The Zither in the Moonlit Tower, Part 1

The night before entering Canglong Mountain, the village at its base was eerily quiet, undisturbed.

At dawn, Mu Hanyuan selected a team of disciples to follow Yun Yao into the mountain to investigate the mysterious miasma.
Before their departure, he declared that all actions in the mountain were to be directed by Yun Yao, with no disobedience allowed, or they’d face sect punishment for disrespecting an elder.

A day earlier, some bold disciple might have dared question the order.

But after Yun Yao’s scathing rebuke and the awe of her single zither string’s might, even the disgruntled He Fengming and his group didn’t dare protest in front of Mu Hanyuan and Chen Jianxue. They only grumbled roughly in acknowledgment.

As Mu Hanyuan issued the order, Yun Yao stood alone under an ancient tree outside the courtyard, leaning lazily against it, resting.

Whether due to the original body or herself, Yun Yao felt an unrelenting lethargy since arriving in Qianyuan Realm. Her memories in her sea of consciousness were fragmented, flickering in and out.
Sometimes, she could barely distinguish whether they were the original’s or her own.

…Perhaps from living too long?

Hearing footsteps approach, she straightened lazily, stretching. The small turtle shell on her wrist dangled, glinting in the sunlight.

“Master.”
Mu Hanyuan’s divine sense transmission echoed in her mind.

Yun Yao frowned, turning to the approaching figure. “Speak aloud. I don’t want your voice in my head.”

Her eyes caught the white silk over his eyes, and she paused.
Was she too harsh on this poor, blind disciple—her only one?

Especially when Mu Hanyuan, hearing her, seemed to falter briefly. If he weren’t the revered Lord Hanyuan, admired across the realms, she’d think he was momentarily at a loss.

Thankfully, it was only a fleeting illusion.

He lowered his head slightly, relaying the arrangements for the disciples.

Yun Yao listened. “Oh.”
She shifted, her gaze drifting past him to He Fengming and the others chosen to follow her, waiting nearby.

Catching her glance, He Fengming snorted, turning away.

Yun Yao: “…”

She looked back. “Into the mountain, and babysitting a bunch of kids? What if I lose one? Especially He Fengming—he clearly doesn’t want to go with me. Why not let him stay to protect your frail junior sister?”

Mu Hanyuan, as if missing her sarcasm, replied gently, “In cultivation and combat, He Fengming is the most outstanding among the disciples. With him, he can… ease your burden.”

Ease her burden?
He’d be lucky not to add to it.

She shot him a look. “He’s the most outstanding? And you? Worse than him?”

Mu Hanyuan paused longer this time.
As Yun Yao wondered if she was too petty with her disciple, he asked softly, “Yun Yaojiu, do you insist I go with you?”

“…”

He asked earnestly.
Yun Yao felt a strange twinge.

—It sounded like if she insisted, he’d follow her into Canglong Mountain.

He continued, “If you insist—”

“Who’s insisting?”
Cutting him off, face blank, she turned. “Call those burdens over. We need to enter before noon, when yang energy peaks.”

Helpless, Mu Hanyuan turned, his silk catching the sharp, clean outline of her red robes—
No sword, not even a jade ornament.
His expression faltered.

Soon, He Fengming, face long as a plank, led the disciples to Yun Yao’s side.
“Lord Hanyuan,” he saluted with his sword, then turned to Yun Yao with a pinched expression. “…Martial Aunt Yun.”

The others followed suit.

Seeing his displeasure, Yun Yao’s mood lifted.
She beckoned like calling a puppy. “Keep up. If anyone gets lost, I won’t come back for you.”

He Fengming, annoyed, turned aside. “Senior Sister, look at her—”

“He Fengming.” Mu Hanyuan’s voice cut in.

It was his usual gentle, composed tone, his demeanor unchanged.

Yet inexplicably, He Fengming felt a chill under the blazing sun.
He shut up, shrinking back.

Yun Yao scoffed, “Let’s go.”

He Fengming and the others followed glumly.

Through the silk, seeing her lead with empty hands, Mu Hanyuan called softly, “Yun Yaojiu.”

She stopped, turning, puzzled.

He sensed the radiant sunlight, her red robes vibrant beneath it, likely as she was back then.
If only he could see.

Blind for days without a trace of frustration, now, for the first time, he urgently wished the poison would fade.

Three hundred years apart, he wanted to see if his master was still as she was before the Abyss of Heaven’s End.

“Speak,” Yun Yao said, impatient after a few silent breaths.

He lowered his gaze. “You really won’t take Crane Feather?”

“Too cold-looking. I don’t like it,” she said lazily. “Your Mercy? I might consider… pulling its strings to use as a whip?”

