When the Cannon Fodder Male Supporting Role Picks Up the Script - Chapter 160

With the fall of the Fengtian Temple, Yun Zhuoran had expected the Xingxiu Sect—once under its influence—to crumble as well. What he hadn’t foreseen was that after their retreat from Yun City, the Xingxiu Sect didn’t seek vengeance for the Saintess. Instead, they joined forces with the Zhuyin Sect and launched a sudden night raid on Shengjing, sparking a crisis that shook both the righteous and demonic paths.

On the way to Shengjing, Qin Zheng briefed Yun Zhuoran on the unrest spreading among the righteous sects. The attack had alarmed the entire cultivation world, and major sects had already sent their forces to assist. Shen Lingshu’s unexpected intervention forced Qin Zheng to act personally, while he also coordinated the Tiandao Sect’s response to the invasion.

Qin Zheng speculated that Shen Lingshu’s fierce defense of Shengjing—his sealing of the city and refusal to let anyone enter—was tied to the Shen family.

“After Shen Fu’s death, his younger sister Shen Xi took over the household,” Qin Zheng explained. “Despite the family’s ruined reputation, she managed to keep them together for half a year. Then, the Xingxiu Sect and Zhuyin Sect attacked. Shen Xi sought aid from the nearby aristocratic families, but no one answered. In the end, both sects wiped them out. I believe that’s why Shen Lingshu barred outsiders from Shengjing.”

No one had expected the demonic sects to strike Shengjing so suddenly—or the Shen family to fall on the same night. 

Perhaps that massacre had ignited Shen Lingshu’s fury, awakening the full power of the Immortal Bone. After annihilating the invaders, he didn’t pursue further bloodshed. He merely expelled all outsiders from Shengjing and issued a single challenge—to Yun Zhuoran.

Qin Zheng didn’t want him to accept. If the rumors were true and Shen Lingshu had entered the Great Ascension Realm, Yun Zhuoran might not survive a direct confrontation. Yet he also knew he would discover the truth once he descended the mountain, and so he told him everything.

Yun Zhuoran still remembered Shen Xi clearly: sharp-tongued, proud, and pragmatic. After Shen Fu’s death, she alone had faced the world with composure. Slightly older than Ji Ruo, she had borne the family’s collapse alone in a city that had turned its back on her. It wasn’t hard to understand why Shen Lingshu harbored resentment toward the righteous path.

Now that the Xingxiu Sect and Zhuyin Sect had joined forces to slaughter Shengjing’s cultivators, the righteous sects demanded justice. This was no longer a personal feud between the Young Island Master of Penglai and the Fengtian Temple—it had become a conflict that would shake the entire righteous path.

The scale of the attack surprised Yun Zhuoran. Shengjing, though weakened, had long been a bastion of orthodoxy. The Xingxiu Sect’s assault on it was reckless—a deliberate provocation. Though the Zhuyin Sect had always courted chaos, something about the alliance felt off. The Xingxiu Sect had once obeyed the Fengtian Temple. Now that the temple had fallen, instead of avenging Yun Duo or Young Master Yin, they had turned their blades against the righteous sects—and destroyed Shen Lingshu’s family.

Even other cultivators could not comprehend Shen Lingshu’s motives. Why challenge Yun Zhuoran to a life-and-death duel after all this?

Qin Zheng and the Tiandao Sect’s elders felt indebted to Yun Zhuoran. Even the heart demon tried to dissuade him. But Yun Zhuoran’s decision was firm.

When they neared Shengjing on their cloud boat, they stopped outside the city walls. 

Amidst the snowstorm, countless cultivators from the four major sects and many smaller ones had gathered. Upon seeing the Tiandao Sect’s emblem, Lu Qi, stationed nearby with his fellow disciples, approached at once, spirit sword in hand.

“Uncle Qin,” he greeted Qin Zheng, Penglai Immortal, and Yun Zhuoran.

Yun Zhuoran nodded slightly, gaze shifting to the sealed city gate. A barrier shimmered over it, and a solitary black-clad figure stood atop the wall.

