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Chapter Text

Song Qiutong kept her posture straight and expression serene as A-Zhu, one of her maidservants, combed through her long, silky hair. Tonight– her night–had turned out like many others. The emperor never arrived. 

In the beginning, after her ascension to the role of empress, he had visited frequently, even if his presence was often marked by a certain withdrawal. Song Qiutong had accepted his hesitance; as long as he remained within her reach, she could learn what pleased him—what kind of attention and humor caught his eye. His mind was occupied with a multitude of burdens, chaotic and unpredictable as he navigated warring sects, quelled rebellions, and managed internal affairs. She knew certain people weighed heavily on him; after all, he had upended the cultivation world. But now…

“My lady, I heard from Madam Yu that His Majesty went to the Red Lotus Pavilion,” A-Liu murmured, her voice barely above a whisper.

A slight twitch crossed Song Qiutong’s hand within her sleeve. A-Zhu’s fingers paused in her hair, hesitating for a moment before continuing their work.

Red Lotus Pavilion… Chu-fei, that bitch! What is she doing?

“Is that so? That’s all right. I received a gift from him earlier, a sign that I’m on his mind and he’ll visit again soon.” She hardly believed her own words. An empty smile twitched at her lips, too forced to hold itself up.

A-Liu took a seat near the vanity table where the others sat and worked before, fiddling with her clothing while out of sight.

“My lady, you must be right. You are the most beautiful,” A-Zhu murmured, her hands deftly arranging water, oils, and cloth for her lady’s care. “I cannot fathom His Majesty’s thoughts, if I may speak plainly.”

Of course, I’m beautiful. That’s my only worth. Men would pay fortunes to possess and use me. Yet only one man has the power to wield that privilege, and still... who is this Chu-fei? Is she also a Butterfly-Boned Beauty Feast? If so, I should have heard her name. Her upbringing wasn’t exactly free, but those of her kind were rare enough that whispers would have reached her ears in the trade network. 

Possibilities swirled in her mind. “A-Ran” seemed fond of her; he had once confided in her. Physically, she was acutely aware of her allure. The servants often praised their empress’s ethereal beauty and kind temperament. It wasn’t vanity—it was reality. Men desired her.

Yet a tight, vulnerable ache gnawed at her heart. What if… no, that’s impossible. She could endure this.

“A-Zhu, I’m tired and will retire early tonight. Tomorrow, I want to take a walk. Prepare my clothes and lay out the last set of jewelry His Majesty gifted me. You know where it is.”

“Yes, my lady,” A-Zhu pronounced.  

“A-Liu, the next time you go out, listen closely. Find a reason to visit where the servants on the other side of the peak are stationed. I rely on you.”

“Understood.” 

These two were her closest, most trusted servants, instrumental in gathering information about her husband and, increasingly, about the imperial concubine, Chu. Every scrap of information mattered, and spotting Chu-fei had become nearly impossible—a reclusive woman who ensnared the emperor from afar. The thought left Song Qiutong unsettled. Their groups of servants rarely intersected, heightening her desperation for signs of this elusive concubine’s habits and preferences—her clothing, fleeting comments, deliveries to her pavilion.

…

The following morning, after a light breakfast in her private chamber, Song Qiutong strolled along the paved paths near her home pavilion, flanked by several servants, including A-Zhu and A-Liu. Trees arched overhead, casting dappled shadows on the well-maintained paths. Palace maids and eunuchs swept past, their movements swift yet respectful, parting to allow the empress to pass, their urgency evident in their hurried steps.

She carried her head high. Her white and gold robes, sparkling jewelry, and fine hair ornaments accentuated her shining, fairy-like features. A keen learned sense for acquisitive attention picked up on furtive glances. Despite her noble air, she met those familiar faces with kind eyes and modest, rouge-painted smiles. 

Overall, the day was pleasant, the weather mild and the palace safely detached from any far-off disorder. 

Her destination was an open garden along the path to Red Lotus Pavilion. Though she could wander freely across Sisheng Peak, she understood the importance of monitoring boundaries. Discreet ventures carried none of the risks that boldness invited; such force could provoke unwelcome scrutiny or misplaced suspicion. She had once nudged Taxian-jun to introduce her to Chu-fei, feigning curiosity about the concubine as a fellow member of the imperial family. The attempt had backfired; at the mere mention of Chu-fei, he had retreated further into silence.

He brooded over the concubine with an intensity that confounded her. Should she cheer him up? She had tried that. Should she provoke him into a fit of anger to draw out his attention? The thought sent a tiny, unnoticeable shiver down her spine.

Settling on a stone stool at the edge of the tranquil garden, closest to the main path, she caught snippets of giggles and whispers that jolted the breath from her lungs.

“You really heard him say that? We might finally get a little prince or princess!”

“Yes! Though I was far away. And his visits to Chu-fei are so frequent.”

“How can such words be spoken so openly? It’d be fascinating to work over there…” Giggles erupted, quickly stifled by hasty hushing.

Song Qiutong’s gentle mask shattered. No way. This possibility, long kept locked away in her mind, was too alarming to confront. Her maidservants seemed to wither beside her, their eyes darting to their pale, distressed lady.

“A-Liu!” Her voice snapped out, harsher than she intended. “Who are they? What are they saying?”

“My lady, I would tell you if I knew!” A-Liu responded quickly, concern evident. “I don’t know them personally, but I believe they are lowly attendants to the palace doctors and healers.”

Attendants to the palace doctor, then. Has Chu-fei been ill? Song Qiutong’s heart quickened. Is she pregnant? That can’t be! Taxian-Jun doesn’t want a family! A coldness filled the space where the air escaped her chest. Or…was it only me he made that clear to? What has she done?!

A-Zhu leaned closer, trying to comfort her. “Those words are likely empty gossip and rumors. Remember, my lady, His Majesty will return soon. You are the empress, and that fact remains unchanged.”

Her words dripped with boundless meaning. Song Qiutong’s power towered above everyone in the palace, including Chu-fei’s, second only to the emperor himself. She was the recognized di wife, not a sorrowful, hidden concubine.

Feeling a surge of discomfort, Song Qiutong rose to her feet with hardened resolve. She strode over to the lowly attendants, ready to deliver a sharp reprimand for their audacity in spreading rumors about their superiors. Following this and returning to the main path, her muscles tightened with restlessness, the echoes of their words still ringing in her ears. Without the makeup masking her features, her face would betray the turmoil roiling within her.

After aimlessly wandering, she finally acknowledged her growing disappointment at Taxian-jun’s absence from Wushan Palace. Fine , she thought, a hint of defiance sparking.

…

The following night, eunuchs arrived at Song Qiutong’s residence to announce the emperor’s request for her presence. Her earlier moping in front of palace staff had reached him, stirring something. After all, her earlier boldness had been a significant departure from her usual demeanor.

Her maidservants hurriedly dressed her, meticulously reviewing and freshening her appearance before bidding her farewell. Cloaked in a red outer jacket to ward off the evening chill, she departed with the palace servants, who escorted her to the royal bedchamber.

Upon arrival, she parted from the attendants and stepped into the room, where Taxian-jun awaited. He stood by the window, scrutinizing her with an intensity in his purple eyes that left her unsettled. Was it anger? Dissatisfaction? Whatever it was, it seared into her flesh—a harsh, raw gaze that felt like frost settling over bone, cold enough to strip her bare and expose her to the biting wind.

“A-Ran,” she ventured, hoping to invoke a sense of familiarity. Sometimes he appreciated that address. “Qiutong has missed you and wanted to see you before you leave again.” She smiled sweetly as she approached him.

He clicked his tongue, yet his words held a veiled softness. “So you know to explain yourself. This venerable one heard that his wife complained of neglect.”

She lowered her gaze, feigning remorse. “I had trouble finding you. I really missed you. It’s been so long.” She reached for his arm, but he shifted away with an irritated huff. Thin ice. “Let Qiutong please you before you go again.” Her smile remained rosy and warm, revealing her perfect white teeth.

“This venerable one makes the decisions and calls for you when he pleases. What are you trying to do?” He seemed uncertain, caught between conflicting emotions.

“All I’ve said is true,” she said, small but firm.

In that moment, his pent-up desire surged forth, an untamed beast drawn to the inhumanly beautiful woman who stood before him, offering herself. She understood, from their first meetings and previous nights together, that she resembled someone from his past. Whatever.

He pushed her down onto the bed, but when he attempted to flip her onto her knees, she insisted on facing him. He relented, his hands moving hungrily over her, gripping her wrist tightly as he unraveled her for his own pleasure, before losing himself within her.

Facing him, she took it all with a smile, her eager gasps and soft moans escaping her lips. She truly wanted this. This was her role, her place. Being used ensured her security. Even as she manipulated her body and subconscious to align with her conscious desires, she clung to this fate with unwavering resolve.

His pace quickened, and she felt herself flush, dizzying under the weight of his body heat. She called out to him, grasping him tightly, her voice breathless as she begged, “Stay inside. Let me bear your child. I can give you an heir.” Her long nails pressed into his skin.

Without a trace of tender concession, he shoved her down, knocking the breath from her lungs. 

As a Butterfly-Boned Beauty Feast, she was accustomed to holding back her tears. Instead, the frustration and sadness could only brew into a suffocating, beastly implosion, shards from which were bound to fly outward sooner or later. 

She always knew that under any circumstances, she wasn’t loved. The fact remained the same whether in the auction rings or here with her emperor husband. No one desired her out of love. Her body was a vessel, a thing for men to use.

…

Taxian-Jun summoned his empress or visited her bedchamber maybe twice within the following month. 

One day, she sat in her bedroom, a sullen expression weighing on her features. A-Zhu and A-Liu served her a comforting tea and brought desserts from the kitchens. According to A-Liu, the kitchens had been producing an excess of sweets, much to the delight of the servants who enjoyed the uneaten dishes that inexplicably returned.

“My lady, are you ill?” A-Zhu fretted. Of the two primary maidservants, she was the most organized and logical, unwaveringly loyal to her lady. Song Qiutong had never mistreated her, at least not out of malice. A-Liu, in contrast, fluttered around like a personal butterfly, quick-witted and serving as Song Qiutong’s eyes and ears in suspicious places, carrying out many of the household tasks.

“Yes,” Song Qiutong replied simply, taking a sip of tea. 

“Could it be that you’re with child?” A’Zhu whispered, uncertain but faintly excited by the idea. “There have been a few chances.”

Song Qiutong’s jaw clenched. She hadn’t told her maidservants the truth of the matter. How could she admit such a failure?

“Impossible,” she said, her gaze fixed on the window.

The maidservants exchanged concerned glances, silently deliberating their next words, weighing their options carefully.

“My lady,” A-Zhu began, her tone gentle. “This one truly wishes to hear your worries. Is your body unwell? Are the nights with His Majesty unfulfilling?” She kept her voice low and non-judgmental. “This one will serve my lady no matter her troubles.”

Sharp and wiry, the questions pricked at Song Qiutong, but the concern behind them softened her resolve. “My body is fine. The emperor doesn’t want me to have his child, that’s all. Tell me, are the rumors about Chu-fei true?”

The maidservants wilted. 

A-Liu responded, “No, my lady, they’re not true. No new rumors or updates have been heard.”

Song Qiutong exhaled a breath she hadn’t realized she was holding. “But those ‘rumors’ could become true.”

After a brief silence, A’Liu leaned in, her voice low. “Since I’ve been visiting the medical hall, I’ve heard something interesting.”

The other women regarded her with wary, bored gazes, neither expecting anything good.

“There are other ways to become pregnant,” A-Liu revealed.

A-Zhu startled, and Song Qiutong raised her eyebrows in interest. 

“What do you mean? Continue,” Song Qiutong probed.

The girl blushed, hesitant but eager to share. “There is a new method that doesn’t involve intercourse. The parents could be strangers.”

“How?” Song Qiutong was dumbfounded and doubtful. “Does it involve cultivation?”

“No, my lady. The technique is purely medical. I don’t fully understand it, but one of the doctors’ attendants I’ve become acquainted with spoke of it. She said it’s a promising technique for women who have trouble conceiving, for whatever reason.”

Song Qiutong visibly pondered this strange concept, while A-Zhu’s eyes widened, grasping the potential significance of the information.

A-Liu pressed on, “My lady, what should we do?”

“You mentioned learning this from another servant. Medicine would be helpful for my situation right now,” Song Qiutong hinted, her features brightening as she delicately nibbled a tiny pastry from the plate beside her.

A-Liu understood immediately and rushed out of the room.

…

When the attendant returned to the empress’s quarters, she couldn’t comprehend why A-Liu had insisted on her in particular. The last time they had crossed paths, the empress had expressed disappointment at her gossiping about Chu-fei. Nothing had changed; she was still just a servant, tasked with washing linens and fetching tools for the healers.

But A-Liu had urged her to bring the ingredients and recipe for a nausea remedy to prepare at the empress’s home.

With a deep bow, the attendant introduced herself, avoiding eye contact as she observed the woman lying in bed, her skin snow-white and her expression tired. “Your Majesty.”

A-Zhu mixed the herbal concoction with the attendant’s assistance. After taking a sip of the bitter brew, Song Qiutong sighed, the weight of her worries heavy on her.

“Who can check if I’m pregnant?” she asked the attendant, her voice nervous.

“What? This one means—have you missed your menstrual period? A doctor can be brought here to confirm, Your Majesty.”

Song Qiutong’s patience wore thin as she regarded the attendant’s ineptitude, yet she chose to remain composed. “To be candid,” she sighed, her voice heavy, “the emperor and I have been striving for an heir. I’ve failed, and I need guidance on how to prepare my body for pregnancy and protect the child... I fear I lost one early on.” Her voice quavered, the weight of her words suffocating her. “I can’t let the emperor know, so these visits must remain secret.” She released a shaky breath, her chest tightening with each exhale.

The attendant, startled by the empress’s vulnerability, floundered for a response. “Your Majesty! I understand. A nurse or midwife can be summoned. I can do it!”

Song Qiutong’s expression hardened. “No one else must know. You’ve only served the medical staff here, correct? Everything you know was learned within these palace walls?” The girl appeared young, her knowledge limited to the basics: tasks, scraps of information, and rudimentary recipes. A-Zhu had confided that she was a servant taken in after the war fractured her family, seeking refuge in the palace. In that regard, they shared a bond.

The girl, aware of her place, kept her origins brief. “Yes, all my training and work has been done here.”

That reassured Song Qiutong; the girl’s knowledge stemmed from the right source. “Good. Is there a primary female doctor or midwife?” She scrutinized the girl, knowing it was customary for women to care for women.

“Yes, there is. I work closely with them,” the attendant replied brightly.

“Then you will bring a trustworthy doctor to me,” the empress instructed, her tone firm. “A-Liu mentioned something intriguing. You told her there’s a method to ensure pregnancy if one fails to conceive normally. Where did you hear that?”

“I—this one heard it from the doctors. They discussed it. The archives have new reports about it, too. But, Your Majesty, it’s just a theory. I understood it’s not a common method.”

“Reports? The archives have books detailing this method?”

“Yes, Your Majesty.”

“Can you access those books?” Song Qiutong pondered how to discreetly summon a doctor while avoiding the pretense of a public illness. This route seemed more subtle.

“Yes.”

“Find a way to bring it to me.” She wanted to understand the method thoroughly before attempting it or seeking medical help. If it proved fruitless, she could dismiss it quietly without involving anyone else. “If anyone inquires about your visits, what will you say?”

“This one will say—”

“Nothing. You’ll say and show them nothing. I’m ill with a common ailment, understand? If anyone discovers my true condition, the palace will have no further use for certain… unneeded servants.”

The girl felt as if she had turned to stone.

Yet the empress softened, offering a gentle smile. “I trust you. I apologize if my words frighten you, but you understand, don’t you? This matter is deeply personal and disheartening.” Her delicate lashes fluttered like troubled butterfly wings against the sharp contours of her pale cheekbones. “You understand, right?”

A silent nod.

“A-Liu’s trusted acquaintance is mine as well.”

…

In the quiet of the chamber, Song Qiutong and A-Zhu pored over a thin booklet detailing recent discoveries in the medical field. Its pages held groundbreaking stories, helpful diagrams, and the occasional mention of experimental treatments.

“So, that’s how it’s done,” Song Qiutong mused, her brow furrowing in concentration.

“My lady, this one believes a doctor would be invaluable for safety and success.”

“No. It’s simple enough.” Her confidence surged, though it bordered on reckless. Why hadn’t she considered the fundamentals herself? If he couldn’t place the seed, she would.

Cold apprehension flooded A-Zhu’s mind.

…

After a customary trip off the mountains, Taxian-Jun made his first stop to see his beloved Chu-fei. A couple of days later, he sought out Song Qiutong in her chambers, having stormed past her earlier in the day while crossing paths in Wushan Palace. He had offered her a gruff warning, promising to visit later. Her startled yet warm response had earned her a rough smirk. But she harbored no illusions; she knew he was being his usual self, nothing but a dog.

During a meeting with distant officials, Taxian-Jun graciously allowed Song Qiutong to sit beside him, stirring admiration among the fascinated men who had never encountered such a captivating woman. They could only salivate in silence over this radiant prize, bowing their heads reverently and declaring that such a divine pair was destined to be together.

Pride swelled within Song Qiutong. No one could touch her but Taxian-Jun, a reality she learned to accept as she navigated his volatile moods. Her position shielded her from most threats, yet one loomed still: the elusive Chu-fei—the other wife, hidden away like a treasure buried deep. Song Qiutong had never glimpsed Chu-fei’s face, a fact that gnawed at her.

She pondered it often. Why did Taxian-Jun protect his concubine, treating his empress as a mere ornament for public display? Depending on her mood, she either scoffed at the notion of a pitiful, secondary wife or shuddered at the thought of a beloved, cunning jewel kept from ravenous eyes. She longed to be seen in that same light, if only to feel anchored rather than precariously balanced on a narrow ledge.

She plotted her next move. The following night, when Taxian-Jun visited, she would don her heaviest mask of passion and normalcy. Hidden in the side drawers lay small medical tools, ready for use for when her anxious heart settled and solitude enveloped her pavilion once more.

Soon, she resolved, her place beside him would be solidified. The ground beneath her would tremble less, quaking only during her emperor’s manic rages. Her name would be etched in history, a memoir to an unprecedented imperial dynasty led by the most powerful cultivator and an untouchable woman.

…

“Qiutong is here for you, A-Ran. Let her help,” she said with a gentle smile, guiding him to her bed, cloaked in shadows and the flickering glow of candlelight. She loosened her inner robes, letting them slip away with languid grace, revealing slender shoulders and a chest sculpted like prized white jade. Lithe fingers ventured to his belt, exploring the contours of his clothed abdomen. A slight jerk from him signaled her to slow down. 

“Tsk.” He pushed her back into the sheets, his eyes dark pools of ink, revealing little of the tumultuous flames within. “This venerable one will show you how skilled he is. Don’t be so hasty.”

She gasped as he bound her wrists, leaving her exposed—not merely in her vulnerability but under the weight of Taxian-Jun’s frigid gaze. He positioned himself between her legs, handling her with an unyielding authority, coaxing soft moans from her delicate lips.

“Shut up,” he growled, frustration seeping through his words like a forked tongue hissing, teeth gritted as he began to thrust. “This venerable one brought home the most beautiful creature. The best. So be good and act like it, instead of behaving like a demon feast.”

For reasons unknown, Taxian-Jun was crueler that night, harsher in his touch. Golden tears shimmered at the corners of Song Qiutong's eyes as she endured his relentless fervor. He rambled defensive remarks—angry promises and declarations that twisted in her mind, making no sense. “You like that, don’t you?” he sneered, a calloused finger brushing away one of her escaping tears. “Of course you do. You’re grateful to your savior.” His laughter rang cold, a deep, mocking sound that echoed in the haze of fire and smoke swirling around them, restless and agitated, with cruel, violent urges following him like shadows. “Tell this venerable one how much you want it.”

She sought to appease him, panting for breath beneath his fierce rhythm. Her heart raced in tandem with his fluctuating moods. But then he began to slow, dropping his head against her shoulder. She stiffened, confused and fearful. One large hand gripped her shoulder, and she heard a sharp, stifled inhale.

What’s happening? No, he can’t stop now!

“A-Ran, what’s wrong? Please, please continue. Don’t stop,” she begged. 

No acknowledgement.

“A-Ran… Husband,” Song Qiutong lilted. “What’s wrong? Qiutong can take more. Only us two are here. What are you thinking about?”

There was a short silence. 

“That’s right. You’ve proven something to this venerable one.” He outright laughed. “Some are ungrateful and stubborn.”

What? Who is he talking about? Who… Ah. Who else could it be when he hadn’t left the peak?

Song Qiutong suppressed the urge to roll her eyes. Instead, she lowered her lids and swallowed the bitter taste rising in her throat.

Soon enough, she coaxed him to continue. After the distraction, he returned to his frenzy, hips snapping with primal urgency, his temperament retreating again, a mindless animal lost in rutting instinct. She teetered on the edge, climaxing twice during the night’s pursuit—his skill was undeniable. Nevertheless, he pulled out, finishing against her thigh and the sheets below.

Without many words, he arranged his clothing and left, the speed with which he caught his breath almost impressive.

As soon as Taxian-Jun turned his back, Song Qiutong pressed her fingers to the warm semen on her thigh, spreading it into herself, heart racing. Confident he was gone, she retrieved a hidden thin tube, carefully collecting the remnants from the bedding. Lying back, she conducted her own independent insemination, every motion gentle.

A little over a month later, palace doctors confirmed the empress’s pregnancy, and the news spread like wildfire throughout Sisheng Peak, reaching the depths of Wushan Palace and the secluded Red Lotus Pavilion.

Chapter Text

Silence veiled the Red Lotus Pavilion. The stillness itself was not unusual, but today, there was an absence that hung heavier than usual—the servants were gone. Where there were usually a few, quietly tending to meals and menial chores, only the guards remained, their figures casting long shadows by the gates. They watched the pavilion’s comings and goings without expression, though their eyes often sparkled with unspoken schadenfreude.

Chu Wanning’s days passed like stagnant water, with no ripples to break the monotony. He slept, meditated, read whatever he could find, ate just enough to survive, and bore the weight of humiliation. The shame stretched far beyond the unspeakable things that took place with Mo Ran beneath the bed's canopy. It festered in the very air he breathed, in the mocking glances the guards cast at him, their smirks poorly concealed as they whispered about the once-great Grandmaster who had fallen so low.

Yes, Mo Ran. Once his disciple, now his tormentor. But it wasn’t Mo Ran’s fault, Chu Wanning thought bitterly. It was his fault—he had failed as a shizun, letting Mo Ran become Taxian-Jun, a tyrant who barely resembled the boy he had raised.

The unspeakable events—he dared not linger on them. Sometimes, in the dead of night, tears would come unbidden, trailing down his cheeks in salty gossamer lines as he wept for something he could not name. Pain, shame, and loss—loss that gnawed at him but remained elusive, as if hiding in the corners of his mind with frayed, wispy edges. Most of the time, though, he felt nothing. It was better that way.

Thus, he distracted himself with old habits: meditation, reading, anything that could quiet his mind. He no longer cultivated, but the mental discipline he had honed over decades kept him grounded. The books—old tomes that had once brought him some modicum of joy—were now just another way to pass the time. Walking the grounds was out of the question. The pain in his body made even standing a trial, and besides, the Haitang trees and red lotuses were just as beautiful from the window.

There had been a time when building automatons and gadgets filled him with purpose. Creating something with his own hands was blissful in itself, and he could do it for hours straight, but doing something that could help others—that had been his joy. But now, what use were such things to him? His spiritual core had withered, and with it, the last remnants of his will.

Chu Wanning sat at his desk, a book open before him, though his eyes wandered to the window. Outside, leaves swayed in a faint breeze, their edges catching the light. He stared, unblinking, letting the details blur into an abstract pattern of green and gold.

The sudden noise of the gates opening, accompanied by animated voices and hurried footsteps, broke the silence. A knock on his door followed.

“Enter.” His voice, hollow as the room around him, drifted into the air.

The servants arranged the dishes on the table, a spread of mild but indulgent foods, honeyed cakes, and fragrant tea. Ever since the day he had only touched the desserts, they had started bringing more sweets. Even Mo Ran had noticed and, in his twisted way, promised to have more brought. That recognition of his childish weakness for the treats made Chu Wanning hesitate before indulging, but the temptation lingered.

One of the servants, fidgeting by the door, exuded nervous energy. Chu Wanning frowned, his voice edged with impatience. 

“What is it?”

“The Empress,” the servant stammered, barely containing her excitement. “She is expecting.”

…For once in months, a sharp feeling, like a sprouting thorn, pricked at Chu Wanning’s heart.

“I see,” was all he said, lowering his lashes. 

The servant hesitated, mouth opening as if to say more, then thought better of it and bowed before slipping out.

It had been a long time since Chu Wanning last saw her—at the wedding, wasn’t it? Song Qiutong, the huanghou. She was beautiful, of course. This news was only natural. Mo Ran—no, Taxian-Jun—had satisfied himself with many women over the years, sweet and gentle ones, and Chu Wanning could hardly imagine that the torment he endured was born of anything but hatred.

Unbidden, Mo Ran’s words slithered back into his mind, sharp and cutting. “I will leave my seed in your stomach.”

Did he speak such things tenderly to Song Qiutong, murmuring them in the throes of passion?

How could Chu Wanning even think about that? He’d really become shameless and tainted, he realized with disgust.

…

Song Qiutong’s blood boiled.

“Lies!” Taxian-Jun’s voice rang through the chamber. “What man did you bring into the palace? Who is he, a servant?”

He had stormed into her quarters upon hearing the news, fury twisting his features. 

“My lord,” she spoke carefully, suppressing her rising anxiety. “The child is yours. Who else could it be?”

He scoffed, pacing like a trapped animal. “Impossible. I never—” He paused, seemingly searching for words that wouldn’t insult her, but his bluntness won out. “This venerable one made sure to pull out every time.”

Song Qiutong flushed, the tips of her ears burning. She glanced toward the door, where servants and the doctor undoubtedly heard every word. Lowering her voice, she mumbled, “There was a time you didn’t.”

His eyes, wide with disbelief, flickered with bewilderment and anger. “This—! No! I refuse to believe it! I don’t care if you’re pregnant, but to claim it’s mine? We both know that isn’t true!”

“Yes! This child is yours!” She was at her wit’s end. “I can’t believe my husband would sooner believe me to be a liar and cheater than believe I’m pregnant with our child.” She pouted. 

“Huh?” He looked like a dumb dog.

Her words became urgent but thoughtful. “All the times we made love, were they meaningless to you? What about making me your Empress, your wife? I know you dote on consort Chu, but do we not love each other all the same? Is it so awful for me to have your child, A-Ran?”

Flint struck in the dark, inky pools of his eyes–they widened, then stilled.

“Chu-fei?” His voice was low, but the menace was clear. He took a step forward, his presence looming. “What did you just say? Say it again!”

Song Qiutong’s breath hitched. She had misstepped. His fury rolled over her, suffocating, like a mountain threatening to crush her beneath its weight.

“Don’t ever speak his name to me again,” he growled, his words cold as deep stone. “Understand?”

“Qiutong understands.” She felt she didn’t, actually. His words didn’t match the way he gravitated to the Red Lotus Pavilion like a dazed, eager moth to a flame. “But this baby being yours is true.” 

Taxian-Jun’s gaze lingered on her for a moment, his eyes narrowing. Then, without a word, he turned and stepped out, leaving Song Qiutong standing in his wake, wilting like a butterfly caught in the rain. Her once graceful form seemed to shrink, delicate limbs trembling like fragile rice paper. A-Zhu and A-Liu rushed to her side.

“That man! This one apologizes for being so frank–she knows it isn’t her place, but how dare he speak to you that way!” A-Zhu could hardly contain her anger, though she tried, her voice coming out small. 

“He’s the emperor, A-Zhu, but I thank you,” Song Qiutong said. 

“He’ll know the truth when he sees the baby,” A-Liu tried.

“Yes, you are right.” Song Qiutong rested her eyes, gathering back a sense of control. She was skilled at accepting and overcoming dire circumstances, used to doubt and cruel accusations. After all, why would anyone believe some meaningless object over their own beliefs? Words were put in her mouth from early on. The cultivators that first found her believed the treatment of her species was the fault of its own members, a fact of their nature to aspire for dual cultivation. It was only an evolutionary thing to be used in such debauched ways. If not that, she was malicious for wanting to escape her natural fate. 

…

In his room, Chu Wanning sat in the deepening twilight. He hadn’t bothered lighting the lamps; the fading dusk cast a muted purple glow across the desk, enough to see by. Earlier, he had sent the servants away with a feeble excuse of needing rest. He had curled up for a time, but sleep never came.

A knock came at the door, followed by a guard’s drawl. “His Excellency, the Emperor, is here, Chu-fei.”

Taxian-Jun entered without waiting for permission. In the dim room, he was no more than a shadow at first, a dark blur moving with quiet menace. His confusion flickered briefly as he lit the candles with a lazy wave of his hand.

“Congratulations,” Chu Wanning muttered, only deigning Mo Ran a single, split-second glance more for his own curiosity than anything else.

Mo Ran blinked, then huffed. “You've heard, haven't you? This venerable one is not the one responsible for her pregnancy. Don't concern yourself with such rumors.”

Concern? Chu Wanning found the notion laughable. Why would he care? His disciple was being absurd, as always. He didn’t believe him for a second—who else could it be?

“You want this venerable one tonight, Wanning?” Mo Ran’s voice dropped, dark and mocking. “Did that false alarm scare you? My dear shizun, my wife thinks I dote on you, isn’t that entertaining?”

She thinks what? Surely, Song Qiutong must be confused. Mo Ran visited Chu Wanning regularly to humiliate, not to give favor.

“No one gets the same treatment as you, it won’t happen.” His smile was dark and false, like venom in plain sight. “You made a mess of my life, Shizun. Do you know that?? I’m married to a demon feast because you killed the one I loved most.” 

As you remind me again and again.

Mo Ran strode closer, his black robes flowing like a tide of night, the gold embroidery shimmering like cruel stars. He seized Chu Wanning’s jaw, his fingers curling around the pale skin with the grip of a man chaining his prey.

“Ignoring me again?” Mo Ran’s smirk deepened, his eyes gleaming with something vicious. He studied Chu Wanning’s face with a hunger born of hatred. “Have you always looked like this—so weak, so pathetic? The Beidou Immortal, debauched and pliant, like some common whore.” He paused, a stygian, possessive glint flickering in his gaze. “But only for me, isn’t that right? Only for me.”

“Mo Ran, enough,” Chu Wanning said, every muscle in his body strung tight but unable to budge. “Why aren’t you with your wife?”

Mo Ran’s lips twisted in a mocking grin. “Wanning, you are my wife. Did you forget that I married you, too?”

Before Chu Wanning could react, Mo Ran stooped to lick at his neck, the wet heat of his breath stinging against his skin. His fingers tangled in Chu Wanning’s hair, yanking sharply to expose the smooth, pale length of his throat.

“Wouldn’t it be something,” Mo Ran whispered, “if I could get you pregnant?” His laugh was low, cruel, like a demon’s hiss. “You should play your role, Shizun. Be the obedient wife. But no, you’re too stubborn. Too boring.”

Chu Wanning’s vision blurred, his eyes stinging with unshed tears. He had heard these words before, but tonight they cut deeper, the thorn in his heart twisting.

The moment he let go, Chu Wanning's mind dulled into a blank fog. Pain throbbed through his limbs, his body reduced to something boneless, meat made tender beyond recognition. Mo Ran’s cruel words dissolved into a distant hum, the sound indistinct, like a far-off storm muffled by the walls of his own body. He wondered, in those empty moments, if this was how a fish experienced the world beyond the water’s surface—its scales brushed by unseen nets, its body prodded by hooks and the rough hands of predators from above. Before it ever broke the surface, the fish remained naive, untouched. Safe in its cold depths. But once it was caught, dragged into the harsh air, everything became excruciatingly clear, impossible to ignore.

Chu Wanning’s body seized under the oppressive weight of Mo Ran’s breath against his neck, the foulness of it wrapping around him like a heavy, smothering blanket. His hair, usually immaculate, tugged painfully at his scalp as Mo Ran twisted the strands between his fingers, pulling his head back to bare his throat. The sound of Mo Ran’s laughter, jagged and low, sliced into the stillness, a grotesque mockery of something intimate.

“Be the obedient wife.”

The words coiled in Chu Wanning’s chest like a serpent, its venom seeping into his bones, hollowing him out. The suffocating humiliation pressed down until his spine bent beneath the weight of it, his eyes burning as he blinked hard to keep the tears from falling. He wouldn't cry. Not here. Not for him.

But the truth was there, lurking just beneath the surface of his rigid calm. His throat tightened, and his breath felt thin, as if even that small act of defiance—drawing air into his lungs—was something Mo Ran could strip from him.

Chu Wanning’s lips parted, the beginnings of a sharp rebuke forming on his tongue, but the words withered away. His voice wouldn’t come, and the silence between them thickened like a shroud. The small, fractured part of him that clung to pride and dignity wrestled against the flood of despair, the instinct to fight back. Yet he knew it would only make Mo Ran push harder, deeper, to break him entirely.

Mo Ran's hand slid down his back, a possessive touch that sent a surge of nausea roiling through Chu Wanning’s gut. His skin prickled under the weight of it, a disgusted shudder rippling through him. His body responded instinctively, but it was wrong—every sensation amplified, every nerve burning with the need to escape. But where could he go? He was caged, not just by Mo Ran’s arms but by his own inability to retaliate.

Mo Ran, oblivious or indifferent to Chu Wanning’s inner turmoil, let out another bark of laughter. “You always play so hard to get. Always so cold, like some aloof deity. But look at you now, all pliant and silent. Maybe you do know your place after all.”

The cruel words burrowed into his chest, deeper than any wound Mo Ran had inflicted. His disciple. The boy he had trained, molded, loved—standing over him now, a man twisted by hate, obsession, and power. This man, who had once looked at him with awe and respect, now regarded him as nothing more than a possession, something to conquer.

How had it come to this?

Chu Wanning had always been proud. Proud of his strength, proud of his self-control, proud of his ability to endure. He had survived endless battles, had faced down demons and cultivators alike without flinching. But this...this was different. This was a battle he couldn’t fight with a willow vine. This was the slow erosion of his soul, piece by piece, until nothing remained.