Amid the disciples’ incredulous and angry glares, she flashed a careless smile, the blood butterfly on her forehead seeming to flutter.

“Well, Lord Hanyuan, willing to part with it?”

He fell silent.

Yun Yao smirked silently, turning to leave.

Whoosh.
A spiritual ripple stirred behind.

“—”

For the first time in three hundred years, Mercy appeared in its true form behind her.

Even without looking, it felt like an old friend long parted. Her divine sense brushed it, sensing three centuries of moonlight-like radiance, serene and boundless.

Crane Feather paled in comparison.
Whoever gifted this zither must have scoured the world, pouring their heart into it.

“…Senior Brother!”
Chen Jianxue’s rare urgency snapped Yun Yao’s drifting thoughts back.

Behind her, He Fengming and the others seemed alarmed.
“Lord Hanyuan!”
“Absolutely not!”
“How could Lord Hanyuan let her act so recklessly…”
“…”

Only now did Yun Yao realize—he actually brought out Mercy for her to pull its strings?

“Today, Yun Yaojiu acts on my behalf in the mountain. If she wishes to borrow it, I should comply.”

Mu Hanyuan’s voice drifted, explaining to them.

“Senior Brother!”
Chen Jianxue, always gentle, raised her voice in urgency. “But this is Mercy, your life-bound treasure, cherished for years. How could you let its strings be—”

“Enough, stop arguing. I was joking.”
Yun Yao’s head ached, and she fled toward the village’s edge without hesitation. “You lot catch up. I’m not staying—moving ahead. He Fengming, you’re not following?”

“…”

Behind her unyielding figure, He Fengming and the disciples hesitated two breaths, then reluctantly followed on their swords, leaving the village.

Soon, their figures blurred among the houses, no longer distinct.
Yun Yao, casually perched on a branch, withdrew her divine sense.
Her expression was odd.

Though she’d teased him, she hadn’t meant to test Mu Hanyuan, never expecting he’d actually offer Mercy for her to use as a whip.

Judging by the others’ reactions, the tales’ claim that his zither was his very self held true.

Yet he was willing, leaving her with one explanation—

He honored all who held his gratitude, granting their requests.
…Truly a saint.

So, the question:
How did such a saintly gentleman fall to become the Demon Lord in the tales?

To be honest, Yun Yao didn’t take this Canglong Mountain trip seriously.

She believed Mu Hanyuan felt the same.

As the revered “Lord Hanyuan” for over a century, he’d likely noticed the tail following their boat since leaving Qianmen. She guessed his splitting the group wasn’t about the mountain but the mysterious stalker.
In other words, both sensed the real danger lay not within the mountain but outside.

Of course, the brainless wouldn’t think so deeply—

“Some people cling desperately to be Lord Hanyuan’s junior sister, but he cares most for Senior Sister Jianxue. In such danger, he pushes her out first. What’s the use of her empty title?”

Less than a hundred zhang from Canglong Mountain, Yun Yao had the disciples dismount their swords, switching to foot travel.
Some grumbled, but Mu Hanyuan’s orders held; they didn’t dare object outright.

Before entering the forest, Yun Yao caught a female disciple’s lowered but audible mutter.

The disciple, Yan Ruoyu, paused awkwardly when no one responded. “Right, Brother He?”

Before He Fengming could reply, Yun Yao, leading, couldn’t hold back a soft laugh.

“—”

Yan Ruoyu’s face flushed red, glaring. “…What’s so funny?”

“The Sect Leader doesn’t meddle as much as you. What, you’re acting leader now?” Yun Yao didn’t turn, using a snapped branch as a sword to part the grass, retorting with a half-smile.

Yan Ruoyu snapped, “I’m not meddling, just stating facts. Can’t Martial Aunt handle that? In Qianmen, seeing Lord Hanyuan and Senior Sister Jianxue daily, you’ll have plenty to feel wronged about.”

“Wronged? Mu Hanyuan chose me to lead. Maybe he trusts me more.”

Yun Yao plucked a leaf, spouting nonsense.
Her mind was elsewhere—the mist around them had thickened since dismounting, obscuring trees ten zhang away.
This “miasma” had a source.

Yan Ruoyu laughed incredulously. “Daydreaming? Why would Senior Brother trust you more? Senior Sister Jianxue was the champion of the last sect competition!”

“The competition’s every five years. Champions are as common as the cranes on Qiyue Peak. Rare?”
Yun Yao confirmed something on the leaf, tossing it aside.
A smile curled her lips.

The red-robed girl turned, eyes crinkling, seeming in high spirits. “Maybe this mist is strange, trapping those who enter. Senior Brother thinks only if I get stuck will he find me.”