It was Shen Lingshu.

“He only allows Brother Yun to enter,” Lu Qi reported.

Qin Zheng’s expression turned grim. “What does he want?”

Lu Qi shook his head. No one knew. 

Even Yun Zhuoran, usually calm, felt a trace of unease. He exchanged a look with Penglai Immortal, who said quietly, “If things turn dangerous, call me.”

Yun Zhuoran was about to step forward when Qin Zheng reached out instinctively to stop him. Their eyes met. Forcing a bitter smile, he warned, “He carries the Sect Master’s immortal bone. You can’t kill him. Be careful.”

Yun Zhuoran inclined his head.

“Brother…” The heart demon grasped his wrist, his eyes dark with emotion.

Yun Zhuoran smiled faintly, took his hand, and led him toward the gate.

Qin Zheng watched, heart tightening. “Will Shen Lingshu allow them through?”

“He won’t be able to stop them,” Penglai Immortal said with ease.

The cultivators outside watched as Yun Zhuoran and the heart demon passed through the barrier unscathed. 

Qin Zheng exhaled slowly. Seeing Penglai Immortal’s calm expression, he could only hope his unease was misplaced.

Yet in his heart, he knew—Shen Lingshu now wielded the full strength of Gu Shenshu’s immortal bone. 

Even so, Yun Zhuoran was not powerless. He carried the Taiyin True Fire, and Gu Shenshu’s will still protected him.

Inside the city, snow blanketed the rooftops.

Yun Zhuoran and Weiran ascended the wall, where Shen Lingshu sat cross-legged in black robes, his sword resting beside him. His aura was sharp yet still, his calm eyes concealing a depth that felt bottomless.

As Yun Zhuoran approached, Shen Lingshu opened his eyes. “You brought him after all.”

He didn’t question why the barrier allowed them through. Rising, he turned slightly, and a lock of windblown hair exposed the faint purple demonic markings along his neck.

“You’re possessed,” Yun Zhuoran said evenly.

“It makes no difference,” Shen Lingshu replied. “Good or evil—there’s no dividing line anymore.”

Today, his presence was cold and desolate, tinged with something dangerously calm. Whether from demonic corruption or the weight of his slaughter, Shen Lingshu seemed utterly unbound—no longer the proud disciple of the Tiandao Sect, but something neither human nor fiend.

He gazed at the falling snow. “Shengjing’s winters were never this harsh.”

“You want a duel?” Yun Zhuoran asked.

“It’s still early,” Shen Lingshu murmured. “If I remember right, this is your second time here.”

Despite his challenge, he hesitated, his tone drifting between nostalgia and weariness. 

The heart demon’s eyes glowed faintly red, but Yun Zhuoran stayed silent.

“My sister, Shen Xi, is gone,” Shen Lingshu said at last. “She begged for help. None came. The entire Shen family was slaughtered. I sealed Shengjing—to make them feel what she felt. To let them understand what it’s like to have no one. I’ve lost everything, Junior Brother Yun. There’s nothing left for me.”

He smiled faintly, almost self-mockingly. “When I released Gu Qiuming, I wondered when I’d see him again. I didn’t think it’d be this soon. You know… sometimes, I envy you.” His gaze darkened. “But sometimes, I hate you too.”

The heart demon’s voice was sharp. “What right do you have to hate him? You were the one who betrayed your sect.”

Shen Lingshu ignored him. His voice was steady. “When you went to that teahouse, I knew you still remembered our childhood. I remember too—the first time I saw you, I thought you were a fairy child fallen to earth. I pitied you… envied you… and hated you. I told Master the Tianqing Sect was full of hypocrites, but I wanted to protect you.”

He smiled bitterly. “Later, when you returned with your brother, everyone’s attention shifted. You were still only a registered disciple, yet somehow you shone brighter than me. I told myself I didn’t care, but envy has a way of festering. Even when you withdrew from the world, I couldn’t stop comparing myself to you.”

The heart demon scoffed. “And so you repaid kindness with spite. You took advantage of your Master’s death and turned the sect against him.”

