Joy of Life Chapter 732 The Loneliness Of One Person

There was still not a speck of dust on the strip of black cloth in front of him. The simple but young face, without a single wrinkle, seemed to be retelling a story that was hundreds of thousands of years long.

Fan Xian stared in a daze at this familiar face and found that it was impossible to find any trace of familiarity in it. It was clearly still the same face and same piece of black cloth, but he knew clearly that the person in front of him was no longer Uncle Wu Zhu. At least, in this instant, he was not Uncle Wu Zhu.

This person was that person, yet he was not him. Twenty years of friendship, yet now they were like strangers meeting. It was a sorrowful and depressing matter.

When Fan Xian saw the large chests on Thirteenth Wang's back, an alarm went off in his heart. He did not feel the joy of finding Uncle Wu Zhu, of completing the biggest goal in coming to the Temple, because he acutely sensed a problem. For the Temple, Uncle Wu Zhu was once its most powerful and experienced emissary. However, he was also its greatest traitor. Because of his protection of Fan Xian's mother and himself, countless emissaries of the Temple had died to Uncle Wu Zhu's hand. Since the Temple had finally gotten control of Uncle Wu Zhu, how could it casually put him somewhere Thirteenth Wang could easily find?

Only if the Temple was sure it could completely control Wu Zhu would it not care about Wu Zhu's actions. Precisely because of this deduction, Fan Xian's gave the order at the first instant for Thirteenth Wang to take the chest and break out of the temple. He firmly believed that as long as they could leave the boundaries of the Temple, the Temple would not be able to control Wu Zhu. However, all of this came too late.

A streak of black light flashed through the air, the chest split open, and a blind-folded Wu Zhu immediately moved from behind Thirteenth Wang to Fan Xian and impaled his body like a shrimp. It was as if he did not recognize Fan Xian, had never gone through fire and water for the sake of Fan Xian and his mother, and had never promised to not leave or abandon them.

In the instant he saw the black light, Fan Xian involuntarily thought of the scene Sir Xiao En had related many years ago. When the doors of the Temple had opened, the 4-year-old ice and snow immortal, Ye Qingmei, had escaped from between them. A streak of black light had also flashed out. Using just one attack, it had smashed Ku He into a gourd rolling around on the ground.

Fan Xian stared at the scrap of black cloth on Wu Zhu's face, feeling the immense pain in his chest. He knew the Temple had probably used some method to wipe away Uncle Wu Zhu's memory again, possibly even wiped it completely blank.

Fresh blood welled up between Fan Xian's lips. His face was white, but his gaze was determined. Quickly and with great difficulty, he raised his right hand to stop Haitang and Thirteenth Wang attacking angrily in their shock.

He knew that Haitang and Thirteenth Wang had no chance of retaliation when faced with Uncle Wu Zhu. Once they entered the battle, they would only die. He could only rely on himself to get them out of this most dangerous situation.

…

…

Fresh blood flowed forth as Fan Xian curled up around the metal rod in pain. However, he could still think. He had not immediately died. He could even raise his right hand to stop Haitang and Thirteenth Wang acting under sorrow. This could only prove that Wu Zhu's unusually valiant and accurate attack did not strike anything vital.

This was a difficult matter to understand. Given Wu Zhu's realm, other than the few Great Grandmaster's in the world, who else could be so fortunate as to escape from his attack? Furthermore, Fan Xian was already an ill and heavily injured person. Presumably, even the Temple had not thought that Fan Xian would be able to survive Wu Zhu's attack. Thus, the surrounding voice was silent like it was waiting for Wu Zhu to determine Fan Xian's life and death.

No one could dodge Wu Zhu's attack, but Fan Xian could.

Ever since Wu Zhu presented the cleaver in his hand to Fan Xian in that junk shop, Fan Xian had welcomed Wu Zhu's education by the rod each day on the precipice in Danzhou, accompanied by the slightly salty and wet sea wind. After a small and cowering yellow flower had been shattered countless times, it had finally become much tougher.

