The man wore a wide bamboo hat pulled low, hiding most of his face in shadow. There was not a trace of killing intent emanating from him. He simply stood there casually, as if he had always belonged to this study.

The mysterious figure did not look at Xu Qing. He merely lowered his head slightly, moving with a relaxed and natural grace as he poured himself a cup of tea.

Then, he set down the teapot, extended his right hand, and lifted the steaming cup.

Just as he raised the teacup.

"Knock, knock, knock."

The mysterious figure's index and middle fingers pressed together, tapping against the hard rosewood desk surface three times—extremely softly, yet with perfect rhythm.

Those three faint taps, when they fell upon Xu Qing's ears, might as well have been thunderclaps exploding from the heavens!

Xu Qing's pupils abruptly constricted. His right hand, gripping the short blade, suddenly released. His entire body stiffened as if struck by lightning, frozen in the master's chair.

This movement...

Back in the county school in Qingshi Town, in the courtyard of that dilapidated Building A, when the two of them would burn the midnight oil studying classics and discussing philosophy or simply chatting, that youth who always seemed to take so many things lightly would, whenever lost in thought or lifting his teacup, unconsciously tap his index and middle fingers three times on the table.

It was a habit. A habit carved deep into his bones, one that could never be faked.

Xu Qing's breathing grew rapid. His gaze locked onto that figure in the green robe. His lips trembled slightly as if he wanted to say something, but he found his throat clogged as if stuffed with cotton, unable to produce a single sound.

At this moment, time seemed to freeze completely. Only the faint crackling of the candle flame remained in the study.

Silence.

A long, drawn-out silence.

No one knew how much time had passed before Xu Qing finally found his voice again. It came out hoarse and terrifying, as if scraped from sandpaper.

"You... you've been here all along?"

The hand holding the teacup paused slightly. The figure in the green robe did not remove his bamboo hat, nor did he turn around. In the dim light, he gave an almost imperceptible nod.

"Mmm."

A single word, as calm as still water, without the slightest ripple, emerged from beneath the hat.

Though this voice was much deeper than five years ago, and carried a cold hardness tempered by experience, that unique, unhurried tone that seemed to regard nothing with importance—Xu Qing would never mistake it, even in death.

It really was him.

Not only had he not died in the frozen wasteland of the Northern Frontier, but he had returned. At this most critical juncture, when the Great Xing Dynasty's court was in turmoil, he had been here all along.

Xu Qing felt his eyes sting. He took a deep breath, forcefully suppressing the violent surge of emotions in his chest, making his voice as steady as possible.

"That night..." Xu Qing stared at Su Ming's back, the scene of the East Straight Gate flashing again in his mind—the ground littered with top-tier death-men who had died in grotesque ways, and the desperate, maddened look in the Yongchang Marquis's eyes. "Those death-men you killed outside the East Straight Gate... it was you, wasn't it?"

Su Ming turned around, holding the tea cup as he slowly walked out of the shadows.

The dim candlelight illuminated his slightly gaunt jaw. He still did not remove his bamboo hat.

He did not directly answer Xu Qing's question. Instead, he lifted the teacup and took a light sip of the now-cold, leftover tea, before uttering a single word.

"Yes."

Hearing this answer, Xu Qing was stunned for a moment.

He stared fixedly at Su Ming, at this old acquaintance.

After a moment, Xu Qing laughed.

He tilted his head back, leaning against the chair, letting out a low, relieved laugh.

He laughed with release. He laughed with satisfaction. He laughed without restraint.

He knew that for a schemer like the Yongchang Marquis, the greatest torment was not death, not utter disgrace, but being crushed by a force he could never understand or contend with—and never knowing, even as his head hit the ground, who had secretly controlled his fate all along.

This answer, this kind of death, was crueler and more thorough than any vengeance involving a thousand cuts.

Su Ming stood silently before the desk, watching Xu Qing both laugh and cry. He did not interrupt. He knew that this was Xu Qing's pent-up emotions of five years, finally being released completely.

When Xu Qing's laughter gradually subsided and he had returned to his usual composed demeanor.

Su Ming slowly reached into his bosom and produced a translucent jade pendant, its surface shimmering with a watery luster.

He gently placed the jade pendant on the desk in front of Xu Qing.

"This is the token of the Cloud Hidden Sect's External Affairs Office." Su Ming's voice remained calm, but a subtle gravity had crept into his tone. "If in the future you encounter trouble in this mortal court that you cannot solve, take this to the Four Seas Trading Company in the eastern part of the city, and seek out an elderly man surnamed Zhou."

Su Ming paused for a moment, then, through the veil of his bamboo hat, gave Xu Qing a deep look.

"He will help you once."

Xu Qing looked at the jade pendant on the desk, which emitted a faint coolness. He was an extremely intelligent man, and without asking, he could guess the weight the name "Cloud Hidden Sect" carried. This jade pendant, at a critical moment, was a death-exempting gold medal, an unshakeable pillar of support.

He did not hypocritically decline, nor did he spout any grateful nonsense.

He reached out, took the jade pendant into his palm with immense solemnity, feeling its smooth, warm touch, and then carefully tucked it into the innermost pocket against his chest.

"You're leaving?" Xu Qing lifted his head, his gaze burning as he looked at Su Ming.

Su Ming nodded.

"Business is done. Time to go back."

He did not say where, nor what he was going to do. But they both understood. From this night onward, they would follow two completely different paths. One would continue to rise and fall on the pinnacle of mortal power. The other would journey into the vast, cruel world of immortal cultivation, beyond the reach of ordinary men.

The two stood facing each other.

The candle in the study had burned to its end, the light growing ever dimmer.

Xu Qing looked at this figure, so familiar yet so foreign, and suddenly spoke, his voice carrying a hint of melancholy he could not hide.

"The next time we meet, you might not recognize me."

A mortal's life is but a hundred years. Time would carve frost and wind upon his face; power would change his features. Perhaps decades later, he would be a white-haired old man, while Su Ming would still look this young.

Su Ming was silent for a moment.

His gaze, through the gauze of his bamboo hat, fell upon the few strands of white hair that had already appeared at Xu Qing's temples.

"The next time we meet, you might already be gone."

The same plain, unremarkable words, yet they laid bare the cruelty and helplessness of the chasm between mortal and immortal.

The two looked at each other.

There was no sadness. No attempt to detain.

They both saw in the other's eyes that unique brand of open-mindedness born from surviving life, death, and the vicissitudes of time.

They shared a smile.

Everything was understood without words.

Su Ming turned around. His wide, green-robed sleeve cut a carefree arc through the air.

A gust of autumn wind swept into the study once more, extinguishing the last flickering flame of the candle.

When the study fell back into darkness, that figure in the green robe had already vanished, like a reflection dispersing from the surface of water, disappearing silently into the thick night.

Xu Qing did not light a new lamp.

He slowly stood up, walked to the study window, and pushed open the carved wooden lattice.

A brilliant, silvery moon hung high in the deep autumn sky, casting its cold radiance over the entire courtyard.

Xu Qing clasped his hands behind his back, standing before the window, staring at the moon for a long, long time. The night wind rustled his official robes. He felt as if a thousand-pound burden had been lifted from him, and from the inside out, he was filled with a lightness he had never felt before.