Shen Lingshu’s gaze flickered. “When Master died, I thought I’d be free of that shadow. But when you didn’t come out of seclusion for twenty years, I realized I’d only been waiting. I told myself I hated you… yet I still guarded Baiyun Jian for half a month. You never came out. You let Jiang Zhibai visit you—but not me.”

He looked up. “Junior Brother Yun, have you ever once treated me as your senior brother? You forgave everyone—Jiang Zhibai, Li Jianming, Xu Zhichun—but not me.”

Yun Zhuoran’s tone was quiet, unshaken. “When we were young, I did treat you as one. But trust, once broken, can’t be restored. I never forgot the Senior Brother Shen who once protected me—but you are no longer that man.”

Shen Lingshu went still. Then, slowly, he smiled. “Don’t worry. I won’t bother you again.” He wiped his face with a trembling hand and drew a long breath. “In Yun City, when I wounded you, I truly meant to kill you. Between the two of us, only one could live freely—and I chose myself.”

Yun Zhuoran’s voice softened. “You should have known Master would rise again.”

Shen Lingshu chuckled lowly. “I’ve already lost everything—my home, my sister, my purpose. Someone once told me if I killed you, I could reclaim it all. But that chance is gone. Tell me, Junior Brother Yun—how could I ever face Master again?”

Yun Zhuoran’s eyes narrowed. “Who told you that?”

Shen Lingshu didn’t answer. He raised his sword. The pale light glinted along its edge, reflecting off the purple markings at his throat. “You and I have never fought seriously. Let this be our last exchange. Show me your Taiyin True Fire.”

Yun Zhuoran’s expression hardened. He pressed the back of the heart demon’s hand gently before stepping forward.

“Brother!” The heart demon followed, catching his sleeve but unable to hold him back.

The first strike fell like lightning.

For over twenty years under Gu Shenshu’s tutelage, they had crossed swords only ten times. This was the eleventh—no longer a spar, but a reckoning.

Their afterimages swept across the wall and down into the snow. Blades collided, scattering white petals of frost. 

From above, the heart demon could barely distinguish the two figures—Yun Zhuoran’s pale silhouette blurred by snow, Shen Lingshu’s black shadow cutting through it with desperate fury.

Each strike carried the weight of years unspoken.

Ever since becoming Gu Shenshu’s disciple, Shen Lingshu had longed to master the Supreme Emotionless Dao, a cultivation path Gu Shenshu himself had created and perfected. But that day never came. He learned only fragments. Later, after his cultivation was crippled, he rebuilt it under Qin Zheng’s guidance, retraining in Gu Shenshu’s sword techniques.

At first, he had thought his master perfunctory—teaching him only ordinary sword forms. But after gaining control of the Immortal Bone, he finally understood the truth: those techniques were far from simple. They were profound beyond measure, each move embodying the essence of the Supreme Emotionless Dao—so refined that even Yun Zhuoran was forced back, again and again.

Strike after strike, Shen Lingshu attacked with relentless intensity. Yun Zhuoran’s white robe soon bore streaks of blood.

But Shen Lingshu hesitated mid-swing, breath ragged. “Why don’t you use your Taiyin True Fire? Are you mocking me?”

Yun Zhuoran parried calmly with the jade branch, his brow tightening.

“You want to win, don’t you?” Shen Lingshu’s voice trembled between rage and despair. “If I win, I won’t let you live.”

Yun Zhuoran met his glare but said nothing. His momentary distraction gave Shen Lingshu an opening. A surge of spiritual power crashed down like thunder. Yun Zhuoran moved to evade—one, two, three strikes. Shen Lingshu, consumed by fury, unleashed the Immortal Bone’s full might, his aura expanding violently until it filled the snow-choked air.

He no longer cared whether the deity appeared. He wanted to prove himself—to defeat Yun Zhuoran with his own hands.

Sensing that resolve, Yun Zhuoran no longer held back. Shen Lingshu was forcing him to use the Taiyin True Fire.