After thousands and tens of thousands of hits, there were countless bruises on Fan Xian's body. But, this was fortunate. This was the reason he had the skill to survive in the world and unusually exquisite bodily movement. More importantly, he knew better than anyone else in the world how Wu Zhu attacked and the speed of his attack.

In the education of the previous tens of thousands of times, Wu Zhu always held that wooden rod in his hand. Now, he held a sharp metal rod. Fan Xian could not completely dodge the attack. But, in the instant before the black light reached him, he relied on his skill to dodge, which had matured until it was an instinct, and turn forcefully, making the forward passage of the metal rod avoid his heart and lungs. It seemed that he was bleeding out. In reality, he had only been hurt in the cavity beneath his ribs.

Wu Zhu's head was slightly lowered. The black cloth floated in the icy breeze. There was not a glimmer of emotion on his face. It was impossible to see if this extraordinary warrior felt any surprise that this human in front of him could avoid his attack. To a spectator, he was just maintaining his pose, impaling Fan Xian upon the metal rod.

"If this gets out, even my mother would not believe it." This was something Fan Xian said as he coughed up blood.

It was after these words that Wu Zhu fell silent. He suddenly asked coldly, "Your mother's surname?"

It was like a glimmer of light immediately took over Fan Xian's mind, making him see a sliver of a chance of survival. He stared fixedly at the black cloth and said, "My mother's surname is Ye."

Wu Zhu did not react.

"You called her mistress," Fan Xian said in a raspy and wretched voice as looked at the indifferent Uncle Wu Zhu. For some reason, a sorrow welled in his heart that hurt more than his wound.

There was still no reaction from Wu Zhu.

"She was called Ye Qingmei. I'm called Fan Xian, and you're called Wu Zhu," Fan Xian spat away the blood by his lips and said viciously as he looked at Wu Zhu. He pulled at the wound in his chest. A wave of immense pain caused his vision to momentarily dim.

Wu Zhu still did not have any reaction. It was as if these names that he should know the best and were once the closest to him had completely disappeared from his mind. Although he spoke earlier, he emitted a chilling coldness like a piece of black ice that would never melt.

Looking at this piece of ice, at the black cloth on the ice, Fan Xian seemed to see a familiar spirit gradually melting into spots of light and flowing out from the body in front of him, flying into the air and gradually dissipating into nothingness.

This reality made Fan Xian feel endlessly terrified and sorrowful. He faintly sensed that he would never be able to see that Uncle Wu Zhu again. Such sorrow made him forget that he was still impaled on the metal rod, heavily injured, and about to bid farewell to this world.

For Fan Xian, who had already seen thousands of years pass, death was not scary. What was scary was that when he died, he faced the person he was closest to. Yet, they could not recognize him. He glanced hopelessly at Wu Zhu and sprayed out a mouthful of blood. Suddenly weak, he knelt in the snow.

Wu Zhu slowly pulled out the metal rod and did not even glance at Fan Xian kneeling in front of him. With a raise of his arm, thin clothing tore through the air and smashed directly back toward Thirteenth Wang, who could no longer resist making a sneak attack from the back.

The blind-folded blind man walked steadily passed the stone stage covered with a shallow layer of snow without any change in expression. The distance of each step seemed to have been measured. He walked to the only whole building in the Temple and then sat down.

Like a soulless shell, he sat in front of the ancient treasure trove and began to stand guard, began to wait. Once the wait started, who knew if it would last a few thousand or tens of thousands of years?

Fan Xian's body finally collapsed into the snow. Fresh blood seeped out of his body. Haitang half-knelt by his body and labored to stop the bleeding. She forcefully suppressed the sorrow and shock in her heart but could not suppress the hot tears in her eyes.

