Chapter 120: The Final Technique (Part 2)
Mo Yu asked, "Why must you have Zhe Xiu speak?"
Zhou Tong said, "Because no one will believe that Chen Changsheng colluded with the demon race. The death of that Mount Li disciple can only make people suspect it, but it’s not enough to shake their convictions—unless Zhe Xiu admits they did something."
As the youngest dean of the National Teaching Academy in history, in many people’s eyes, Chen Changsheng was highly likely to become the next master of the Li Palace. The next Pope—there was no brighter future in this world than that. The demon race could never offer better terms, so there was no reason for him to betray humanity and collude with them to commit those deeds.
Mo Yu was silent for a moment, then asked, "Do you believe it?"
No matter how the continent judged Zhou Tong, no matter how cruel and terrifying his methods were, everyone acknowledged that in matters of interrogation, Zhou Tong was unparalleled in the world.
"Belief has never been the important thing; evidence is what matters most," Zhou Tong said. "That’s why I’ll give that wolf tribe youth another month. In truth, that month is also for myself."
Mo Yu looked into his calm, unrippling eyes and asked, "Even if the military has strong objections to this?"
The corner of Zhou Tong’s mouth twitched slightly, which counted as a smile. "Do you think I care about that?"
Mo Yu said with a hint of sarcasm, "I’ve always wondered, aside from Her Majesty, what else do you actually care about?"
Zhou Tong didn’t respond to her somewhat disrespectful remark. Instead, he changed the subject. "Actually, I do care about some very interesting people and things. For example, that dead Mount Li disciple. If I weren’t certain he was truly dead, I’d very much like him to be my successor."
Mo Yu’s expression shifted slightly. "Why?"
"I rarely see someone so ruthless toward themselves. If someone can be that cruel to themselves, they likely hold no love for this world either. And that is the prerequisite for being my successor."
Zhou Tong certainly had no love for this world—not even a shred of goodwill. "Moreover, Liang Xiaoxiao’s judgment of the broader situation and his deduction of events were extremely precise. He knew very well that even his own death wouldn’t be enough to drag Chen Changsheng and Zhe Xiu into the abyss. So, in his final performance outside the Garden of Zhou, he very clearly split Mount Li and the capital into two separate lines. Framing Chen Changsheng and Zhe Xiu was just a side move. His real target was Mount Li, Su Li, and of course, that girl named Seven Intervals."
Hearing this, Mo Yu suddenly felt a chill run through her body. So Zhou Tong knew everything—he was fully aware. He knew that Seven Intervals was Su Li’s daughter, knew the grudges in Liang Xiaoxiao’s heart, and knew that all of this was a conspiracy.
"So you knew everything all along..." She stared into Zhou Tong’s eyes.
Zhou Tong ignored her and continued, "Many people need Chen Changsheng to have colluded with the demon race. Liang Xiaoxiao used the final technique of the Mount Li Sword Art to kill himself. That’s truly remarkable."
Mo Yu asked, "So what do you think? Didn’t you say you value evidence the most?"
Zhou Tong was silent for a while, then suddenly said, "Chen Changsheng’s teacher is the Daoist Calculator. What exactly is the relationship between the Daoist Calculator and the Black Robe? No one knows. So why couldn’t Chen Changsheng have colluded with the demon race? Besides, Chen Changsheng is still alive. Since the Garden of Zhou has been destroyed, and so many people at the main gate didn’t see him, how did he leave the Garden of Zhou? Another gate? Don’t forget, only the Black Robe knows where the other gates of the Garden of Zhou are."
Mo Yu was silent for a long time, then said, "So you really do suspect him."
Zhou Tong stood up, walked to the entrance of the main hall, and looked up at the stars in the night sky. "Liang Xiaoxiao’s accusation, delivered through his death, carries great weight. Coincidentally, there are many in the capital who need Chen Changsheng to have colluded with the demon race. Coincidentally, the fact that Chen Changsheng could leave the Garden of Zhou suggests he might have colluded with them. So of course, I want to know whether he actually did."
Mo Yu walked up behind him and said with a warning tone, "His Holiness the Pope will trust him."
Zhou Tong’s expression suddenly turned strange. "If, under these circumstances, His Holiness still insists on trusting him, then does that mean His Holiness is no longer worthy of trust?"
Mo Yu suddenly felt the eerie aura seeping up from beneath the courtyard ahead, and the air around her body grew bitterly cold. She didn’t know what else to say in this situation.
"You should first figure out what Her Majesty truly thinks."
"Then, what about your thoughts?"
Zhou Tong clasped his hands behind his back, gazing at the night sky, his voice as faint as the air after rain. His gaunt figure looked somewhat desolate in the darkness, making him seem very much like a melancholic poet.
"Me? Thoughts about what?"
"Your thoughts on Chen Changsheng."
"Do you want to die?" Mo Yu barked angrily.
Zhou Tong’s expression didn’t change at all. He said calmly, "The day the news that Chen Changsheng was still alive reached the capital, I heard that the flowers in the Orange Garden bloomed overnight. It seems your mood was really good."
The anger in Mo Yu’s eyes turned into killing intent.
Zhou Tong didn’t turn around, seemingly oblivious to her gaze.
Mo Yu left, and Zhou Tong began to take a walk.
The entire capital, even the entire continent, knew that Zhou Tong had few hobbies—only taking walks and personally administering torture.
He was strict with others, but even stricter with himself. He never indulged in pleasures of the flesh, nor had he ever lived a dissolute life, even when he was young. He lived extremely methodically and rigorously, which could also be described as dull and monotonous. Of course, he also wrote poetry—poems of grief and indignation for his country. He also wrote memorials—strategic essays for the state. His life was like that of a great Confucian scholar. Before Her Majesty the Saint Empress, he was by no means a flattering minister, but a forthright one. Moreover, he was the most incorruptible official in the history of the Great Zhou Dynasty, because he never lacked money, and because no one dared to bribe him.
In his residence, he kept fifteen three-headed black hounds. These powerful demonic beasts, found only in the depths of the demon realm, had grotesque and terrifying appearances, along with formidable reconnaissance abilities and combat prowess. The black saliva they drooled could corrode even the hardest metal. It was probably for this reason that Lord Zhou Tong had never been corrupted by money—those who tried to bribe him couldn’t get near his residence, and those who attempted to sneak into his grounds to offer bribes would become food for these black three-headed hounds. Who knew how many human bones lay beneath the grass and trees around his residence?
In the dead of night, over a dozen three-headed hounds stood in the darkness, their black, glossy skin glinting eerily under the starlight. Beneath the claws and fangs of these black demonic hounds lay a dungeon.
Zhe Xiu was imprisoned in this dungeon. Fifty-five extremely fine metal chains pierced through his body, and his skin was covered in blood—dried or fresh. In many places, even the white of his bones was visible.
After an unknown amount of time, he woke up. Sensing the air coming through the ventilation hole, he lifted his head with difficulty, looked toward it, and breathed rapidly several times.
Through it, he could see a small patch of night sky, with a few stars. He stared at it, his eyes seeming greedy. But in truth, he couldn’t see anything at all now.
Deep in his pupils was a lemon-yellow color.
That was the color of peacock plume toxin mixed with blood.
It was a bit sour.
(I’ve been busy all day, yet I didn’t miss an update. I really am... remarkable.)