And yet, as his heart clenched painfully in his chest, a flicker of defiance stirred deep within him. It was faint, almost imperceptible, but it was there. He couldn’t stop the tears that pricked at his eyes or the way his body betrayed him, trembling under Mo Ran’s touch. But he would not break. Not in the way Mo Ran wanted him to. He couldn’t allow himself to shatter beneath the weight of this twisted relationship, this perversion of everything they had once been to each other.

“Stubborn,” Mo Ran hissed, his lips brushing against Chu Wanning’s ear. “Always so stubborn. But you’ll come around. You always do.”

Chu Wanning closed his eyes, letting the words drift past him, like leaves carried away by a cold wind. He wasn’t a fish, floundering out of water, exposed and vulnerable to the world above. He was still in the depths. Still distant, untouchable in the darkest part of the lake, where the light couldn’t reach.

And if Mo Ran thought he could drag him out of those depths, to strip him of everything that made him who he was, then he was mistaken. Chu Wanning would not be caught. He would not be conquered.

Not this time.

He turned his head slightly, just enough to pull his throat out of Mo Ran’s reach. It was a small, nearly imperceptible gesture, but to Chu Wanning, it was everything. It was a refusal, silent but resolute.

For now, that was all he could give. But it was enough.

…

As Chu Wanning lay motionless, staring into the darkened room, the sting of Mo Ran’s grip still radiated through his body, pulsing like a fresh wound. The brush of Mo Ran’s lips against the crimson earring sent an unwelcome shiver down his spine.

"Let's do something fun tomorrow."

The words slithered into his ear, laden with mockery. Mo Ran’s idea of fun was always a twisted game, one where Chu Wanning’s pain and submission were the pieces to be played with. And yet, when Mo Ran spoke of leaving the mountain, a flicker of something stirred in Chu Wanning’s chest—the thought of freedom, no matter how brief, tugged at him. Could he endure the pain long enough for that small taste of escape?

But even as that fleeting hope surfaced, the sharp, bruising grip on his hips anchored him back to reality. Mo Ran squeezed hard, the force a reminder of his place, of the powerlessness that clenched him in its grasp. The pain lanced through his lower back, and the thought of moving freely, of leaving the peak without stumbling, seemed impossible. His legs felt like lead, heavy and dull with the aftermath of abuse.

Mo Ran whispered again, this time softer, like a viper coiling tighter. “You can handle it, right? We can go down the mountain.”

There was no expectation of an answer—Mo Ran didn’t ask for permission. He never had to. Chu Wanning’s silence was the only reply Mo Ran needed. He squeezed harder, his fingers digging into the flesh with careless brutality before releasing, leaving behind another bruise to match the constellation of injuries that already marked Chu Wanning’s skin.

His body screamed in protest, but his mind remained still, far away from the scene unfolding. It was safer this way, to retreat into the distant void where none of this could touch him, where Mo Ran’s words couldn’t echo and wound deeper than the bruises. Safe, like the fish that stayed deep, cold, untouched.

As the exhaustion from the day’s cruelty took its toll, Chu Wanning’s thoughts blurred. The pain ebbed but never fully left, a dull hum that blended into the periphery of his awareness. His breathing steadied, the rhythm of it uneven at first before it settled into something slower, more subdued. The weight of sleep tugged at him, but it wasn’t peaceful—nothing was peaceful anymore. Not even his dreams.

He felt Mo Ran shift behind him, settling into the bedding with an unsettling closeness that made Chu Wanning’s skin prickle. Mo Ran’s breath brushed the back of his neck, the heat of it lingering far too long. He felt the possessiveness in every small movement, in the way Mo Ran’s body curled around his like a prison. But there was nothing left to say. Nothing left to feel except the bone-deep weariness that dragged him under.

Sleep claimed him, though it came fitfully, the pain still alive in every corner of his body, like a flame that wouldn’t go out. But for now, the darkness was a small mercy, a place where he could drift away from Mo Ran, from the mountain, from the world that had twisted beyond recognition.

He fell into the black, not because he wanted to, but because he had no other choice.

… 

The next day, Mo Ran cleaned him up and allowed him to rest until the afternoon. Chu Wanning accepted small portions of food, though his appetite vanished the moment he caught sight of his reflection. His body, bones slightly jutting around the ribs, was marred with marks—some fading yellow, others fresh and deep burgundy. He was thankful for his high-collared robes, the only thing hiding the evidence.

A servant greeted him as he stepped from his quarters. Each movement was slow and painful, a gait better fit for a wounded prey animal. “Chu-fei, His Excellency said he will come by later this evening to take you with him to Wuchang Town.”

Chu Wanning sighed with a slight shake of his head, dreading something he’d wanted for so long. 

“His Excellency also ordered that a gracious medicine be prepared for you. There,” the servant pointed toward a table, then left.

Chu Wanning figured Mo Ran would request as much. After all, Chu Wanning was something to be handled, not broken. There was no fun in a broken toy. 

…

“This venerable one will help you down the mountain,” Mo Ran said later that evening, standing before him with an air of casual indifference. “A carriage waits at the base.”

Chu Wanning, his hair finally done up with a decorative tie for the first time in days, gave Mo Ran a cold look, feeling a shred of dignity return.

“This trip isn’t for you, Wanning,” Mo Ran continued. “This venerable one needs a break from his wife and the burdens of the court. A distraction.”

“Go alone, then,” Chu Wanning said flatly. “And don’t speak of your wife like that.” He thought of Song Qiutong, who, aside from her betrayal at Rufeng Sect (which he found deplorable, albeit spontaneous enough to forgive), had done nothing to earn his dislike. As far as he knew, she was in a similar situation. She was wanted, at least, but trapped, just like him.

Mo Ran’s eyes narrowed, processing something, then glistened with unkind humor. “So considerate, Shizun. Looking out for my wife?” His voice oozed mockery. “Perhaps Shizun forgot his own role. You are also married to this venerable one. Or did you have yourself in mind when you spoke?”

Chu Wanning bristled. It had been a foolish misstep. He knew Mo Ran detested the idea of fatherhood—why else would he deny the obvious? Yet Chu Wanning had assumed Song Qiutong bore the brunt of that scorn, never imagining it was him all along. He resented the label ‘wife,’ but even that bitter reality had slipped his notice. Stupid pride had blinded him, if only for a moment.

As they descended the peak, Chu Wanning took in the unfamiliar sights. Servants assisted him down the steps while Mo Ran strode ahead. He maintained his composure as long as possible, stopping only once, three-quarters of the way down. By the time they reached the bottom, the sun was dipping below the horizon, casting long, haunting shadows through the trees. The sky bled red as if mirroring the hell on earth.

Mo Ran paused at the carriage and gestured for Chu Wanning to step inside first, but just as Chu Wanning moved forward, a soft, feminine voice halted him.

“A-Ran.”

Song Qiutong’s words were sweet, lilting, like the first notes of a song. She approached with a soft smile, flanked by her maidservants. “I’ve been wanting to meet little sister Chu-fei for so long. Why don’t we all go out together?”

“Shouldn’t you be resting?” Taxian-Jun’s voice was sharp..

Song Qiutong, unruffled, offered a gentle smile. "I heard little sister was going out tonight. I just couldn’t pass up the opportunity to meet her. We’re family, after all."

“She’s a loner. Mute,” he clipped. “You can meet her another time.”

Song Qiutong’s eyebrows rose in surprise. From her vantage, all she could see were fine white robes and a long ponytail whipping in the wind, obscured by Taxian-Jun’s broad frame. A cultivator? The figure was tall, but the body beneath the robes remained unclear. Her curiosity deepened.

“Go back,” he demanded. “This venerable one will see you another time. He has a reservation somewhere with his concubine.” The words were hollow.

Song Qiutong gave a sweet smile despite her disappointment, but she couldn’t push. “I understand. I look forward to meeting her another time, husband.”

Taxian-Jun gave a dismissive click of his tongue, turning back to the consort, roughly pushing her up into the carriage before climbing in after.

…

Chu Wanning was confused by the animosity. Did Mo Ran have to be so cold to her? Could it really be that she wasn’t pregnant with his child? If it was so, would he even have allowed her to live? He had gouged people’s eyes out for less.

As they rode along, Mo Ran sat hunched over like bent steel and held his temple in his hand, brows deeply furrowed and unmistakably irritated. The carriage rocked along in awkward silence until Chu Wanning finally spoke.

"Do you not want a child?"

Mo Ran’s eyes flickered open, his gaze intense. “This venerable one didn’t marry that woman to have a child with her.”

“Then you wouldn’t have an heir,” Chu Wanning ventured further.

“Don’t need one,” Mo Ran muttered.

How irrational. 

“This venerable one told you it’s not his, did he not? Does Shizun not believe him?” There was a venomous hiss in how he said Shizun .

Chu Wanning said nothing.

"Of course. That’s just like my Wanning," Mo Ran growled, the words soaked in bitterness.

He really had nothing to say to that.

…

They spent the evening in a private dining room at one of the finest restaurants. Mo Ran ordered an absurd amount of food—delicacies from all over the empire, the finest wines flowing freely at the table. Chu Wanning partook of the meal, but his appetite was fickle, his stomach turning against him as soon as he tried to eat.

Mo Ran, on the other hand, drank too much and began ranting incoherently. He bounced between complaints: a rebellion brewing a thousand li away, some noble's insultingly low offer, the need to replace an incompetent steward now exiled. He railed against time-wasting sycophants, the people he’d killed for daring to overstep. He complained about Song Qiutong’s constant claims and his "awful Shizun." Much to Chu Wanning’s discomfort, Mo Ran even brought up Xue Meng, sneering about how often he came to the peak, lurking on the outskirts like an uninvited shadow.

Mo Ran's words grew increasingly cocky and nonsensical, riddled with poorly formed jokes that grated against Chu Wanning’s nerves to even hear. His temples throbbed with each boast about Mo Ran’s power, each arrogant remark about how others should know their place. None of it was aimed at Chu Wanning for his input—it was as though Mo Ran was speaking just to hear his own voice.

Mo Ran slammed down his liquor cup, spilling a puddle of sweet burn on the table, then completely calmed, eyes reflecting a touch of madness. Not long after that spell, he started saying unspeakable things–all about and directed at Chu Wanning, of course.

Chu Wanning couldn’t understand Mo Ran tonight. Maybe his blackened disciple had the need to behave like a child again and mistakenly mirrored his early adolescent self. The thought saddened Chu Wanning, and he couldn’t help but feel a twinge of something else for that blathering man far across the round table, remembering the bright disciple he once accepted. 

Somehow the same individual who had lit up his life had also managed to turn it into a cold and insane living hell. 

Chu Wanning had always known Mo Ran's early life had carved a crooked path for him. Yet, he had a shizun, whose duty it was to lead him back to the straight road. Perhaps, though, that shizun was too flawed—a temper too sharp, a heart too distant to truly shelter and guide. Chu Wanning couldn't deny his own part in shaping the tyrant Mo Ran had become.

…

Descending the mountain brought a shift, however slight. The Emperor, keeping to his private room for a couple of shichen, left the streets clear for their stroll. As people knelt in dramatic reverence, Chu Wanning found a small release in the change of scenery. It was a flicker, a moment of breath away from Red Lotus Pavilion’s stifling walls.

After a few days, he ventured further. Curiosity stirred within him, and for the first time in ages, he sought to know more of the world beyond the peak. Despite the chaos and constant shadow of demons, he discovered that ordinary folk still found ways to live, to craft, to laugh. They bent like young grass before the wind, absorbing whatever misfortune came their way, yet somehow holding fast to the same roots. It was a quiet resilience, one that both surprised and heartened him. He wished Mo Ran—no, Taxian-Jun—wouldn't be so quick to sever those fragile lives. 

Chu Wanning convinced a guard to follow him as he took a walk outside the Red Lotus Pavilion, an otherwise resisted venture without the emperor’s approval. They had been stationed there for a reason, inspired by back when Chu Wanning had put up more of a fight. No one had to explicitly mention Chu Wanning’s weakened state, so the compromise worked.

It was on this day that he crossed the beautiful Empress Song Qiutong, struck by her resemblance to the long-dead Shi Mei, as he hadn’t seen her up close for some time. She sat in an enroute garden, one built around an artificial pond and small pavilion. This location had greatly changed since Sisheng Peak belonged to a cultivation sect. 

Seeing him, she started. “Chu-zongshi?” she asked. Another Chu. Wasn’t Taxian-Jun’s shizun dead?

Chu Wanning’s weary phoenix eyes looked at her with an unreadable expression, as if unsure how to act. He appeared very pale and sickly. 

“Are you Chu-zongshi?” Her confusion lingered, but she couldn’t be wrong. “I’ve never seen you here before. Why are you at the peak?” Her gaze flicked to the silent guard trailing behind him, his face just as indecipherable. She hesitated, feeling a twinge of unease. “Does His Majesty know you’re here?”

“He knows,” Chu Wanning replied.

So it is him .

Song Qiutong inquired aloud, “I thought you were dead.” She quickly clarified, “I mean no disrespect. It’s just that you’re known to be dead or missing.” She had heard he was bled out, his core destroyed by Taxian-Jun himself, but a proper funeral or burial never happened anywhere and his dead body was never seen, which was why Xue Meng still came looking for him. 

A servant, A-Liu, leaned close to Song Qiutong’s ear, whispering cautiously. “That man behind him is one of the Emperor’s men, a guard from the palace.”

Then why isn’t he saying anything? That meant Taxian-Jun knew of his shizun’s presence on the peak, unless this guard was a traitor. 

“You,” she addressed the guard. “Does His Majesty know that his shizun is wandering the peak? Your next words will reach his ears.”

“Yes, Your Majesty,” the guard replied. “This man remains at His Majesty’s discretion.”

“I see…” Song Qiutong’s lips twisted into a polite, yet strained smile. “I was unaware of this arrangement. So many hidden things on Sisheng Peak.” Her tone grew lighter, conversational. “It’s rare to meet someone who was here before all the changes. Most of us, myself included, had to displace others to find our place. You know that well, don’t you, Chu-zongshi?”

Chu Wanning’s eyes narrowed, cold and sharp. “I am aware.”

“Care to join me for tea? A-Liu can fetch some,” Song Qiutong suggested, her eyes bright with curiosity, coral lips curving into a soft smile. “I’d love to hear more about my husband, and who better to ask than his former shizun?”

Chu Wanning stepped forward one small step, reluctantly agreeing to her offer, his brows revealing suspicion. 

“Don’t worry, zongshi. One of my trusted girls can taste the tea to demonstrate it’s safe to drink, if that’s why you hesitate. I’m safe and of course not so bold as to harm a person the Emperor keeps around.” 

A-Liu was sent off. The two moved to the little pavilion, the empress’s stunningly embroidered, colorful robes flowing like a living part of her as she turned to climb the stairs. The two remaining primary servants stepped up and stood at a distance behind each of their parties. 

“Who built this place?” Chu Wanning asked, referring to the garden.

“I did.” Song Qiutong beamed, surprised by the neutral curiosity. “I had it done. This place had so many clear spots that I thought were perfect for something like it.” She spoke as if describing a simple dream come true. “Some of the flowers traveled far to get here, so it was tricky to cultivate them. The young Haitang tree was A-Ran’s idea.”

Song Qiutong noted a distracted sadness about Chu Wanning as he listened.

“Oh, right. Tell me about A-Ran,” Song Qiutong continued, her voice lilting. “He was your disciple, wasn’t he?”

Chu Wanning gave a short nod, his sharp eyes cast downward to look absently at the ground. He really did seem rather ill.

She pressed on, asking if Mo Ran had always shown promise, if he had boasted about his strength even then, and what Chu Wanning knew of his disciple’s childhood.

“He had a hard life before the sect.” His voice was audibly taut, each word an effort. “You should ask him yourself.”

Song Qiutong laughed. “He’s not very open about his past. That’s why I’m asking you.”

She got some more short answers before A-Liu returned with their tea, giving an involved tasting demonstration as promised. 

“One day, I’ll bring my little one here when they’re old enough,” Song Qiutong mused, sipping her tea with quiet grace. But her smile dimmed, and her voice dropped as she asked, “Does A-Ran ever talk to you?”

“Not much.” Chu Wanning’s response was as distant as the man himself.

“And concubine Chu? You’ve heard of her, I assume? It’s funny, isn’t it? Your names sound the same.”

Chu Wanning froze. The sudden pallor in his face did not escape Song Qiutong’s notice, her brow arching in silent curiosity.

“I don’t know her.”

“Oh.” Song Qiutong paused, her fingers tracing the rim of her cup thoughtfully. “Where do you live on Sisheng Peak?”

“A nameless house.”

The guard shifted slightly behind him, crossing his arms. Chu Wanning added, “I was on my way somewhere.”

“Indeed, you must’ve been. Thank you for having tea and talking with me.” She smiled without showing teeth, her head held high. 

“My pleasure,” Chu Wanning replied, not a bit of emotion suggested in his voice.

Once the tea was finished and Chu Wanning had left, Song Qiutong waved her attendants closer.

“That was strange, don’t you think?”

A-Zhu thought seriously while forming her words. “My lady, this one can’t remember ever seeing or hearing of that man since we’ve lived on the mountain, and she wonders why he was here of all places.”

“That’s a point, too, A-Zhu. Did you also notice his reaction to my question about Chu-fei?”

“This one found it hard to read the man.”

A-Liu chimed in, “I think we should hurry back, my lady. I can clean up now or come back after I go back with you.” Her voice and expression were unusually low and cold. 

“Go ahead and clean up. I don’t think he’s a threat in that way. He looked too weak.” Song Qiutong rose from her seat, smoothing the folds in her dress. “Thank you, A-Liu.” 

A-Zhu followed a short step behind as she walked down the steps and out of the garden. Just gathering the courage to express the idea, she offered, “This one thinks more guards are needed out here.”

Song Qiutong was doubtful but willing. “I’ll ask Taxian-Jun about it sometime.”

Meanwhile, Chu Wanning continued his walk, glancing back at the guard when the man chuckled. His sharp glare silenced him instantly, and the rest of the journey passed in quiet unease.

Once he returned to the Red Lotus Pavilion, he shut himself in and leaned on a high table, lightheaded and trying to catch his disrupted breath, his chest aching. He had crawled out of the safe depths of his woeful ocean, and he wanted to regret it, but in the end, he couldn’t. 

Chapter Text

The months passed, bringing the full weight of summer with them. Thick humidity clung to the Sichuan air, while Song Qiutong's pregnancy symptoms worsened, keeping her confined to her courtyard. A female doctor visited regularly, and her closest servants, along with several others, tended to her every need. The lie of a past miscarriage remained uncorrected. The palace staff worried over her constantly, which suited her just fine. More care meant a higher chance for the baby's safe arrival.

From the original motivation to the new daydreams about having a son or daughter, she had become quite thrilled at the prospect. But, reflecting on her own childhood and relationship with her mother, she felt nervous. Could she be a good mother? Her baby wouldn’t have a single biological grandparent. And they would probably cry golden tears like her own. She tried to reassure herself that Taxian-Jun’s regime didn’t directly discriminate against her kind—she was the Empress—even if he sometimes used it as an insult, like it was the worst thing about her and it made her untrustworthy or unreal. 

Taxian-Jun still refused to believe the child was his. A-Zhu suggested that Song Qiutong tell him the truth of how she conceived sooner or later. He would have no choice but to believe her then. Without that recognition, the child wouldn’t be acknowledged as his heir, yet the fact that Taxian-Jun hadn’t cast her aside, even while suspecting her of infidelity, gave her a strange sense of security. He hadn’t visited or summoned her either, but she wasn’t too keen on the idea of being touched while pregnant. Still, she would obey if he called for her.

Right now, her concern for her baby’s safety equaled the concern for her own.

Another revelation, a profoundly reassuring and interesting one, graced her knowledge. “Red Lotus Pavilion is the home of the Yuheng Elder, Chu Wanning.” A-Zhu brought her a book about the Sisheng Peak cultivation sect’s elders, one of few remaining, which included mentions of Taxian-Jun’s enigmatic shizun. A wide, fixed grin spread across her face at this quote. Taxian-Jun really was crazy. 

There were two possibilities: first, Chu Wanning was Chu-fei; second, Chu-fei was someone else, named after Chu Wanning and placed in his old house, which would also be amusing, if not cementing of Taxian-Jun’s insanity. She had played with the idea that Chu Wanning had a relative he protected, the concubine, but he, according to Sisheng records and tales, grew up in a temple without any known blood relatives, so she couldn’t see value in that possibility. Even if there was another Chu, with how cold and unpleasant Chu Wanning was, it was hard to imagine he had a caring temperament.

Though she'd considered asking Taxian-Jun directly, she thought better of it now. As far as she knew, he wasn’t aware she had met Chu Wanning. The few times she encountered him were always when the emperor was away. His startled expression, despite the stoic mask he wore, amused her to no end. She knew he was avoiding her.

Behind her courtyard, there was a clear view of rolling green mountains to the north, lush and illuminated in the midday summer sun with a misty fog settled over them like a draped cobweb. Servants had opened the windows to invite fresh air as they cleaned. She liked it that way, too, for how the rooms felt less suffocating. From within her stately compound, she could smell those conifer hills and hear the distant cleaning of rugs, the soft tinkle of hanging chime ornaments. 

“Your Majesty!” 

A middle-aged eunuch stood out in the courtyard, led in by a quick servant. Auntie Yu, the nice old woman who was like a second-in-command for the ladies of the palace staff (Song Qiutong’s influence trumped hers by a long shot, but she managed the labor aspects; both Auntie Yu and some eunuchs, besides the empress’s trusted maidservants, assisted her with any challenging issues), stood far off by the gate. 

“I brought this for you.” The man’s smile was bright and she’d have loathed his presence if not for the fact he was a eunuch. “His Majesty will return within sixteen–seventeen days, according to this letter.” He passed it over, along with some administrative documents. “I understand it’s hard for you to come to Wushan Palace because of the bumpy ride or long walk.”

She smiled, comfortably viewing the papers, and laughed. Before becoming Empress, her literacy was limited due to her messy childhood and restricted teenage years, but her writing and reading skills had grown exponentially since living here; her brief time at Rufeng Sect also contributed to something like an education, but she didn’t like to think about it. She complimented, “You’re something for being able to understand this! Can you translate the rest?”

The man took it with both hands and read aloud, changing words and paraphrasing where necessary: “‘Immortals stormed an obscure city where chess things walked. Immortals transformed and…’ oh, immortals revered our Emperor. ‘An eastern country is a problem. It will be sixteen to seventeen days before Taxian-jun returns to Wushan…’”

“Excellent,” Song Qiutong applauded softly, impressed by his ability to read the scattered mess of ink. “Were you a scholar before coming here?”

“No, no. This one was a eunuch in another residence prior. That place no longer exists. Before that, I wanted to become a scholar and studied for years. Hard times early in life led me here, Your Majesty.”

“Your work turned out compatible, did it not?”

“En. I can’t say it didn’t, Your Majesty.” 

This prompted another laugh, her eyes the most gentle crescents.

“Thank you for delivering these. You can go now,” Song Qiutong told him, to which he bowed and turned. “Hold it!”

He halted immediately. "Yes, Your Majesty?"

“Do other letters pass through Wushan that I don’t lay eyes on?”

"Yes, Your Majesty. Letters and documents circulate around the peak to their intended destinations. Any confidential ones are sealed with a spiritual mark—only you and His Majesty can open those. The letter I read you did not have the seal, so it was meant for the palace staff. It can be opened by me or the steward." They both remembered the fate of a former traitorous steward, one of the many who had been replaced over the years.

“Right, right. Do you know if the imperial concubine receives anything? Is anything ever directed to her?”

“Ah. Yes, Your Majesty. Rare, but our Emperor keeps some contact with his concubine.”

“Is that all?”

“I haven’t seen everything, but I don’t recall much else.”

“Can you remember how her name is written? Anything for the Red Lotus Pavilion, for that matter. That’s why I asked.” She had more curiosities in mind, but that’s all she’d say. 

“Oh! That’s an elusive one, for sure. Forgive this one, his memory depends on our Emperor’s handwriting.” Given ink brush and paper, he wrote down the characters for Chu-fei. Indeed, the same Chu that Song Qiutong saw in those records. 

“Have you seen anything for the emperor’s shizun?”

"Your Majesty, no, not really. If anything did arrive, it was ordered to be burned. The sender is always Xue Meng. Is something amiss?"

She waved her hand dismissively. "No. Just an idle thought. You may go now."

…

After meeting Song Qiutong, Chu Wanning had a lot to process. He made up his mind: Mo Ran loved her. 

Mo Ran certainly had a type. She was so much like Shi Mei, and seeing what was more or less his reflection filled Chu Wanning with recurring regret, each remembrance like the drip of water, each leaving a cold mark on the heart. 

What struck him most was that Song Qiutong seemed unaware of his identity during their meeting. Perhaps she hadn’t been malicious when trying to approach him at the mountain’s base. Could it be that Mo Ran had never told her the truth? She thought he was a concubine. The absurdity of it all gnawed at him. Still, she had her suspicions—suspicions that would eventually unravel the truth. And when it did, any shred of dignity he had left would be gone.

For now, he kept to himself, only leaving his quarters when absolutely necessary. He had no energy to endure more humiliation, let alone become embroiled in imperial drama.

It was nearly three months after their first meeting when Chu Wanning received a sealed letter addressed to Chu-fei . When he opened it, the contents made his blood freeze.

Sister, please accept this message and the corresponding gift as an extension of friendship. Your tastes escape me; that considered, the gift is congruent with our common stations. The letter left off with flowery lines alluding to a woman’s loneliness in a windy palace, expressing a need for camaraderie and using evocative imagery of shadowy, “evening” lotuses. With it, a servant presented a box containing little books meant for ladies.

The message was clear: Song Qiutong knew—or at least suspected—who he was.

…

Thirteen days after Song Qiutong received Taxian-Jun’s letter, he returned to Sisheng Peak. Late that night, after attending to various matters, he stormed into the Red Lotus Pavilion. 

Chu Wanning, fresh from his bath and dressed in his inner robes, was preparing for bed when the door slammed open with a resounding thud. His heart lurched.

"This venerable one came back early," Taxian-Jun—no, Mo Ran—declared, his voice rough.

Chu Wanning ignored him, making his way across the room. “I’m going to bed.”

In three easy strides, Taxian-Jun crossed the room and wrapped his arms around Chu Wanning from behind. The suddenness of it made Chu Wanning’s body go rigid, like he’d been caught in an invisible snare.

“This venerable one knows everything, Wanning. Four times now you’ve met Empress Song. Shizun never left his room so much before. What changed?” Taxian-Jun coaxed, washing the shell of Chu Wanning’s ear with hot breath. 

“What are you talking about?” Chu Wanning snapped back, but his whole body shivered and then stilled.

“Don’t deny it. Your staff told this venerable one. Shizun must want to come out more.” With arms thick and strong as chains, Taxian-Jun spun Chu Wanning to face him and hoisted him up, large hands pinning slender fawn legs around a solid waist. Chu Wanning’s legs hadn’t always been this delicately built, but a year of half-eaten meals and inactivity have made them so. Still, they kicked like they were the sinewy, powerful ones of his former self.

“ Mo Weiyu ! Put me down,” Chu Wanning demanded. Those phoenix eyes were huge with alarm, and a slight blush affected his ears and cheeks. 

Taxian-Jun laughed, his dark eyes crinkling into fine lines. A hand brushed a stray lock behind Chu Wanning’s ear, almost tender in its motion. "How about Shizun rides this venerable one’s cock on the highest seat of honor tonight?"

“What?! It’s the middle of the night!" Chu Wanning squirmed like a caged rabbit, spine twisting, feet kicking out in vain. The more he struggled, the tighter Mo Ran’s grip became, the friction against his skin turning pale flesh red. This burst of defiance, dormant for so long, surprised them both.

“Oh? Would Shizun prefer to be fucked during the day? Does he want people to see?”

“No,” Chu Wanning snapped “Put me down!”

Taxian-Jun was a beast, mottled and twisted. He cared little for anyone’s demands and certainly not Chu Wanning’s. Out into the warm night air they went, the swing of the door washing summer humidity over them both in a sticky wave. At the threshold, they both stilled. Many years had passed since Mo Ran had become Taxian-Jun, and still Chu Wanning remembered what he looked like before: sweet dimpled smiles with eager-to-please eyes, soft and fuzzy around the edges. For only a moment, Chu Wanning swore he could see that face again under the wan moonbeams, sharp features at best a map of lines–a Mo Ran lost in night-smudge and fluxing lantern glow, but it made Chu Wanning’s heart ache all the same.

When they passed the guards outside of the palace’s main hall, he hid his face in Mo Ran’s shoulder, clenching fistfuls of the black, silken fabric of Mo Ran’s clothing, looking comparable to a rebellious toddler being toted off to bed. The subdued scents of blood and musk enveloped him. He could taste the ruddy metallic on his tongue when he closed his eyes. 

Mo Ran strode like a languid beast hauling its kill to a den, doors closing behind them with a heavy thud. He carried Chu Wanning to the throne on the dais, setting him down before untying his own robes. The outer layers slipped off, pooling at his feet like midnight spilled across the steps. Chu Wanning gripped the arm of the throne, his gaze darting everywhere but Mo Ran. Inside, his chest was a storm—shame, fear, anger—all tumbling together, burning him from the inside out. The hall around them, lined with candles and rich draperies, felt worlds away from the Loyalty Hall it had once been.

Then he was lifted again, this time onto Mo Ran’s lap of sinew, hands rough and possessive, tearing away his clothing in frenzied hunger like a beast tearing at flesh. Chu Wanning grasped at his robes, a last ditch effort for keeping even a modicum of pride. Even though the weather was warm, he shivered. Maybe it was the way Mo Ran watched him, dark eyes pulling Chu Wanning under their stormwater. Regardless, the raven wings of Mo Ran’s robe were wrapped around his shoulders.

"Only I get to see you like this," Mo Ran growled, voice husky with satisfaction. A taloned hand dug into Chu Wanning’s flesh, the other gripped his jaw, yanking his face down to meet dark, ravenous eyes. "What do you think, Shizun? Look at yourself now—you belong to this venerable one."

How was it even now that Chu Wanning could look like this? Without freedom and at the mercy of Taxian-Jun’s lust and rage, Chu Wanning still tried to look like he was so much better than him. Humiliation could only break so much. That was fine, though; Mo Ran would find other ways to break his Shizun. He brought their mouths together, pushing past the seam of Chu Wanning’s lips in a rough, hungry kiss, his tongue a claim on Chu Wanning’s life. 

“ Mine, ” Mo Ran growled into the slick of his mouth. He bit on Chu Wanning’s lips until they were swollen and the bottom one had been bit open, thin rivulets of blood being smeared into spit-slicked metallic.

Chu Wanning tried to steady himself by pressing the flat of his palms to the set of fine-lined shoulders, but it was a futile fight, an inescapable hold. He kicked and twisted but a prince raised in the restraint of rules thrived in the jaws of defiance. Mo Ran only sneered, a wolf with stark white fangs and claws the snares of a trap.   

"Giving up already, Wanning? You used to fight so much harder." Mo Ran’s voice was teasing, coaxing, his hand wandering lower, fingers brushing the curve of Chu Wanning’s hip. "Or maybe... you want it?"

The words twisted something deep in Chu Wanning’s gut, like shards of glass rolling inside him. "No," he bit out.

Mo Ran was already hard and began to grind upwards against his captive with slow rolls of his hips. He laved at a pallid stretch of Chu Wanning’s neck and bit down at the rigid tendon edge of shoulder slope, burying his face into its growing flush. 

“Mo Ran!” Chu Wanning reprimanded with a hiss.

“ Mo Ran, Mo Ran, ” Taxian-Jun mocked. “What are you mad about?”

Chu Wanning pressed his lips together, sharp and thin as a willow vine; they trembled, his eyes wet, flushed with a red so deep it rivaled the candles’ glow. His body was a rigid, bamboo thing being molded and bent under Mo Ran’s will. Usually, on nights like these, he would have shut off his mind and allowed the inevitable to pass, landing a kick on Mo Ran’s chest when he could while his ankles were shackled with a twisting grip, nails streaking the skin in ruby trails. But here, in this throne room—this cursed space—everything overwhelmed him. The light, the heat, the suffocating weight of Mo Ran’s hands palming at his bottom. His body didn’t feel like his own and yet still he was chained into it, forced to experience every bitter touch. Fingers tangled in his hair, pulling his head back until his neck threatened to snap in half. Mo Ran bit and chewed at his throat, lapping at the blood blooming on his snowy-white collarbone like a man starved. Even as Chu Wanning’s body trembled beneath him, Mo Ran didn’t relent. There was no escape. 

Suddenly, Mo Ran stopped. A twisted smile curled at the edges of his lips, pressed against the sting of Chu Wanning’s broken skin.

With a snap and a reverberating call, he summoned a servant. Chu Wanning curled up against him, a flustered, breathing thing, pale beneath the liquid shadow of Mo Ran’s black robe draped over his head. The soft clink of porcelain sounded before footsteps faded into silence.

Liquid poured—sweet, burning wine by the smell of it. “Wanning,” Mo Ran coaxed. When Chu Wanning didn’t respond, he ripped the robe away with a snarl. “I’m talking to you,” he warned, gripping Chu Wanning’s jaw with enough force to nearly crack bone. “I have a gift for you. It’s not polite to ignore your host.”

Chu Wanning’s head was yanked back until his scalp burned, hair twisted in Mo Ran’s iron grip. The sweet wine was poured into his mouth. He tried to swallow, but it flooded too fast. A fiery heat pooled in his stomach as he choked on a windpipe swallow, sputtering and coughing wine onto Mo Ran’s face.

Lightning cracked. Mo Ran’s hand met his cheek with such force that it nearly sent him sprawling across the floor, the world spinning. The only thing holding him down was the twisted steel grip Mo Ran had on his hip. A trickle of blood ran a narrow river channel from his brow and into his eye, a deep cut accompanied by a dark splotch on his cheek where a bruise would yellow and blacken. He let out a whimper of pain.

“I was being nice,” Mo Ran ground out from between the flats of his teeth. “Now look what you’ve done, Wanning. You hurt yourself.” His thumb swept along Chu Wanning’s eyelid, smearing blood in a thin streak. The touch lingered. For a splitting pause, Chu Wanning feared that Mo Ran would press down and pop . It would be easy for him too; Chu Wanning had seen him gouge out people’s eyes and crush them like gelatin grapes, nothing but a pile of bloody mush and a wailing, helpless body clutching for an empty eye socket turned a waterfall of cruor.

