Qu Hun

Han Li felt the giant’s chilled skin against his fingertips. He studied the man’s dull, vacant eyes, and in his mind, he pieced together everything that must have happened to Zhang Tie.

Nine times out of ten, Doctor Mo had collaborated with Yu Zitong. They had seized Zhang Tie when his Elephant Hide Art had reached a promising level, fabricated the story of his desertion to fool the Seven Mysteries Sect’s countless informants, and then, in secret, used some kind of sorcery to strip Zhang Tie of his very soul. They had warped his body into this grotesque state—the very spitting image of what the Elephant Hide Art looked like when mastered.

Han Li’s guess was accurate. The truth was not far off.

Back then, Doctor Mo had conceived a strange ambition. He intended to combine the Elephant Hide Art with the corpse-refining techniques Yu Zitong had provided, to create a legion of obedient, flesh-and-steel warriors that could sweep the Jianghu. But in the short time available, he had only managed to complete this one giant. He treasured it as a priceless asset, keeping it hidden in a secret location at the foot of the mountain, and had only brought it back with him during his last return to the sect.

Yu Zitong, however, had not the slightest interest in such a bastardized corpse-soldier. He sneered at it. In his view, when his true body was still intact, he had far too many ways to subdue an incomplete puppet like this. Compared to the advanced Iron-Armored Corpses used by true cultivators, the giant’s power was laughably weak. It could only strut about in the mundane world. Its only virtue was that the materials were simple and the process easy—anyone with the faintest trace of magic power could manufacture one.

A long moment passed. Then, abruptly, Han Li withdrew the hand he had placed on the giant’s face. He tore his gaze away, unsettled, and stared at the shattered stone door, lost in thought.

In that instant, he felt a chill in his heart. Not because of Zhang Tie’s miserable fate, but because of his own cold indifference. It made him uneasy.

He had thought that when he learned the truth of his friend’s tragic end, he would throw back his head and roar, screaming the names “Mo Juren” and “Yu Zitong” with a voice full of hatred and fury.

But in reality, aside from a faint sorrow, there was no great agitation, no blazing rage. It was as if the man who had fallen to this state was not his old friend Zhang Tie, but a stranger—a passerby.

Was it because he knew the thing before him was only a shell, not the man himself? Or had his heart already turned so bloody and hard?

This selfish, cold display frightened even Han Li. Only now did he realize how strange he had become, and he did not know when it had happened.

Han Li finally shook off his stupor. He looked at the giant with complicated eyes, unsure what to call him.

He remembered Doctor Mo’s words: “The soul is already lost.” “A walking corpse.”

He lifted his head to the sky and spoke softly:

“Brother Zhang. You must have already reincarnated by now. The body you have left behind is of no more use to you. Let me borrow it to serve me. I will use it with care. I hope you will not blame me.”

After this prayer-like declaration, Han Li felt a little better—a self-administered absolution. He then addressed the giant again:

“Since you are the shell Brother Zhang left behind, with no will of your own, I will call you Qu Hun. I hope that in the days to come, you will lend me your strength.”

At his words, the giant stood motionless, wearing the same obedient expression as always, showing not the faintest reaction. It seemed he truly had no consciousness left and could only receive commands by rote.

“I’m talking to a soulless body like this. How foolish of me.” Han Li shook his head in self-mockery. Then he stepped lightly toward the stone room.

“Qu Hun. Follow.”

He had fully recovered from his low spirits. His expression was normal, as if nothing had happened. Indeed, he had become just as he suspected: unnaturally hardened and rational, no longer easily troubled by emotion.

Whether this dramatic change was a blessing or a curse for a young man about to step onto the path of the immortal cultivator—who could say?

For the rest of the day, Han Li busied himself with tying up every loose end. He spent a long time at it.

Not only did he bury Doctor Mo’s corpse under a large tree, he also destroyed and discarded every item left in the stone room. He even ordered Qu Hun to smash the entire chamber, breaking the place into a pile of unrecognizable rubble. Only then did he stop.

After this thorough purge, the sky had turned to dusk. The sun was already setting.

Han Li stood before the pile of broken stones that had once been the stone chamber. He swept his gaze across the area, found no trace of oversight, and nodded in satisfaction.

“Qu Hun. Let’s go.”

“There’s a mountain of things to take care of tomorrow. It’s a shame you have no mind and can’t speak. If I had someone to discuss things with, I’d feel a lot steadier.”

Bathed in the fiery red glow of the setting sun, Han Li dragged his long, thin shadow across the ground. He muttered endlessly at the giant he had renamed Qu Hun, as if he had finally found a confidant—a good listener who would never complain. In that moment, there was not a trace of coldness or ruthlessness about him. He was just a boy from the neighborhood.

After settling Qu Hun in, Han Li returned to his own quarters. Inside, like a stranger returning home after a long absence, he touched the tables and chairs here, ran his fingers over surfaces there, and murmured to himself:

“What a long day. It feels longer than all the years I’ve lived before this one put together.”

Then he threw himself onto the bed and slept like the dead.

He was exhausted. In spirit, and in body, he was utterly drained.

Still, it felt good to be alive. A smile tugged at the corner of his lips as he slipped into sleep, and he could not help but think: it’s good to be alive.