Even so, Shen Lingshu lacked experience. Though the Immortal Bone’s strength equaled Gu Shenshu’s at his height, Shen Lingshu’s mastery of it was shallow. He had never fought a Great Ascension cultivator, never refined the balance between force and control. His impatience turned sharpness into weakness.

Yun Zhuoran deliberately left an opening, testing whether the hidden deity would intervene. 

None did.

Enough.

The jade branch vanished from his hand. A burst of Taiyin True Fire erupted—cold, pure, and blinding. It carved through the snow, colliding head-on with Shen Lingshu’s sword. The shockwave forced Shen Lingshu back half a step, though he gritted his teeth and endured.

Sword after sword met, until light and flame fused into one storm. Snow melted midair, swallowed by their energy. Two figures—one black, one white—clashed in a blizzard of power that blotted out everything else.

Then—

“Let me handle this.”

The voice echoed inside Shen Lingshu’s mind. His pupils constricted.

“I want to defeat him myself!”

“Any later, and you’ll lose that chance.”

The voice’s calm authority froze him for an instant, then a golden light flared within his eyes. His sword moved again, faster, colder, every strike precise beyond human control.

Yun Zhuoran’s expression darkened. This was no longer Shen Lingshu.

The blizzard thickened until sound itself seemed swallowed. 

On the tower above, Weiran stood still, his fingertips brushing the earring on his lobe. Pain shot through his body—shoulders, arms, and calves—as the bond he shared with Yun Zhuoran transmitted every wound. His face went white, his breath shallow.

Weiran’s fists clenched. Yun Zhuoran’s injuries were worsening. The Immortal Bone’s golden aura neutralized the worst of the True Fire’s impact, but Yun Zhuoran refused to use it at full strength.

He understood: Yun Zhuoran didn’t want to kill Shen Lingshu.

But Shen Lingshu’s body was no longer his own.

Weiran’s blood-red eyes flared. The air stank of blood—thick and metallic—the same scent that had hung over the sacrificial formation in Wu City. Yun Zhuoran was being drawn into a trap, his own strength turned against him.

Within the storm, Yun Zhuoran steadied himself. Shen Lingshu’s movements were now fluid, unnatural, guided by another will.

“You’re not Shen Lingshu,” Yun Zhuoran said softly.

Shen Lingshu smiled faintly. “No. I am not.”

Yun Zhuoran’s fingers brushed his sword hilt. “Then you must be the deity of the Fengtian Temple.”

The figure laughed, his tone light yet chilling. “Yun Zhuoran, I know you well. The High Priest, Ji Yan, Yun Duo—all fell because of you. Shen Lingshu’s hatred intrigued me. So, I came.” He smiled like a deity descending from heaven—serene, arrogant, cruel. “Your Taiyin True Fire is remarkable. Shen Lingshu couldn’t withstand it, but I can. You’ve already lost. Aren’t you afraid?”

Yun Zhuoran’s reply was calm. “What about Yun Peiran?”

The deity chuckled. “He isn’t my concern. I came to help Shen Lingshu. He offered me his Immortal Bone—to avenge his sister. But if you want answers, you’ll have to trade your True Fire for them.”

Yun Zhuoran’s lips curved faintly. “Aren’t you supposed to be a god?”

“I ask nothing from those who believe,” the deity said smoothly. “But you, Yun Zhuoran—you don’t believe in anyone.”

The smile faded from Yun Zhuoran’s face. “Then I suppose I’ll have to fight.”

The deity sighed. “Still obstinate. Keep this up, and you’ll only suffer.”

“You can try,” Yun Zhuoran replied.

Before either could move again, the snowstorm trembled. Crimson fissures split across the white expanse, and the blizzard shattered with a roar.

A surge of power approached. Yun Zhuoran looked up—and saw Shen Lingshu’s true body emerging behind the deity, black mist coiling around him.

The deity reacted instantly, drawing his sword—but his strike met only fog. The mist tightened around his legs, freezing him in place.

“Brother!” Weiran’s voice echoed from above as his form dissolved into shadow and dove into the clash, striking the deity’s weapon head-on.

“Fool!” Yun Zhuoran shouted.