But Mo Ran didn’t. He chuckled, a low rumble in the pit of his stomach that Chu Wanning could feel against his thighs. 

“Wanning should be more careful,” he said and sucked the blood from his thumb. It came away shiny with spit, damp against Chu Wanning’s skin where it found the curve of his bottom and began to knead the muscle beneath. The other hand busied itself, freeing his pants until the thick, dark tip of Mo Ran’s length nestled threateningly between Chu Wanning’s cheeks.

Chu Wanning looked away. Knuckles turned white from how tight a grip he had on the arms of the throne. 

Chu Wanning turned his head, knuckles white from gripping the throne’s arms.

“Does my Chu-fei want it?”

He shook his head, tears sparkling in the corners of his eyes under fluxing candlelight. 

The first push burned white-hot. It never got easier, no matter how many times Mo Ran took him like this. There might have been oil on merciful nights, but not tonight. Chu Wanning bit down on his lip, reopening the scab, tasting dark ichor on each sharp suck of breath in rhythm with the slow, full sheathing thrusts of Mo Ran rolling his hips upward. The tears spilled over. His insides were being seared by hot metal, deeper and deeper, Mo Ran grunting as though it were the finest place he could possibly be on such a night. 

A particularly deep thrust ripped a strangled cry from him. His nails scrambled for purchase on the throne, but there was none. His cheek stung, his brow throbbed, and his body felt like it was being torn apart for Mo Ran’s sick pleasure. At any moment, he felt he might just snap in half and he’s almost wishing for it, almost pleading for it like a mercy. For his spine to splinter like aged wood under the force of Mo Ran’s ravaging would be a better end to whatever hell he was living in now—that of a personal sex outlet for a man with a hatred so strong as to move whole mountains, reserved solely for him.

That was Mo Ran’s favorite part: showing Chu Wanning how little he was, a perfect, pretty thing to be used. 

It’d been so long and yet somehow Chu Wanning still lunged with empty hands at any sliver of dignity he could find, clinging to it like a starved dog with a gnawed on bone. 

Mo Ran had hunched over and was panting hot and damp against Chu Wanning’s skin, forehead pressed to his sternum while fucking into him like a doll, pulling him down by his hips with hands closer to mindless claws. Time gave way to an easier slide—the mix of precum and blood its own perverted lubricant. Chu Wanning’s thoughts dimmed past the pain, aware only that Mo Ran would force him to look at his ruined body later, tainted with synovia.

He couldn’t stand it. A quiet whimper smeared into Mo Ran’s hair, a sound that drove him wild. Mo Ran speared him open with renewed fervor, every thrust a battle to wring more sounds from Chu Wanning’s swollen, bitten lips—whimpers, groans, pleas for mercy, anything. He buried his face into the sweat-dampened tangle of Chu Wanning’s hair, muttering cruel names but also pressing soft kisses into the crook of his neck.

“Mine,” Mo Ran panted.

By the end, Chu Wanning was nothing but a pliant, trembling body. Mo Ran’s nails dug into his hips, and with a final, hard slam, he spilled inside. They both panted, Mo Ran contentedly buried inside, cold eyes glazed with satisfaction. Strands of his hair had come loose, sticking to his sweat-slicked face. One of his hands brushed the low swell of Chu Wanning’s back with the care of a dragonfly skimming water, the touch so gentle it jarred him into a state of half-awareness. It felt like a drowning man taking his first breath after being pulled from the river. Chu Wanning’s chest rose and fell with deep pants as he tried to catch his breath, but couldn’t. Each inhale was prickly and weak, unable to fill the full of his lungs before giving out. 

“Let me go,” Chu Wanning said in a daze.

A twinkle lit Mo Ran’s eyes. “Shizun isn’t going anywhere. He could, but he isn’t moving.” A low, dark chuckle rumbled in his chest. “Such a slut. What if this venerable one showed you off to Xue Meng, hm? I could bring you here anytime.”

“Mo Weiyu…”

Mo Ran furrowed his brows and mumbled loosely, “It’s not up to Shizun.” His hand continued its mindless ministrations along Chu Wanning’s back, thumb sweeping back and forth in an almost reverent touch. For Chu Wanning, it was an unusual but welcomed stillness, missing Taxian-Jun’s empty stare that reached nowhere. Everything still hurt. Trying to ignore how he was still stretched open was another challenge, but for the small bit of time that Mo Ran didn’t move, the pain was able to dull a bit.

…

Song Qiutong was strong-willed to not leave her compound more than necessary, so her only interactions with the concubine could be via impersonal means. She toiled over the contents with the help of A-Zhu and the support of A-Liu, summoning the smiling eunuch to arrange its delivery to Chu-fei. All this was done with increased demand after Taxian-Jun’s return from the east and prompt visit to Chu-Fei. Who else but Chu-fei?! The thought the gossip conjured in her mind was truly scandalous—she would think it scandalous no matter what, even if the one carried into the hall was her, but the idea of such a rendezvous made her heart quicken, weighing the implications. But it was someone else on the throne, someone who could possibly be the emperor’s shizun, of all people. She may as well have been slapped in the face!

Fueled by explosive anxiety shrouded in rage, she crafted that letter, completing what had already been started. It was simple and kind on the surface, enough so that, by the chance this Chu-fei wasn’t Chu Wanning, the concubine could accept it without alarm. Thinking ahead, she wasn’t too sure how she would react to a response, if she got one, but the idea excited her nonetheless. Before now, making such a move without the emperor’s consent worried her. She was still worried and imagined Chu-fei telling him, picturing all kinds of dramatic and conniving scenes between the two. 

“My lady, you are our Empress. You are allowed to communicate with almost anyone in the palace, let alone a concubine! For your health, this one wishes you to stay calm,” A-Zhu urged from beside Song Qiutong’s bed. “Breathe.”

Song Qiutong lay beneath a thin cover, her maids taking turns fanning and dabbing her with cool cloths. The night was suffocatingly warm, and awful nausea had plagued her earlier. Her doctor reassured her that it was normal, advising plenty of rest and a calming diet to ease her troubled womb. Early on, the healers also recommended meditation and dissuaded excitement, fearing that any opposing qi accumulated around Sisheng Peak was unlucky, though they argued because of her demonic heritage. 

She felt unsightly enough to shed her inhuman tears, but held them back while taking deep breaths. “Hand me the fan,” she said softly. “I can do it. You two can go on to bed.”

Her girls looked at her, gazes rife with pity and concern. 

She really wanted to scream, maybe cry.

…

“Empress Song.” 

Song Qiutong’s body tensed. Peering over her shoulder, she replied shakily, “Husband.”

She sat on a raised stone slab in the woods behind her residence, her tender peach-blossom eyes glistening with unshed tears as they met Taxian-Jun’s dark gaze.

“What are you doing out here?” Taxian-Jun inquired and trod in front of her, eyes full of twisting suspicion.

“The healers advised meditation,” she said softly, “not for cultivation, but to ease the mind of worries.”

“Are you unwell?”

Do you care? “This one is well… I thought A-Ran…”

“Thought what?” he pressed. 

“I thought you didn’t care,” she murmured under her breath, her expression especially sad and pitiful with her tear-rimmed eyes.

After a moment, Taxian-Jun forced out the question, sharp and raw against the walls of his throat, “Is it really mine?”

“Of course.” She brightened the smallest bit.

“This venerable one doesn’t believe you.”

Of course not. “Why do you doubt me?” A single tear fell, bright and reflecting like a falling pearl in the overcast sunlight. 

He went rigid. “Stop that. How could this venerable one let that happen? He’s too good in bed.” He irritably wiped the tear from her pale cheek with the sleeve of his black robe, clearing the golden stream from the snow white skin. “Don’t cry anymore. Your emperor is so generous, so what’s there to cry about?”

“A-Ran…”

“This venerable one told you to stop.” He stepped off to the edge of the clearing and faced away. “You met my shizun.”

She replied with a start, “You knew?”

“You think I don’t know what goes on in my own peak? Doesn’t this venerable one’s wife know what his shizun did to him? Yet you served him tea.”

What? That was months ago. Her heart began to beat harder and faster, as though it could jump upward to choke her. Something in the air had shifted between them. “This one–”

“Speak simply. You’re this venerable one’s empress, the most beautiful thing, not some common wench.”

I only speak that way to you anymore. “I understand,” she sniffled away the last tear and felt elated, flames of satisfaction flickering into something larger. “I thought you spared Chu Wanning’s life since he lives on the peak. Are you not on better terms?” 

More than the topic at hand, she understood his exaltation of her depended on her species. ‘The most beautiful thing,’ or a widely sought-after object he possesses. Beyond that was her resemblance to this ‘Shi Mei’ figure from his early life he seemed so dearly attached to. I still have worth. I’m still his beauty, which means I still have him.

“Ah,” he sighed, a wry smirk wrinkling his side profile. “Do you think this venerable one likes that Xue Meng? That peacock is still alive, after all.” 

“Of course not. He’s very annoying.”

Taxian-Jun turned to her with narrowed eyes, a glare like an icy, gleaming blade.

Too blunt, she realized. Song Quitong cast her eyes downward and held her graceful hands in her lap like two dainty sculptures of fidgeting marble. “His presence makes me nervous, and he causes my husband so much trouble.”

“Right.” A firm nod. His gaze lingered on her, vacant and mournful. “I hate my shizun more than anyone in this world. Death is nothing. There are other ways to make him suffer.” 

Oh. If Chu Wanning was Chu-fei, then Mo Ran wasn’t a cut-sleeve enamored with his shizun—he was simply cruel beyond imagining. Song Qiutong had long known her place in his life, a vessel for him to vent his lust and frustration. She wondered now if he was capable of loving anyone at all.

Chapter Text

The early morning light spilled over the courtyard in a muted, golden haze. A cool mist clung to the air, softening the stone yard where disciples and elders once gathered. Now, a ring of black-armored soldiers stood guard, fists clenched around their weapons, the lingering stench of blood coiling around them like a miasma cloud. From the edges of the peak, scattered servants watched—some positioned to witness, others drawn in by morbid curiosity.

Chu Wanning scanned the scene. The empress, as expected, was nowhere to be found. It had been months since he’d last seen her, but her absence hardly surprised him. What he did see, however, was far more troubling: a line of shackled prisoners—commoners and cultivators alike—awaiting their fate in the stone courtyard’s center. After another night of shameless behavior, Mo Ran took an opportune, deliberate moment to tell Chu Wanning about his collected prisoners. Neither of them slept much at all last night, and Mo Ran dragged Chu Wanning here at dawn to conclude his stalled bloodbath. His walk was at first nonchalant, but, like a tethered dog escaping its hold, he stormed at the sight of his prey. 

The four condemned, shackled and already on the verge of death, would now be offered one final chance to respond to their accused crimes: treachery, adultery, and worse.

Before Mo Ran’s sword, Bugui, tore through the first man’s body, the prisoner pleaded. His words, strained and desperate, fell on deaf ears. “I’ve never had ties to Kunlun Taxue Palace,” the man gasped, trembling as the sword hovered over him. “I swear it.”

Another prisoner—a woman, her face ashen with blackened eye sockets—sobbed quietly, apologizing for following her husband into rebellion. Her spiritual core had already been crushed, a punishment worse than death for a cultivator. Taxian-Jun had spared her life, but that was a crueler fate. Without her cultivation, without anyone daring to aid her after this condemnation, a future was hopeless. If she tried to leave, she may bleed out on her way down the mountain.

And then came the final two: the man accused of seducing the empress and the eunuch who had admitted to exchanging information. The air grew taut as Mo Ran turned his gaze on them, his lips curving into a cold smile.

“This venerable one had the matter thoroughly investigated,” Taxian-Jun stated. “Yet you still claim you never touched Empress Song. Who else but you? Guards saw you near her quarters. I saw you myself near her quarters. ”

The young man spluttered blood. “Th-this-” 

“You still try to deny it. Such incredible resolve to deceive this venerable one.”

The man clenched his hung-up fists and shouted with his dregs of energy, “Tyrant! Killing innocents… You’re just insecure because a sick mutt like you can’t please a woman!” He let out delirious laughter. “The empress must fear you, that’s the truth of it!!”

Chu Wanning shuddered, ears burning in the crisp autumn air. His limbs went numb as a dizzying wave of vertigo swept over him, like being drawn into a whirlpool of heat, each pull blurring his thoughts. The world spun, chaotic and sharp.

“What?!” Taxian-Jun’s laugh crashed like thunder, edged and mocking. “This fucking—” Rage lit his eyes, excitement crackling through his voice. He raised Bugui, the blade cutting through the man’s abdomen with terrifying speed, a wet squelch accompanying the spray of blood and entrails that painted the ground. Without hesitation, Taxian-Jun struck again, his blade moving so quickly that the air itself screamed, twisting into a spiraling wind tainted with the sharp tang of iron. The next victim—a random bystander—barely had time to scream before their body crumpled under Taxian-Jun’s blade, erupting sharp gasps nearby.

“Mo Weiyu!!” Chu Wanning’s voice broke as his heart raced in frantic, skipping beats. His eyes were bloodshot, wide with having seen too much. But no one listened. The crowd barely acknowledged him, save for a few fearful glances from those too weak or despondent to act.

He stood frozen, his body trembling with cold as a flood of memories surfaced—blood seeping into Sisheng Peak’s soil, the bodies that had fallen here before. How many lives had this very ground consumed? Even now, was he standing where a soul had been felled?

Once the massacre of a trial ended, silent servants moved like shadows, cleaning the blood-streaked courtyard with deadened eyes.

“Mo Ran.”

Taxian-Jun turned at the call, standing between the pillars of Wushan Palace, his figure looming like a mountain. “Let this venerable one guess—Shizun found my judgment too extreme.”

“You had no reason to kill a random person. What was that for?” Chu Wanning’s fists shook and clenched so tightly as to turn white, and he had to force his body through the chill of approaching his disciple. 

“Did you see the way he laughed at this venerable one?” 

“That doesn’t justify murder.” Chu Wanning’s voice was sharded with disbelief. “Even if he did, there was no reason to kill.” The moment Taxian-Jun sneered, Chu Wanning snapped. “You’re a moron.”

Taxian-Jun scoffed, flashing his sharp canines as his eyes crinkled. “That’s a new one. My Wanning is so fierce today. Usually, you call this venerable one shameless, monster, beyond remedy. Why the sudden shift to moron?”

Chu Wanning’s brow twitched ever so slightly at the accused language. “Impulsive killing,” he muttered darkly. “And what was that nonsense about Empress Song?”

“Oh, Wanning, you really think she’s pregnant with my child?” Taxian-Jun leaned in, breath warm—a wolf scenting its prey with how close he stood. “This venerable one simply found the most likely suspect.”

“‘Most likely,’” Chu Wanning echoed doubtfully. Taxian-Jun stared at him with his chin held and eyebrows raised, expectant.

A short, empty pause to anyone else, Chu Wanning internally hemmed and hawed before saying, “I wish you would stop.” 

“Shizun has no say in this venerable one’s judgment. Where has your pretend concern for people gotten you? Do you mean that you care? No, you just stand against anything I do.”

Before Chu Wanning could respond, Taxian-Jun stepped forward, seizing his jaw in a firm grip. His thumb brushed against Chu Wanning’s tense cheek, fanning back and forth, rough and possessive. Pressing in close, his voice dropped to a low whisper, breath scalding against Chu Wanning’s ear. “This venerable one won’t tolerate anyone casting suspicious eyes on what belongs to him.”

Chu Wanning shook his head, leaving the suffocating atmosphere of Wushan Palace behind as he made his way to the Red Lotus Pavilion. He craved solitude. The path stretched before him, shaded in a muted gray-blue under the pale morning light. The air was heavy with mist now, clinging to the stones beneath his feet in a wet sheen, the damp scent of petrichor hanging in the cool air.

As he rounded a corner, Empress Song stood leaning against a stone wall outside her residence. Their eyes met.

In the past, her gaze had always been soft, perhaps even fearful, but still kind. Today, though, her eyes were vacant, devoid of any pleasantry. She struggled to muster a small, polite smile, but it was brittle, like a thin sheet of ice over a hollow well. Her stare felt endless under her heavy eyelids, black irises like a starless night sky, reflecting nothing. 

“Chu Wanning,” she greeted, the smile vanishing as quickly as it had come.

He took a moment to respond, taking her in with silent observation. “Empress Song.”

She was dressed in elegant red and gold robes, a white fox-fur coat draped snugly over her shoulders. Her manicured hand rested protectively over her rounded belly, the swell of her pregnancy unmistakable now. This sight struck Chu Wanning in a way he couldn't quite place. Something unsettled him—something he couldn’t name. His voice came out, uncertain, “Did you know the man who died?”

Her gaze never wavered. “No. I’d never seen him before.” Her calmness was unnerving, a stillness that could only come from enduring Taxian-Jun’s madness for too long.

They exchanged no further words. Song Qiutong turned her face away, gazing into the distance from her place beneath the eaves, while Chu Wanning resumed his escape.

…

Five weeks later, after the deaths of her favorite eunuch and an innocent man, Song Qiutong gave birth.

The man who had died—she had truly never known him. Perhaps he had been another cultivator from Sisheng Peak, someone nameless and faceless in the chaos. It no longer mattered. The memory of that day had been buried under the weight of what was to come.

The labor had been long and harrowing, pain tearing through her in a way she could not have imagined. At one point, she thought death might come for her before the child did. But when it was over, when she held her newborn daughter in her arms, a wave of love and awe flooded her exhausted body. All the fear and agony faded as she gazed down at the tiny life she had brought into the world.

She had felt the baby’s movements over the past months, had imagined this moment, but now her daughter was real—a warm, breathing presence in her arms.

“How is our little princess?” Auntie Yu asked from the doorway. An experienced servant had already been selected by Song Qiutong and Auntie Yu as a future secondary caregiver, but Song Qiutong was ready and willing to nurture this baby girl herself. 

“She’s well,” Song Qiutong replied. “She fed not too long ago and has been asleep since.” She sat by a shut window, light spilling through onto the baby’s delicate face, barely visible through layers of soft blankets.

Auntie Yu smiled, now joined where she stood by a beaming A-Zhu who carried linens. The birth had been a welcomed joy for woeful souls. 

“And you, Your Majesty? Are you well?”

“I am.” Her voice was tired, but her heart was too full for her to feel anything but spacey wonder.

In the sunlight, her daughter stirred, unfocused eyes flickering open. At first, they seemed black, but as the light touched them, they gleamed with a deep, dark purple. Song Qiutong couldn’t help but smirk.

She had promised Taxian-Jun a male heir, and had assured him with quiet confidence that she could bear the son he desired. Yet, when her daughter was born, Song Qiutong felt only the faintest twinge of sadness—more a fleeting melancholy than true disappointment. The weight of a son’s absence barely registered, overshadowed by the grim knowledge of what it meant for a girl to grow up within these walls, under the shadow of being a Butterfly-Boned Beauty Feast.

Her daughter’s life would inevitably mirror her own, shaped by a world where beauty became currency, and women were bartered like treasures. But Song Qiutong had no intention of allowing her child to suffer the same fate. She had power now—her status, her position as Empress of the cultivation realm. She could use it to carve out a better future for her daughter, even if that future meant sending her off to marry some distant lord or sect leader. At least Song Qiutong would have the means to find her the safest match, to negotiate for her protection, perhaps even her happiness.

Invitations for a celebration were already being prepared, set for the coming spring. A name would need to be chosen before then—something meaningful, something befitting her daughter. But who could she invite? Song Qiutong had no friends or family left to share in this joy. The court at Sisheng Peak was not a place for warmth or camaraderie. It was a cold, dangerous fortress filled with servants, silent and obedient, and cultivators whose loyalty belonged not to her but to the tyrant who ruled over them.

She tried to imagine Taxian-Jun hosting a banquet, inviting guests for the sake of alliance and goodwill. The thought was laughable. He might host a gathering, but not out of joy or pride. If he entertained guests, it would be for ulterior motives—power, manipulation, control. There would be no genuine celebration, no warmth in the toasts raised to her child’s birth. Only cold, calculating glances exchanged between powerful men, all playing their own hidden games.

No. It was better to keep the event small, a simple acknowledgment of her daughter’s existence. Nothing more. A brief moment of ceremony amidst the darkness that surrounded them, a flicker of light in an otherwise dreary world.

As she sat by the window, her daughter nestled in her arms, Song Qiutong’s thoughts drifted. The top of the world was a lonely place. She had once imagined that rising to such heights would bring comfort, security, even happiness. But the higher she climbed, the more isolated she became.

Now, as Empress, she was untouchable, unapproachable. Surrounded by power and luxury, but with no one to share it with, no one to trust. And yet, holding her daughter, she felt a spark of something unfamiliar—a fragile hope. Maybe this child, this little girl with dark purple eyes, could be her salvation, the one person in this vast, empty world who belonged solely to her.

Song Qiutong tightened her grip on the infant, her heart whispering a silent vow: No matter what happens, I will protect you. I will build a future for you—one where you are safe, one where you are loved.

…

In the second spring of Taxian-Jun’s reign, a modest celebration marked the birth of his first child. Though the child was a daughter, the interest was palpable—an infant born from such infamous lineage could only spark curiosity. Whispers of a new Butterfly-Boned Beauty Feast circled among the more traditional factions, their eyes gleaming with the prospect of a hybrid successor. Obsequious nobles and sect members sent tributes: protective talismans, calming elixirs, priceless jewelry. Each offering came with reverent promises of allegiance and congratulations to the growing imperial family. Word of the birth spread swiftly through the realm.

Chu Wanning was invited as “Chu-fei.” It was also the first time he saw Mo Ran and Song Qiutong’s daughter. Mo Ran, of course, insisted he attend, though the invitation came formally from Empress Song. After a series of heated arguments, Chu Wanning reluctantly agreed, dressed in pale blue robes with red accents, his face half-veiled. The white jade hairpin in his hair was more a claim than an adornment.

“Empress Song invited you,” Mo Ran had said with a smirk. “Besides, you’re mine.” His tone had shifted in recent weeks, more drunken and despondent than the brash, raging tyrant Chu Wanning had known. He would come to him reeking of wine, muttering obscene things.

“If you were a woman, you’d have birthed this venerable one’s child already. Imagine the abomination it would be.”

“Come on, Wanning. Play with this venerable one and spread your legs like the slutty consort you are… Fuck, you’re so full of me… You want it, too, right?”

…At the gathering, Song Qiutong dazzled in a gown of red, gold, and pale pink, her face painted to perfection, her black hair threaded with pearls and golden ornaments. A butterfly hairpin sat nestled atop her head. She sat beside Taxian-Jun on the dais, her expression radiant as she cradled the infant in her arms. In contrast, Chu Wanning sat below, the oppressive air around him thick, like breathing through cloth soaked in something foul. He watched Song Qiutong glow beside her husband, her hand brushing Mo Ran’s arm as she balanced the child between them. Her smile was bright, genuine, but Mo Ran remained cold, his gaze resting on the child as though she were a strange creature rather than his own flesh and blood.

Chu Wanning was startled by the resemblance between father and daughter. The baby, with her dark purple eyes and dimpled smile, mirrored Mo Ran in ways he hadn’t expected. Innocent as she was, the connection was undeniable, even with the tyrant’s relentless attempts to distance himself. Song Qiutong commented proudly that the child had inherited her eye shape, but it was still too soon to tell. Even so, Chu Wanning knew—Mo Ran’s blood ran in her veins.

“Sister, you came!” Song Qiutong exclaimed, her eyebrows raised with pure elation and posture open with pride. “So shy? Come here and meet Xiao-Yan.”

With measured, reluctant steps, Chu Wanning approached the family. He could feel the heat of Taxian-Jun’s gaze, as though the man were daring him to refuse. Song Qiutong, oblivious to the tension, guided him to hold the infant, her hands fluttering around him like a moth to its lantern flame, never straying too far from her child.

“Her name is Mo Yan,” she beamed, her fingers stroking the baby’s fine, dark hair. Her joy was evident, radiating through every gesture. “She’s a good girl, quiet and well-behaved. See?”

Chu Wanning nodded, his face unreadable, before handing Mo Yan back to her mother.

“A-Ran, try holding Xiao-Yan,” Song Qiutong urged, batting her lashes as if coaxing him from a distance. “Even Chu-fei could do it.”

Taxian-Jun’s eyes never left Chu Wanning, dark and consuming, as though each breath he took had to pass through that suffocating gaze. His presence, looming and inescapable, hung over the gathering like a storm cloud.

Song Qiutong’s maidservants, huddled in the corner, exchanged wary glances, as if unsure why she would trust a ruthless man like Taxian-Jun to hold her fragile baby at all. They held their tongues, waiting for what felt like the inevitable. To everyone’s shock, Taxian-Jun reached for Mo Yan without hesitation, accepting the infant from the Empress. Song Qiutong gave him reluctant instructions, much like she had done for Chu Wanning.

A knot of tension coiled in Chu Wanning’s chest, his breath catching painfully as warmth surged beneath his skin. Was it fear? Unease? Surely, even Taxian-Jun wouldn’t harm his own child, mad as he was. Yet Chu Wanning couldn’t banish the nagging thought. The man was capable of anything.

Unable to stomach any more of the forced encounter, Chu Wanning slipped outside, finding sanctuary in the cold air. He closed his eyes, inhaling deeply, forcing each breath to calm his racing pulse. But soft voices drifted toward him from nearby, and his eyes snapped open, scanning the courtyard for their source.

“I’m happy for Empress Song. She wanted this child so badly, and the healers helped her through the worst of it.”

“Mn, and I heard the princess is adorable! I can’t wait to meet her someday.”

A contented sigh followed. “Maybe there’s hope for them. Perhaps the next one born will be a boy. The Empress was so desperate before, she even asked about alternative methods.”

Alternative methods? 

“Wanning,” Taxian-Jun intoned from behind. “What are you doing out here? Are you trying to run away?” The huskiness of his voice made Chu Wanning’s heart stir with something like sickness. A solid arm snaked around Chu Wanning’s midsection, pulling him close. 

The servants who had been gossiping froze, their eyes darting surreptitious glances toward the pair in silent observation.

Chu Wanning stiffened, his heart hammering in his chest. He met Taxian-Jun’s gaze—a darkened gaze with that familiar indecency, one that haunted Chu Wanning far too often, bore into him. Fingers brushed against the edge of his mask, trailing between his ear and jaw with a possessive stroke.

“When this venerable one married you, your face was hidden behind a veil, just like now,” Taxian-Jun murmured into his ear. “Should I be the one to take it off again? Are you embarrassed?”

Chu Wanning’s voice came out stiff. “No. Go back.”

“Mmh,” Taxian-Jun hummed, his grip tugging a pale blue sleeve. “You belong to me.” His eyes, bloodshot from drink, cleared for a moment as he blinked away the cloud of darkness hanging over him. “Come back inside with this venerable one.”

Inside, the air felt even heavier. Song Qiutong had returned to her seat, her daughter nestled in her arms, while another masked figure knelt before her. The atmosphere hummed, charged with curiosity and the watchful eyes of the court. Song Qiutong's gaze flickered to Chu Wanning, sharp with recognition, but it was the stranger who commanded attention.

“This one is Hua Binan, a friend of the Empress,” the masked man announced, bowing low. “I come to offer my congratulations on the birth of the princess and to pledge my support to the imperial family. I bring gifts, humble offerings that I hope will please the young princess as she grows.”

Taxian-Jun, now seated again, rested his chin in his hand. His voice was edged as he addressed the newcomer. “Guyueye Sect,” he remarked, eyes narrowing. “Your former leader displeased this venerable one.”

Hua Binan bowed lower, his voice humble yet steady. “Your Majesty, this one apologizes on behalf of his sect. The former leader was arrogant and foolish. The Guyueye Sect is now under my care on Rainbell Isle. I am here to atone for past offenses.”

Taxian-Jun’s lips curled into a thin smile. “Mn. It seems you’ve learned from your predecessor’s mistakes.” 

Chu Wanning watched the interaction between Taxian-Jun and Hua Binan. Taxian-Jun, whose temper often flared at the smallest provocation, seemed strangely tolerant of the Guyueye Sect’s new leader. Chu Wanning, however, had little recollection of this Hua Binan. So much had changed in the few years since Taxian-Jun’s rise, and unfamiliar faces like this one had quietly taken up space in the imperial court, representatives that reflected an unrecognizable realm.

Song Qiutong graciously thanked Hua Binan for his visit and the lavish gifts. After a formal farewell, Taxian-Jun dismissed their guest. With the strangers gone, the atmosphere inside the hall relaxed, turning to something intimate again.

“Chu-fei, your hairpin is quite lovely,” Song Qiutong remarked, a warm smile on her painted lips. “Did A-Ran give it to you?”

“Correct, this venerable one gave it,” Mo Ran interjected.

“Ah, I forgot,” Song Qiutong teased. “Chu-fei is mute.” She adjusted her own hairpin, the butterfly-wing ornament catching the light. “A-Ran gave me mine as well. Isn’t it beautiful?”

Chu Wanning offered a curt nod, thankful for the excuse that had long shielded him from unnecessary conversations. It was an offhand remark Mo Ran had made once to save face, and it suited him well enough in gatherings like these.

As more wine flowed and the evening’s prayers were readied, Song Qiutong shifted the conversation toward Mo Ran’s parents. She sought to honor them, her tone sincere.

Mo Ran’s expression darkened, his gaze drifting. “This venerable one remembers no father,” he said slowly, “but my mother… she was worth more than any.” His voice lowered, and Chu Wanning could see the tension in his jaw. “The world took her from me and dishonored her. She never received the proper rites, not even a kind word. I couldn’t even write her name.”

Song Qiutong’s eyes softened, a silent apology. 

Mo Ran gave her a sharp nod. “Your respect pleases this venerable one, Empress Song. Only my shixiong ever considered my background.”

Chu Wanning’s breath caught at the memory of Mo Ran as a young disciple, bright-eyed and hopeful. He remembered the countless nights they spent together writing letters to honor Mo Ran’s deceased mother. The boy had spoken of her often, her kindness, her strength, always with a proud smile. Chu Wanning had guided him through the rituals, had stood by him when no one else would. Was that all forgotten now? Mo Ran couldn’t possibly mean to erase such a defining part of their shared history.

Later, when they were briefly alone, Chu Wanning confronted Mo Ran, reminding him of those nights, of the letters, of the memories they had carved together. But Mo Ran’s reaction was swift and brutal, his eyes blazing with indignation.

Chu Wanning’s heart twisted painfully. This wasn’t right. Mo Ran wasn’t lying, yet neither was he. Both of them held conflicting truths, and it was as if the very fabric of their reality had unraveled into something unrecognizable. Everything felt wrong—disjointed, like a puzzle forced together with mismatched pieces or a bent, misaligned kaleidoscope.

For years, Mo Ran had drifted farther and farther away. His visits to brothels, the increasing distance between them, the darkness that settled over him like a thick fog—it had all built slowly, piece by piece, until Chu Wanning could scarcely recognize the man standing before him. He had convinced himself that this change was deliberate, a cruel evolution of their relationship, a consequence of his own failures. But now, staring at Mo Ran’s fury, his mind reeled. Could this truly be the man he had trained, guided, and once cared for so deeply? Was this truly his disciple?

No. There had to be something more. The confused denial of memories, the cruel acts against Sisheng Peak, the relentless spiral into darkness—this wasn’t natural. It wasn’t just fate or circumstance.

Under holistic consideration, wasn’t it like… a curse?

His heart pounded at the thought, the world spinning like a false, torn dream around him. 

Mo Ran… What happened? Where are you? Come back to me…

Chapter Text

In the dead of night, he tossed beneath the thin coverlet, his body aching, the wind howling beyond the window. Lightning slashed the sky, followed by deep, reverberating rumbles of thunder. Hours bled into each other as he drifted in and out of a fitful half-sleep. Darkness had swallowed him whole—whether it had been moments or hours, he couldn’t say—until the storm roused him from it again. The night felt unreal, as if the blackness itself had morphed into a fevered dream, painted in vivid, burning hues and streaked with sounds that faded before they could be grasped.

“Chu Wanning, I hope this works. I am doing my best…”

Thunder drowned out the rustle of paper, footsteps fading like whispers through his fogged mind.

“I have to save Daddy… You understand, right? But you can’t sacrifice yourself this time. I want my family. I want my family to live. The heavens are kind.”

The flicker of lightning revealed a figure standing by his bedside, moonlight casting their silhouette in pale relief. Dark, flowing robes. Mo… Ran? No, the form was smaller, the face was wrong—rounder, feminine. A woman. 

“Mo Huanjie, hurry up!” A sharp voice sounded from outside. He tried to focus, but the haze clung to him, thick and fuzzy.

The woman cradled a golden-pink flower in her hands, whispering to it as she sent it drifting toward him. Her brows knit, torn between focus and fear—emotions he couldn’t quite place, nor did he care to. His chest burned as the dream flower's light blazed, searing through him. His heart pounded, each beat a desperate thrum. If he didn’t know better, he might have believed it still pulsed with the strength of a golden core unbroken. Cool fingers brushed his forehead, jolting him. For a moment, it felt real—too real. But the crushing weight of his headache followed, dragging him back into the red darkness, swallowing him whole until unconsciousness reclaimed him.

…

A frog croaked outside, birds twittering in the dawn, and sunlight spilled through the latticed windows, casting orange patterns across the floor. Chu Wanning stirred, senses sharpening as two light knocks broke the peace, followed by Liu-gong’s familiar exasperated sigh.

“Chu Wanning! Ning-ning! Gegeee. Baidou immortal. Mo Yan is here!”

The well-behaved infant had transformed into an absolute menace of a child after five years. Although she bore a striking resemblance to her father, her personality reflected none of the aloof cunning of Song Qiutong. Mo Yan’s antics shattered the vivid impressions that young Mo Ran had etched into Chu Wanning’s memory. The young Mo Ran had been dazzling, attentive to a disorienting degree, but Emperor Mo Ran’s daughter lacked any paternal guidance. Chu Wanning often pondered how a spoiled Mo Ran might have turned out. Since the moment she could walk and talk freely, Mo Yan had tested every limit, much to Chu Wanning’s chagrin, a man raised in the solemnity of a temple.

