Chapter Ninety-Six: The Soul-Entrancing Melody

Hong Jian could not understand it. If they had sent her to the Black Tortoise Prison from the very beginning, she might not have minded so much. But now, why her? Why not send Lu Yan Zhang, or Helian? Why pick her in particular?

Could something have happened outside, something that made Ji Youyun suddenly recall her after two years? But since she had no say in the matter, she could only accept her fate. Besides, if she thought about it carefully, the conditions in the Black Tortoise Prison were actually somewhat better than those in the Vermilion Bird Prison.

Here, out of the twelve hours in a day, there was at least one hour when she could see light. A pale, luminous glow, whose source she could not identify, streamed in through a small window set high and slanting above, casting a bluish haze over her body—making it seem, at first glance, as though she had entered the underworld.

The cell was spacious, and meals were delivered on time.

The only drawback was the absence of anyone to talk to.

Several strong, imposing guards kept watch outside the cell, making rounds every few hours. Hong Jian had no idea whether there were other prisoners nearby, but to try and communicate with any of them, as Lu Yan Zhang had with his “thousand-mile voice transmission,” was pure fantasy in this place.

She did not know where Ji Youyun and the others had found these guards for the Black Tortoise Prison, but every time they moved about, Hong Jian’s keen ears could follow their footsteps far into the distance. Their steps were always the same—steady, measured, never changing in pace or weight, and throughout, she never heard anyone speak a word. She even suspected that these men might all be mute.

So Hong Jian resumed not keeping track of time.

Seven or eight days passed like this. One day, as that pale beam of light once more slanted into the cell, Hong Jian was lying idle, staring at its frosty glow in the corner and imagining it as a shaft of moonlight.

A muffled sound echoed from afar—vague and indistinct. Hong Jian shot upright, straining her ears to listen.

At first, she thought it was someone crying somewhere. But soon she realized it was not. It was a strange melody.

The tune was odd, and so was the instrument. She could just about discern that it was not made by a human voice; it sounded like a flute or a xiao, but marred by a great deal of noise—like the howling of the wind.

Hong Jian slowly lay back down. The melody was rather bleak—not especially beautiful, but it resonated with her current mood.

If it was another prisoner playing, she thought, surely the guards would soon put a stop to it.

She felt reluctant to let it end.

Lonely night. Walking alone with music for company—upon the mountains, upon the sea, not knowing where to go, with only silver moonlight for a companion.

Suddenly, Hong Jian was jolted from her reverie by that strange melody. A group of guards passed by, but none of them moved to interrupt it; it was as if they hadn’t heard it at all. Their footsteps faded into the distance.

In her confusion, the tune played on and finally ended, leaving only silence.

Because she had been distracted, Hong Jian could not determine exactly where the sound had come from—it was too far. Using the “Secret Voice Transmission” technique would be difficult.

So she found herself with a new occupation: waiting for the sound to return.

Lu Yan Zhang had taught her the “Secret Voice Transmission” technique, which she had never taken seriously before. But now, for some reason, she was particularly eager to speak with the person playing that melody.

It was nearly half a month before the sound returned.

She was so intent on making contact with the musician that she could hardly listen properly, focusing instead on gauging the distance and direction.

During these two weeks, she was anything but idle—devoting herself to studying the “Secret Voice Transmission” as passionately as she had once studied the ancient arts of spiritual consciousness. Every time a guard passed by, Hong Jian’s attention would snap to their footsteps. She thought that, at this rate, her ears would soon grow pointed from overuse.

After a while, the music stopped. Hong Jian pressed herself against the cell door, drew a deep breath, and sent her voice, gathered tightly with inner strength, toward the source.

“Hello!”

There was no reply.

She persisted: “I’ve been locked up here too. Can you hear me? If you can, would you play a tune in answer?”

But no matter how she tried, her words vanished into the void, and there was no response.

She could only give up with a sigh.

It felt like a child seeing candy in an adult’s hand—her curiosity thoroughly aroused, only for it to be taken away again.

For several days, she was restless, her mood raw with agitation. She was surprised at herself—for two years, she had lived alone in darkness, her freedom lost, and yet now she found herself so easily unsettled. Was it because, after a few days of conversation with Lu Yan Zhang and the others, she could no longer bear her old loneliness?

Hong Jian became wary. After another ten days or so, that soul-stirring sound returned, and this time, she deliberately sat very still, determined to see what would happen.

That mournful sound was indeed soul-stirring—like a wicked wind skimming the surface of a still pond. It was impossible to say whether the wind was strong or weak, or where it was blowing, but it possessed an inexplicable allure.

Even if she could not make contact, being able to hear that sound every ten days or so was a rare enjoyment.