The black mist surged like a dragon, wrapping the divine sword and locking it in place. The pressure on Yun Zhuoran vanished. He seized the moment, summoning the Taiyin True Fire once more. The flames roared like cold stars descending from the heavens.

Shen Lingshu screamed—the golden aura protecting him flickered, rapidly dimming as the black mist siphoned its strength.

The deity’s composure faltered. “Enough! That’s enough for today.” His voice thinned, echoing faintly through the collapsing storm. “It seems I can’t help Shen Lingshu after all. Yun Zhuoran—and the little one who shares your soul—you’ve broken my trap. I look forward to our next meeting.”

His divine presence faded.

The snowstorm collapsed. The world returned—lit by a sea of pale-gold fire.

Yun Zhuoran stood amidst the scorched snow, his white robes torn and blood-stained. Across from him, Shen Lingshu lay half-buried in the ashes, his two broken swords piercing the ground beside him.

The deity was gone.

The black mist reformed, coalescing into the young man in red. He staggered, blood dripping from the corner of his mouth. He swayed once, vanished into mist, and reappeared beside Yun Zhuoran, catching him before he fell.

The Taiyin True Fire extinguished.

“Brother, are you hurt?” Weiran’s voice trembled, thick with relief.

Leaning against him, Yun Zhuoran’s voice was hoarse but steady. “Weiran… help me up.”

Weiran’s knees gave slightly but he caught himself, supporting Yun Zhuoran’s weight. His hand came away slick with blood, but his tone remained composed. “You’re bleeding. Let me heal you first.”

“No hurry.” Yun Zhuoran smiled faintly. “I’ll live.”

As they stood together, Yun Zhuoran looked at Weiran—taller now, stronger, his once-youthful features sharpened by battle. He had grown.

The heart demon wiped the blood from Yun Zhuoran’s cheek with his sleeve. A faint glow shimmered from his palm, erasing every trace.

“Better,” Yun Zhuoran murmured.

Then his gaze shifted—to Shen Lingshu, stirring weakly amid the flames and snow.

Remembering how Shen Lingshu had forced him to unleash the Taiyin True Fire, Yun Zhuoran’s faint smile faded. He stepped forward, eyes cold.

Weiran followed in silence, his guard unwavering.

“It seems you still can’t kill me,” Shen Lingshu said faintly, his body trembling from pain. Though the Taiyin True Fire hadn’t struck him directly, its remnants had burned through flesh and soul alike. Even so, his lips curved into a weak, mocking smile as Yun Zhuoran and Weiran approached—neither offering aid.

Yun Zhuoran’s gaze darkened. “That deity abandoned you.”

Shen Lingshu coughed, blood splattering across the snow. “You fought me for someone else, didn’t you? Junior Brother Yun… you’re still the same as ever. I doubt you’ll forgive me in this lifetime.”

Yun Zhuoran frowned. “Where did he go?”

“He’s probably given up on me,” Shen Lingshu murmured, eyes half-lidded. “He said he couldn’t save someone whose heart was already dead.”

Weiran’s tone was cold. “Then where is he now?”

For the first time since the battle began, Shen Lingshu met Weiran’s gaze directly. “I’m curious about you. Who are you, that Junior Brother Yun would choose you?”

“My brother is mine,” Weiran said flatly. “I was born for him. This is between us. You have no right to ask.”

Shen Lingshu was silent for a moment. “…I see.”

Yun Zhuoran’s voice was calm but heavy. “You don’t even know where he is?”

“He couldn’t help me defeat you,” Shen Lingshu said softly. “He came to Shengjing before I reached him. Perhaps this is fate.”

To avenge his sister, Shen Xi, and defeat Yun Zhuoran just once, Shen Lingshu had promised his Immortal Bone to that god.

Yun Zhuoran closed his eyes, exhaled, and took Weiran’s hand. “Remove the barrier. There are still people outside waiting to enter.”

Shen Lingshu’s pale eyes followed their retreating figures. “You can’t find him, and you won’t even speak to me? You can’t kill me—but you won’t capture me either?”