Irritated by the unwelcome wake-up call and lazily dressed, Chu Wanning swung open the bedroom door and strode to the front. “Insolent child! Where is your mother?”

She giggled at his first words but groaned at the dreaded question. “Please don’t tell. I want to play here…” The pout in her voice was unmistakable.

But as soon as she saw him, her expression brightened. Two perfect braids framed her round face, though her sleeves were sloppily rolled up in thick clumps. She jabbed a delicate hairpin into her arm absentmindedly, ignoring Liu-gong, who nervously glanced at Chu Wanning while attempting to stop her. She wore a princess’s attire, soft cream silk draping over her small frame, though her carefree demeanor clashed with her formal garb.

“What we do here is only done here, what we say here is only said here,” she recited, her mischievous smile barely covered. 

Chu Wanning sighed, shaking his head. This was likely her own misapplication of a scolding she received. He recalled the way Mo Yan, when she was a toddler, stared up at him with wide, innocent eyes, clapping her tiny hands over her mouth as if she’d swallowed every lecture she’d received from caregivers. It was clear that someone, probably Song Qiutong, had taught her that little rule, trying to instill that she shouldn’t babble as she was prone to do, that she should carefully monitor her behavior in particular situations. He could agree with the endeavor, if not for the shrouded ploys it implicated. Yet, even now, her spirit remained untamed, the same rebellious spark flickering behind her eyes as if daring the world to try and bind her. 

She lowered her voice, sneaking around him with a conspiratorial grin. "Your house is nice. Can we play music again?"

“No.” His answer came quick, firm. The way she spoke, one might think they’d once harmonized a duet, but in reality, she had interrupted his dawn practice, her tiny hands plucking at the strings of Jiuge. The glare he’d given her then, along with the light smack on her wrist, had done little to deter her.

He never took in children as disciples, except for Xue Meng, and even that comparison brought a wave of bitterness he’d rather keep buried.

“Then, can we write in the libary?”

"Library. And it’s Beidou , not Baidou ," he corrected, rubbing his temple with a sigh.

“Huh? I said it right the first time. I’m very good at recitation, Niang and Nanny say so.”

Chu Wanning only hummed in response, leaving her behind as he headed for the library with his chin tipped up, his back aching more than usual. He knew she’d follow. She always did.

“You leave once half of this stick has burned,” he said, lighting the end of a mellow incense stick resting near the open window. The thick, gray smoke curled upward, threading itself into the breeze like a living thing.

“Okay!” she beamed. To herself, she muttered, “Then I’ll go to the little field.” She meant the old training grounds—overgrown now, wild with neglect and witness to Mo Ran’s angry outbursts. 

Before Liu-gong could enter with the tea, Chu Wanning called out, “Mo Yan, serve the tea. You learned this from your teacher, correct?”

Mo Yan hummed, clearly bored by the prospect. “Is it sweet?”

Chu Wanning nodded, sitting down at the low table, sifting through his notes on rare curses. He kept a watchful eye on her as she carefully poured the tea, mimicking the steps her teacher had drilled into her. When he gave a small nod of approval, she eagerly took her sip, posture suddenly prim and proper, though the spark of mischief never truly left her.

As she copied the characters from a simple poem, she rambled on, her voice filling the quiet room with a constant hum. If this had been the old days, if he were still Yuheng Elder, the sharp command to be silent would have fallen from his lips without hesitation. But he wasn’t her teacher, and his authority over her was tenuous at best. Besides, no matter how stern he might be, she always found her way back to him—just like her father had.

Mo Yan’s persistence had earned him more than a few sharp words from both Song Qiutong and Mo Ran, though he had long since stopped caring. Now, he resigned himself to reinforcing the few lessons he could. Her teacher focused on decorum, propriety, how to be a perfect daughter of the cultivation realm. Subservient, as they’d put it. The word left a bitter taste in his mouth. Moreover, he wasn’t in a position to offer her the discipline he might have once believed in, even if his own beliefs had shifted. Xue Meng had turned out well enough. But Shi Mei? Mo Ran? They were lost to him, no matter how hard he had tried.

He glanced down at the tea she had poured, watching the surface ripple, his thoughts swirling as chaotically as the tea settled. How could he measure the effectiveness of his teachings when the outcomes felt so fragmented?

Six years without spiritual power, imprisoned and scorned as a tyrant’s consort, had left a festering, hollow hole where his certainties once stood tall. What had been a deeply rooted tree of righteousness was now nothing more than a withered twig in a barren field. He still wanted to save Mo Ran. He still wished to save whoever he could in this fractured world. But without the power to do so, his belief in any kind of righteous cause seemed laughable.

What use was a dead plant?

Mo Yan slipped through the underbrush behind the Red Lotus Pavilion, a narrow gap known only to her. The guards never thought to check there, and the hidden path had long become second nature to her.

In the front hall, Chu Wanning listened as distant calls for “Her Highness” echoed through the corridors from outside, followed by shrill sobbing about a tumble in the woods. He sighed. Mo Yan hadn't inherited her mother’s quiet grace, but she possessed her own brand of cunning.

…

Chu Wanning followed Mo Ran in silence, the faint swish of his black robes and the low thud of boots the only sounds in the empty corridors. The halls of Wushan Palace, of anywhere on Sisheng Peak, were as empty as his gaze—abandoned, save for the echo of their footsteps, a faint reminder of life that had long since fled. Where Mo Ran walked now, fear rippled in his wake, a creeping shadow that drove others into hiding. Only Song Qiutong dared to remain near, wrapped tightly in the cocoon of his favor, her world reduced to the confines of his touch, his promises, their daughter. Their daughter.

The thought lodged in Chu Wanning’s throat, sharp as glass. It was no secret Mo Ran hungered for a son now, his demand for a male heir as relentless as the pressure in the atmosphere. Yet, fortune had seemed strangled for the couple, keeping his desires just out of reach.

There was no need for further commands. Chu Wanning moved as though pulled by invisible strings, the same strings Mo Ran had been tugging for years. He lay down on the crimson silk sheets, the fur throw beneath him soft against his skin, a sickening contrast to the coldness that lingered in the room. He could feel Mo Ran’s gaze crawling over him, heavy and filled with something cruel.

“Wanning, spread out on the bed.” Mo Ran commanded, the words a blend of jagged edges and authority. 

Chu Wanning moved without a word, his body mechanical as he lowered himself onto the crimson silk sheets. They swallowed him in their plush embrace, the fur throw beneath him brushing against the tips of his toes like a whisper of warmth, utterly out of place in the cold void of this room. He could feel Mo Ran’s eyes on him.

“And tell me,” Mo Ran's voice darkened, dragging across the room like a blade through bone, “why was my Shizun seen whispering to A-Yan alone? For years, you've hurt this venerable one. Now you want to ruin my daughter's life, too. Is that it?"

Chu Wanning kept silent, his pulse a quiet, steady beat in his ears. The fury he once held toward this man—toward the cruelty Mo Ran had become—had long since burned out. In its place was something hollow, a void carved out by years of Song Qiutong’s scorn and Mo Ran’s festering resentment. There was no anger left to draw on, only a tired numbness that coated his bones.

Mo Ran’s fingers threaded through Chu Wanning’s hair, yanking the ribbon loose with a sudden sharp snap that jerked his head back. "Turn over."

He obeyed, rolling onto his back as his hair spilled across the silk like a river of ink. Above him, Mo Ran loomed, his face stripped of warmth, eyes dead and empty as a winter sky. “Do you remember when you whipped me?” His voice was barely more than a hiss, yet it crackled with the rawness of old wounds. “Try that with A-Yan, and I’ll kill you. No hesitation. I’ve seen how clever you are—how resourceful. Even without your willow vine, you'd find a way."

The words bounced off Chu Wanning like pebbles against a cliff face. They struck but left no mark. He stared at the ceiling, his body as numb as his heart, arms folded loosely over his chest in a futile gesture of protection. 

“You think you can insult Empress Song, too?” Mo Ran’s grip tightened, fingers digging into the tender flesh of Chu Wanning’s chin, forcing his gaze upward. The press of Mo Ran’s knee against his thigh locked him in place, immobile beneath the leaden weight of him. A black ribbon dangled from Mo Ran’s free hand, brandishing it almost like a weapon. “You forget your place, Chu-fei. This venerable one will remind you.”

The back of Mo Ran’s hand cracked across Chu Wanning’s cheek, sharp and familiar, the sting sparking something inside him—a faint flicker of heat, too dull to burn, but enough to remind him that once, he had felt. 

"Are you excited?" Mo Ran’s smirk twisted, cruel and mocking, eyes gleaming with that same savage hunger. “Cry. Beg.”

Silence thickened, stretching, a toxic cloud churning in the air. Chu Wanning’s lips barely moved as he whispered, “Do it.”

“Oh?” Mo Ran’s head tilted, a dimple deepening in his cheek as his smirk widened into something monstrous. “Do what?” His smile was a jagged, faraway thing with the sharpness of it like a knife’s edge, a predator’s face before the kill.

A flicker of something—barely a spark—rose in Chu Wanning’s chest, but it was too small, too weak to catch fire. The years of degradation had worn him down to the marrow, ground him into the dirt. The man who had once stood tall, proud, with fire in his veins, had long since withered, a rotting foundation caked in mud and the weight of too many years, waterlogged and crumbling.

When Chu Wanning said nothing further, Mo Ran began to strip, casting aside his outer robe with practiced indifference. Another layer clung to him, black and form-fitting, revealing the hard lines of his body as he peeled it off, piece by piece, each motion deliberate, methodical. The smile never left his lips as he stripped Chu Wanning’s white robes away.

“So lazy, so stubborn, making me do everything,” Mo Ran muttered, his breath hot against the cool air of the dimly lit room. The silken layers of Chu Wanning’s robes fell away, discarded with the ease of routine cruelty, leaving his pale skin exposed. But the softness of silk was soon replaced by bonds—ribbons, coarse against his wrists and ankles, wrapping tight until the skin bruised beneath their grip.

Mo Ran’s nails dragged down his back, catching old scars and reopening them with a vicious satisfaction, each red mark searing like freshly branded flesh. A low whimper escaped from Chu Wanning’s throat, stuck and strained, a sound he couldn’t contain even after all this time. Mo Ran’s lips curled upward, a devil’s grin spreading wide, his eyes gleaming with twisted pleasure.

Without hesitation, Mo Ran’s fingers dipped into a jar, pulling out a thick glob of pale aphrodisiac. He smeared it with a rough hand against Chu Wanning’s entrance, the cold ointment slick and invasive. Chu Wanning’s body tensed beneath him, but he didn’t move, didn’t resist. The small, mechanical motions of his limbs only underscored how thoroughly conditioned they’d become.

Mo Ran's mouth followed, trailing wet, open-mouthed kisses down Chu Wanning’s abdomen, a trail of cold dampness stark against the searing heat of the skin. Each kiss felt like a brand, marking him, laying claim to something that had long since been taken. Tears prickled at the corners of Chu Wanning’s eyes. It was an involuntary response, confusing in its simplicity. There was nothing new about this, nothing he hadn’t endured before.

“Wanning, Wanning,” Mo Ran’s voice slithered low, like an endless void beckoning from deep within. “What’s wrong? Are you so eager for your disciple?”

Chu Wanning’s silence was his only reply, eyes glazed as he stared ahead, each word striking like a blade against his fractured resolve. 

“You’ve grown so shameless.” Mo Ran’s voice dipped, threading amusement into the words. “This venerable one doesn’t even need to carry you anymore.”

Chu Wanning’s gaze remained hollow, fixed on the far wall, unblinking. Silence was his only shield. His heart now hung low, beaten and starved of emotion. The words struck at him, barbed and cruel, but found no purchase on the fractured remains of his resolve.

It had been some time since Chu Wanning had been carried like some broken thing. For a while, he had believed that walking on his own gave him control, that by moving under his own will, some fragment of his dignity remained intact. But the illusion shattered with the bite of Mo Ran’s fingers plunging inside him, followed by the blunt, throbbing intrusion that pierced deep, without care. It punched an unwilling gasp from his lips, then the sharp, hissing draw of an inhale. The flush that crept up his cheeks was unbidden, his body betraying him as the effects of the aphrodisiac took root. Waves of electric heat surged through him, crashing against that fragile, dormant tree within him, the acid of shame burning in its wake.

Mo Ran’s eyes flickered with confusion, an odd twitch in his expression that held six parts cruelty and four parts amusement. He watched as Chu Wanning’s tears spilled, as his chest heaved with the weight of an overburdened heart. 

“Do you do this with Song Qiutong, too?” Chu Wanning’s voice broke, rough and trembling, the words thick with shame as they fell.

The question froze Mo Ran mid-motion. For a moment, his eyes widened, shock rippling through the dark pools. Then, his lips twisted into a laugh, sharp and mocking. “What?” He spat the word, leaning in closer, his breath ghosting over Chu Wanning’s skin. “Jealous, Shizun? Have you fallen so low as to envy your disciple’s wife?”

“You’re not my disciple.”

Mo Ran’s laughter deepened, cut with an edge. “You’re right.” His voice dropped to a murmur, thick with venom. “This venerable one is your husband now.”

The words shattered something within Chu Wanning, the fragile tree inside him finally drowning, splintering beneath the weight of it all. Heat surged through him, the aphrodisiac’s relentless fire coursing in his veins, burning him from the inside out. The night stretched long, an endless loop of breaking and reforming, each cycle leaving him more hollow than the last. When the bindings fell away, Chu Wanning lashed out, his hands clawing at Mo Ran’s skin with wild desperation, a brittle rage overtaking him as he bit down hard on Mo Ran’s neck. The metallic taste of blood mingled with spit, but the sharp sting was met only with a violent blow.

“What the fuck!” Mo Ran recoiled. He looked startled, genuinely shaken by the force of Chu Wanning’s reaction. For a moment, it looked as though he was staring at a ghost—something from a past that had long since died. 

Chu Wanning’s body trembled, his head pounding with the heat. “You beast,” he rasped. “Get it over with.”

Mo Ran’s eyes narrowed, the brief flash of uncertainty replaced with hardened anger and snapping teeth. “Don’t tell me what to do.”

“I’m begging...”

For a moment, something shifted in Mo Ran's gaze. The raw hatred softened, curling into something darker, crueler. It was affection—twisted, sickening, and just as brutal as his rage. He leaned down, slipping his tongue into Chu Wanning’s mouth with the ease of long-practiced cruelty. Chu Wanning kissed him back, tears streaking down his face. His body continued to respond, despite the brokenness in his heart. The fire in his veins raged on, overwhelming him until he screamed—not from pain, but from the unbearable heat that pulsed and pulsed, suffocating and relentless.

Outside, the world dimmed, soft and distant, as though it no longer existed and was something of a muffled dream.

Mo Ran held him close in the candlelit darkness, his mouth marking Chu Wanning’s flesh, teething and sucking. “Look at you, Shizun,” he whispered, his tongue tracing the crimson bead that adorned Chu Wanning’s ear. “I’ve finally made you into a proper whore. No need for medicine anymore.”

Chu Wanning’s vision blurred, his mind sinking deeper into the quiet that enveloped the room. His voice, weak and broken, barely surfaced. “You did…”

Mo Ran laughed, the sound rich. "This venerable one considered it but tried a lubricant first. Didn’t need to in the end—Shizun was so energetic."

Horror twisted in Chu Wanning’s gut, coiling like a snake. No way. Impossible! Taxian-Jun must be lying again, as he always did. Yet, the memory of those moments surged back to him, the overwhelming floods of desire tangled with hatred, fierce and unrelenting. His heart pounded as one question pierced through the haze of confusion—why would a love drug cause hatred?

He didn’t know anymore. He could do nothing but lie there, his body heavy, his mind and dreams scattered. When he finally feigned sleep, the world spun, and the night stretched into dreams filled with echoes of old memories—his childhood. Mo Ran, giving him the same soft kisses he gave to Song Qiutong. In his dreams, he saw the branches of the tree where they first met, long ago on Sisheng Peak. Back then, the leaves were full and green, swaying gently under the weight of time. Now, they were bare and brittle, just like him.

… 

In the morning, Chu Wanning propped up a bronze mirror, adjusting the angle until the dim light of his room illuminated his face. His hair hung loose, and dark circles shadowed his sunken eyes—proof of the restless nights that had plagued him. He stared at his reflection, his lips pressing into a thin line. Who was he now? A weak toy, a hollow shell, a disgusting man with desires he had long thought buried. He saw only a thing of flesh, yet his heart betrayed him, stirring with emotions he could neither deny nor understand.

Loving a ghost seemed fitting for someone who had long since died inside.

He had known that truth for a long time, but now, standing here, forced to confront it, the realization felt like a fresh wound. His reflection stared back at him, cold and loathsome, offering no answers for the deviance that plagued him these recent days. Was he sick? His body was worn down, years of torment breaking him apart from the inside. Now, he was losing his mind.

With a quiet breath, Chu Wanning slipped a slender black hairpin into his hair, part of it still loose while the rest was tied up, and departed the Red Lotus Pavilion. Liu-gong and a guard followed in silence. As they passed through the front gate, the wind stirred the Haitang tree. A single pink blossom, delicate and full, floated down to land at his feet.

"Chu Wanning!" Mo Yan’s voice rang out. “Where are you going? You’re not supposed to leave.”

He didn’t respond, his mind preoccupied with the whispers he heard from nearby women. Their voices cut sharp through the air. Song Qiutong soon approached, her figure fuller than it had been before childbirth. She moved with the grace of someone accustomed to luxury, her face calm but her voice low.

“Chu-fei,” she began, “if you’re finished here, the empress asks that you return home. What if you upset A-Ran in front of Xiao-Yan?”

Chu Wanning met her gaze for a moment, his expression unreadable, before he continued walking past her without a word.

Liu-gong followed behind as Chu Wanning made his way toward the infirmary. He waited, letting Liu-gong collect the medicines he needed. While he waited, he inquired after new symptoms—restlessness, poor sleep. The healers reassured him he couldn’t experience qi deviation without a spiritual core. Their words fell hollow, meaningless. Did it really require comment?

Mo Ran still permitted these trips, so long as they were supervised and reported. Though the limits shifted, the reality was clear: Chu Wanning was allowed enough freedom to stay alive. Mo Ran liked to play with him, liked to keep him on the edge of sickness, never fully breaking, but never quite whole either. He had spent months captive, but Mo Ran always returned, each time with new limits to his freedom. And so Chu Wanning lived—if one could call this living.

As he lingered in the infirmary, his eyes occasionally drifted outside, catching glimpses of the world beyond. When his body complied, he enjoyed these moments of seeing something—anything—beyond the prison that had become his life. His soul, scattered and deranged, sought out the emptiness, perhaps hoping to find peace in it.

“Ah, Wanning.” The voice broke the quiet, the one that had haunted him for years. His tormentor, his barrier, the man who had hollowed him out piece by piece. Somehow—whether for worse or not, he didn’t know—the man he cared about. It was something he wondered about often—whether or not he could treat the curse of the Hatred Flower

Chu Wanning glanced up. Mo Ran stood a few strides away, his black eyes gleaming, a dangerous intent swirling beneath the surface. Empress Song was by his side, her posture relaxed, yet her presence radiated control. Mo Yan, their child, was tucked behind her, a shy smile playing on her lips as she looked toward Chu Wanning before quickly turning her attention back to her father.

Mo Ran’s grin contorted. He reached out, his hand caressing Song Qiutong’s hair with a gentleness that rarely surfaced.

“Daddy! I found a cat on the mountain steps,” Mo Yan piped up. “Can I keep it? Can I go down the mountain later? I want to see the lanterns and stuff. Please? Niang said it’s up to you.”

Mo Ran’s brows furrowed, his expression caught someplace between indulgence and frustration. “Slow down,” he muttered, though there was a soft edge to his voice, as if even he couldn’t deny his daughter’s charm.

“Mo Yan!” Song Qiutong scolded, quiet as if muffled by the rain-dampened air. “What have you been taught? Be respectful.”

The little girl snapped straight, her small face furrowed in concentration. “Father, I apologize.”

Mo Ran chuckled under his breath. His indulgent gaze settled on her, “If my Xiao-Yan wants something, she can have it.” He glanced toward Song Qiutong. “This venerable one will send escorts for you two and the servants. Empress Song, notify me so I can arrange it.”

Song Qiutong gave him a sweet smile, though she kept a careful distance, her hands clasped politely in front of her. Everything about her was deliberate—modest, proper, and poised. Mo Ran’s grin widened in approval, but Chu Wanning had already looked away. There was no point in watching any longer.

…

For the first few years after Mo Yan was born, Song Qiutong had kept her in a side room of the main house, a nursery full of warmth and light. But as Mo Yan grew, an adjacent building had been rearranged to accommodate her, furnished with care and decorated to fit her new role as the pampered daughter of the peak. The nanny now lived with her, tending to the more tedious tasks like cleaning, dressing, and preparing her baths, though Song Qiutong was always nearby. She watched over everything, often assisting with smaller things like styling Mo Yan’s hair, always present, always guiding.

Three times a week, a teacher came to provide Mo Yan with structured lessons. Song Qiutong had more ambitions, though. She wanted her daughter to learn cultivation, something rarely possible for the women of the Butterfly-Boned Beauty Feasts, whose spiritual power was usually weak. Their strengths lay in medicine and the arts, not the cultivation paths of warriors. Yet Mo Yan was different—Song Qiutong had sensed it. Despite her delicate appearance, there was something sharper, more resolute about her daughter. 

The clearest sign had come when Mo Yan shed her first tears. Unlike the golden tears of their lineage, hers were perfectly clear, leaving Song Qiutong stunned. Was Mo Yan truly human? Did this mean she had a stronger fate, one capable of surpassing her lineage’s limits? These questions lingered as Mo Yan grew, and even Taxian-Jun and Hua Binan supported the notion that she might have the potential to cultivate. Still, Song Qiutong worried—if her daughter’s aptitude for cultivation was weak, would they be forcing her into something beyond her grasp?

For now, Mo Yan remained a child, unaware of the expectations swirling around her. As her lessons continued, Song Qiutong nurtured her hope that this little girl, with her clear tears and silent strength, might one day prove to be the exception to their fragile legacy.

Today, the two sat together in Mo Yan’s room, a pristine white space with two beds—one for Mo Yan, the other for the nanny—and an ornate vanity overflowing with little trinkets. The large wardrobe stood nearby, filled with layers of fine silk robes and dresses. Song Qiutong worked with steady hands, weaving pink ribbons into Mo Yan’s hair, looping them into delicate flower-accented clips that decorated the symmetrical knots on either side of her head. When she finished, she wrapped her arms around Mo Yan in a gentle embrace. 

“Niang, have you asked Father about going down the mountain? Will we go soon?” Mo Yan inquired as she tilted her head back to look at her mother.

Song Qiutong’s response was a calm exhale through her nose. “Why should I? Going out to play is a reward. Have you done something to deserve that?”

Mo Yan’s little body wilted.

“You ran off early this morning to Heavens know where. Do you know how much I worry when you do that?” Song Qiutong’s tone softened, but her words held a trace of warning. “If you want to go, you must behave. If you’re a good girl for a whole week, I may ask your father to let us go.”

“Really?”

Song Qiutong nodded. “Yes. But what does being a good girl mean?”

Mo Yan hesitated for a moment before answering, her voice small but sure. “No going outside without you or Nanny. Memorize and recite my lessons. Be quiet, don’t say too much, and listen.”

“That’s right.” Song Qiutong smiled, smoothing out a wrinkle in Mo Yan’s robe before brushing her fingers along the ribbons in her hair. “Remember those things for several more days, and then I’ll consider something fun.” She fussed over her daughter, tender hands moving as she murmured soft praises: how pretty Mo Yan looked, how proud she was, how she only wanted the best for her.

But the warmth in her voice cooled as she added, “I’m disappointed that you spoke to someone I’ve told you not to. You know who I mean.”

Mo Yan’s face fell.

“That man, Chu Wanning, is not a good person. He hurt your father when he was young, and I don’t trust him. You shouldn’t, either.” Song Qiutong’s voice remained calm, but her grip on Mo Yan’s shoulder tightened. “You must trust your mother, Xiao-Yan.”

“Why does he live here if he hurt Daddy? What did he do?”

Song Qiutong’s smile didn’t reach her eyes as she answered. “He serves your father to repay his mistakes, like a servant. Once upon a time, your father admired him, but Chu Wanning turned out to be a bad man. Imagine if your teacher took me away from you forever. How would that make you feel?”

Mo Yan’s lip trembled at the thought. “I’d be very sad if anyone took you away! But why would my teacher do that?”

“Of course, your teacher wouldn’t. But Chu Wanning did something like that once.” Song Qiutong’s gaze flickered with a dark shadow before she smoothed it away. “That’s why we don’t want you near him. It worries your father and me.”

Mo Yan’s little head nodded, though the confusion lingered in her purple eyes. She had never understood the boundaries placed on and around Chu Wanning, but her mother’s words carried a finality she didn’t dare question. Still, her spirit seemed dampened by the lecture, her earlier excitement fading.

“Come now,” Song Qiutong said gently, guiding her daughter toward the door. “Let’s go back. There are games waiting for you before your lessons.”

Mo Yan brightened a little at that. “Can I go outside? Can I feed the kitty?”

Song Qiutong sighed as she glanced out the window at the light drizzle that had begun to fall. The courtyard cat, a white-and-black stray Mo Yan had found on the mountain steps, had been given a little spot in the courtyard with a shelter and food, all arranged with the help of the servants. Song Qiutong wasn’t particularly fond of animals inside the house—cats were dirty, and there was always the risk of fleas—but she had allowed this much for her daughter.

“It’s raining,” Song Qiutong replied, her voice patient. “You can feed the cat later, or I’ll ask someone to do it. You could get sick if you go out now.”

“But what if it’s hungry? Or lonely?” Mo Yan’s peach-blossom eyes shone with unshed tears, her lips trembling at the thought of the cat suffering in the rain.

“Someone will take care of it,” Song Qiutong reassured her. “The cat has probably lived outside its whole life. It knows how to stay dry and healthy.”

Mo Yan frowned in thought. “Can I learn a way not to get sick, so I can go outside even when it rains?”

“Mo Yan…” Song Qiutong sighed again. She gently took her daughter’s hand and led her out of the room, leaving behind the stillness of the bedroom as they ventured back to the warmth of the main house.

…

Taxian-Jun stopped by when the tutor arrived that afternoon, personally guiding the woman from Rainbell Isle to Mo Yan’s study. He lingered, eyes sweeping the room, watching as the teacher and his daughter settled in. His presence felt more like an inspection than a visit, a reminder of his wariness. He had resisted the idea of a tutor at first, declaring, "She doesn't need a teacher. Find someone like Liu-gong, or do it yourself." Song Qiutong had pushed back, reminding him of their shared vision—a well-rounded education would mold Mo Yan into a symbol of his power and wealth. Song Qiutong, deprived of such opportunities as a child, sought to give her daughter every advantage.

"Father," Mo Yan whispered shyly, "I can read really well now!"

Taxian-Jun barely glanced at her. "En. That’s why this venerable one gave you a tutor." His face remained cold, his focus shifting restlessly between the books and the strangers in the room. He didn’t linger on Mo Yan for more than a moment. "I brought something for you, too. Empress Song, give it to her later."

"Yes, husband," Song Qiutong responded, her voice sweet, body pretty and poised like a freshly preened show bird. "You're always so generous to us." Softly, she asked, "Will you see me tonight?"

"This venerable one is busy," he replied matter-of-factly, dismissing her trivial request with nothing more than a wave. "We’ve seen much of each other recently—don’t be unreasonable."

In passing! At court! Song Qiutong clenched her hands discreetly, biting back the frustration that gnawed at her. Meanwhile, Chu Wanning—Chu-fei—was led to the royal bedchamber as if favored above all. 

“Oh, A-Ran,” she shifted tactics, keeping her voice low, “Mo Yan wants to show you what she’s learned. Won’t you stay a little longer?”

Taxian-Jun hesitated before nodding. "A-Yan, show this venerable one what you’ve been studying."

Mo Yan’s eyes brightened. She eagerly recited lines about proper etiquette and filial duty, her voice rising with pride. 

Taxian-Jun hmphed. "Why should my daughter bow to anyone? I am the most powerful in the realms."

Mo Yan faltered, confused by his response, not yet understanding the complexity of the words she had been practicing. Song Qiutong, sensing the tension, quickly intervened.

"Xiao-Yan, show him how you write your name."

Mo Yan smiled and wrote her two characters with a careful hand. It seemed to please him, though his expression soon shifted back to its distant, thoughtful frown. With a curt nod, he turned and left, leaving the room cold in his wake.

…

A few nights later, chaos struck. Auntie Yu burst into Song Qiutong's chambers, breathless and pale. "Your Majesty, Taxian-Jun has been injured."

Song Qiutong barely glanced up. "Is it serious? He’s always getting into scraps."

Auntie Yu's hands shook. "This time, it's grave. Xue Meng is responsible."

Scoffing, Song Qiutong wrapped herself in an outer robe, quickly adjusting her hair and ensuring her appearance remained flawless before heading out into the night. Upon arriving at Wushan Palace, she found a scene of pure madness—Xue Meng had fought Taxian-Jun in a fury and was now strung up like a criminal on the floor, his eyes wide in fixed stupefaction, darting from her to Chu Wanning, who he had finally seen as the shamed Chu-fei.

Chapter Text

His hair casually down, dressed in stark white robes that were now faded at the seams, Chu Wanning stood beside Emperor Taxian-Jun. His eyes barely took in the blood matting Mo Ran’s black robes, the wild strands of hair clinging to his sweat-soaked face. It was a familiar sight, a scene too often replayed. He shouldn't have come. His feet had led him here by force of habit, pulled by a chain he couldn’t see, couldn’t break. The routine was always the same—Mo Ran’s cruelty, his taunts, a dance of punishment that left nothing behind but bitter ashes, or worse—humiliation. And yet, something kept pulling him back.

The fragile rhythm shattered when moments ago, Mo Ran—no, Taxian-Jun—stormed into the hall, dragging Xue Meng behind him. Shackled and bloodied, his disciple thrashed in the guards’ grip, his once-proud face twisted in fury. Mo Ran’s voice rasped through the tension, his words barely stitched together by ragged breaths. “Why… are you here?”

Chu Wanning didn't answer. Mo Ran’s question was pointless, much like everything else that had come from his mouth these past years. Chu Wanning’s heart was torn between the two extremes of wanting to flee and stay—of wanting to confront the storm in front of him or sink back into the familiar numbness. He forced himself to look at Xue Meng, at the bruised, bloodied face of his disciple. This wasn’t the first time they had crossed paths in these bleak six or seven years, but every meeting seemed worse than the last. 

“Shizun!!” Xue Meng was distraught, his call choked.

Chu Wanning rubbed his temples, trying to keep the pain in his chest at bay. “Why are you two like this?” 

Xue Meng’s pride flared even in his sorry state. “How can you group me with him? Shizun, I am nothing like him!”

Chu Wanning’s eyes flicked up, narrowing in a furtive glare.

“I’m going to kill him and save you!” Xue Meng shouted. “I promise!” Before any more words could leave his mouth, a guard struck him on the back, driving him to the ground with a grunt of pain.

Chu Wanning winced, feeling lightheaded as a soft ache went through his chest. This was a familiar sensation—it always hurt, for whatever reason or stressor of many. 

A familiar pressure tightened in Chu Wanning’s chest—a sensation he’d grown used to, like an ever-tightening band pulling at his ribs. It had become background noise, constant yet ignored. His gaze flicked to Mo Ran, a question already readied. 

“Mo Weiyu, why is Xue Meng here?” He was already bracing himself for the bite of Mo Ran’s answer.

“Of course Shizun is worried about him and not me,” Mo Ran muttered, lip curling.

Chu Wanning gave no response. His gaze lingered on Xue Meng’s crumpled figure on the floor, blue and silver robes stained with dirt and blood. The once proud disciple now looked as defeated as a broken sword abandoned in a battlefield. The sight twisted something deep within him, but his mind could not dwell long, as Mo Ran’s voice, calm yet deadly, cut through the stillness.

“He will be punished here.” Mo Ran’s vacant gaze drifted back to the shivering form of Xue Meng. “Xue Meng. This venerable one will lock you in sealed quarters until morning. Then I will finish you. Take that time to reflect and consider your preferred death.”

Each word landed with a finality that made the room feel smaller. Chains without form seemed to wrap around Chu Wanning, frigid metal digging into fragile flesh, but he stood firm, his spine straight, though his pulse pounded in his ears. For a moment, it felt like his heart might collapse beneath the pressure. His health had always been worse since his core was shattered, the old scar over his heart still there, too, but lately the painful manifestations had exacerbated. 

His body wavered for just a moment, body stumbling into a sway. His left side brushed Mo Ran’s bloodied sleeve—a brief, burning contact that left crimson stains on his white clothing and fingers. He hurried to straighten, a sudden heat crawling through him like living roots, forceful and uncomfortable, coiling around his spine and threatening to break him into pieces. His skin, slick with cold sweat, prickled as if ready to crack.

Mo Ran glanced at him, irritated. “What’s wrong with you?” His voice carried the sharp edge of disgust. “Go sit down somewhere. You’re not needed here.”

Chu Wanning met his gaze, looking into those dark eyes that were softer and weaker in the candlelight. They bore straight into him, breaking off a tiny piece of his heart. He should leave, but how could he? 

He truly could do nothing in this situation.

A sudden commotion at the entrance broke the silence as two footmen hesitated, unsure whether to step forward or flee the tension.

Mo Ran’s gaze snapped toward the door as Empress Song entered, followed by a nervous-looking healer. Her crimson robes, embroidered with gold, shimmered in the light. Xue Meng’s eyes blazed with fury at the sight of her, while Chu Wanning, unable to look her in the eye, glanced down at the floor. The polished tiles beneath his feet seemed far more stable than the emotions threatening to spill over in the room.

"Get out!!" Mo Ran's voice thundered.

Song Qiutong halted, her poised expression faltering just enough for hurt to flicker in her eyes. “A-Ran,” she began, her voice soft. “I was told you were injured, so I came to check on you. What is going on? Why is Xue Meng here?”

Xue Meng spat his words like venom. “Why am I here?! This is how that dog treats people who stand up to his evil acts. What’s new! Miss Song, how are you so calm?”