“? How would Lord Hanyuan find you?”

Yun Yao, hands behind her back, blinked innocently. “Because he and I are of one heart?”

Yan Ruoyu: “…”
Yan Ruoyu: “??”

Not just her—other disciples, circling warily, turned back, their expressions indescribable.

He Fengming noticed first, eyeing her radiant smile hesitantly. “Did you find something?”

Yun Yao glanced at him, surprised.

Though she didn’t speak, He Fengming felt like he heard, “Oh, you actually have a brain?”
He Fengming: “…”

Swallowing his humiliation, he sheathed his probing sword, standing tall. “You had us dismount before the miasma for a reason, didn’t you?”

With him leading, others looked over.

“The reason’s simple. Haven’t you noticed? In this so-called miasma, divine sense reaches only a hundred zhang at most.”
“…”

Silence fell.
Getting no response, Yun Yao turned, meeting their odd expressions, and realized.

“Oh, your cultivation’s too low. Your divine sense doesn’t even reach a hundred zhang.”

Disciples: “…”
Shut up.

Among them, only He Fengming stayed composed, his gaze on Yun Yao growing stranger—

Mu Hanyuan hadn’t lied; he was the most outstanding disciple, trained under core Elder Lu Chang’an, with broad knowledge.
Only those above the Soul Transformation realm could project divine sense a hundred zhang. In the four great sects, that qualified for core elder status.
And she was wielding a sword—
No, a branch—at the time.

His expression twisted further.

Yun Yao, surprised, glanced at He Fengming but didn’t plan to hide it. “I’m not sure how it formed, but I’m certain this isn’t miasma.”

A disciple asked, “Why? Even if the villagers got lost, if it’s not toxic, why did Tianyin Sect disciples enter and never return?”

“I said, I don’t know.”
Before more questions, Yun Yao flicked her branch at the foliage by her boots. “If it were toxic, these plants would show damage, even if not wilted. But I checked—since entering, whether the ‘miasma’ is thick or thin, the vegetation’s growth is normal.”

The disciples’ faces darkened.

If it were toxic miasma, they could handle it—each carried antidote and detox pills. But if not, the Tianyin Sect disciples’ disappearance was too eerie.

“One more thing.” Yun Yao lifted her fingers, showing white residue from the leaf, crumbling to powder. “This leaf has a white layer that breaks when wiped. Seen such a miasma?”

The disciples exchanged glances through the thin fog, each face blurring into something unsettling.

“Is it… getting thicker?”
“Sister Ding, don’t scare me!”
“My divine sense range is shrinking!”
“Can you still see the path we came from?”
“Who touched me—”

“Silence!”

Yun Yao’s sharp command jolted them.
The red-robed girl, moments ago joking, now bore a cold expression, her sharp features radiating a chilling menace.

After quelling their panic, she softened slightly. “This strange fog has sources—multiple, moving ones, likely living creatures.”

“…”

The disciples froze, instinctively inching toward the vivid red in the milky mist.

Yun Yao noticed but said nothing, ordering them to form a sword array and set a barrier.
“Block the fog out first.”

No one dared disobey, complying swiftly.

Even Yan Ruoyu, who’d mocked her, paled. “Martial… Aunt Yun, the fog’s thicker.”

Without turning, Yun Yao said coldly, “Think I’m Mu Hanyuan?”

“?”

No one understood. She clarified, “I’m not blind. I can see.”

Ding Xiao, silent till now, muttered, “…Martial Aunt, is now the time to mock Lord Hanyuan?”

“Better to die laughing than crying, no?”

Ding Xiao: “—I don’t want to die, Martial Aunt??”

Before Yun Yao could “comfort” her, the youngest disciple, trembling, asked, “Is… anyone feeling dizzy?”

All had passed Foundation Building, shedding mortal limits. If it wasn’t poison yet caused dizziness…

Yun Yao’s face shifted.

“Everyone, cycle your spiritual energy, check your meridians and organs!”

“My spiritual flow’s sluggish!”
“Mine too!”
“What is this? We took antidote pills!”
“Look at the barrier—the white fog outside… it’s not fog, it’s white threads!”

They stared.
On the barrier, under spiritual urging, the fog condensed—countless tiny, twisted white threads.

In panic, their fear surged.

Yun Yao, gritting her teeth, stared at the white filaments. “…Nightmare Threads.”

“What’s that?”

The Qianmen disciples exchanged despairing looks, none recognizing the name.

“Threads of the Nightmare Beast. Those who dream, die.”

Her face was frosty, but inside, she was reeling—

Something her Fifth Senior Brother eradicated four hundred years ago—how was it in this tiny Canglong Mountain?