Refuse to trample on the pride of heaven

Qu Yanhui's voice came from the puppet, carrying a weariness as if all the edges had been worn away by the years, and an indifference as if she had seen through everything. It was light yet heavy, hitting everyone's heart: "...Now that things have come to this, the dust has settled. Is it still important to bring up the past and argue about right and wrong?"

There was no resentment or relief in his tone, only a deep-seated weariness, as if he were telling a story that was unrelated to him, a story so distant that it had long been blurred.

However, what he received in response was two resolute and unquestionable words from Lu Wensheng:

"important."

His voice was clear and melodious, like the gentle tapping of a jade chime in the deathly silent Demon Abyss Cave, carrying a power that penetrated the heart.

Past slanders are not the end of the story.

The dust of time cannot obscure the weight of the truth, nor can it heal the wounds etched by injustice.

Can those undeserved grievances be so easily erased and treated as if they never happened, simply because they happened a long time ago?

For those who have been wronged, trampled on, and deprived of everything, this clear name and this belated justice are also of paramount importance.

Lu Wensheng's deep brown eyes were now crystal clear, as if they could reflect the most subtle wrinkles in people's hearts.

He was not merely stating a principle, but attempting to touch upon and understand the pain that has been ignored by the world and buried by time.

He could almost "see" how that young man, equally passionate about the art of puppetry, was rendered speechless by the sudden framing; how he was driven to despair by the cold, unanimous accusations of his former fellow disciples; and how he was easily sacrificed in the "judgment" of the sect's higher-ups, perhaps tainted by self-interest.

He could empathize with that extraordinary talent yet loneliness, and feel the chilling sense of faith crumbling and being abandoned by the whole world.

This understanding is not simply sympathy, but stems from an instinctive defense of "justice," a persistent pursuit of "truth," and a deep appreciation for the dignity that every independent soul deserves.

Qu Yan Hui, on the other end, seemed stunned, separated by the cold puppet and the distant space.

Through the lark's inorganic, glassy eyes, he "looked down" at the young man in the cave who was looking up with clear, autumn-like eyes.

He wondered if it was the puppet body that blocked his senses, or if the emotions in the other person's eyes were too complex and difficult to discern, but he suddenly couldn't see clearly whether what was in the depths of that gaze was pity, inquiry, or something else that he had long forgotten.

“This is very important.”

Lu Wensheng repeated himself, his tone deep and resolute, each word carrying immense weight, leaving no room for doubt or evasion.

Just as you later used such ruthless methods to gouge out the eyes of those who blatantly lied and framed you unjustly, so that they could "see clearly" what the truth was; and to pull out the tongues of those who followed the crowd, gossiped, and kicked you when you were down, so that they could "stop talking nonsense" about those slanderous words—doesn't this show that deep down, you have never truly let go, and have always been using your own way, persistently, even obsessively, to demand justice, a belated "seeing clearly," and "shutting up" from this world that owes you so much?

Those bloody reprisals, aren't they also a twisted, desperate cry? A cry for your injustice, your resentment, for the innocence and honor that were forcibly taken from you?

Lu Wensheng didn't say these words aloud, but Qu Yanhui understood them inexplicably and clearly.

On the other end, the skillful and lifelike lark puppet suddenly lost all sound and stood frozen in the air, as if it had become a truly dead object.

Meanwhile, in a distant and unknown hiding place, the young man who was controlling it seemed to have lost all his support, and he leaned back abruptly, bursting into uncontrollable laughter.

The laughter was initially low and suppressed, as if it were being squeezed out from the depths of his throat, hoarse and grating like sandpaper, but then it grew louder and louder, more and more out of control, like a flood bursting its banks, washing away all the dams of indifference and nonchalance he had used to disguise himself for so many years.

He tilted his head back, his pale, almost transparent hands helplessly covering his face, which was trembling with intense emotion, trying to conceal his out-of-control expression.

However, the tears he had held back for years, which he thought had long since dried up, now surged forth like molten lava, carrying with them endless grudges and resentments. They broke through his hardened defenses and overflowed uncontrollably from between his fingers, meandering down and soaking his pale wrists, scalding his already numb soul.

Yes, this is actually very important to him! Extremely important!

He thought he had long been accustomed to infamy, to the fear and contempt of the world, and to wrap himself in layers of stronger armor, burying his past wounds along with his so-called "innocence."

He thought time could smooth everything over, and that strength could fill all gaps.

But when someone told him so solemnly and unequivocally that "this is important," he was shocked to realize that beneath the seemingly scabbed wound, the pus and blood had never dried up; the injustice that had been forcibly suppressed had never truly subsided for a moment!

He seemed nonchalant, as if he had already laughed off the past.

But those seemingly indifferent words that he squeezed out from between his teeth, weren't they all bloody, covered with sharp barbs, deeply embedded in his heart, constantly reminding him of the injustice he suffered?

He minds it! He minds it extremely!

He was bothered by how easily those fabricated charges had destroyed his once bright and promising future!

He was bothered by how his former fellow disciples, for their own self-preservation or personal gain, did not hesitate to smear him, this "outsider"!

He resented the sect's indifference and injustice, how easily they treated him as a disposable pawn!

He was more concerned about why people would rather believe those flawed "evidence" than explore the possible truth behind them!

What he lost was not only his reputation, his sect, and his place of refuge, but also his last shred of trust in the "righteous path," his "fellow disciples," and "justice," and his most basic dignity as a "human being"!

What will these people, these forces, these indifferent onlookers use to make amends?

What can they possibly use to mend his shattered life and his heart, which is already riddled with holes and covered in ice?

Regret, like a venomous snake, silently gnawed at his heart between bursts of laughter and tears.

He regretted not his initial rebellion, nor his later revenge, but rather... perhaps he shouldn't have harbored any unrealistic illusions about the Kui Sect or this so-called "righteous path" in the first place, because of the insignificant warmth and appreciation from Daoist Qingxuan.

What he regrets even more is that he has implicated the elderly man who had truly cared for him.

Although Master Qingxuan was not related to him by blood, he valued his talent and spoke up for him in front of the public on many occasions, and protected him when he was ostracized.

But in the end, because of his reputation as a "traitor," he must have suffered a lot of criticism and entanglement in the Puppet City. It was he who betrayed that rare kindness that was not mixed with self-interest.

After the incident, his life as a fugitive, living in darkness, plunged him into the abyss.

Like rats in the gutter, they couldn't stand the light, constantly on guard against being hunted down by their former fellow disciples and the hostility from the entire cultivation world.

The feeling of being abandoned by the whole world was like ice water seeping into his limbs, making him realize clearly that he was born perhaps not worthy of enjoying any warmth or having any peace, destined to struggle in the mud and darkness, and to associate with filth.

One step wrong, step by step wrong.

If the initial injustice is not redressed, it will be like the first drop of ink on a blank sheet of paper. All subsequent struggles and counter-terrorism efforts, regardless of their initial intentions, will only cause that ink to spread and expand in the eyes of the world, eventually turning him completely black.

The blood on Qu Yanhui's hands and the heinous crimes she committed later were perhaps the result of her personality being gradually driven to the brink of despair and ultimately shattered after that unjust verdict.

It was this murky world that sculpted a once sincere young man into the crazy and twisted person he is today, a person he no longer recognizes.