Song Qiutong’s face remained composed. “I’m not calm. I’m very worried for A-Ran and my daughter.” Her voice now held a chilling serenity. “A prisoner kneels in my home—one who makes such a racket he could disturb the whole peak.”

“I will make a racket!!” Xue Meng roared, his body shaking with unspent fury.

“Xue Meng,” Chu Wanning intoned.

Song Qiutong turned her attention back to Mo Ran, her gaze pleading. “A-Ran, think of the child.”

“Did you think of the children at Rufeng Sect?” Xue Meng’s voice rose again, accusatory. “All the children who died or lost their parents? To this day, it’s happening!!”

The words slammed into Chu Wanning like ice water poured down his spine, but he said nothing, forcing the tremor inside to still. He agreed with Xue Meng—every word—but this was not the moment to fan those flames. Keeping the peace, however fragile, was the only thing that might stave off further destruction.

Song Qiutong’s face remained an unreadable mask, though her fingers twitched slightly as if in response to Xue Meng’s words. She simply turned to Mo Ran, asking him to command Xue Meng’s removal. Mo Ran, without a word, signaled the chess-piece cultivators. The sight of them—their cold, mechanical movements—made Chu Wanning’s stomach churn. Forbidden techniques, dark and twisted, only served to deepen the rot in Mo Ran’s soul. The more he used them, the more he fell apart.

When Xue Meng was finally dragged away, the silence that followed was suffocating. Mo Ran sat down, his body still as the healer fussed over him. Song Qiutong and Chu Wanning stood nearby, tension radiating between them, so thick it was something you could grab and twist—a fraying twine.

Mo Ran glanced at his wife. “Empress Song, go back.”

A flash of offense crossed her face, but she regained her composure almost immediately. “Yes, husband,” she replied, though the words carried a faint sting.

Alone together, save for the muted shuffling of servants outside, Mo Ran let the silence stretch before him like a trap. His voice, when it came, was deceptively light. “You didn’t follow Xue Meng because you knew this venerable one would punish you if you did, right?”

Chu Wanning's jaw tightened, but he kept his eyes fixed on the floor.

“My shizun has never cared about me,” Mo Ran continued.

A flicker of something crossed Chu Wanning’s face. “Not true.” The words came softly, as if slipped from behind a wall. His fingers twitched, wanting to reach out and shake Mo Ran by the shoulders, tell him he wasn’t the same boy he’d known, that power and cruelty had carved something monstrous into him—but that despite it all, he still cared. That his care had remained constant, an unyielding tether, even as Mo Ran tried to sever it with every vicious act.

Mo Ran gestured lazily. "Come here."

Chu Wanning hesitated, but eventually stepped forward, rigid. Mo Ran's fingers brushed his shoulder, the one that had collided with him earlier. 

“You’re filthy.” Mo Ran’s eyes darkened as they swept over Chu Wanning’s pale face, searching, studying. An unhurried hand moved to the blood still wet on Chu Wanning’s robes. Without breaking their gaze, Mo Ran pressed a thumb against Chu Wanning's cheek, smearing a scarlet stain across his skin like a brand.

“This venerable one has dirtied Shizun.”

Chu Wanning’s jaw tightened, his lips pressing into a thin line. He flicked his eyes away, choosing the soft lantern glow over the smoldering in Mo Ran's gaze. “So stupid.” The words were low, almost whispered.

“You aren’t leaving.”

For a moment, Chu Wanning’s mouth opened, words fighting to escape, but instead, he pulled back, letting the tension snap. He turned and left to wash and change clothes. 

…

Chu Wanning woke to the familiar sensation of heat against his back. Mo Ran's breath was damp against his skin, a steady rhythm, and his arm draped over his thigh, twitching slightly in his sleep, as though even in unconsciousness, he sought control, possession.

For once, the night had been quiet. Mo Ran hadn’t made any demands. His exhaustion was unusual, and it lingered now in the slow rise and fall of his chest against Chu Wanning's back. It struck Chu Wanning as strange—Taxian-Jun was notorious for his stamina, his strength. Recovering quickly was one of his talents. Yet here he lay, unmoving.

Chu Wanning knew better than to stir before Mo Ran did. There were mornings when even a single movement would draw a sharp rebuke, a violent reminder of who held the control. So he waited, his breaths shallow, watching the soft light of dawn creep through the window, bathing the room in a muted glow.

Eventually, Mo Ran stirred. His lashes fluttered, and he blinked, purple eyes still sharp despite the drowsiness clinging to them. For a moment, he stared at the window, expression blank, before quietly slipping from the bed. His hands moved with the grace of habit, tying up his loosened hair. He didn’t speak, didn’t spare Chu Wanning a glance. 

The morning was peaceful.

When Mo Ran finally left, Chu Wanning rose, his body filled with an unexpected vigor; it had been so long since he felt strong, his steps light, his limbs free from their usual weight. He followed Mo Ran out of their quarters, but soon their paths diverged. Mo Ran disappeared in the direction of Xue Meng’s quarters, and Chu Wanning, instead of heading home, wandered the mountain peak.

He found himself by a stream, where the water was crystal clear, the current soft and inviting. Kneeling beside it, Chu Wanning let the cold flow over his fingers. Mountain irises bloomed vibrantly at the water’s edge, their delicate petals brushing his ankles, while clover and moss carpeted the stones beneath. Overhead, sunlight filtered through the trees, casting dappled shadows across the earth.

For the first time in what felt like ages, Chu Wanning allowed himself a moment of peace. The world around him seemed to breathe in unison with the soft breeze, and he thought of the graves at Sisheng Peak—the ones left neglected. Perhaps it was time to visit them, to honor the dead as he had always meant to. 

When he finally made his way back toward the kitchens, the scent of cooking drifted out to meet him, warm and inviting. Servants moved about, heads bowed in deference, but Chu Wanning noticed the difference—there was an ease, however slight, that hadn’t existed in some time. Ever since Mo Ran’s temper had darkened, silence had replaced the once lively hum of daily tasks, but today, the chatter of the servants was a low, steady murmur, the clatter of pots and pans punctuating the air with a sense of normalcy.

Curious, Chu Wanning stepped closer to the open doorway, watching as a cook spoke animatedly to Mo Ran. “Your Excellency, this one knows many delectable recipes from the southeast. If Her Highness enjoys the steamed fish and tofu pudding, I can prepare more to her taste.”

Liu-gong stood nearby, his eyes catching sight of Chu Wanning at the threshold. He offered a subtle nod, though his attention quickly returned to Mo Ran, who held Mo Yan in his arms. The little girl clung to her father’s shoulder, her tiny fingers idly playing with the beaded chains of his mian as she peered curiously around the kitchen.

Mo Ran was inspecting the ingredients with sharp, critical eyes, nitpicking small details about the recipes, his voice authoritative. Yet there was a softness in the way he spoke to Mo Yan, a contrast so sharp that Chu Wanning couldn’t help but notice. “Xiao-Yan, where are you looking?” Mo Ran tapped her arm, his tone firm but not unkind. His voice rippled through the space like the first drop of rain on a still pond, quiet but impactful.

Mo Yan smiled, but her fingers clutched tighter to Mo Ran’s robes when she spotted Chu Wanning. Not remaining on him long, her wide eyes gleamed with something close to awe, her gaze drawn back to her father like water seeking its lowest point.

“Will you come with us, Father?” she asked.

“No,” Mo Ran replied. “This venerable one will be busy.” He wasn’t likely to leave the mountain, not while still recovering from the previous night’s events. “Did you like the gift I brought you? You’ll see more like it.”

“I liked it! It’s a pretty lantern,” she replied. “Niang helped me put it in the water.”

“Very good. My daughter deserves all the best things.”

Chu Wanning turned away before anyone could notice him. Something stirred in his chest, something hopeful and aching. The sight of Mo Ran, softening for the girl he held so tenderly, struck him in some way. It was enough, he thought, to exist on the fringes of his life, unseen but still present. His absence, he told himself, was tolerable as long as he remained a part of the world, however distant.

Back at his own home, Chu Wanning wandered to the edge of his pond. The lotuses had revived, their soft petals floating lazily on the surface, catching the sunlight in a way that made them almost glow. In the winter, they would wilt without his spiritual power to sustain them, but for now, they thrived, vibrant in the warm breeze.

He sat in the open courtyard, the sunlight warming his skin as he settled into meditation. Time passed in the stillness of a shichen, his mind clear, his body relaxed in a way that felt unfamiliar but welcome. When he finally rose for breakfast, he ate more than he had in weeks—more than the bare minimum required to survive.

Afterward, as he sat in the quiet of his home, deliberation weighed on him. He knew he would need to plead for Xue Meng’s safety once again, as he had so many times before. Mo Ran’s cruelty was predictable, but so too was his refusal to kill Xue Meng. Each time, Mo Ran tortured but spared him, much like he did with Chu Wanning. Perhaps it was Xue Meng’s spiritual power that kept him alive, or perhaps it was something else.

Chu Wanning traveled westward along the peak, his steps quiet against the mountain paths, a landscape that betrayed nothing—no unusual sounds, no movement to catch his eye. He reached the area where Mo Ran kept his prisoners, a familiar place, though its desolation always unnerved him. Nothing stirred, and yet, he stayed, waiting.

“Wanning,” Mo Ran said beside him.

Chu Wanning flinched, his heart jolting as he turned to find Mo Ran beside him, a grin tugging at his lips. That mischievous smile hung there like a cloud ready to burst. 

“Xue Meng is locked up,” Mo Ran said casually. “Do you plan to free him?” His eyes gleamed, as if daring Chu Wanning to object, to lecture him, to beg for mercy.

“No. Tell me—what will you do with Xue Meng?”

Mo Ran’s expression faltered for a moment, his gaze slipping away as he swallowed. “Leave him for now,” he muttered, the playful edge of his voice fading. “This venerable one is occupied with matters to the south and west.”

Chu Wanning’s thoughts shifted to the rumors he had heard. “Has the barrier to the Ghost Realm been a problem?”

Mo Ran’s body stiffened, his eyes darkening. “For this venerable one, that is nothing.” His words were sharp, almost defensive, bitterness clinging to them. “You worry so much about these things, don’t you?”

Chu Wanning exhaled softly. “…That’s what I specialized in, Mo Ran. Repairs were my duty for years.”

“Not anymore,” Mo Ran sneered, his lip curling in disdain. “Shizun is so talkative today. It’s almost like you want to start lecturing again.”

Chu Wanning drummed his fingers absently against his leg, the motion controlled, betraying none of the unease he felt. “Wrong,” he said, voice steady. “That part of being an elder was never enjoyable.”

Mo Ran’s eyebrow lifted in mild surprise. “An unknown enemy is causing trouble for this venerable one,” he said, his voice dipping into something more serious. “I’ll question Xue Meng when I’m ready.”

“When you’re ready?” Chu Wanning’s gaze shifted, scanning Mo Ran’s frame. His eyes caught on the subtle tension in his posture, the way his movements seemed more restrained. “Has your wound healed?”

Mo Ran’s body visibly bristled, the question striking a nerve. His discomfort was clear, though he tried to mask it with his usual bravado. He crossed his arms over his chest, the gesture defensive, his gaze hardening once more. “Of course this venerable one is fine,” he snapped. “I can take time off when I want to.”

Something was wrong, but Chu Wanning knew better than to push. Their exchanges were like walking on ice, the ground beneath them fragile, threatening to crack open if either of them ventured too far. He stopped responding, knowing that any more words would only invite trouble, and Chu Wanning wasn’t one to lead conversations—he wasn’t about to start now.

Yet even in the quiet, his heart beat erratically, a rhythm too fast, too frantic. Being near Mo Ran had always unsettled him, but lately, it had become unbearable. The darkness that lingered in Mo Ran’s presence seemed to creep into his own chest, curling around his heart, squeezing until his breath came shallow and quick. He felt ill, like his body was betraying him, exposing emotions he had buried deep, emotions he couldn’t name or didn’t dare acknowledge.

Fear? Or something darker? Longing? His mind recoiled from the thought, but his body refused to listen. His heart raced every time Mo Ran drew near, and the feeling clung to him long after they parted, leaving him shaken and unsteady.

Meditation helped, for a time. Rest soothed the worst of it, but the relief was always temporary. The unease returned, gnawing at him, a constant reminder of the ground he tread. His weakness—this unstable, treacherous vulnerability—was something he had come to expect, a side effect of a common mortal body.

But the truth that lurked beneath was harder to accept: it wasn’t his body that betrayed him. It was his heart.

…

Song Qiutong stood within her chambers, reviewing the scrolls that laid out the details of their upcoming journey. She and the teacher had worked meticulously to plan the trip—one that would take her, Mo Yan, and a select group of servants across several remote destinations. The invitation to Rainbell Isle had come with open courtesy, a gesture of respect, but Song Qiutong had dismissed it. Rainbell Isle was too far, its landscape too wild and unpredictable for her tastes. She preferred to stay on home ground, where familiarity gave her some control. Even familiar faces would have to come to her, not the other way around.

The arrangements were sound. Guards would accompany them, handpicked for their loyalty, and protective charms would be distributed among the group. Taxian-Jun himself had seen to it that every precaution was in place. Still, Song Qiutong couldn’t shake the unease that coiled in her chest at the thought of traveling without him. The world beyond their borders was perilous, especially for someone like her—one of the rare Butterfly-Boned Beauties, whose lineage carried both allure and danger. She tried, more than once, to put off the venture entirely. But in the end, she knew she had little choice.

Taxian-Jun had insisted. His voice, though calm, left no room for debate. “My empress and my daughter can go wherever they wish,” he’d said with that unmistakable edge of finality. “And if anyone dares cross you, they’ll die by my hand.” His words had been meant to reassure her, but they did little to ease the anxiety. Song Qiutong didn’t want anyone to be crossed—or worse, harmed. She didn’t need Taxian-Jun’s wrath; she wanted safety, peace, a trip unmarred.

The itinerary was simple, carefully designed to avoid attracting too much attention. From one secluded mountain lake to another, their party would move in a predictable, modest route. The first stop would be a tranquil way-stop house, followed by a basin village nestled deep in the hills, then a larger town for entertainment, before circling back to the sanctuary of home. There was little room for surprises—just the way Song Qiutong preferred it. The thought of blending into quiet villages and scenic lakesides calmed her nerves somewhat.

…

The carriage ride seemed to stretch on forever, and Mo Yan could barely hear Niang and Hua-xianjun talking at the front. She was so glad when they reached the mountain. 

While the grown-ups stayed busy watching the other adults at the house, Mo Yan was glad when Liu-jiejie and Nanny Zhao agreed to take her out to see the crystal-clear lake. The path they followed was long, covered with fallen pine cones and rustling leaves underfoot. The air smelled earthy, alive, as birds chattered overhead, and once, a monkey darted across the path. Mo Yan’s eyes went wide when a deer stepped out from the trees to watch them curiously.

Nanny Zhao clutched her hand, warm and steady, but Mo Yan wished she could run free, the wind pulling at her hair. She breathed in the cool, crisp air as the breeze brushed across her cheeks, and her gaze was drawn to the still, glittering surface of the lake. Towering mountains framed the water like protective arms.

"Look, Jiejie, a flower!" Mo Yan bent down to pick a soft pink blossom from the ground, twirling it between her fingers. Its sweet fragrance clung to her skin.

"Do you want it in your hair, Yan’er?" Nanny Zhao asked, smiling.

Mo Yan nodded eagerly, standing still as Nanny tucked the flower just above her ear. "I should find one for Niang too," she whispered, glancing around the ground for more.

As they reached the shore, Mo Yan spotted something moving beneath the surface of the lake. "What lives in the water, Nanny?"

"Fish," Nanny said. "Maybe a few turtles, too."

Mo Yan's attention wandered again. She found a stick and knelt in the dirt to write her name beside Liu-jiejie's. The sharp scratch of wood against earth filled the quiet air. When she finished, Liu-jiejie clapped, her smile wide with approval.

"Jiejie, can we go over there? I saw something shiny!" Mo Yan tugged on Liu-jiejie’s sleeve, pointing to a spot just beyond the trees.

"We must stay on the path, little one," Liu-jiejie replied firmly.

Mo Yan pouted, but she stayed quiet, following the others as they began their walk back home. Yet the pull of that glittering thing wouldn’t leave her mind. Her heart drummed in her chest as an idea crept in. While Nanny Zhao was talking to Liu-jiejie, Mo Yan slipped away, darting into the forest. The leaves crunched loudly underfoot, her pulse pounding in her ears.

It wasn’t long before something moved in the shadows. Mo Yan froze, her breath caught, until she realized—it was a girl. The stranger, not much older than herself, stepped out from behind the trees. She was dressed in plain robes, her hair dark and loose, but her eyes shone like stars.

“What’s this? Little sister has a unique constitution. Are you a cultivator already?”

Mo Yan blinked, shaking her head. “No, not yet. Niang says I can learn when I’m older.”

The girl smiled softly. “I see. Well, don’t tell anyone, but I’m not like you. I’m a spirit of this mountain.”

Mo Yan gasped, but doubt crept in immediately. “You’re lying!”

The girl’s smile wavered for a moment, something sad in her eyes. “I’m not lying. But I can look like this—just like you. Spirits see things that people don’t. Well, except some special ones.” She peered at Mo Yan closely. “You’re filled with so much energy. One day, you’ll be able to harness it. Just wait.”

“Does that mean I’ll be able to fly?” Mo Yan’s eyes grew wide with excitement.

“Yes. I imagine part of you already knows what that feels like.” The girl’s voice was soft, like the rustle of leaves. “But before you go—you will have to soon—I have something for you.”

Mo Yan felt her heart leap. “A gift?” she asked, her voice barely a whisper.

The spirit nodded and held out a small embroidered pouch. Black silk, threaded with pink, gold, and blue patterns of birds and flowers. "Look inside."

Mo Yan opened the pouch carefully, eyes widening as she pulled out a stone stick engraved with a symbol, a polished wooden comb, and a red jade pendant with a tassel hanging from it.

“Oh!” Mo Yan held up the comb, marveling at how it glinted in the light. “I have things like this, but these are much prettier.”

The spirit smiled again. “Someday, you’ll find more when you open the bag. But for now, can you do something for me?"

Mo Yan nodded without hesitation, clutching the pouch tightly in her hands. "What is it?"

“Protect those things and keep them with you. They’re only useful to someone as special as you.” The girl’s voice softened as she turned, vanishing into the trees. “May we meet again.”

Mo Yan stood there, blinking in confusion. The colorful pouch still hung from her fingers, its silk smooth yet bumpy where the embroidered flowers twisted under her touch. It felt so real, but… had the girl really been a spirit? She wasn't sure. She rubbed her thumb over the designs, wondering if Niang would even believe her.

“Your Highness! Where are you?”

Mo Yan jumped, her heart pounding with a sudden wave of guilt. She looked around wildly, hearing the voices of Liu-jiejie and Nanny Zhao calling for her. Without thinking, she turned and ran, darting between trees. Her feet stumbled over roots and fallen branches, the forest floor uneven, but she kept going. The world blurred around her as she ran faster and faster. Her breath came in quick bursts, her hair flying behind her like a wild wind. For a moment, she felt like lightning itself, her legs moving quicker than she thought possible. Was this what it felt like to be a cultivator already? Could she be that fast?

Finally, she burst out of the trees and nearly collided with Liu-jiejie. Mo Yan panted, holding out the pouch in her small hands, her face flushed with excitement. But before she could explain, Song Qiutong’s stern gaze fell on the strange items in Mo Yan’s hands, and her expression darkened.

“What is this?” Song Qiutong took the pouch, inspecting the stone stick, comb, and pendant. Mo Yan’s excitement faded as she watched, tears prickling at the corners of her eyes.

“I-I found it,” she stammered. “The girl in the forest—she gave it to me!”

But Song Qiutong was already frowning, shaking her head. She didn’t believe her. “Hua Binan will look at these things,” she said, her tone final, leaving no room for argument.

Mo Yan watched helplessly as the pouch was taken away, her heart sinking as her treasures were confiscated. She unraveled into upset cries and sniffles as she clutched a pink flower in her small fist, the one she had picked earlier. At least she still had that. Composure returned, she quietly handed it to Song Qiutong, who smiled faintly and tucked it into her hair without a word.

Later, when they returned to the guesthouse, Hua Binan came to examine the items. Mo Yan watched him silently from a distance, her eyes wide as the white-haired sage turned the stone stick over in his hands, his long fingers tracing the carvings on its surface. He muttered to himself as he studied the pendant, the red jade gleaming under the light.

“It’s harmless,” Hua Binan finally said, setting the items down gently. “Most likely, it’s something lost by a traveler. Nothing to worry about.”

Song Qiutong nodded, though her face remained tense. “I don’t like it,” she said softly, her lips pressed into a thin line. “Mo Yan always finds trouble.”

Hua Binan tilted his head. “She’s curious. That’s not a bad thing.”

Mo Yan’s heart lifted a little at his words, but Song Qiutong only sighed, closing her eyes as if trying to calm herself. Mo Yan knew her mother worried often, especially about her wandering off. But she didn’t mean to cause trouble, not really.

That evening, Hua Binan took Mo Yan aside to teach her about meditation. They sat lotus position on the floor, facing each other in the quiet room. 

Song Qiutong welcomed all development. She trusted Hua Binan, as did Taxian-Jun, though for different reasons. Her emperor husband saw in Hua Binan a steadfast ally, a sage whose wisdom and loyalty could never be questioned. But Song Qiutong knew more—she understood why Hua Binan’s protection of her and Mo Yan went beyond simple duty. It was his heritage, a secret Taxian-Jun had no knowledge of. Hua Binan was a fellow Butterfly-Boned Beauty Feast.

Though Song Qiutong knew this truth, Hua Binan hid it from the world. To everyone else, he was merely a human cultivator, his face always hidden behind a veil. Even Mo Yan was unaware, too young and innocent to grasp the weight of their shared bloodline. She knew little of their kind, only catching snippets of strange stories. The tales about Butterfly-Boned Beauties were terrible, whispered in fear by those who recalled their unnatural grace and beauty, their fragility masking a haunting legacy. These were not stories for a child like Mo Yan to hear.

Song Qiutong preferred to shield her daughter from such dark histories. All Mo Yan knew was that her mother wept delicate, shimmering tears, and she carried this knowledge with innocent pride, like a secret treasure. Song Qiutong could protect that innocence for now, at least. To Mo Yan, her mother's beauty was not a curse but something precious, something admired and envied by others. It was a fragile illusion, but one that Song Qiutong was determined to preserve as long as she could.

…

Suizhou* greeted them with quiet reverence, the city's streets cleared and empty in deference to the imperial party’s arrival. The high stone walls framed a scene of order and compliance, just as Song Qiutong preferred. She surveyed the city from the palanquin, her eyes lingering on the prosperous buildings and well-kept streets. Though not grand in size, Suizhou was clean and orderly, the kind of place that attracted little trouble and where the local clans knew better than to cross the imperial family. This was why Taxian-Jun had chosen it for their last stop.

The officials met them with the expected fawning, bowing deeply, their voices filled with promises of protection, privacy, and relaxation. They assured Song Qiutong that no one would disturb her and Mo Yan, that all their needs would be met with utmost care. As they stepped from the carriages and were escorted into the luxurious guesthouse, whispers trailed after them like the fluttering of silk ribbons.

"She looks like a fairy," someone murmured in awe.

"I thought she'd be like one of those courtesans from the Sunset Pavilion, but she's even more beautiful."

The comments washed over Song Qiutong like a warm tide, and though she kept her gaze forward, her heart swelled with a mixture of pride and unease. Beauty had always been her shield, her value in the eyes of men and women alike. It brought her comfort to still hold such sway over them, even as it reminded her of the pedestal they placed her on, a fragile thing that could crack under too much pressure.

The guesthouse itself, newly renovated and gleaming with polished wood and silk tapestries, belonged to a wealthy clan. Taxian-Jun’s favor had earned them the privilege of hosting his empress for even a short stay. Song Qiutong did not trust them entirely, but they had proved loyal enough to avoid the sting of her distrust.

Mo Yan was beside herself with excitement, eyes wide as she took in the grand halls and lush gardens. The little princess had been anticipating this part of the trip for days, her excitement palpable. After their evening feast, full of music, laughter, and a bounty of food, they would attend a play and explore the city’s sights.

Earlier, Song Qiutong had reluctantly returned the strange pouch to Mo Yan. She had been reassured that no one was searching for it around the mountain, and thus her daughter carried it proudly, the embroidered bag now fastened securely to her waist thanks to A-Liu, the ‘fun sister’ among Song Qiutong’s maids. It was little moments like these that made A-Liu her favorite, always knowing how to bring out Mo Yan’s smiles.

In the main hall, Mo Yan stood beside her mother, clutching her pouch nervously. Song Qiutong gestured for her to introduce herself to the nobles present. The little girl straightened, though her voice came out soft and timid, her words perfectly polite, as she had been taught. She looked much the same as she did in front of Taxian-Jun—nervous, shy, yet obedient.

Song Qiutong smiled behind lowered lashes, allowing the nobles to bow and offer their reverent kowtows. “May Your Majesty and Her Highness have a comfortable stay. Wishing your venerable family fine health and longevity,” they chanted in unison.

Good. The respect they showed had deepened over the years, moving from thinly veiled greed to genuine awe. Song Qiutong had long been accustomed to being admired from afar, but now there were fewer acquisitive gazes seeking an opportunity. Her place, alongside Taxian-Jun, was immovable. The nobles knew better than to attempt anything.

Later, Mo Yan was allowed to go with Nanny Zhao and Hua Binan to explore the market along the river. Businesses stayed open, and the streets, though still quiet, buzzed with evening life. Mo Yan’s face lit up as they strolled past stalls selling trinkets, treats, and embroidered silks. Nanny Zhao picked out new embroidery threads while Mo Yan stared with wide eyes at the selection of osmanthus cakes, her mouth watering.

“Can we take some of these home?” she asked, her voice hopeful, thinking of Sisheng.

Nanny Zhao smiled and nodded, quickly motioning for the vendor to prepare a box. They spent the next hour browsing, Mo Yan happily eating candies while her guardians ordered dresses for her, one to wear now and another to grow into. Her joy was contagious, filling the air with her excitement.

But the peaceful evening didn’t last. As they wandered through the quieter parts of the market, Mo Yan heard strange whispers and rustling from the shadows. She froze, her heart skipping a beat. Nanny Zhao and Hua Binan tensed, their gazes darting around, quick to notice the disturbance.

Before Mo Yan could blink, Nanny Zhao rushed forward, scooping her up into a tight, protective embrace as she let out a frightened scream. In that same moment, Hua Binan’s hand shot up, releasing a surge of spiritual power that split the air like lightning, sending a bright signal flashing across the night sky.

“A-Yan!” Hua Binan’s voice was sharp with fear. “Miss Zhao, don’t let go of Her Highness.”

Mo Yan clung to Nanny Zhao’s neck, her heart racing as a group of men emerged from the darkness, swords drawn. One man, the closest, had been the very one who had spoken sweetly to her just moments ago, offering a kind word as she’d wandered a few steps away from her guardians. Now, his face twisted with something darker.

"Who am I?" the man sneered, his sword gleaming in the dim light. "An upright Daoist. The Guyueye Sect disappeared with Jiang Xi. What’s left is a phony shell."

Hua Binan smiled with his eyes. “A former disciple of our great sect. How did a dissident like you end up groveling here?”

“Dissident?” The man’s gaze flickered over to Mo Yan, still trembling in Nanny Zhao’s arms. “You’re the one defending demon spawn. She’s a pretty thing, isn’t she? In a few years, she’ll be useful. The rest of us still believe in the right order of things. To think that wicked tyrant actually—”

The man’s words cut off abruptly as his eyes rolled back and he crumpled to the ground. The others staggered in shock, their swords lowered as they finally noticed the thin needles embedded in the man’s neck. Two more needles flashed through the air, striking down another assailant before they could even react.

Hua Binan stood motionless, his sleeve still settling as he lowered his hand. His breathing was uneven, the calm façade slipping just enough to reveal the strain. “Is Her Highness safe, Miss Zhao?”

“Yes, Master Hua,” Nanny Zhao replied, her voice steady. Mo Yan felt the strength in her arms, the solid protection she hadn’t fully understood until now.

Mo Yan’s chest heaved, her breaths shaky and uneven. Strangers had never felt so terrifying before. She realized, for the first time, how fragile her world could be. Nanny Zhao’s grip and Hua Binan’s calm demeanor had always shielded her, but now… now she understood just how close danger had come.

Hua Binan knelt before her, his sharp features softening as he checked her over, his hands brushing her shoulders gently. “A-Yan,” he said quietly, pulling her into an embrace. 

Mo Yan’s shock gave way to tears, her small body shaking as she buried her face in his robes. “I’m scared,” she whimpered, her voice muffled against his shoulder.

Hua Binan’s arms tightened around her, his voice low and filled with regret. “This one will protect you, Your Highness. It’s my fault they got this close. A-Yan, the world can be dangerous. I’m so sorry.”

Mo Yan’s breath hitched as she clung to him, her small hands fisting into his robes. Her skin still tingled where those strangers had touched her, like a lingering burn that wouldn’t fade. She couldn’t stop the tears that soaked through Hua Binan’s sleeve, her body trembling from the shock of it all.

“What did they mean by ‘demon’?” she whispered, her voice shaky but clear. Her tear-streaked face tilted up to meet Hua Binan’s eyes. “What did they mean?”

Hua Binan’s face tightened for a moment before his expression softened again. “That was nonsense, Your Highness. Some people are simply evil and use groundless reasons to justify their actions.”

Mo Yan sniffled, her mind too young to fully grasp the weight of his words, but she nodded, as if the explanation was enough for now. A quiet hum escaped her lips, her way of acknowledging something she didn’t yet understand but felt she should accept. The world had shifted for her tonight, and though she couldn’t quite put it into words, she knew one thing—Hua Binan and Nanny Zhao were there to keep her safe.

Reinforcements arrived swiftly, their presence making the tension in the air ease slightly. Hua Binan stood, his face composed as he began inspecting the fallen men’s uniforms and belongings. The area, once bustling with vendors and townsfolk, now seemed eerily empty. Only a few familiar servants remained, quietly holding the packages of the evening’s purchases.

Mo Yan’s eyes lingered on the bodies sprawled across the ground. The unsettling image of their eyes rolling back played in her mind. “Are they asleep?” she asked, her small voice cutting through the silence. “Why did their eyes move like that?”

Hua Binan paused, his body stiffening at her question. Nanny Zhao’s comforting hand found Mo Yan’s shoulder, her grip steady, a silent reassurance. Hua Binan’s voice softened, barely above a whisper. “Yes, A-Yan. They’re in a deep sleep now. They can’t hurt you anymore. Let’s go home, alright? We’ll send a message to your father, and your mother is waiting for us.”

Mo Yan nodded, her tiny hand slipping into Nanny Zhao’s familiar grip as they began the walk back to the guesthouse. The shadows felt less menacing with each step, but the fear still clung to her like a cold wind.

At their temporary residence, Song Qiutong was informed of the night’s events in private. Hua Binan, with his usual quiet reserve, relayed the truth. The kidnappers had not merely been incapacitated; the needles he used were coated with a fast-acting poison that had ended their lives. He seemed troubled by it, his sense of righteousness conflicted by the necessity of violence. But Song Qiutong’s gratitude was unwavering. She knew why she and Taxian-Jun had chosen Hua Binan to protect their daughter. His loyalty had never wavered since Mo Yan’s birth.

“This one apologizes for the outcome, Your Majesty,” Hua Binan whispered, his head lowered in deference.

Song Qiutong’s gaze softened. “…You did well. You protected her. Now, go report to the emperor. I’ll stay with Xiao-Yan tonight.”

Hua Binan hesitated, then nodded. “I invited her to send a message, too, if Your Majesty approves.”

The day before, Mo Yan had been excited to learn about Hua Binan’s method of communication with Taxian-Jun. He had shown her how he plucked leaves or caught tiny flying insects to create controlled message-carriers. The simplicity of it fascinated her. By imbuing these small living things with his qi, Hua Binan could send messages without drawing too much attention to his limited spiritual power. It was a modest but clever technique compared to the emperor’s more powerful abilities.

From the shadows of an archway, Song Qiutong watched as Hua Binan led Mo Yan outside to perform the task. Mo Yan, though shy, was eager to try. She spoke into the small insect with careful, deliberate pronunciation, her voice high-pitched but steady. “Father, Princess Mo Yan is safe. I will return to Sisheng Peak soon…”

Song Qiutong couldn’t help but smile, finding her daughter’s attempt to sound grown-up both adorable and bittersweet. Afterward, they shared a quiet dinner together, the soft strains of music filling the room. There was no more talk of the attackers. For that night, they would hold onto each other, safe and comforted in a second-story room, where the weight of the world couldn’t touch them.

Chapter Text

The pavilion's entrance slid open, letting in the soft hum of the mid-morning breeze. "Chu Wanning! Ning-ning!" A high, familiar voice pierced the stillness. Mo Yan stood at the front, a ball of energy wrapped in silk and ribbons. Today, she hadn’t bothered with her usual secretive entrance, preferring instead to saunter through the main doors as if she owned the place—well, as the emperor's daughter, she might as well. The guards exchanged helpless glances, knowing they couldn't reprimand the spirited princess; such discipline was reserved for her parents.

Chu Wanning remained seated, his fingers tracing the wood grain of the table in front of him. It had been nearly a week since Empress Song and Mo Yan left on their trip. In that time, the outside world had become even more distant to him. Six years he had been under Mo Ran's watchful eye, yet in all that time, he had left the peak only twice. Once upon a time, he might have longed to see more, but now? Now he wasn't sure if the outside world held anything for him at all.

"I have something for you!" Mo Yan's voice chimed again. She approached with a small box, clutching it tightly with both hands as though it contained a treasure. "Daddy said I could bring it here."

Chu Wanning glanced around, almost instinctively searching for Mo Ran, but the pavilion was empty, save for the two of them. Mo Ran had been hovering constantly these last few days, his presence overwhelming. The injury that had kept him grounded had now healed, but the intensity of his attention hadn't lessened. Without Empress Song around, Chu Wanning had become Mo Ran’s sole focus, subjected to a constant parade of new humiliations.