Wu Zhu did make any move against Haitang and Thirteenth Wang. In the eyes of the Temple, they were Fan Xian's companions and could not impact the interest of humankind as a whole. Furthermore, it needed these two people to announce the existence of the Temple to the world. This was a simple logical deduction and did not involve anything else.

However, Haitang and Thirteenth Wang did not understand. As two powerful warriors of the human world, they looked at the blind man sitting cross-legged in front of the door of the building and felt a chill through their entire bodies, particularly Haitang. She could not understand how the blind master could attack Fan Xian. She also didn't understand why he had to sit in front of that door. A dark feeling let her know that perhaps in the long months ahead, this uncle who Fan Xian was the closest to, the most mysterious plainclothes Grandmaster in the world, would perhaps stand guard in the Temple for untold moons.

Fan Xian was about to die. Looking at the indifferent and expressionless Wu Zhu just sitting there, Haitang also felt a chill and frustration that was difficult to suppress.

The Temple recovered its quiet. The warm and calm but completely devoid of human emotion voice did not ring out again. A light snow once again fell from the sky. The snowy mountains all around sparkled with crystalline light like a non-existent object.

Wu Zhu sat indifferently in front of the door, not moving an inch, with an unspeakable aloneness and loneliness.

…

…

The snow fell endlessly, and the cold wind blew. The human heart was like the rain and snow. There was no start to loneliness and no end. Fan Xian looked at the swirling snow outside through a specially lifted crack in the tent. There was not a sliver of emotion on his face. It was just as indifferent as the blind man's in the snowy mountain in the distance.

Haitang and Thirteenth Wang experienced great hardship in carrying him down the mountain and back to their camp. They had thought Fan Xian would not make it through the day. Unexpectedly, Fan Xian had held on with his cockroach-like life force and survived.

From the moment he woke up, Fan Xian sank into silence. Haitang and Thirteenth Wang knew that his emotions were very complicated, so didn't try to disturb him. They just narrated what had happened after he fainted. Until now, Haitang and Thirteenth Wang still did not understand why the Temple wanted Fan Xian to die so much but allowed them to survive.

Fan Xian's body was very weak. Having mediated in this yuanqi rich place for a few days, he had gradually regained some of his color and strength. Due to the massive blood loss, he was on the edge of abandoning his cultivation. However, Fan Xian did not feel any disappointment or sorrow. He just stared coldly at the wind and snow outside the tent. He looked for many days, carefully nurturing his body.

According to their original plan, after they left the Temple, they had to head south as quickly as possible to avoid the wind and snow that would arrive after the summer, as well as the most terrifying eternal night. Because of Fan Xian's injury, and more so because of Fan Xian's perseverance, their camp remained behind the snowy mountain and did not shift south.

The worry between Haitang Duoduo and Thirteenth Wang's brows grew deeper each day. Although they had obtained nothing in this journey to the Temple, at least for them, to be able to enter the Temple alive and leave it alive was already an impossible mission. They did not dare to hope for more.

Of course, they understood why Fan Xian was unwilling to leave the mountain. The person he could least let go off was within the temple in the mountain. But, they truly could not understand what they, mortals, could do when faced with the mysterious Temple.

Haitang and Thirteenth Wang were not Fan Xian. They could not see through to the truth of the Temple. They could only know that even such a powerful warrior as Wu Zhu could not go against the Temple's orders and had attacked Fan Xian, who was his closest family. One might well ask what else the three of them could do other than stand pointlessly outside under these circumstances.

Fan Xian did not think like this. He would rather die than watch Uncle Wu Zhu stand guard, solitary and impoverished, in the Temple for tens of thousands of years. Fan Xian now had a faint idea of Uncle Wu Zhu's true identity, but he still used the words solitary and impoverished to describe him because he knew that Wu Zhu was not the same as the Temple.