Neither Yun Zhuoran nor Weiran turned back. Their footprints sank deep into the snow. 

Shen Lingshu’s voice, hoarse but steady, carried after them. “I know I was wrong. But I won’t bow—not to anyone, least of all you, Junior Brother Yun.” His tone held no resentment now, only weary defiance. “I can never defeat you. Not today, and perhaps never again. When you see Master, please tell him… I, Shen Lingshu, unworthy disciple of the Tiandao Sect, have failed to uphold his teachings. I wish to be expelled.”

Yun Zhuoran stopped. “Why not say it yourself?”

“I gambled away his Immortal Bone,” Shen Lingshu whispered. “I no longer have the face to see him.” He coughed again, forcing a thin smile. “Tell him… I hope he wakes soon. I wanted to apologize, but since you despise apologies, I didn’t. I didn’t expect I’d still lose this time.”

A faint tremor crossed his lips. “Well… I suppose that’s enough. I’ll give up.” He fell silent for a moment, eyes dimming as though lost in memory. “Looking back… those years when I was still little Shen Yu were the happiest of my life.”

At that instant, the red marriage thread on Yun Zhuoran’s hand flared brightly, then began to burn. Inch by inch, it dissolved into ash and vanished.

The bond between them—cut.

Yun Zhuoran’s pupils contracted.

Then came the sharp sound of steel piercing flesh. 

He turned sharply, just in time to see Shen Lingshu, head lowered, hands gripping a broken sword that now pressed into his own abdomen.

Blood gushed, staining the snow crimson. 

Even Weiran froze.

Shen Lingshu let the sword fall and raised one trembling hand. In his palm glowed a fragment of bone—brilliant, holy gold—the Immortal Bone.

Yun Zhuoran and Weiran were both stunned.

“What are you doing?” Yun Zhuoran demanded.

Shen Lingshu’s smile trembled, but his voice was steady. “Master is about to wake. As his disciple… I owe him a gift. Let’s return it to him.”

Yun Zhuoran had thought he understood Shen Lingshu. But he had not expected this—that Shen Lingshu would dig out the Immortal Bone himself.

No one could kill him. Yet he could still choose to die.

“…You’ll die,” Yun Zhuoran said quietly.

“It doesn’t matter,” Shen Lingshu rasped. He lifted his head, face pale but resolute. With shaking hands, he grasped Yun Zhuoran’s robe.

Yun Zhuoran hesitated, then crouched beside him.

“I resented Master for more than twenty years,” Shen Lingshu said, tears streaking through blood. “I harmed you so many times. I know I was wrong… but even now, I can’t admit it. Junior Brother Yun, if you can’t forgive me—then hate me for life.” His smile was faint but genuine. “If calling that deity down wasn’t enough, then my death—your hand striking down your senior brother—will surely displease Master. What a perfect irony, isn’t it? A true disciple dying by the hand of a registered one.”

Blood welled from his lips as he thrust the golden bone toward Yun Zhuoran.

Yun Zhuoran froze, heart pounding.

“Are you not afraid of death?”

“Between you and me, only one can survive,” Shen Lingshu said hoarsely. “Since I can’t kill you… I can only…”

The rest was swallowed by blood.

His spirit dimmed, but a strange peace softened his features. For twenty years, he had never been this close to Yun Zhuoran—never seen so much emotion in his eyes. Whether love or hatred, it was enough.

Shen Lingshu laughed weakly. “Be careful of that man… He’s after you.”

Yun Zhuoran’s breath caught.

Shen Lingshu’s body, scorched faintly by the remnants of Taiyin True Fire, began to crumble.

Yun Zhuoran clutched the Immortal Bone tightly, unable to comprehend that Shen Lingshu—the one who had envied, hated, and chased him all his life—would end it this way, and leave everything to him.

Weiran’s voice was soft but steady. “Brother… he’s gone. The barrier outside the city has already broken.”

Yun Zhuoran stood in silence for a long time, gazing at Shen Lingshu’s body as it sank slowly beneath the falling snow.

Finally, he whispered, “The snow in Shengjing… is indeed very cold.”