“Empress Song isn’t here, Wanning. That makes you the only one. Do you feel adored, my precious consort? This venerable one should dress you up a bit more…”

He shook his head, dispelling the dark memory. His body still remembered the ropes, the bruises, the way Mo Ran’s fingers had traced his skin. The glint in Mo Ran's eyes when he stripped him of both his robes and dignity, leaving nothing but bare, pale flesh behind.

"Chu Wanning?" Mo Yan's voice brought him back.

"En," he murmured, finally acknowledging her. He took the box from her outstretched hands.

"Open it now!" she demanded, bouncing on her toes. "I want to try it, too!"

He untied the string and lifted the lid. Inside, an array of delicately wrapped candies and cakes sat nestled together, their colors bright against the dark lacquer of the box.

“Where are these from?”

“I saw them a couple days ago, and I wanted to eat them at home, so we brought them back. I have my own, they’re good." Her eyes flickered toward the sweets expectantly. “I know you like them.”

He sighed inward. Mo Yan’s selfish thoughtfulness was almost endearing in its honesty, so he picked one of the candies and unwrapped it before popping it into his mouth, but made no move to offer her any.

She stamped her foot. “You’re so mean!” 

“And you’re entitled.”

“What?” Her head tilted, a confused puppy. Her mind raced to the next topic, all earlier displeasures forgotten in an instant. “Oh! I heard music too! There were guqin, but they weren't as pretty as yours. Can I learn music? I liked the guzheng most.”

“Ask your mother.”

“But you can teach me.”

He blinked, thrown off by her suggestion. “I only play the guqin.”

“Oh. Really?” She looked puzzled, as though she couldn’t imagine he wasn’t proficient at everything. Children’s minds worked in such simplistic ways. “Maybe I could dance then! I liked that part, too.”

As she bounced around, her energy overflowing, Chu Wanning’s eyes landed on the small qiankun pouch tied at her waist. It wasn’t something a child would usually be carrying, and certainly not Mo Yan, who hadn’t cultivated anything yet. His brows furrowed. “Where did you get that qiankun pouch? Is it yours?”

“This?” She pulled it from her waist and opened it, revealing a small collection of random trinkets. “I, uh, found it.”

His frown deepened as he knelt to inspect. “Then it isn’t yours. You shouldn’t have something like this.”

Mo Yan’s face contorted. “It is mine! The girl said so.” Realizing her mistake, she clapped a hand over her mouth.

Chu Wanning’s worry mounted. “Did you find it or did someone give it to you?”

She hesitated, then muttered, “Someone gave it to me. But that makes it mine! Don’t tell Niang, she’ll take it away!”

The urge to confiscate the pouch himself was strong, especially when he caught a glimpse of a faint incantation symbol engraved on one of the objects tucked inside—a small stone, etched with symbols. He reached out, his tone firm. "Let me see it."

Chu Wanning’s gaze flicked between Mo Yan and the objects in her hand. The comb and pendant were simple, unremarkable. But the moment his eyes landed on the stone, a wave of exhaustion swept over him, heavier than anything he'd felt in years. His limbs slackened, the energy draining from his body before he could even touch the stone. Panic flashed through him—this wasn’t normal. He needed to get the stone away from Mo Yan, away from himself, but his thoughts grew sluggish, tangled in a web of lethargy. His vision doubled, the world spinning around him as if the ground beneath him had given way. For a brief, terrifying moment, he thought he heard Mo Ran’s voice, distant yet clear, calling his name.

Then the world dissolved.

When his mind cleared, Chu Wanning found himself lying on cold, damp earth, surrounded by the quiet rustle of conifer trees. The air was mild, carrying the fresh scent of pine and soil. He pushed himself up slowly, blinking at the strange new landscape. Endless rows of towering trees stretched into the horizon, their needles catching the dim, gray light of a sky shrouded in thick clouds. This wasn’t the Red Lotus Pavilion, but it felt too real to be a dream. An illusion? Had he been transported somewhere? How? By whom?

He glanced around, his hands gripping the rough bark of a tree as he steadied himself. He felt weaker than usual. He hadn’t been anywhere new, alone, in so long, especially not without spiritual energy.

For what felt like a quarter of a shichen, he remained motionless. His eyes took in his surroundings: the forest wasn’t overgrown like a wild, untamed place. Paths had been cleared, trees cut with intention, plants nurtured by human hands. Some of the trees bore faint markings on their bark, symbols he couldn’t identify without his spiritual senses. If only he could feel even a sliver of the energy that usually hummed just beneath the surface of the world. Without it, he felt… useless. A bitter sigh escaped him.

Before he could sink further into his thoughts, a voice tinkled from above, almost musical. "Shenmu-xianjun? Are you back already?"

Chu Wanning’s head snapped upward. A figure stood at the top of a set of dirt steps that led to higher ground. She had reddish hair that glowed faintly in the dull light, and her presence radiated something not quite human. She blinked down at him with furrowed brows, confused. "Hm. Xianjun seems different." She tilted her head, studying him closely. "I’m helping in the garden like you told me to."

Chu Wanning’s throat tightened. Who was she talking to? Shenmu-xianjun —an immortal title? She couldn’t mean him. He wasn’t an immortal, nor had he ever aspired to such a thing. That path had been cut off for him long ago. The irony of it gnawed. How could she mistake him for someone so exalted?

“Wanning?”

The voice startled him. He turned, his heart stuttering. Mo Ran.

But this wasn’t the Mo Ran he knew. This Mo Ran was taller, tanned, his hair loose in a ponytail like when he had been a young disciple, innocent and free from the weight of the world. His eyes were bright, the same dimples visible when he smiled. A smile that shouldn’t be on the face of Taxian-Jun. Chu Wanning’s chest tightened.

Mo Ran approached, his hand reaching out as if to touch Chu Wanning, but then froze in place. His entire body went rigid, and the brightness in his eyes grayed with shock. "You… What are you doing here? Did you come through the Space-Time Gate?"

Space-Time Gate? The name toiled in Chu Wanning’s mind. Forbidden techniques… Had Mo Ran started using that one, too?

“No,” Chu Wanning said simply.

Mo Ran's fists clenched, then unclenched, his fingers twitching as though fighting some inner battle. His eyes widened, shock giving way to something akin to panic. "Then… how?" He struggled for words. For the first time, Chu Wanning saw Mo Ran not as the tyrant Taxian-Jun, but as the boy he once was—lost, uncertain.

"You didn’t bring me here?" Chu Wanning's question was met with silence. Mo Ran’s behavior, his tone, even his appearance—it was all off. He wasn’t the Mo Ran that Chu Wanning had been trapped with for years. This was someone different.

"No..." The word barely escaped Mo Ran, his voice quivering as though it balanced precariously on the edge of a knife. It was the sound of a man walking across a twine bridge, each step tentative, the strands fraying beneath his weight, threatening to snap and send him plummeting into a cavern of long-buried memories. He swallowed hard. 

But then, as though clinging to the last unbroken strand of rope, his gaze shifted—abrupt, pupils dilating under the sunlight. "You might hate me, and you're allowed to… I want you to. But please..." He bit his lip, eyes shimmering. "Please stay to eat. Come inside with me. Please?"

Chu Wanning stood frozen, unsure of what to do, what to believe. This was Mo Ran, but also not. He had no choice but to follow this Mo Ran into the cottage, past the inhuman girl still tending to the garden, her eyes watching them both curiously.

Inside, warmth greeted him, the scent of freshly simmering broth wafting in tendrils, wrapping around him with its comfort. The cottage was quaint, modest, the kind of place that might have felt peaceful in another life. Mo Ran moved about the kitchen with ease as he prepared a bowl of Wonton soup. Every motion he went through was so practiced, surely he had done it a thousand times. 

“You started this before you went out,” Mo Ran started, as though they were nothing more than ordinary people sharing an ordinary day. He smiled, wide and bright, flashing those dimples that once made him look boyish and innocent. “It’s my favorite. Anything Wanning makes is my favorite. We keep part of it mild for you, don’t worry. I can make anything else you’d like, too.”

Chu Wanning stared at him. What kind of dream was this? No matter how real it felt—the warmth of the fire, the smell of soup wafting up from the stove—none of it made any sense. His fingers curled into fists beneath the table.

Mo Ran placed the bowl in front of him with a gentle thud. “Here, please eat.” The soup looked almost exactly like the recipe Chu Wanning remembered from years ago, down to the perfectly folded wontons and the clear broth. Only, there was no chili oil, no red sheen of spice floating on the surface—a memory crafted with care.

Chu Wanning hesitated. His hand twitched, but he didn’t reach for the bowl.

Mo Ran urged. “Please? I found out the truth a long time ago. I don’t hate you; I’ll never blame you again. I... I’m not Taxian-Jun. Talk to me, Shizun.” When Chu Wanning didn’t respond, Mo Ran’s shoulders drooped, expression shifting into something puppy-like—pleading, lost. “You don’t have to. I can leave you alone.” His words circled like a dog unsure of how to earn favor, tail tucked between its legs, trying so hard not to displease.

Chu Wanning studied him, something in his chest twisting painfully. He believed him—this wasn’t the same Mo Ran who had held him captive, who had torn him down piece by piece. This Mo Ran wasn’t Taxian-Jun at all.

When he was alone, Chu Wanning hesitantly lifted the spoon to his lips. The steam curled from the bowl, the scent of broth familiar but somehow distant, like a memory half-forgotten. He took a sip. The taste was… nothing. Bland, muted, as if all the flavors had been washed away, leaving only an echo of what the soup should have been. And then, as he set the spoon down, his eyes caught something. The bite he had just taken reappeared, perfectly whole, as if he had never touched it at all.

An illusion.

The realization was cold water dumped over, settling deep in his bones and making his chest ache. It wasn’t just the soup—it was everything. The room, the soft clatter of dishes, the warmth of Mo Ran’s presence. None of it was real. And yet… it had to be based on something. If this was an illusion, it meant he was trapped in a memory, one built on real events. But how? Mo Ran mentioned the Space-Time Gate, which must be related.

Chu Wanning pushed the bowl away. It was better this way. Nothing was real and nothing had serious consequences. 

“Shizun, you won’t eat?” Mo Ran spoke from the doorway.

“Not hungry. Sorry,” Chu Wanning murmured. The words were clipped, but they were the most he had said so far.

Mo Ran’s lips quirked into a sad, small smile. “Don’t apologize. I understand.”

“What is this place?” Chu Wanning shifted the conversation.

Mo Ran’s gaze softened into tender bliss, making Chu Wanning’s heart flutter with warm hope. Stupid, he thought. 

Mo Ran answered, “This is our home.”

Chu Wanning’s lips parted against his will as he registered what that meant. The notion was absurd. 

“Come, I’ll show you around.”

Mo Ran guided him through the small cottage with the ease of someone who had lived this life for years. He pointed out their shared bedroom, the quiet intimacy of a life spent together. The bed was large, draped in simple linens, and a small chest at the foot held what Mo Ran explained were Chu Wanning’s personal belongings.

“It’s all because of you,” Mo Ran said, his voice controlled and stable despite the tears that threatened to spill. “Thank you for always believing in me, Shizun. Have you already met with Huaizui?”

“My shizun is dead…” Chu Wanning said, feeling awkward and alarmed by the mention of that old connection.

Mo Ran blinked, confused. “Oh. Never mind, then.” 

He didn’t have time to figure out a distraction before they were interrupted by himself .

Chu Wanning was unsettled by the sight of himself. The other Chu Wanning stood taller, exuding a strength that felt foreign, from a lifetime now passed. His hair, crowned like it had been when he still held the title of Elder, was free of the wear and tear of years past, his ears bare from that red piercing.

The other Chu Wanning’s expression was cold, aloof, and he seemed equally unsettled by the sight of his double. But Mo Ran approached the other Chu Wanning with a tenderness that made his stomach churn. He pressed soft kisses to his forehead and lips, murmuring words too quiet for Chu Wanning to hear. The other Chu Wanning relaxed under his touch, his earlier tension melting away like ice under the sun.

“Is A-Yan still here?” the other Chu Wanning asked Mo Ran.

“Somewhere,” Mo Ran replied.

A small smile ghosted across the other’s lips. It was a smile Chu Wanning hadn’t seen on his own face in years—soft, content, as if it came from a place of pure, untainted affection. “Mn,” the other murmured, updating Mo Ran on some mundane task before turning to leave for his project room. “Don’t go too far.”

Chu Wanning’s mind went blank, overwhelmed by the sheer stupidity of the illusion. The version of him in this place was so deeply entangled in some kind of twisted fantasy, where he and Mo Ran were in a mutually affectionate, loving relationship. It was hard to believe this could be conjured from another reality and not the product of delusion.

He knew, at least in theory, how illusory spells worked, even if he had never mastered them. They had to be grounded in some form of reality to hold, but this? This felt like a mockery. Still, there had to be a purpose to this spell, a motive or a checkpoint that would eventually release him.

He adjusted his hair, covering the pierced ear, trying to blend into the role he was meant to play. If he could pass for this other version of himself in any way, perhaps he could trick this Mo Ran into seeing him as this other Chu Wanning. “Mo Ran,” he tried.

Mo Ran’s face brightened at the sound of his name, his earlier confusion evaporating. His eyes softened, and he stepped closer, taking Chu Wanning's hand in his own, fingers warm and firm. “I’m here, Baobei. Why did you call me?”

For a moment, Chu Wanning couldn’t breathe. The ease with which Mo Ran responded as if nothing was wrong was eerie. It worked— too well . The illusion bent to accommodate him like the spell was programmed to accept any attempt to fit into its narrative, no matter how out of place he felt.

The pet name struck a nauseating chord within Chu Wanning. “When will A-Yan leave?”

“She wants to talk to me after I change tonight, so she’ll spend the night in the new guest room,” Mo Ran answered, as if discussing the most ordinary of matters.

Change? Chu Wanning’s mind latched to the word. He assumed that A-Yan, in this twisted version of reality, must be Mo Yan.

"She’ll keep to herself, don’t worry," Mo Ran said, his voice warm and soothing, his hands much the same as they rested on Chu Wanning’s arms. Despite the tenderness of the touch, it felt like a precursor to something inevitable. The warmth of Mo Ran’s hands might as well have been fire against Chu Wanning’s skin, burning with the weight of expectations that he couldn’t meet, that he didn’t want to meet.

Chu Wanning found it hard to find the words that would neither expose him nor entangle him deeper in this twisted illusion. What could he say that was both true and safe? After a spotlight silence, he lamented, "I can’t be good to live with."

Mo Ran’s response was immediate, words ready on his tongue. "Wanning, where else would I be if not with my love of two lifetimes?" His eyes were wide and earnest, gazing at Chu Wanning with a reverence that felt misplaced. "You’re kind, smart, perfect." His hand rose to cup Chu Wanning’s cheek, thumb fanning across the skin as he murmured, "and gorgeous.”

Chu Wanning flinched.

Mo Ran didn’t retreat. Instead, his brows furrowed, his gaze searching. "What’s wrong? Please talk to me."

The words struck something deep inside Chu Wanning, a thing he had buried for so long he’d nearly forgotten it existed. His eyes stung, and to his horror, he realized tears threatened to spill. This can’t be real , he reminded himself. It was too vivid, too raw, but a part of him, a small, shameful part, wanted to let go. To give in to this illusion, to feel what it was like to be loved without violence, without pain. He had never known what it was like to be wanted, truly wanted, and that ache had grown quietly, year after year, shaping itself into something too shameful to acknowledge or nurture.

Sometimes, when Taxian-Jun touched him, Chu Wanning wondered how loving couples—the ones he had once dismissed for their foolishness—navigate such acts? Did they hold each other tenderly? Did they whisper words of comfort and affection, like the ones Mo Ran was offering now? He had thought these things in passing, questions that lingered long after the humiliation faded. He had even asked about Song Qiutong once, that ridiculous question that still haunted him.

Now, as Mo Ran’s soft gaze bore into him, Chu Wanning felt exposed, bones and muscle laid bare. The kind words, the gentle touches—they were too much. They clashed violently with the warning bells ringing in his head, telling him this was wrong, that he needed to flee before he was shattered completely. His mind buzzed with panic, thoughts tumbling over each other like a hall of sect elders, arguing and shouting warnings. One wrong move could destroy him.

“I don’t believe you,” Chu Wanning mumbled, lashes lowering as he stared holes into the floor.

Without hesitation, Mo Ran wrapped him in a careful embrace. "What can I do to help you believe it?"

Chu Wanning expected the embrace to shift, to twist, for the hands on his back to grow rough, for the teasing to turn cruel. He waited for the mockery, for Mo Ran to peel away his dignity like Taxian-Jun always did, to strip him down to nothing. 

But it didn’t come.

"Okay, I understand." Mo Ran’s hands stroked through Chu Wanning’s hair, smoothing down his back, making skin prickle. It was as if Mo Ran was handling something precious. After a moment, he spoke, "Can I comb and oil your hair when we bathe tonight? It’s a bit dull."

Reflexively, Chu Wanning stiffened. 

Mo Ran noticed, his touch stilling for a moment before he continued with soft reassurances. "It’s okay, I just want to pamper you. My Wanning is always perfect."

Stop. Chu Wanning’s mind screamed at him. He needed to get out of here, needed to break free from this illusion before it swallowed him whole. The words, the touches, the warmth—they were offensive in their falseness, vibrating from Mo Ran’s chest, which was too close. He felt the tears spill over, unbidden, unwanted, and he tried to pull away, desperate for space.

Mo Ran let go but drew in a sharp breath at the sight of tears. Worry twisted his face. "Did I say something wrong?"

"No..." Chu Wanning replied. He didn’t dare wipe the tears away because acknowledging them would make them real. But leaving them there, clinging to his face, felt equally unbearable. He was trapped between two awful choices.

Mo Ran leaned down, cupping Chu Wanning’s face in his hands, and kissed away the tears with a softness that made his heart stutter. His lips brushed across Chu Wanning’s skin like the lightest touch of butterfly wings, moving from cheek to cheekbone as if from petal to petal. Despite himself, Chu Wanning’s insides fluttered, betraying the turmoil in his heart. Mo Ran wiped away the lingering moisture with his fingers and said nothing about the tears. He returned to holding Chu Wanning as though this embrace was the most natural thing in the world.

It was too similar to the dreams Chu Wanning had been having more frequently, dreams of this exact tenderness. "You don’t have to do this," Chu Wanning whispered.

Mo Ran’s reply came easy. "If this is what you need, then of course I have to. I want to."

After a pause, Chu Wanning found himself saying something he had never imagined he could, "No matter where I go, I find myself walking toward you." The phrase felt foreign in his mouth, strange and unfamiliar in taste, as though he had borrowed someone else’s heart to say it. Yet, he said it anyway. Swooned by the impulsive bore of his own words, the unconvinced signals in his mind faded away in a devastated mess, cowering into oblivion. 

Mo Ran exhaled. “You’ve always been where my heart rests.” His voice sounded dreamy, so sincere that even Chu Wanning, with all his skepticism, couldn’t ignore it. "Are you feeling better?"

Chu Wanning nodded, a strange lightness washing over him. His body felt less tense, his mind clearer, but his soul—his soul was wrecked. It was as though the very act of allowing himself to accept those words had fractured something deep within him. He loathed himself for the flicker of yearning that rose unbidden, for the hope that he might deserve love from a man who, in reality, despised and abused him. The thought was sickening, and yet, there it was—lingering, festering in the pit of his stomach. I must be broken, he thought bitterly. Defeated. Desperate.

Yet, despite the turmoil within, something else gnawed at him. Mo Ran had spoken of two lifetimes, had insisted he wasn’t Taxian-Jun. Earlier, he had even recognized that Chu Wanning wasn’t his Chu Wanning, but upon seeing the other version of himself, it was as if the illusion had reset, falling back into its natural sequence. 

It didn’t make sense.

"Why don’t you hate me?" Chu Wanning asked, his voice steadier than he felt. For now, he focused on this thread.

Mo Ran scoffed, as if the question were ridiculous, but his answer was serious. "You saved me so many times. You love me. I could never hate you, never should have."

"That’s all?" 

Mo Ran smiled. "Of course. I’m simpleminded, you know that." 

“What about Taxian-Jun?” Chu Wanning pressed. 

Mo Ran stilled, his smile fading. "Did I do something to you the last time he came out?" His brow furrowed. "I don’t remember anything like that, but you’d tell me, right?"

The words struck like a blow. What does that even mean? "No... you didn’t. In the other lifetime, he hated me," Chu Wanning said, throwing out guesses, piecing together fragments of what little he had managed to piece together.

Mo Ran separated from him, his gaze softening as he studied Chu Wanning’s face. "You look so tired, Baobei. I’m sorry that the past still haunts you. But everything is as it should be now." He lifted Chu Wanning’s hand to his chest, holding it over his heart. "Is it because—"

“Diē,” a low feminine voice called. 

Chu Wanning jolted, head snapping toward the source of the voice. He hadn’t expected anyone else. His mind raced to piece it together: This must be the future of another life, he thought. Mo Yan stood there, no longer the small child he knew but fully grown. Her delicate frame mirrored her mother’s, and she wore a simple beige outer coat over a faded pink dress. In her hand, she twirled the same black qiankun pouch she had brought back in real life.

The sight of her unnerved him. Chu Wanning pulled away from Mo Ran, the warmth of their embrace still clinging to his skin, but the idea of being seen in such an intimate display made him itch.

“What is it, A-Yan?” Mo Ran asked her, his tone not too ecstatic. 

"I’m going to town," Mo Yan said. Her expression was flat, eyes dull and shadowed, with none of the liveliness she had as a child. Standing up close, she stood just barely tall enough to reach Chu Wanning’s shoulders—her small frame a clear inheritance from her mother rather than her father. Her hand reached for a basin and cloth nearby, and she bent to clean off her hands, her movements slow and deliberate. No powder or embellishment adorned her face; she looked as plain and worn as the clothes she wore.

Chu Wanning felt an urge to follow her, considering the pouch. Even if he hesitated, his body moved on its own, compelled by something beyond thought. He trailed her down the slope and through an overgrown path. The sun had sunk lower, casting the forest in shades of gray, the shadows lengthening like fingers grasping for the last light. She moved ahead of him, her presence unbothered by his. From her clothes drifted a sweet but unpleasant scent.

The path led them to a hidden grove where bamboo trembled in the fading light. A small depression in the earth held a pool of water, barely large enough to reflect the sky, its surface alive with the darting movements of insects. Mo Yan knelt beside a clearing, behind the swaying grasses. A single flower bloomed there, unnaturally vibrant against the otherwise subdued landscape. Its beauty was striking, but its presence here, on this mountain, felt wrong.

Mo Yan opened her pouch and retrieved the engraved stone stick, driving it into the moist earth symbol-up, glinting faintly in the gloom. As if summoned by the act, the red-haired spirit girl appeared once more, her form taller. Her red jade pendant caught the dim light. 

"What is that?" she asked, her voice airy, like wind passing through the bamboo

"Just a marker," Mo Yan replied, her tone indifferent. "Something that won’t fade in the elements. This flower is my best work yet, and it deserves something permanent."

The spirit girl leaned in, inspecting the symbol on the marker. “The Harmony-Light Flower. That’s a holy plant that requires an associated essence.”

"Obviously," Mo Yan drawled. "I’ve been feeding it with the right fertilizer. The immortals’ house is full of trees and plants soaked in their power. It’s not direct, but it’s enough. This time, it worked."

"You tried growing it in a pot before. I thought that might work."

Mo Yan’s fingers grazed the earth around the flower. "So did I, but now, I just need one blossom to glow." She hovered her hands over the flower, and a soft blue light radiated from her palms, qi flowing into the soil like water, coaxing life into the fragile bloom.

The spirit girl watched her closely. "I’ve never seen one bloom before. None of yours ever made it."

Mo Yan said nothing, her focus entirely on the flower.

“You’ll really cast a dual cultivation spell on someone?”

Mo Yan scoffed. “It’s not a dual cultivation spell. Some lower gods and spirits use it for that, but it’s a purifying flower in Heavenly gardens. It’s an ingredient for medicines, too.”

“Hm. A medical ingredient, then.”

“Correct.” 

For some inexplicable reason, perhaps due to pure intuition, Chu Wanning did not believe that affirmation. He had never heard of this flower before, but it wasn’t the flower’s mystery that troubled him most—it was Mo Yan’s certainty. How had she come to cultivate such a rare, otherworldly plant? And for what true purpose? The answers seemed to hang just out of reach, and yet, his tongue stayed still.

When Mo Yan stood and began her return to the cottage, her gaze swept toward him. Her sharp and knowing eyes met his. For a brief moment, the green glow of the night forest held them both in its embrace. Then, just as suddenly, everything vanished. The illusion shattered. The grove, the flower, the spirit girl—all dissolved into the void, leaving him standing alone in the cold, fading dusk.

…

“Empress Song, this venerable one is the one who decides what Xiao-Yan can do. I would not let harm befall her.” Emperor Taxian-Jun’s voice was clear and distinct.

This was his Mo Ran, the cursed one. 

“But I don’t like her coming over here. Your shizun hates us. What if he hurts her?” Song Qiutong pleaded. A sharp edge had replaced her customary softness.

“Of course, I don’t approve of her coming to Red Lotus Pavilion at random,” he affirmed. “Doctor, how’s Chu-fei?”

“Still unconscious, Your Majesty.”

“Let me see.”

Chu Wanning remained motionless, eyes closed, feigning sleep. So, they believed him unconscious. Yet, his mind lingered in that other realm, that dream. What was it? Where had he wandered? Whatever it had been, it was far beyond comprehension. He would have to investigate the sacred flower later, though he doubted any records would speak to what he had witnessed.

Surprisingly, Mo Ran did not leave the Red Lotus Pavilion even while Chu Wanning played the part of an invalid. Soon, the sound of raised voices echoed down the hall as Mo Ran and Song Qiutong clashed over the princess again.

Where is she now? The girl with those strange, spellbound items? The memory of her weary, older self burrowed a small corner of concern in Chu Wanning’s mind. He would have to deal with that later. His head throbbed, his throat parched from lying still for so long. With a quiet sigh, he opened his eyes to the dimness of the room. Evening shadows stretched across the floor, the door ajar, revealing the faint shapes of those beyond.

He pushed himself upright, gathering his scattered strength just as Mo Ran returned.

"This venerable one has been eager to know why you collapsed. The healer claims you’re malnourished and dehydrated, but I don’t deprive you.” Mo Ran blathered. “Get up."

Before Chu Wanning could respond, Song Qiutong’s voice drifted in from outside, unwelcome as always. "My lord husband, ask him about the qiankun pouch Xiao-Yan has. She blames herself for his collapse."

Mo Ran’s jaw stiffened at the sound of her voice. “Empress Song is right, my shizun. You’re so knowledgeable—did the toys Xiao-Yan acquired cause your illness?” His condescending words trivialized the very real possibility.

Chu Wanning mulled it over, straightening. “No, but she does have a spiritual object. It’s not a toy.”

Mo Ran nodded. “Empress Song and this venerable one can decide that.”

Song Qiutong’s exasperated sigh echoed from the hall, her displeasure plain. You don’t actually include me in your decisions , following silence seemed to scream. Mo Ran didn’t glance her way, whether lost in thought or ignoring her entirely.

The origin of Mo Yan’s inconsistent, often undisciplined behavior became clear to Chu Wanning as he observed the strained dynamic between her parents. With a permissive head of household and a careful mother whose word was doubtless underneath his, Mo Yan likely received mixed signals on what was appropriate. From one perspective, she was unruly, a child who tested boundaries; from another, she was simply a daughter navigating the chaos of contradictory parenting. 

It struck Chu Wanning as odd—he had expected Mo Ran to submit to his empress’s whims, leaving the care of the princess entirely to her, but the way Mo Ran had allowed his daughter certain freedoms, indulging her in the smallest things, hinted at something else. That moment he had witnessed in the kitchen, father and daughter sharing a quiet exchange—was it more than a fleeting game?

Or perhaps Mo Ran didn’t care at all, and his apparent indulgence was just another form of negligence. Chu Wanning would have easily believed that if not for the strange dream’s machinations. 

As his gaze settled back on Mo Ran, he recalled the version of the man from that other world—the vibrant, charming figure with his hair tied loosely in a ponytail, free of its imperial mian. That version of Mo Ran, though offensive in his casual intimacy, had stirred something in Chu Wanning, something he wished he had more time to understand.

Mo Ran concluded with a sharp rebuke. “Don’t let it happen again. You made this venerable one’s princess cry.” With that, he shot Chu Wanning a cold glare and stepped out, ushering Song Qiutong to follow him. To Mo Ran, even Chu Wanning’s poor health, the possibility of a curse, became another fault to lay at his feet. Chu Wanning had expected it, understood it—Mo Ran, Taxian-Jun, remaining by his side out of concern? Unthinkable. Mo Ran had simply been waiting, needing an explanation for his frustrations, another reason to berate him.

For the rest of the night, Chu Wanning sat in solitude, lost in reflection as the hours stretched thin. Outside, late spring unfurled its cool breath across the mountain, carrying with it the scent of damp pine and earth still heavy with the day's dew. The fog, thick as unraveling silk, crept slowly over the midnight-blue peak, blurring the edges of the world. Through the latticed windows, the night air whispered into the room, filling the empty space with its quiet chill, sighing like a ghost.

The tranquility seemed too vast, too serene to match the restlessness he felt. Sleep was a distant notion, chased away by the lingering illusion. Though his body had rested, it was as if his soul had wandered too far, pulled through realms faster than his legs could run.

He turned the possibilities over in his mind, each thought more troubling than the last. Trusting the concealed, dusted truth of the lucid unreal, he still understood that experience as a crafted illusion. Crafted by clever hands or ancient spells, such things could deceive even the keenest mind. Still, something about it chewed away at him—could it have been more than mere fantasy? The version of himself he had seen, so clean, so refined, was unrecognizable. Too graceful, too poised, as though he had shed the weight of mortality to become something otherworldly. It couldn’t be the future. The Space-Time Gate, though powerful, had never fully transported anyone across its threshold without error. It had failed every time it was attempted.

And there had been that flower. A heavenly bloom foreign to his knowledge. That detail was too precise. He cursed himself for not thinking to mark his body in the dream, to see if the illusion carried over into reality. But the flower—that was key. If he could find any record of it at all, any trace that proved its existence in this world, then he would know with more certainty. He would know that another reality, another timeline, had brushed against his own.

Why was such a spell cast on him? By whom? He couldn’t blame a girl aged only five summers!

Determined, Chu Wanning steadied himself, preparing to draw the Rising Dragon Array. He hadn’t invoked it in years. It was not a spell to be used lightly—the power it demanded came from his life essence, a cost that could not be easily replaced. He had used it before to unveil the Hatred Flower, but each time he performed the art, he felt the slow siphoning of his vitality. Sometimes, the thought of surrendering his essence was a weightless one.

The little dragon, glowing a low, flickering white light in the darkness of the pavilion’s library, staggered onto sluggish feet. It crawled on the low desk’s surface, looking up at Chu Wanning. Its scales, white and fragile as rice paper, caught the dim light. “Long time no see, Chu Wanning. Don’t tell me you want me to fly. Of course, I can, but you gotta give me more power for that in the future.”

Chu Wanning narrowed his eyes, lashes lowering. “Can you manage around the mountain peak?”

The little dragon let out an astonished cough. “You can’t be serious. No chance.”

“Do you need more spiritual power?” Chu Wanning was ready to offer it, though he knew it would leave him drained. “At least search the pavilion and the bridge beyond the front gate.”

The dragon stalled to respond, scrutinizing the human with its artful, brush-stroked eyes. “This venerable one can manage... You change every time we meet.”

“If you are willing, then go,” Chu Wanning demanded. “Neither of us has time for this.” 

“Never mind, still the same,” the dragon huffed, unimpressed, but it didn’t argue. With a flick of its fragile wings, it launched itself into the air, its flight sluggish, like a lantern flickering in a gust. It circled the room, its glow barely cutting through the night’s darkness, then slipped out the window, vanishing into the foggy expanse beyond.

Finally, the dragon returned, tumbling onto the desk with a soft thud and a crinkle. “Exhausting,” it muttered, its form curling into itself. “You ask too much.”

“Too slow,” Chu Wanning said. He felt lightheaded from the moment he created and invoked the talisman, and the wait really was quite long, the night deep and dark outside. “Now draw. Leave out small, meaningless spells like sleeping aids.”

“Ungrateful mortal.” The dragon offered little more attitude, too drained from its flight, so it got to work. It flicked its tail, dipping it into the ink and beginning to sketch out symbols on the parchment. Chu Wanning recognized the barrier spells that guarded Emperor Taxian-Jun’s Sisheng Peak, along with some typical but grating ones that he knew were used on prisoners. 

The black heart was still present, the reminder making him pause. So many years had passed… it must be firmly rooted. He had tried to cast heart-purifying spells on Mo Ran, but they were far too weak, practically pointless even though they took wells of effort.

The next drawn symbol proved the usage of the Zhenlong Chess Formation—another given.

“Is that all?” He couldn’t rein in his bewildered disappointment when the dragon stopped to stare down at the paper, its tail still poised to draw as if lost in a creative block.

“Hold on!” the dragon snapped. It hastily drew another symbol, this one Chu Wanning identified as, indeed, a type of memory-sharing illusory spell. His guess was correct. 

“Did you sense a Space-Time Gate?”

The dragon sighed, a long, tired exhale, offering no answer. Instead, it drew a peculiar shape—two hollow hearts, one above the other, each marked with a solid dot, one inside and one outside. The dragon's silence was imploring as it glanced up at Chu Wanning.

Chu Wanning paused, unable to recognize the spell. “You sensed this one… here?” At first glance, he thought it was a dual cultivation spell, but the additional dots made no sense. He couldn’t place it.

The dragon wagged the end of its tail twice to affirm. “That’s it, all the important ones.” Before Chu Wanning could return the creature to the talisman, the dragon added in a softer, almost wistful tone, “Take care of yourself, old friend.”

Chu Wanning hastened to quiet the tiny dragon, his expression tightening into one of quiet irritation. With a flick of his hand, the dragon’s glow faded, vanishing back into the yellow paper talisman.

Weariness weighed him down at last, and a heavy, pulsing pressure in his upper body be ckoned a quick repose. In bed, he curled into himself, and colorful dreams danced in his mind for only a short time before a forced awakening.