She was thinking just that when suddenly the music broke off, and from somewhere nearby came a faint clang—a chain, perhaps, striking the wall.

At that moment, a squad of guards arrived at that location. They must have noticed something amiss; Hong Jian, listening from afar, heard their footsteps become disordered, the clatter of keys, the heavy stone door opening, and then, after a long commotion, everything fell quiet again.

She touched the shackles on her ankle and tapped lightly on the cell floor, thinking, “That person must be someone of importance. If I made such a disturbance, the guards would hardly be so alarmed; who knows how many days would pass before they thought to open the door and check.”

The commotion did not end there. From that day on, people came and went in the Black Tortoise Prison more frequently. Hong Jian could not hear clearly, but she sensed that these visitors were all connected to the prisoner who played the music.

Could that person truly be a great demonic cultivator, a murderer whose crimes filled the land?

A few days later, Hong Jian awoke suddenly from a dream to the sound of footsteps approaching. She assumed, as before, that they were headed for the other prisoner and prepared to go back to sleep. But to her surprise, the footsteps stopped at her cell.

A voice said, “This one will do. Open the door.”

The cell door swung open, letting in a shaft of light. Hong Jian raised her arm to shield her eyes.

A harsh voice barked, “Get out! Don’t dawdle!”

Hong Jian slowly stood up and saw that two men stood at the door. The speaker was a burly, fierce-looking man clutching a heavy iron key, his gaze fixed on her impatiently.

Beside him was an old man—gaunt, stooped, looking as if one strong wind would topple him. He must have been the one who had just said, “This one will do.”

Sensing that something was very much amiss, Hong Jian asked in a hoarse voice, “What is this about?”

The burly man, evidently one of the prison guards, sneered and said, “What? You’re to be taken for questioning.”

Again? Hong Jian glanced in surprise at the old man.

She stepped slowly from the cell. The burly guard seized her arm and yanked her out, locking the door behind with a few deft motions.

In the dim light outside her cell, the old man took a few steps away, wrinkling his nose in distaste. “Give her a thorough washing, and find her some clean clothes to change into. Quickly, we can’t keep the Elder waiting.”

Hong Jian had to laugh. She knew herself—after so long in prison, even with a foundation-strengthened body, she could not possibly smell pleasant. Whatever they intended for her, at least she could have a bath first.

The guard hesitated. “We don’t have any women’s clothing here.”

The old man snapped, “Whatever, just find her something to wear, man or woman, it doesn’t matter.”

So Hong Jian was taken by the burly guard to bathe and change. She did not know how the other prisoners managed, but the old man was in a hurry. Her shackles were removed, and she was thrown into a pitch-dark room.

Inside was a row of large water vats, with heaps of pots and bowls beside them. By the faint light from outside, Hong Jian felt her way to the vats and washed herself with the icy water, relishing the sensation as the long-missed water ran over her parched skin—she felt as though she could breathe again, as though she had come back to life.

After so long deprived of freedom, she had rarely thought about what she had become. Now, even in the darkness, she could only see the vague outline of her own body. Having not seen daylight for so long, she must look deathly pale, utterly devoid of color. She shook out her wet hair—whatever they wanted with her, she still had her full reserves of inner power. If it came to it, she could fight to the death.

Once cleansed of filth, she changed into clean clothes and, still under the guard’s watch, followed the old man to the place of questioning.

The old man pushed open the door and announced, “Elder Ren, here she is—the youngest and most beautiful female cultivator in the prison, as you requested.”

Hong Jian was then led inside.

The room was brightly lit with several lamps. In the seat of honor sat a kindly-faced elder, the so-called “Elder Ren.” Hong Jian recognized him at once—this was Ren Chen, the man who, on her way to the Demonic Prison, had poisoned her, causing her so much suffering from spiritual wounds.

The sight of this Ren Chen, who had colluded with Mr. Gong, made Hong Jian’s pupils contract. What did he want with her?

Ren Chen looked her up and down, frowning. “You’re that Fang Hong Jian from Dan Ya Sect. …Your spiritual wounds have completely healed?”

Hong Jian stood unmoving, her voice cold. “I’m touched you remember, Elder.”

Ren Chen’s expression grew curious. “You really are something. Fang Hong Jian, you’ve been in the Black Tortoise Prison for some time now—how long has it been?”

The gaunt old man standing by quickly answered, “Almost two months.”

Ren Chen nodded. “Prisoners here must regularly face interrogation and some hardship. Today it’s my turn to preside. You’ve already tasted my Soul-Eating Needle punishment. But now, I’ll give you a chance to redeem yourself.”

Hong Jian said nothing, waiting to hear his proposal.

“There’s a prisoner who requires someone to attend to him. He has a terrible temper and insists we find him a beautiful woman. If you’re willing, you’ll be spared the interrogation.”