormality was immediately noticed.

Mr. Gong hesitated, excusing himself, “Not really. You know me—I’m old, without kin. Even if I got it, I couldn’t leave everyone behind to be sect master. Someone just asked me to do a favor this time.”

Seeing rare curiosity in Ren’s eyes, Gong forced a smile, gestured upward, and as Ren caught on, reminded, “Alright, just you and me know this—don’t tell Shao Qitian yet.”

Ren scolded, “You old baldhead, so you trust I’ll go along with you?”

He glanced again at Hong Jian, lying still, barely showing signs of life.

Ren stroked his beard, clicking his tongue. “Once she’s in the Demon Refining Prison, unable to cultivate, the injury to her consciousness will linger till death—she’ll suffer plenty.”

********************

When Hong Jian finally returned to herself, her head still numb with pain. In the dark, she stared blankly for a long while before recalling who she was and what had happened before she lost consciousness.

Had she already been locked in the Demon Refining Prison?

Hong Jian realized she lay on a cold floor, her body weak. Her fingers moved slowly as she groped about.

A thin layer of straw covered the ground, beneath which lay smooth, hard stone. She tapped it—it felt like some kind of stone paving.

She raised her palm to her eyes, waved it, felt a slight chill, but saw not the faintest shadow. Her eyes were useless in this place.

It was utterly silent—this cell likely held only her. She could breathe; the air was not too foul, so there must be some ventilation.

Thinking made her ever clearer. She assessed her situation and tried to sit up.

With a clank, cold restraints pulled at her ankles. Hong Jian smiled wryly. So the infamous Demon Refining Prison was little different from mundane jails—they even put shackles on the inmates.

She stood with the support of the wall, stretched her limbs, rolled her neck—thankfully, nothing too nauseating.

Instinctively, Hong Jian tried to circulate her true energy to check her spiritual sense’s damage, but her body was empty. The remaining water-element energy barely kept her from collapse, yet the injury to her spiritual sense was lighter than expected.

How could this be? Hong Jian stood in the darkness, stunned, then realized: those old men wouldn’t be so kind as to heal her. That meant from the moment she passed out till she was brought here, quite some time had passed. During her unconsciousness, the secret method to heal spiritual sense had continued working, only stopping once she entered the prison.

At this, Hong Jian sighed, “What a pity—I’ll never be able to cultivate it again.” The Demon Refining Prison lived up to its reputation—not a trace of spiritual energy remained, and any use of true energy depleted it further.

Was she doomed to live here, like a mouse never seeing the light, for the rest of her days?