Uncle Wu Zhu had emotions and connections. He was not an icy program. He was a living and breathing person. Fan Xan firmly believed this because in the dim secret room in the junk shop in Danzhou, he had once seen a smile more radiant than a flower. Furthermore, after tending to his wounds in Dong Mountain, Uncle Wu Zhu seemed more and more like a person.

Fan Xian didn't know when such a change began. Perhaps it was tens of thousands of years ago when the blind-folded emissary traveled through the various human tribes as an emissary of god and had seen too much of humankind's sorrows and joys, partings and unions? Or, perhaps Uncle Wu Zhu was the most powerful existence in the Temple and amidst hundreds of thousands of years of change, he had taken a path completely different to the Temple itself. Maybe it because of the sudden appearance, for reasons no one knew of, of a spirit-like life a few decades ago in the Temple. Had something been triggered in Uncle Wu Zhu amidst his interactions with that little girl?

Fan Xian didn't want to investigate this and didn't need to investigate it. He only knew that when he was reborn into this world, he was lying on Uncle Wu Zhu's back. The first person he had seen was Uncle Wu Zhu.

Uncle Wu Zhu's back was warm. Although Fan Xian had never seen his eyes, presumably they were filled with emotion.

Fan Xian did not know how the Temple regained control of Uncle Wu Zhu. Perhaps it was similar to brainwashing, a re-start, or maybe he had been formatted. In any case, the light of intelligence and emotion in Uncle Wu Zhu's body was now completely invisible.

This reality made Fan Xian feel particularly sorrowful and angry. He could not just watch as this happened and do absolutely nothing. For him, the powerful existence guarding the Temple was only Uncle Wu Zhu's body. If he could recover Uncle Wu Zhu's soul, it would be as if he died.

Twenty odd years ago, in the purge carried out by the Temple and the Emperor, Wu Zhu killed an unknown number of emissaries from the Temple. He was also heavily injured. Using Chen Pingping and Wu Zhu's own words, he forgot many things.

This loss of memory must have been caused by the Temple. However, it was fortunate that Wu Zhu only forgot some matters from previous years but remembered clearly the most recent things. He remembered Ye Qingmei and Fan Xian. However, the WU Zhu in the mountain now did not remember anything.

Fan Xian's eyelids drooped slightly, but a very bright light flashed across his pupils. His body was still weak, but his confidence was unusually abundant. He would not leave the mountain. He had to return to the Temple and bring Uncle Wu Zhu back because he wasn't dead. Wu Zhu's strike had not killed him.

Fan Xian accurately deduced that the Temple did not have complete control over Uncle Wu Zhu, this wholly different life. At least, those names engraved into Uncle Wu Zhu's life had successfully interfered with Uncle Wu Zhu's actions so that he did not kill Fan Xian.with the

Given Wu Zhu's abilities, deducing whether Fan Xian would live or die would be the simplest matter. However, he let Fan Xian go. This was the core of Fan Xian's confidence. He believed that Uncle Wu Zhu would certainly wake up one day.

Many, many years ago, Ye Qingmei escaped the Temple with the help of Ku He and Xiao En and headed north in the wind and snow. Then, one day, the 4-year-old girl sighed and stared in a daze toward the north from the opening of the tent and said, "He is too pitiful."

Many years later, the heavily injured Fan Xian left the Temple with the help of Haitang and Thirteenth Wang, but he didn't actually leave. He also didn't sigh because he was not going to abandon the pitiful blind man and return to the bustling world.

In the end, Ye Qingmei bravely returned to the Temple, took Wu Zhu, stole the chest, and left again. Fan Xian also had to return. The passing of decades seemed to have sunk into another cycle of sorts. This kind of cycle did not make one feel any dryness. There was only a faint sense of warmth.

When Fan Xian was able to walk again, the wind and snow surrounding the mountain had grown heavy. For the second time, he walked into the snowy mountain, just like the choice his mother, Ye Qingmei, had made in the past. Neither he nor his mother could let go of that one person.

Chapter end