Chapter Text

The roiling frustration in Song Qiutong’s heart bloomed like a slow poison, triggered by the rumors surrounding Taxian-Jun’s attention to Chu-fei. She sat before a bronze mirror, watching the reflection of A-Zhu’s slender hands unhook her golden earrings. The lamp’s faint flicker cast distorted shadows over her face, and her silken hair tumbled free, cascading like ink across her shoulders. The room around them remained still, save for the soft crickets in the distance, the serenity of the night broken only by the bitterness chewing at the edge of her mind. 

Mo Yan had retired earlier with Nanny Zhao. Song Qiutong had stroked the child's head, whispering soothing words until sullying tears dried on her small, precious face. Yet, no amount of tenderness could quell the anxiety crawling beneath her skin.

With the nightly ritual complete, she and A-Zhu moved to the high table in her lavish chamber. Song Qiutong had crafted the room into a reflection of her tastes—every inch curated, from the silks draped over windows to the exotic wood furniture from distant lands. Over the years, her influence had spread throughout the imperial court, a silent hand shaping artists and craftsmen alike. A famed potter, after merely glimpsing her on a recent trip, dubbed her a "Heaven-Sent Beauty" and pledged to create a collection of tea sets in her honor. The promise lay before her, set upon the rosewood table’s jade surface.

Yet, the praise felt hollow now, tainted by whispers that Taxian-Jun's madness stemmed from her supposed demonic heritage. Ridiculous. His insanity had nothing to do with her—if anyone, Chu-fei was the cause. That self-righteous concubine had occupied the emperor’s thoughts more than Song Qiutong could bear to stomach.

Somehow, Xiao-Yan’s status had begun to concern Song Qiutong more than her own. Seeing her daughter show warmth to Chu Wanning only to get caught up in his problems bothered her to no end. 

She had already punished Chu Wanning once for his insolence—ordering lashes in the imperial prison. The memory of the whip cracking against his skin stirred an unsettling satisfaction, though the man's silent endurance infuriated her. He hadn’t even looked up, hadn’t offered a single apology, as though her wrath meant nothing. Now, his newfound audacity gnawed at her even more. Those fleeting glances they exchanged, sharp and defiant, told her he no longer feared her. He had begun to meet her eyes—briefly, but boldly. Song Qiutong could sense the shift, the rising threat beneath his calm surface, and she could not afford to let her guard down.

Her nails bit into her thigh, the fine silk of her sleepwear offering no protection from her anger. "So, he released Xue Meng," she muttered.

A-Zhu, seated beside her, nodded. "Yes, my lady. It seems it was no escape. It was calm, even… strange."

Song Qiutong's lips curled in disdain. “The Beidou Immortal must have grown too bored, always cooped up in his house. His demeanor has changed since the end of winter, and I’m doubtless it’s changed with the emperor, too. Taxian-Jun wouldn’t leave his side until he woke up. We were there all day.”

“Did he want you there with him?” A-Zhu inquired. 

"He never told me to leave. I stayed because Xiao-Yan was there when Chu-fei fainted. He had just taken a look at that strange pouch she found in the mountains. Taxian-Jun didn’t pursue that side of the issue.”

A-Zhu shared the stress of her lady with a sigh. 

With an audible exhale, Song Qiutong chose to drop the subject, pushing aside the bitterness that threatened to poison her night. She turned her attention to tomorrow’s plans, hoping the distraction would lighten her mood. “At tomorrow morning’s court, the trouble we had in Suizhou will be discussed,” she mused, resting her bare temple more heavily against her propped hand. Her voice took on a casual, detached tone. “Taxian-Jun promised to deal with the threats against us. He’s probably just keen on a new opportunity to release his anger, but we will benefit regardless.” She circled her slippered foot idly against the warmed floor, finding some comfort in the heat beneath her toes. “Hua Binan will also attend as a witness...”

The two women continued to chat, their conversation ebbing and flowing around the minutiae of court life. Yet, in the back of Song Qiutong’s mind, the tension remained, coiled and ready to strike, until finally, weariness overcame her, and she bid A-Zhu goodnight.

…

The next morning, Song Qiutong entered the court with her usual grace, dressed in an apricot gown beneath her signature vermilion outer robe. Her lips were painted a deep red, her eyelids dusted with the softest peach rouge that complemented her snow-white cheeks. The embroidery of her garments spoke of her royal status, while the vibrant colors preserved the youthful beauty she so carefully cultivated.

She was the third to arrive, an unusual position for her. Normally, she tailed behind the emperor, her place of honor unquestioned always, but today, someone else stood beside him.

Taxian-Jun stood in the center of the grand hall, his presence both commanding and unsettling, a storm cloud heavy with unreleased thunder and lightning. The cold stone floor beneath him seemed to stretch endlessly in every direction, as though the space itself recoiled from him. His hand reached to smooth loose strands of Chu Wanning’s hair and tuck them into place, each movement precise, reverent even. Half of Chu Wanning's raven-black hair cascaded down his back. His face betrayed nothing, though his dark eyes wandered, eventually meeting Song Qiutong’s gaze across the room.

Taxian-Jun, unaware of the silent exchange, continued his task, his fingers grazing the edge of Chu Wanning’s chin as he guided his attention back with a practiced motion. Song Qiutong’s chest tightened. Did they think her blind, a fool incapable of discerning the convoluted relationship between them? This was no mere display of dominance or humiliation! And why was Chu Wanning even here? He never took part in these proceedings, content to remain a shadow in the emperor’s life. Had he been present every time Song Qiutong was not? The thought stung worse as her suspicions grew. He was influencing Taxian-Jun, much like he had done with Xue Meng. Always lurking. Always silent.

She clenched her jaw and approached, her heels clicking against the marble floor with a crispness that forced Taxian-Jun to emerge from his trance. His attention snapped to her, his voice hollow as usual. “Empress Song.”

“My lord.” She stood poised with a practiced smile curled at the edges of her lips. The slight tension between her brows threatened to break her mask of composure, but she fought it down. “Concubine Chu.”

Out of the corner of her eye, she caught the minute narrowing of Chu Wanning’s own, a flash of discontent buried beneath a cold exterior. He hated the title, but it was what he had chosen by being here, wasn’t it? A consort in all but name, his proximity to the emperor invited the use of such terms.

Taxian-Jun explained, “This venerable one thought it proper for both his empress and consort to attend today.” He spoke to a silent audience, so he elaborated with forced reasoning, “Consort Chu has yet to be briefed on the recent attacks aimed at our family.”

She stifled the urge to scoff. Just tell him in the bedchamber like you always do. The tightness in Chu Wanning’s jaw betrayed his displeasure at the explanation, though whether it was due to the attacks or his lower status, she couldn’t tell. Song Qiutong’s lips curved as she continued, her tone casual but laced with subtle barbs. “Concubine Chu, you must have been quite busy accompanying our emperor in my absence. Our journey, while longer than expected, was peaceful… except for a most troubling incident.” Her voice dropped, the distress genuine. “Before the others arrive, I will inform you myself—the princess was nearly kidnapped.”

Chu Wanning’s face revealed little. No shock, no concern—just that same icy distance he always wore.

Song Qiutong assumed her customary place beside Taxian-Jun, her stance as poised as a still mountain stream, her eyes sharp and assessing. Across the grand hall, his masked consort stood in silent parallel, the faint gleam of his white mask catching the filtered light. It was delicate, like porcelain thinly painted, revealing only the edges of his high cheekbones and the arch of his narrow, cutting eyes—a gaze that dissected the room with a frigid elegance. Beneath the mask, his skin gleamed fair, unmarred by battle scars or hardship. By mortal standards, he might have been considered otherworldly, a beauty neither fierce nor soft, as fitting for Taxian-Jun’s consort as the moon to night.

As was expected in the emperor's court, no explanations accompanied the consort's silent arrival; the courtiers were left to wrestle with their own speculations. For who was entitled to demand clarity from a sovereign who bowed to none? The assembled officials, scarce in number but cloaked in meticulous silks, whispered amongst themselves with unease, stolen glances darting toward the masked figure until one among them dared to raise his voice, a fragile note amidst the tension thick as lacquer.

"Your Excellency," he ventured, "is the esteemed individual in white a visitor or an imperial host? This one wishes to show proper homage in every act and word."

A flicker of impatience creased Taxian-Jun’s brow. "This venerable one can summon whomever he pleases," he replied. "If you are so desperate for introductions, address the individual yourself." 

The official swallowed visibly, bowing his head to avoid Taxian-Jun’s penetrating stare. Silence poured into the hall once more, a yawning, suffocating pause.

Taxian-Jun broke it, the faintest flicker of a sneer twisting his lips. “All right. Hua Binan,” he commanded with a dismissive wave, “let’s hear the account of Suizhou.”

 As Hua Binan relayed the report, detailing the rogue cultivators’ actions of impunity, the air in the hall grew choking. He spoke with care, recounting how they’d dared to disparage the imperial line, threatening not only the young princess’s life but the sacred purity associated with her birthright. Each sentence tightened the noose around the gathered officials’ necks, dread creeping up their spines as they waited for Taxian-Jun’s reaction.

His expression hardened with each word, lip curling as he began to speak, impatience and disdain shaping each word. “This venerable one can only fault Hua Binan for his quick extermination of the cultivators. How can I interrogate and punish those who dared to cross me? I have to remind you all just what my blood is worth. The Empress, my kin—they are me. Anyone fool enough to threaten them might as well sharpen their blades on their own necks. You get this, don’t you?”

He let the silence stretch, then bit out, “Maybe Suizhou’s become too negligent. Maybe the rest of you have, too.” He leaned forward. “Well, take note of what this venerable one is about to say. The species known as Butterfly-Boned Beauty Feasts are invariably connected to your fated sovereign. Not a single commoner or cultivator touches them. Don’t trade them. Don’t harvest them.” He growled, “I made this clear enough when the princess was born, but maybe this realm needs a lesson carved in something sharper than words.”

Song Qiutong remained composed, though she rejoiced internally. Forget Chu-fei. She could have fainted right there in the hall under the sheer weight of this long-needed edict. At last, the tyrant emperor’s wrath had sealed what countless ambitions had dared to touch. She recalled one particularly brazen sect leader who had once dared to suggest Mo Yan’s bloodline be “shared” for the betterment of the species, as if the emperor’s family was livestock to be bred. The man’s mistake had been fatal—Taxian-Jun had killed him on the spot without so much as a warning. But this final decree was more than a single flash of retribution; it was an enduring, iron-bound safeguard.

“Is that a final edict, Your Majesty?” a court official asked, his brush hovering over the paper as if it, too, trembled beneath Taxian-Jun.

“Of course,” he hissed. “Any sect, individual, or province that disregards my word will face imperial judgment, reform, or annihilation. Let Suizhou’s lapse be the first example. The rogues’ connections will be unearthed, one by one.”

Song Qiutong stepped forward, head bowed, persuading Taxian-Jun to reconsider. “My lord, the hosts and inhabitants of Suizhou honored you in every action. The magistrates deplored the treasonous attempt and made sure we received the utmost protection for the remainder of our stay.” 

Voice lower and uninterested, Taxian-Jun asked, “Then who does Empress Song suggest this venerable one punishes? Am I to let it go?”

The empress’ answer was cautious. “Perhaps the deaths of the rogue cultivators can serve as an example, my lord. Your agent carried out your will.”

He paused, tilting his head as he considered. “This venerable one can’t overlook negligence.”

She knew she’d pressed as far as she dared. Morning court was not the place for debate but a ritual of deference. Others had learned over years of bruised egos and quiet demotions that speaking up too readily could prove fatal. But Song Qiutong, perched in her unique position, enjoyed a thread of leeway others could only envy.

“Who will you punish? How?”

The sharp question cut through the subdued murmurs like an unshod sword. Eyes shot toward the man in white, his tone unforgiving in its simplicity. He wasn’t one for flowery, indirect speech. He made his objection known with a chilling clarity that silenced the hall.

Taxian-Jun’s gaze locked onto Chu Wanning, his lips pulling taut. “This venerable one will pay Suizhou a quick visit. Their reception will determine their fate.”

Song Qiutong’s eyes tracked every flicker, every slight shift in Chu Wanning’s posture as he spoke. Hua Binan’s gaze sharpened as well, his attentiveness concealed behind a neutral, almost languid expression. It was rare for both Hua Binan and Chu Wanning to be in the same room; in such instances, both hid behind a half veil, too. For the position each of them held, their paths had crossed in little more than silence and sidelong glances.

“An example is not necessary,” Chu Wanning stated. “Just pass the edict.”

Everyone waited with bated breath. 

Taxian-Jun snickered, his mouth twisting into a snarl before he let out a bark of laughter. “Oh? Both the empress and my consort have objections to this venerable one’s judgment. Interesting...” His body inched forward on his throne, coiled and poised, like a blade in the hands of an unsteady executioner.

Visitors exchanged furtive glances. Hua Binan's expression, too, held a spark of hidden knowledge, the sort that caught like embers when truth scraped the kindling of rumor. It was a silent affirmation—for those perceptive enough to catch it—of what had only lingered in whispers and veiled insinuations: Emperor Taxian-Jun did harbor a consort—one he shielded from the court’s prying gaze with jealous claws. And, to the surprise of all, that consort was a man. Taxian-Jun wielded this fact for the first time, twisting it for everyone to see. It was clear to Song Qiutong; the words had been a public wound, but the sting was meant solely for the shrouded Chu Wanning.

“Does anyone else have a problem with this venerable one?” Taxian-Jun asked with a hungry scan of the room. 

Uneasy hush choked out the hall, eyes dipping downward.

“Morning court is now concluded,” he declared.

Song Qiutong felt a shiver crawl up her spine, not from his words but from the restraint that underscored them. Controlled fury could be infinitely more dangerous than outright wrath. For a breath, she felt something akin to worry for Chu Wanning.

As the hall began to empty, Hua Binan hovered. Song Qiutong seized the moment, offering him a polite greeting. “Today is a special day,” she remarked with a private smile. Of course, Hua Binan agreed, but his eyes were tracing back toward Chu Wanning in assessment.

Song Qiutong took the gamble that Taxian-Jun wouldn’t mind her further humiliating his shizun. “Concubine Chu, I believe you haven’t had the honor of an official introduction. This is Hua Binan, the Hanlin Sage and leader of the Guyueye Sect.” She glanced over to Chu Wanning with venomous eyes. “As you heard, he protected Xiao-Yan in Suizhou. A fine ally to our family, wouldn’t you agree? In time, Xiao-Yan may even find herself taken as a disciple by the Hanlin Sage.”

Chu Wanning only nodded, bowing as he left. Hua Binan’s eyes followed him, tracing the ripple of white robes that swept like pale waves in the shadowed hall. 

Taxian-Jun swept past Song Qiutong and Hua Binan with neither a glance nor a word of acknowledgment, the dark heat in his eyes set elsewhere—likely on the one who had slipped from view. His silent addiction was worse than a reprimand. Song Qiutong had played her hand well, assessing every subtle cue, yet the emperor’s unmistakable attention on his consort prickled her skin.

…

Chu Wanning walked swift. His thoughts were scattered like loose leaves. What was he thinking, standing there, making his voice heard in court? He should have known better. Did he think at all?

“Wanning,” Mo Ran intoned from behind. “Stop.”

The command stilled Chu Wanning mid-stride, spine tightening. Mo Ran sneered, “So obedient. Turn around.”

This time, Chu Wanning hesitated to do so.

Mo Ran laughed, a low, sharp sound as he grabbed Chu Wanning, twisting him around with a rough grip. Hatred flared in his eyes, stoked like a sudden gust feeding a flame. Chu Wanning felt it sweep over him, unsettling as the pull of a shifting tide, yanking him between Mo Ran's loathing and twisted amusement. He felt the veil slip away, baring his face fully to Mo Ran’s attentions. Shame twisted in his chest, a shadow of dread knotting with it as those dark eyes bore into him, piercing, intense, leaving no inch of him unexamined. 

Mo Ran’s fingers tightened on his wrist, dragging him away from the corridor and into the concealed shadows of a grove.

“Shizun…” Mo Ran looked down into his eyes. 

Chu Wanning’s throat went dry; he felt feverish, resisting the urge to swallow. He almost hated himself for it—the treacherous warmth he felt for the Mo Ran he’d glimpsed yesterday, a cruelly sweet phantom in an illusion spell.

A small smile tugged at Mo Ran’s lips. “Shizun, you’ve become so bold as to accept your role.” He leaned close, tracing a gentle finger over Chu Wanning’s mouth. “But this venerable one never gave you permission to speak at morning court. Do you think your station equals that of Empress Song?”

Chu Wanning said nothing.

Mo Ran’s hand clamped down on Chu Wanning’s shoulder with the weight of an iron shackle, nails digging through the silk. “Carry out our agreement,” he demanded.

Chu Wanning blinked, lost. “What?” Then, like a drop of ink blooming in water, he remembered. He inwardly cursed himself—really, he hadn’t been thinking. 

“After you got your way with Xue Meng, we agreed that your mouth is best used for one thing.” He smirked, savoring the way Chu Wanning’s brows knit and his jaw tightened. “Down. Now.”

Before Mo Ran could force him, Chu Wanning had obeyed and dropped to his knees, his robes pooling in the dirt like the solemn fall of snowy petals. Resentment knotted and rose in his throat, forcing tears to prickle the corners of his eyes. 

He hated this act the most.

Broad daylight filtered through the canopy, painting dappled shadows over them, but anyone who might walk the hidden forest paths could stumble upon them. His fingers tightened into fists against the ground as he fought the urge to rise, turn away, and spit the bitterness that settled at the back of his mouth.

Once finished, Mo Ran placed a thumb over Chu Wanning’s lips. “Swallow,” he ordered. 

Last time, Chu Wanning had choked on his pride, coughing into his hand. Mo Ran’s displeasure had been swift and unsparing, ending with a sticky reminder smeared over his own skin. The thought of enduring something similar out here, with the open sky hanging above like an indifferent witness, made the edges of his composure fray. So, suppressing the urge to gag, he forced himself to swallow.

Mo Ran’s hand lingered against his mouth, thumb stroking the line of his lips, pressing enough to part them. It was startlingly gentle. Within a shun , Mo Ran’s expression softened; the hard glint in his eyes flickered in some distant thought. The sunlight filtering through the canopy cast a sheen over his violet eyes, making them seem both sharp and strangely tender.

“Wanning,” he murmured. “I get it now.”

Chu Wanning tried to clear his throat, but the sound grated, rough as stones scraping against each other. “What?”

Mo Ran only smiled, a slow, unsettling curl of his mouth as he began to walk off. Just before he vanished, he stopped to shoot Chu Wanning a dark smirk. Then, he was gone, leaving Chu Wanning alone with no explanation provided. 

…

Later, in the warmth of the Red Lotus Pavilion, a servant’s voice broke the silence. “Concubine Chu, His Excellency the Emperor sent this note for both you and Her Majesty. This separate one is for you.”

Night had settled thick, the air cool and fragrant from the pine trees ringing the mountain. Chu Wanning held the letter with fingers still damp from the bath he’d taken in the hot springs, his hair tumbling loose over his shoulders, skin flushed from heat yet cooled.

He opened the missive in the flickering lantern light—a brief note from Mo Ran announcing his departure from the mountain at dawn. The other, a smaller scroll addressed solely to him, sat beside it, ink barely dry and smeared from Mo Ran’s careless hand.

A command. A demand, rather, to keep his distance from Wushan Palace, a night-long banishment cloaked in the thin veil of an apology. It was as if Mo Ran thought he was in need of reassurance about where he’d spend the evening. It was both galling and absurd. With the distant hum of water flowing somewhere beyond the pavilion’s walls, he crushed the note, its half-hearted ink staining his fingers as he tossed it.

…

Two weeks slid by, and Mo Ran sought out Chu Wanning only twice, each encounter charged and ravaging, like the feverish night Chu Wanning had once thought an aphrodisiac’s doing. Each time, they tore into one another with a fervor that left him devoured from within, ripped at both body and mind. Despair, rage, the electric pull of desire—all of it tangled and pushed him past reason. When it ended, he would lie curled in bed, retreating from the world, loathing himself too much to even rise for the following day.

The news of Mo Ran's latest escapade in Suizhou spread quickly. He had slaughtered local officials and then flaunted it in a brazen display, making headlines with a very public trial. He had slipped away there after another affair in some distant province, his absence lasting for five days.

For a few tranquil days, Chu Wanning carried on as usual, yet with a newfound clarity. His thoughts drifted often to the spell array and the strange illusion. The paper dragon’s cryptic hints suggested he was under the influence of some unseen spell, an idea that offered some relief—it allowed him to pin his unsettling behavior on something external. But he couldn’t rest on that explanation alone. His feelings for Mo Ran had not only lingered; they had sharpened. He felt a deep, reluctant shame rise with each admission.

Mo Yan snuck in a few times on those days, her presence an unexpected distraction. Chu Wanning found himself studying her closely, wondering how her small hands and wide, trusting eyes might transform with age. He realized, uncomfortably, that he, too, was not as he’d once been; that the years had shaped him in ways he rarely paused to consider and didn’t want to.

One morning, Mo Yan arrived with a black-and-white cat nestled in her arms. “This is Sesame,” she announced with a note of pride. “At first, I called him Kitty, but on the trip, I saw buns filled with black sesame. It made me think of him.”

Chu Wanning observed the cat with mild interest, only to be caught off guard as Mo Yan’s expression clouded. Her eyes grew glassy, her small fingers wringing together in clear distress. “Are you all right, Chu Wanning? I… I didn’t know it was dangerous. I thought you wouldn’t wake up, and it was so scary. Do you… do you hate me?”

A memory flashed, and for a moment, Chu Wanning saw Mo Ran’s younger self in her round, anxious eyes. They were genuine–almost foolish in their honesty. 

“What did you do with those things?” Chu Wanning asked. 

“They’re in my room…”

He paused, the beginnings of an idea forming. “Do you still want to learn music?”

Mo Yan’s frown held as she rocked on her heels, eyes never leaving his face. 

“I can show you how I play the guqin,” he tried.

“Really?” She brightened immediately, and he felt a rare ease.

“Follow me.”

In one of the pavilion’s quiet rooms, he withdrew Jiuge, treating it with the familiarity of an old companion. He’d kept it stored as an ordinary instrument, sparing himself the strain of summoning it by spiritual force. “Its name is Jiuge,” he told her.

“It has a name? Like my kitty?” she said, awe shining.

“Yes. Spiritual tools are given names.”

“Spiritual tool?” she echoed, her curiosity unbroken as she tucked her hands neatly in her lap and sat beside him.

“En. Jiuge is a heavenly instrument. It requires care, which is why I never let you touch it before. It’s irreplaceable. Do you understand?”

She nodded, fingers clasped tight, her excitement tempered but alive like a thousand flying sparks. “I understand.”

He exhaled, realizing that teaching a child required a strategy unfamiliar to him, their understanding always eluding. With adults, clarity came easy; with Mo Yan, he could only guess what truly registered. “Good.”

A calming melody drifted from the qin, notes filling the room like mist over water. Yet, not long after, Mo Yan’s attention slipped, her gaze wandering to a loose thread on her sleeve and the play of shadows beyond the window. Chu Wanning’s fingers hovered over the strings.

Dropping his hands, he asked, “Do you want to learn or not?”

Her head snapped back, eyes wide. “Of course I do!”

“You…” Chu Wanning hesitated, searching his mind for a way to instill patience and discipline without stifling childlike joy. Reluctantly, he relented. “Try playing it. Be careful.” His tone came across sharper than intended, but she barely noticed, her face lighting up as she eagerly took his place while he shifted aside.

With a free hand, Mo Yan began to pluck at the strings, her fingers moving playfully without control or forethought. Her eyes sparkled at each note, and a faint giggle escaped her with each of the guqin’s deep vibrations. Chu Wanning rested a hand on Jiuge, offering a silent apology. The delicate buds along its branches trembled, as though in quiet acknowledgment.

Every instinct urged him to correct her—the way her hands carelessly brushed the strings, the unsteady tilt of her posture. Yet he let it pass. For now, this was enough.

“Chu Wanning, do you know any fun songs?” She flashed him a wide grin, her expression expectant.

“I only know music that can calm the spirit,” he replied. Or songs to wield as defense and meditation in battle, though that wasn’t something she needed to hear.

She blinked, nodding with an air of understanding she likely didn’t feel. “Calm music makes me sleepy, but I like it.”

Teaching Mo Yan music was a choice driven by Chu Wanning’s concerns for her future. By guiding her directly rather than observing from afar, he could better monitor her development and the nuances of her inner mind, which had become a growing source of worry. The possibility that Mo Yan might be somehow linked to the spells affecting him was not unthinkable. Perhaps she held pieces of a hidden truth she didn’t yet understand.

Playing Jiuge eased Chu Wanning’s health as well. Each note softened the tensions within him, the music threading through his spirit like a salve. Even the instrument itself seemed to respond; its branches, once brittle, grew supple, as though grateful for this renewed purpose.

…

Song Qiutong was shocked by the sudden summons and repeated visits from Taxian-Jun. Sometimes he requested her presence in the bedchamber; other times, he simply lingered, drawing out their time together with little purpose. Had Chu-fei slipped somehow?

Not that Taxian-Jun was one to shy from scandal. Word traveled fast through the realm, whispers linking and coiling since the news of his male consort had emerged. It came as no surprise to most; the emperor's proclivities and frequent trips to pleasure districts were well-known. Whether he still frequented them, even Song Qiutong couldn’t say, though rumors suggested he did. It was hardly likely he was trying to mend court opinion on that matter.

She concluded that Chu-fei lost by conceding to his role. He must not be fun anymore, devoid of the shame and ferocity Taxian-Jun enjoyed so much. Maybe nothing had changed at all and Taxian-Jun lost interest. The reasons mattered little to her; as long as each piece settled into place with the expected precision, she could look away.

What’s more, Taxian-Jun showed minute interest in having another child with her. He still stuck to alternative positions and protective methods in bed, but his hesitation was no longer sharply edged. 

One evening, he asked out of the blue, "How would you feel about a bigger family?"

Song Qiutong’s patience frayed. If that was his desire, why not act on it? Why even ask when he could just leave his seed in her? She held her tongue, however, a silent agreement born of a quiet fear that he might, at any moment, drift away again. A male heir—an undeniable bond—would align their goals neatly.

Court was no less complex. Chu Wanning, often present, seemed to have accepted his role, though Song Qiutong sensed a bristling discomfort beneath his calm. Taxian-Jun, too, seemed to relish it, casually dubbing small gatherings as “family meetings” under Chu Wanning’s narrowed gaze.

“I think I’m done fucking around, Shizun. Aren’t you proud?” Taxian-Jun remarked to Chu Wanning one day. “I want a simpler life now, just work and family.” Standing beside Song Qiutong, he added, “What almost happened to A-Yan affected this venerable one. I was reminded of what is important.”

Chu Wanning’s eyes, sharp with unvoiced words, wanted to tear through that strange sincerity. Song Qiutong shared his sentiments but refused to acknowledge the kinship with a mere glance.

One day, after offering to teach Mo Yan the guqin, Chu Wanning asked Hua Binan about a particular herb or medicinal plant. The former request came not long after Mo Yan had been caught playing music with Chu Wanning, a scene that had left Song Qiutong smoldering for days. She’d kept Mo Yan cloistered, a week-long punishment paused only by this “official” arrangement, a concession that let her keep close tabs on Mo Yan’s time around Chu Wanning. Hua Binan and Mo Yan’s teacher had overseen the arrangement, ensuring the lessons fit Mo Yan’s growing aptitudes and interests.

Months later, Song Qiutong felt the ground give beneath her slippered feet. The evening was humid, its dusky horizon casting a faint glow over Sisheng Peak, where clouds wove streaks of deep red into the endless twilight. Draped in a light summer robe, she went about her evening rituals: dinner, bath, time with Mo Yan, then the quiet moments before Taxian-Jun would call for her. Her steps carried her back from the springs, her mind on Mo Yan playing in her annex after a day of study.

Then she saw them.

Hidden beneath the eaves of an abandoned house, Song Qiutong pressed herself tight against a cold pillar, its rough wood biting through her sleeve. She stood a stone’s throw from the main road, where the high mountain breeze hustled people along. But here, in this shadowed corner, her world shrank to what lay ahead—two figures locked together under the fading amber sky.

The sharp scent of pine clawed at her nose, but it barely broke through the sight that held her captive. Taxian-Jun stood leaning against a pillar, his dark robe flowing like spilled ink. His hair, half-loose and wild as midnight, fell forward, concealing parts of his face. Chu Wanning’s pale hand clawed at the dark fabric—firm and possessive, not delicate as one might expect from a prisoner—then moved to undo the pin in Taxian-Jun’s hair.

Song Qiutong had only ever glimpsed them in careful gestures—a brush of hands or the faintest stroke of hair between slippery fingers—and even those fleeting touches left her heart twisting with nightmares, conjuring what-ifs.

Now, here they were, unmasked and untamed. She watched as Chu Wanning's eyes, deep and dark as a lake before dawn, widened upon catching sight of her, a brief flicker of surprise lancing through his guarded stare. His hand slipped lower to cradle the back of Taxian-Jun’s neck to hold him in place.

Song Qiutong’s heart hammered, sick with rage, jealousy, something she couldn't name but could feel tearing her from the inside. She had never desired to kiss Taxian-Jun as deeply as Chu-fei did, yet her husband never gave her the chance.

A low chuckle from Taxian-Jun made her stomach twist. She saw the dimpled shadow of his rare smile, as though he reveled in the caress as much as he found it amusing. "Inside now, hm? Wanning is such an enthusiastic consort," he murmured, his voice meant only for Chu Wanning’s ears but carrying enough for her to catch. He spoke low, directly into Chu Wanning’s mouth, and tried to untangle himself, reaching up to guide the trapping hands down and away from his hair, which cascaded in a free, disheveled sheet. “Wanning, listen, anywhere else–” His voice was cut off. “Hey! Behave.” 

His hands pried at the clasp around his waist, the other shifting to settle Chu Wanning onto his thigh as though it were a throne meant for him alone. Chu Wanning’s white outer robe, loose and sprawling, trailed to the ground, collecting dust like a sacrificial offering to the earth.

Song Qiutong shrank back, heart pounding like a war drum as she slipped into the shadows, nausea curling up her throat. She removed her eyes from the scene, moving quickly, careful to leave no trace. Clinging to a strained calm, she wrestled down the wildfire of terror flickering under her skin. Play it cool. Pretend none of this happened—still, she wanted to whip that fox of a man into oblivion.

She'd suspected it—had all along, really—and now it was clear: Chu Wanning wasn’t some helpless prisoner. He was a rival, vying for the place she'd longed for beside Taxian-Jun.

Yet, if there was any comfort, it was in this—the game was one she recognized now, its opening gambit laid bare. The board had stepped from shadows into daylight, each piece now placed. Hugging her arms, she clung to that thought, telling herself it was enough.

Chapter Text

Chu Wanning had grown tolerant of Mo Yan, which in itself was a small miracle. Yet her recent behavior had begun to test his patience, tiptoeing the line between endearing and utterly impudent. 

Lately, her monologues had expanded beyond mundane ramblings and into tales of love—of all things—as she attempted to enlighten him with anecdotes involving her parents. Her young voice took on an air of solemnity that she clearly found amusing as she tried to instruct him on the meaning of love, sprinkling in what she thought were sagacious examples. 

To his chagrin, her music lessons had also become the battleground for her insubordinate tongue; after all his painstaking effort in quelling the dreadful "Ning-ning," she had found fresh artillery. 

"Chu-fei," she called him one day, eyes bright.

At first, he'd thought it another casual nickname until he realized the implications. "Chu-fei" wasn't just a playful taunt—it was the title for a consort, a spouse to royalty. She seemed blissfully ignorant of its meaning, babbling her whimsical notions about romance. He had corrected her calmly, though with a taut smile that masked the growing twitch in his temple.

"Chu-fei, shouldn’t you fetch things for me and prepare my tea? You’re a servant," Mo Yan had insisted recently. "I’m a Princess."

He almost asked if she treated her nanny and other caregivers in the same way, but paused, considering the reality of her upbringing. Those servants had been employed precisely for such duties—to dote on her, fulfill her every whim. Any reprimand would be moot. Even Xue Meng, in his most brazen of moments, had never been quite this unmanageable, at least not with his shizun. Mo Yan had a way of dragging petulance into audacious territory.

And yet, Chu Wanning found himself not only tolerant but also, against his better instincts, sympathetic. No—more than that—he had grown to empathize with her. It wasn't a choice; empathy had been forced upon him by the horrifying glimpses into the future from that other reality. He had seen versions of Mo Yan twisted by terror—things no child should ever endure. 

Two such memories haunted him deeply. One was the attempted kidnapping in Suizhou, a day that had ended with trembling hands and shallow breaths; the other was a discovery that had left even him, hardened as he was, momentarily stunned—a grotesque mound of flesh, sinew, and shattered bone at the old training grounds, a result of Mo Ran's twisted experiments. The image haunted him, not only for its ugliness but for what it had revealed about Mo Ran's ambitions.

Mo Yan, for all her spiritedness, had not spoken of it. But he knew. He'd sensed it when she coaxed him into keeping her cat hidden in his pavilion, her small hands clinging to his sleeve.

"I don't want him to die like the bunnies," she had pleaded.

She never elaborated, but he understood. Whether she fully understood that her father had been behind those unrecognizable masses of bloodied fur and splintered bones, Chu Wanning couldn't tell. She had glimpsed enough, though, enough to seek solace in secrecy—enough to trust him. He had pieced together the truth. Mo Ran was trying to utilize the Space-Time Gate, experimenting with lives that ended in nothing but a carnage of flesh—utter failures.

Presently, Chu Wanning’s empathy and tolerance teetered close to their limits. He had reluctantly agreed to instruct Mo Yan, provided that her primary caregiver—always Song Qiutong—supervised. And so here they sat, across from each other, hemmed in by the four walls of the room. The arrangement hadn't been without its struggles, especially when they had deliberated over whose abode should serve as the setting for Mo Yan's lessons. Mo Ran had ultimately chosen Chu Wanning’s quarters, much to Song Qiutong's melodramatic dismay. Of the three, Mo Yan alone seemed genuinely pleased with how things had turned out.

Now, the young girl had her own instrument, a gift from her doting father, which allowed her to sit directly across from Chu Wanning as an equal—at least in her mind. He would play, and she, in theory, would imitate. To his mild surprise, she was not completely hopeless. Half the time, she approached the lessons with a clever determination that yielded real progress. Simple tunes had begun to emerge.

Chu Wanning found himself mulling over that thought as he adjusted his guqin, the notes flowing seamlessly from his fingers like water over polished stones. Mo Yan was surprisingly serious today, her brows furrowed in concentration, her small hands plucking cautiously at her strings. It was during one of these moments of focus that Mo Yan broke the silence, her voice abrupt enough to remove him from his thoughts.

“Chu-fei, I have a question.”

He sighed inwardly, fingers pausing just above the strings and then lowering. “What is it?”

Mo Yan set her instrument aside and scooted closer. “Do you really like my father?”

The question struck him, out of place and absurd, a cold gust during spring. His brows drew together. “What are you talking about?”

She tilted her head, curiosity direct. “Well, you’re a cut-sleeve, aren’t you?”

“Mo Yan!” His voice snapped. He almost never used her name like this—and certainly not in this tone—but the sheer audacity of her words left him reeling. “How dare you ask such an impertinent question and speak to me that way?”

Mo Yan blinked. “What did I…”

“You are a child,” Chu Wanning interjected. “You ought to respect your elders. Where did you even learn such… such nonsense?” He took a breath, and when he spoke again, there was something weary in his voice, a frayed edge. “Are you actually beyond saving? Repeating whatever nonsense you hear, calling me names that are beneath you… What foolishness have your parents been feeding you?”

Mo Yan’s lip quivered, but before she could respond, the storm arrived. Song Qiutong swept into the room, a wave of righteous fury.

“You, who do you think you are?” Song Qiutong's voice was icy. She took Mo Yan by the arm, drawing her close, her eyes narrowed into sharp crescents. “To speak to your superiors this way… Do you truly believe yourself above reproach?”

Chu Wanning's eyes darted towards Mo Yan, who now looked frightened, tears glistening as they welled. He swallowed. “She’s a child,” he managed, though his voice had lost much of its sharpness, the confrontation already exhausting. He had so much he wanted— needed —to express, but this was all he could manage.

Song Qiutong's lips curled in derision. “She’s the daughter of your sovereign,” she shot back, each word a slap. “You would do well to remember your place. Such insolence is unbecoming.”

Chu Wanning opened his mouth, but nothing coherent found its way out. Instead, he watched as Song Qiutong turned to Mo Yan. 

“What kind of nonsense are you saying?”

Mo Yan hiccupped a sob, clearly unsure of herself now. Her tears spilled over, trailing down her cheeks. 

Chu Wanning, too, lost the resolve to speak further. The truth was unavoidable. His role in this household was as thin as vapor—unwanted, meaningless. Just a convenient tool for appeasing a spoiled child, a doll that wore authority without ever holding it.

The mother and daughter left, furious and doleful; Song Qiutong took Mo Yan's hand before turning to give Chu Wanning a harsh, dismissive glare—a once-over that said everything and nothing at once. Peace and quiet suited him better, anyway.

But the day would not offer him even that small mercy; it had other plans, each one spilling over into the next like an overturned cup. 

He moved outside into the late summer air, hoping the sky would offer solace. Alone, he watched the red lotuses sway. The midday azure sky reflected in the dimensional pond, a mirage of endless blue above and below, its undulating surface a drifting charge of nature—as though the water itself reached for him, as if trying to pull him under and away.

He found himself caught in the syrupy flow of those movements, his thoughts sinking into the heavy calm. Then a soft pressure brushed the back of his calf—light, familiar. He didn’t need to turn to know it was Sesame, the wandering cat. Yet still, his body reacted, twitching with a forgotten reflex. One misstep, and his foot slipped into the pond’s edge, cold water seeping through his shoe and breaking the tranquil illusion.

He sighed, the sound lost between breath and resignation. There was neither irritation nor surprise in it, just a faint acceptance—as if even nature itself was conspiring to unsettle him today. He took three or four strides back toward the house, the wetness creeping up to his ankle, chilling his leg as if the earth itself had grabbed hold of him. A sudden breeze whispered across his skin, cold enough to raise goosebumps.

And then… where had that cat gone now?

He scanned the ground nearby, but Sesame had vanished, disappearing like a memory slipping between worlds. 

Time to retreat, he thought. The ruins of his room called to him, its dark edges yawning with the promise of stillness and the peace of being unseen. 

The chill gnawed at his bones, weaving its teeth through the marrow of his soaked foot—his mortality dragging sharp against the edges of his existence with its cruel murmurs. 

“I can’t go back...”

The words reached him, carried on a thin, tremulous breath. Somewhere nearby, Chu Wanning heard Mo Ran speak. Why was he here now? Chu Wanning tried to ignore it—the unwelcome tremor of concern beginning to stir in his chest, that old, relentless duty of care that refused to leave his heart untended. He took a step forward, but paused.

“Shizun.”

The voice was louder, closer now, yet it was heavy with a simple, unutterable sorrow that somehow felt so far away. Its forlorn echo left an emptiness that wound itself around Chu Wanning’s core, tugging him back. He turned toward the pond, where the sound had originated.

And there was Mo Ran, kneeling at the pond’s edge, hunched low against the barren earth, his form fragile, frayed at the edges. Loose tendrils of his hair fell across his hollowed face, casting shadows over eyes lost to the ripples of water. 

“Shizun, pay attention to me.”

Why, Chu Wanning wondered, was he calling for him with a child’s plea? His voice, so stripped of pride, left a trail of desperation. But then—his thoughts stilled, a wordless jolt of confusion striking him.

Mo Ran wasn’t even facing him.

Instead, Mo Ran faced the pond, its surface ruled by red lotus blossoms, their petals vibrant and their scent heady—an impossible richness, choking the air. Among the crimson lotuses, there lay a body in white robes, motionless and half-shrouded beneath a blanket of blossoms. Chu Wanning knew—he knew without truly knowing—that the body was his own.

A chill prickled down his spine. Mo Ran had fallen silent. Time itself seemed to shudder, lose its path, abandoning them to this stillness, this moment caught between seconds.

“Your Majesty,” a voice intruded, barely a whisper. Liu-gong had appeared beside Mo Ran, his eyes lowered in deference. “You will not get an answer this way.”

Nothing. Mo Ran did not stir, not even the twitch of a brow.

“Your Majesty, Her Highness is here.”

Chu Wanning drew his gaze away from the body in the water, a sick sense of disorientation settling in his bones. The body—he couldn’t be asleep, that much he knew. Something about it was all wrong, unnatural. How could he simply be resting in the pond, half-submerged? 

Another vision, a fragment of a fractured, impossible future. One more piece of an unknown puzzle.

A figure stood off to the side, barely more than a flicker of white against the background of the pavilion. Mo Yan—so small, so quiet, her presence barely more substantial than a specter. She couldn’t have been more than ten. Her eyes were wide, empty, and she stood alone.

Mo Ran remained knelt, sparing his daughter an empty glance. The look he gave her was hollow, like a mask that had begun to crack. This movement exposed his ceramic-pale face to Chu Wanning, one haunted by inexplicable desperation and broken by madness.

Chu Wanning felt the instinct to move closer, to reach for him. His heart felt an old, stubborn weight—he still had to answer Mo Ran. But then, Mo Ran seemed to notice the girl. 

"You," Mo Ran said, voice hoarse as if he hadn't used it in years. His eyes drifted over to the child with a cold detachment. "You were born, too. How could that happen?"

Chu Wanning frowned, the question so absurd it rendered him mute. He studied Mo Ran, searching for a flicker of lucidity beneath those dull eyes, but found none. The Hatred Flower had rooted deep—how deeply, he feared to know.

Mo Yan clutched at one sleeve of her dress, her eyes downcast, fixing on the pavilion's wooden floor as though she could vanish into it. Already, she seemed older, a shadow of the poised adult Chu Wanning had once seen—of the woman she would become. 

This illusion was suffocating, pressing on the edges of his consciousness like an unwelcome dream. Was it premonition or nightmare?

The Hatred Flower was truly wicked, twisting Mo Ran until he treated the girl with such icy detachment. Where was her mother, Chu Wanning wondered? Or perhaps this vision had no room for her, its focus trained so keenly on these tangled emotions.

Chu Wanning's breath tightened. These illusions, they were too chaotic, too fickle. This one felt like a staged play, disjointed yet visceral, more of a hallucination than a coherent dream. A chill wind blew through the pavilion, and Chu Wanning took a careful step toward Mo Ran, wondering if he could cut through this haze with his voice.

"Mo Ran," he called. "I am here."

No response. Mo Ran knelt as though he hadn't heard. The elder drew closer, now standing directly beside him, his gaze falling on the pond beyond. Chu Wanning’s body lay half-submerged in its waters, surrounded by lotus flowers. They were vibrant—a jarring, almost painful vitality compared to the tortured spirit before him—blooming as they had once done when he fed them spiritual power, before all of this began to fray.

The lotuses were alive, too alive. Was this a glimpse of fate yet to unfold, a forewarning of sorrow waiting in ambush? 

Was this his destiny?

And then the scene shattered, giving way to something more immediate and yet no less disorienting.

"Where are you looking?" Mo Ran asked. He stood tall, a looming figure above Chu Wanning with exhausted eyes, the corners of his mouth weighed down. In that gaze, there was something akin to baseless suspicion, the anger a weak flicker.

"I was looking for the cat," Chu Wanning answered.

Mo Ran's eyes narrowed, his scrutiny acidic.

"The cat?" Mo Ran echoed. "Is this venerable one supposed to believe you care about that little cat? That you—Chu Wanning—could spare a shred of compassion for something so small? When you loathe your own disciple?"

Chu Wanning felt the exhaustion settle deep in his bones, the well of his patience having long since dried up. He closed his eyes briefly, drawing in a shallow breath. "What are you talking about?"

"'Beyond saving,'" Mo Ran enunciated. "That's what you called her. That's so like you, Shizun." 

Had Song Qiutong already rushed to report their quarrel? 

Chu Wanning searched for words, his stagnant mind drawing blanks, little plant shoots that failed to grow, tender potential withering from the absence of proper nourishment. “I am worried because her education may be lacking.”

“What, and you have better ideas?” Mo Ran mocked, his lips curling into a sneer. “Are you a proper, successful teacher? A-Yan deserves the best. This venerable one would end the current arrangement if it meant giving her a better upbringing—if she deserves the best, what place do you have in it? But I let her decide before, and now you force me to reconsider.”

Mo Ran’s words felt like an abrupt, ruthless trampling, a footfall crunching down on a frost-covered little sprout, splintering its fragile roots raw and leaving them exposed to the cold. Chu Wanning’s shoe and the hem of his robe were still wet from the pond, the chill seeping through his skin, equally cold and intrusive beneath the weak warmth of a sun obscured by clouds. 

But Mo Ran was right. He was a joke of a teacher, despite all the effort he had poured into his role. As much as he tried, he had never been enough.

And yet, even as his gaze dropped, Chu Wanning refused to relinquish his concerns. It wasn’t unreasonable to worry. Even if expressing it led only to admonishment and scorn.

Words churned in his stomach, each one sour and bitter, unworthy of being spoken aloud. Admitting fault would be like swallowing shards, and he couldn’t lecture because it would be for naught. He watched Mo Ran, waiting for a window that might let him speak without the weight of futility pressing on his tongue.

“Mo Weiyu,” he finally managed, “if you want the best for your daughter, you should stop using forbidden techniques on the peak. She could see something best avoided.”

Mo Ran dismissed the issue. “Wanning, do you take me for a negligent father and ruler?”

Sometimes , Chu Wanning thought. 

Mo Ran’s eyes narrowed, an ember flickering in their depths as though sparked by a suggestive breeze. He stepped forward, leaving the shade of the pavilion, the distance between them shrinking in a heartbeat. “Have you missed me, Wanning?”

“…”

…

Near the beginning of autumn, Chu Wanning experienced yet another premonition—a vision so dire that it shattered his worldview and haunted his waking thoughts, stalked his dreams. He had known fear, but never like this. Never had he felt so fearful and despondent for external reasons, even for the Empress. 

They all had blighted fates.

Deep-Fried Empress Song. Esteemed (Steamed) Consort Chu. Emperor Taxian-Jun, Mo Ran.

And the most heartbreaking—Mo Yan, kneeling and sobbing, her small ten-year-old frame shivering with grief. The last time he had seen her, she was but a child, untouched by such loss. Now, she knelt before the graves beneath the Heaven-Piercing Tower, her cries echoing in that bleak midnight, the only sound that broke the silence of their isolated, parallel realities. He watched from a distance as Hua Binan led her away, leaving only the graves and the darkness behind.

Mo Ran had killed himself? The thought clutched at his chest, refusing to release him.

Chu Wanning could still see it all clearly: how the memory first began at Wushan Palace, with Mo Yan hiding in a shadowed corner of the side hall, eavesdropping. He remembered crouching beside her, hearing the exchange between Mo Ran and Xue Meng—words that unveiled a truth he could scarcely bear. His own body preserved in the lotus pool, Mo Ran choosing poison as the final chapter to his dark tale. He had looked into that young girl's eyes, wide with confusion, and knew then that despair was no longer some abstract thing.

Everything felt hopeless. How could he prepare for a prophecy that spoke only of failure? Every path seemed to lead to desolation, to an end he had no power to change.

And to the very end, Mo Ran hated him—blamed him for Shi Mei's death, dismissed those early years that had once meant so much. Their bond, whatever had existed between them, meant nothing. The memories Mo Ran had lost never resurfaced in his heart, leaving only hatred where affection had once dwelled.

Worst of all, Mo Ran had never returned to himself. He hadn’t recovered his senses, hadn’t clawed his way out of that abyss of madness. Instead, it was a final fragment of exhausted sanity—not hope, but resignation—that drove him to end it all. A desperate act to sever the pain, to put an end to his atrocities and cruelty.

All for what?

If those memories shown were true, if they were even worth trusting at all, then they could only point to one cruel fact: Chu Wanning was destined to fail.

He grappled with this knowledge, even as he felt the heat of Mo Ran’s touch on a late summer evening. The humid air clung to his skin, the dust in the outside air sticking to the damp. Chu Wanning shivered, an electric tremor coursing through his limbs, the need to shake sense into Mo Ran battling with another, more vulnerable urge—to hold him, to soothe him, to cradle that broken spirit in his arms.

But his body had other, traitorous intentions—it yearned for the sharpness of contact, for the sting of touch. Each strike that should have hurt instead sent fire to his senses, raw and purifying. His flesh, once dulled with indifference, now pulsed with vitality. It was as though he had been reborn, unraveling into something half-mad, a vessel of desperation molded only to fit into Mo Ran's grasp. His thoughts, slipping into the spaces between desire and dread, left him degenerate and aching, reduced to Mo Ran's willing consort.

After months of nightmarish visions, the seriousness of the Hatred Flower further weighed on him. Even now, he felt it—the terrible gravity of his uncertainty that compelled him toward Mo Ran. An unrelenting urge gnawed at him, urging him to pull Mo Ran to safety, to shield him from everything that threatened his life, his soul. That unquenchable desperation had him reaching out in the stillness of night, fingertips brushing Mo Ran's temple when his expression softened, losing its edge to the embrace of sleep. It was only in those precious, unconscious moments that Chu Wanning dared to touch, to trace those worn features with something akin to hope.

Sometimes, under the faint glow of moonlight seeping through latticed windows, Mo Ran held onto him, too—not with possession, not with pain, but with a gentleness. His body would go slack, his fingers unwinding from their fists. Placing that against the image of the older, dying Mo Ran, the anguish he had faced, it struck Chu Wanning with heartbreaking clarity—the war raging within his disciple was endless, a struggle between love and despair, fueled by the curse.

But Chu Wanning held on, clung to the forged closeness, to the living warmth of Mo Ran's breath against his skin. He drank in the quiet solace that their nearness brought, even when he caught sight of Song Qiutong's distant silhouette over Mo Ran's shoulder. His head spun with a haze of feelings, longing tangled with dread, attachment blooming from the ruins of his previous vacancy. His limbs felt as though they belonged to the night air itself, weightless and drifting, yet tethered to Mo Ran.

I can’t let the one who cursed you take you away, so please live and redeem yourself, forgive yourself. You can’t disappear.

He wished he could say these words, but the words snagged in his throat. Instead, he pressed his intentions into each kiss, into the fevered hold he refused to loosen. How could he let go now, when even his body had ceased to resist? Fear had grown distant, uncertainty muted. All that remained was a reckless hope. 

He was hardly afraid or wary anymore. 

Chapter Text

When Mo Ran lifted him into his arms, carrying him back to the Red Lotus Pavilion, Chu Wanning melted into him, his lips brushing against Mo Ran's collarbone, his body surrendering to the gentle rocking motion of each step. He nuzzled into the crook of Mo Ran's neck, seeking warmth. His hand curled around the delicate hairpin he had yet to return, its presence grounding him even in his daze. He barely registered the way his robe hung open, disheveled in an intimate disarray. Mo Ran paused, the softest flame of touch brushing Chu Wanning's shoulder as he adjusted the fabric of his inner robes, covering him as best he could—a quiet, careful gesture.

Mo Ran’s breaths came stilted, stuttering as he opened his mouth, closed it, then opened it again, each pause a searching glance at Chu Wanning. Surely, he was hunting for the perfect barb to fling. Yet nothing came. Not a single sneer or insult broke the peace as they walked.

“I—This venerable one will see Empress Song tonight,” Mo Ran finally announced in deigned confidence, if his hesitation could be trusted. “You knew.”

Chu Wanning remained wordless, his brows lifting slightly as Mo Ran pushed him down to sit on the bed’s edge. The elder’s steady gaze met the other man’s, unflinching, until his fingers moved, tightening on Mo Ran’s clothed arms with reciprocated vigor. 

“You also removed this venerable one’s crown and ignored my commands.” Mo Ran’s voice dropped. “So, a punishment—” His words stopped when Chu Wanning’s hand moved to rest upon his chest. Looking down, his expression furrowed.

Chu Wanning’s heart quivered. 

Where once a tall and steadfast tree had stood, then reduced to a withered sprout, now regrowth flourished. Life returned. Whether it was the Harmony-Light Flower or some lingering influence from a dual cultivation spell, he couldn't say for certain. The name of the enchantment didn't matter. What mattered was that he had grasped its effects.

Years ago, something like this would have been his worst nightmare, a shameful curse. Yet since the changes began, emotions had accentuated, sharpening into colors and shapes. Song Qiutong's bitterness seared his consciousness, acrid and biting. Mo Yan's smiles, her fleeting frowns, seemed to creep onto his own face. And then, there was Mo Ran—the hate and lust that burned deep within that young man's heart had spotted him to the core. But it was those feelings, those searing passions that sent him spiraling, that brought forth moments of stark lucidity. 

In his madness, he glimpsed truth.

Impulses. Longing. Chaos. Did Mo Ran endure the same roiling disorder? The yearning that made thoughtless actions feel like inevitable tides rushing toward the shore—how much of that storm churned inside Mo Ran, waiting for an outlet?

“Wanning,” Mo Ran stated, a breath slipping. "Two days ago was your night. You've already taken up my time."

Chu Wanning moved to pull his hand away, but Mo Ran pinned it against his chest. His eyes widened for a heartbeat—even he hadn't intended it. A mistake, one that left them both off balance. But Mo Ran was quick to regain his composure, his expression hardening.

“…The night is long.”

Mo Ran seemed entranced, leaning closer until Chu Wanning found himself being gently lowered back, Mo Ran's weight a warm presence above him. His black hair fell in loose curtains, brushing against Chu Wanning's face and catching dim glow. Chu Wanning reached out, his slender fingers grasping a portion of that midnight silk to keep it out of the way.

Mo Ran's eyes darkened. "You've changed," he breathed, voice dipping into a low growl. “Are you really so jealous and easy for me? Or is this what you truly are—what you've always been?"

Chu Wanning glared. “You talk too much.”

Mo Ran stilled, his mouth curling into something between a smirk and a sneer. Chu Wanning braced himself, half-expecting a strike. It was a reflex now—to wait for the bite, the lash of cruelty, to prepare for the hurt before it came. But it didn't. Nothing came. Not tonight, not in the past months. Instead, there was only Mo Ran’s intense lustful attention on nights after many apart. 

“Can you take more?”

“What?” Chu Wanning stilled, sure he had heard wrong. The murmured question was utterly sincere, free of mockery. He blinked, fingers tightening in the tangled mess of Mo Ran's hair.

Mo Ran considered. “You look like you could break in half, but you want to go for another round.”

Heat clawed up from beneath Chu Wanning's collar. “Who would want that?” he snapped, refusing to let go of Mo Ran’s hair. The words were sharp, but that shameless question planted itself in his heart anyway, spreading its roots, unsettling, sending out ripples that fluttered against his chest.

Mo Ran merely smiled, those obnoxious dimples and canines flashing themselves—all the more infuriating with his eyes glossed over. And yet, beneath the haze of desire, there was a sparkle there. “If it’s not that,” Mo Ran murmured, “then why won’t my shizun let me leave?”

“Go ahead,” Chu Wanning snapped, fingers loosening at last, though they hovered still at Mo Ran’s temple. “Who’s stopping you?”

Mo Ran tilted his head, his expression almost pitying, the tilt of his lips sweet. “This venerable one will go to Empress Song when he leaves. You’re okay with that?”

Chu Wanning drew in a breath, exasperated. He couldn’t let himself rise to the bait.

“Do you like this venerable one, Shizun?” 

Chu Wanning’s throat tightened. He took another breath, and then another, the air catching somewhere deep in his chest, unwilling to come free. After a pause, he replied, “I care about my disciple.” 

Mo Ran seemed satisfied, his gaze softening as if he’d heard exactly what he wanted to hear—and yet, his next words contradicted that softness entirely. “That’s a lie. You’ve never cared about me. I asked to know if you like getting fucked .”

The words were blunt, crude. Chu Wanning closed his eyes, willing himself to breathe, to remain steady in the face of such vulgarity. 

“Shared company doesn’t require that,” Chu Wanning said at last.

“So you do want me here?” 

Their positions were still the same, neither shifting nor yielding. Both restrained themselves, waiting for the other to be the first to admit what was already plain: neither wanted Mo Ran to leave and present himself before Empress Song.

Mo Ran chuckled and made the decision for them. “You don’t. Then I’ll stay. You will suffer this unwanted venerable one’s presence.”

Fine, a little voice in Chu Wanning’s head said, and his relaxed body matched the relief. You are warm and alive—that is enough.

He had not forgiven Mo Ran for the hell he'd endured—over time, he came to see it as a shared hell. Yet as the months drifted by, their moments together grew less fraught, almost as if the man beside him had clawed his way back to some amount of sanity, piece by piece.

That night, they slept together again. Chu Wanning rested in a loose embrace, his body lulled by the warmth, though his mind roamed far when he woke just before dawn. It wasn't the quiet that pulled him from sleep, but the thunder in his own chest. He shifted slightly, just enough to catch sight of Mo Ran's face—strained, streaked with tear-tracks that glistened in the fragile light. Chu Wanning's hand hesitated, then moved, reluctant fingers brushing across Mo Ran's cheek, careful not to disturb him. He stayed close, body still tucked to his.

…

Song Qiutong heard Taxian-Jun’s meaningless apology a day later. Sleep had eluded her since that scene in the woods and his sudden absence afterward. Yet, she'd expected it, even felt grateful—it bought her time to think.

“This venerable one was occupied yesterday; our schedule has been adjusted.”

Sweet smiles had grown difficult, but she managed a fragile curve of her lips. “I understand.”

In the quiet expanse of the empress’s quarters, the distance between them felt more than just physical space. She waited, gathering her words. “My lord husband, you once spoke of expanding our family. I am willing to bear your child, if that is what you wish.”

He startled, his response brisk, almost dismissive. “That was just bedroom talk. Don’t overthink it.”

Song Qiutong's voice softened, pressing on tentatively, “We could try for a son.”

“A-Yan can be treated the same; there's no need.”

Her fists tightened in her lap. What? Xiao-Yan is a girl! Did he mean he saw their daughter as his heir?

She tried again, her voice calm, measured. “I mean not to be morbid or to invite misfortune, but what if she fell ill or couldn’t bear the duties?”A breath, then, “I think she could benefit from a sibling.”

“Empress Song,” he articulated, “I’ve never shared your wish to have a successor. You forget A-Yan was an unexpected arrival.” His gaze was cold, detached, not even lit by the malicious madness or unsure desire he used to cast towards her. 

Song Qiutong summoned her dwindling courage. “But why? I am the one who bears the pain of childbirth. Do you hate the idea of me so much?”

Taxian-Jun’s eyes narrowed, a pointed darkness stirring in them. “I've told you before—I cannot love anyone again. You are my wife in title only.”

Her spirit withered at those words. She already knew it, had always known. Still, the truth tore at her. She didn’t love him either, not truly. How then, could the spoken truth wound so deeply?

Golden tears chased down her cheeks with one tight blink. His truth was a lie, even if the madman failed to see it. He did love someone, twisted as it was—whether he knew what love meant, she doubted. Shi Mei, Chu Wanning—it had always been them.

“I understand,” she said again after empty silence. She took a handkerchief from her stash of belongings to wipe her tears. 

“You’ve grown quite open with your emotions,” he observed, tone suggestive toward a truth known only to him. 

“Does it offend my lord?” she asked wearily.

He shrugged it off. “No.”

Song Qiutong watched as he rose and left. He'd come earlier, spent time with Mo Yan, noting the girl’s height, the way she’d grown. But between them, there was nothing but this ritual. No affection, no warmth, no attempts to share her bed. It would have made sense if he at least enjoyed her company—but he clearly did not. Yet, he came, lingering at regular intervals. At least Mo Yan seemed to delight in the attention, basking in it whenever he stayed within the compound.

“I never shared your wish for a successor. A-Yan was an unexpected arrival. You are my wife in title only.”

She turned the words over and over in her mind, rolling them around until each layer of meaning surfaced. How was she supposed to make sense of a madman’s ravings? She had no choice but to try—to grasp something, anything, that could piece together her fractured, teetering sense of worth.

…

It just so happened that the following day, Hua Binan arrived bearing troubling news. They met in the main hall of her residence.

“Your Majesty,” he began, bowing low, “this one has come upon a matter of concern, necessitating an intrusive question regarding internal affairs. You may choose not to answer, of course.” She gestured her assent, her eyes sharp. “Have you observed anything unusual about His Excellency’s concubine?”

Song Qiutong straightened where she sat. “What are you implying? Is there something I should be aware of?”

“Not exactly, Your Majesty,” Hua Binan replied. “However, this one has investigated the flower the concubine inquired about—its properties are quite curious.”

Her heart skipped, a spark rekindled from the ashes. “I have noticed changes,” she admitted. “A shift in confidence. He only started attending court in recent months—that, too, is different.” She leaned forward. “Tell me, what are these properties? How does it connect?”

Hua Binan inclined his head. “This rare flower is a component in aids meant for dual cultivation. Depending on the formulation, its effects may range from a slight lift in mood to something far more potent—a transference of energy, similar to what fox demons achieve. In essence, a kind of imitation or reversal of our own allure over mortals.”

Song Qiutong struggled to keep her welling excitement in check. “Are you saying the concubine has made use of such an ingredient?”

“This one sees no other reason he’d inquire so directly. If not that plant, he may be pursuing similar effects through other means.”

Naturally, Chu Wanning had once been a grandmaster, with access to ancient scrolls and hidden tomes beyond most mortals' reach.

Song Qiutong’s brows knitted as she considered. “His questions came only after his behavior shifted. Could he have already used another method or even acquired the plant?”

“It's possible, Your Majesty,” Hua Binan replied. “This one does know a technique to reveal traces of spellwork, should you deem it necessary.”

“Of course,” she mused. “A transfer of energy like that could affect the emperor, too, right?”

“Yes, it very well could.”

“Then use your method. If you uncover evidence, bring it forth in court. Could you perform this test in front of the emperor? That is, if you find something. He’d believe direct proof.”

“Yes, Your Majesty…”

“Hua-xianjun!” A young voice chimed from the doorway. Mo Yan bounded forward, her attendants trailing close behind. “Will you show me more tricks today?”

Hua Binan’s face softened, his smile curving his eyes into gentle crescents. “A-Yan, have you been practicing as I taught? Cultivation requires both dedication and understanding.”

“Mn!” Mo Yan nodded eagerly. “I study every day, and I can feel my qi sometimes without your help!”

“Excellent,” he murmured approvingly.

With that, Hua Binan accompanied Mo Yan to the clearing behind the house, Song Qiutong and the servants trailing behind, settling into place to observe the girl’s training with silent, attentive eyes.

…

Taxian-Jun sat upon the throne with a stone cold stare, though something dimmed his usual fire. His pallor was evident, his movements slower, his temper less volatile. Song Qiutong welcomed the quieting of his wrath, yet felt uneasy just the same—if Chu Wanning’s influence was truly weakening him, what consequences awaited them both?

Hua Binan stood before the throne, voice low as he delivered his report. “Your Excellency, this one entered Sisheng Peak alongside the guests from Beishu Sect on the fifth of the month and sensed a peculiar energy clinging to their couriers. I wasn’t certain at first, but during their most recent visit, I used a spell to test for concealed energies. I now believe they have brought something cursed into our midst.”

The Beishu Sect guests, humble representatives from a remote northeastern region, had come to report on supply and production—weak figures, bearing little but the mundane details of the realm, hardly worthy of Taxian-Jun’s attention. Today, a small group from their sect was present, including a familiar face among them, the leader of their envoy. The unexpected accusation seized his attention, and he turned swiftly to his followers, his couriers blinking in confusion. They were all lost at this turn of events. 

“Master Hua, this is news to me as well,” the old man responded, barely keeping his voice civil. “What, exactly, are you suggesting?”

“This one regrets having to raise such a concern,” Hua Binan replied solemnly. “This one merely suggests a precautionary check for the sake of our security. I may well have been mistaken the first time.”

Taxian-Jun finally stirred. “You’re asking this venerable one to interrogate our guests?”

Hua Binan bowed. “This one recommends investigating the peak for any lingering spell traces. Guyueye Sect has a method to reveal such remnants.”

Taxian-Jun’s eyes narrowed. “You think this venerable one incapable of sensing such disturbances?”

Hua Binan then immediately kowtowed, apologizing for his presumption.

Taxian-Jun waved him up, his cheek resting lazily on one hand. “Fine. Show off your little trick.”

Hua Binan accepted the condescension without hesitation, producing a talisman from his robe. “This talisman conjures butterflies drawn to unnatural energy fluctuations. Our sect uses it to identify tampered substances.”

A murmur of doubt and hesitant glances passed through the room as he knelt, placing the talisman on the floor before the Beishu Sect group. The paper ignited with a faint glow and set off a swarm of tiny, spiritual butterflies. They hovered briefly, then darted toward the visitors, wings aflutter with excitement, circling the air around them in shimmering spirals.

"Why are they only hovering there?" Song Qiutong asked, providing support through earnest curiosity. “Did they find something?”

“It’s a weak spell, Your Majesty,” Hua Binan explained smoothly. “The butterflies remain close to where this one invoked the talisman.”

Taxian-Jun observed from the dais, bored and disinterested in it. But Chu Wanning, standing near the cluster of officials, had narrowed his eyes, stepping back a fraction, quiet and watchful.

But it was too late. A few butterflies had already landed on him, while others circled the pocket of a Beishu Sect member.

“What do they do if they don’t find anything?” someone asked. “And what exactly are they drawn to?”

Hua Binan feigned surprise at the results. “The creatures detect unnatural disturbances—a medicine laced with strong spiritual energy, for instance, would attract them. This makes them useful for revealing tampered recipes and graftings. They seek out imbalance, though whether to purify it or feed on it, this one cannot say. If they find nothing, they fade with time.”

Taxian-Jun sat upright, his attention drifting toward Chu Wanning rather than the Beishu Sect member, who was now batting away the glowing insects. Chu Wanning remained unflustered, standing resolute as the butterflies dimmed and dissolved, too weak to linger. 

Guards moved in, detaining the flustered visitor and searching him thoroughly. From his pocket, they pulled a scrap of parchment marked with an ominous symbol—an incantation meant to lure demons. On Sisheng Peak, the mere presence of such an artifact was threatening, a ploy to harm those connected to Taxian-Jun.

Song Qiutong knew Hua Binan had planted it earlier, yet she played her part well over this supposed infiltration, widening her eyes and releasing a soft, horrified gasp.

“This—this one has never seen that before,” the Beishu Sect member stammered, his face drained of color.

“Imprison him,” Taxian-Jun commanded, his voice a flat blade. His silent attendants escorted the bewildered visitor from the hall.

As the sacrificial cultivator vanished, all eyes shifted back to Chu Wanning, who remained an unmoved presence at the edge of the crowd. Taxian-Jun stepped down from his throne to observe him more closely.

“Why would those things land on my consort?” His tone held more demand than question. “Is he unwell?” he pressed, directing the inquiry to the Hanlin Sage.

“It’s possible,” Hua Binan replied, stroking his chin thoughtfully. “Is he a cultivator, Your Excellency?”

“…No,” Taxian-Jun responded.

“Then he may have come into contact with an object or curse.”

“Then do it again—show me this trick of yours one more time.”

“This one regrets he cannot repeat the spell,” Hua Binan said with a shallow bow. “The talisman came prepared with the incantation and this one does not recall the details of its construction.”

“How can a sage forget his own spells?” Chu Wanning spoke his first words of the day.

Hua Binan bowed lower. “This one is ignorant and inadequate.”

Song Qiutong watched intently, looking between Chu Wanning and Hua Binan, each meeting the other’s stare with an equal intensity.

Taxian-Jun seized Chu Wanning’s wrist, probing for any hint of spiritual power or disruption, then traced his fingers up to his neck. Song Qiutong suspected he’d sent a thread of his own energy into the man, assuming the latter’s near-imperceptible flinch was any clue. 

Chu Wanning flung off the emperor’s hands, sharp brows knit in something close to anger. The defiance commanded everyone’s attention—most of all, Taxian-Jun’s. Song Qiutong noted the familiar flicker of distrust in the emperor’s expression, heart racing. The strategy was scattered, yes, but it had accomplished its purpose: Taxian-Jun’s paranoia had been stoked.

…

“I’ve had enough of you, Chu Wanning,” Song Qiutong said matter-of-factly in the punishment hall. “What kind of fox are you that you sway our lord husband’s will like this? He despised you, and now, all at once, he’s enthralled.”

Chu Wanning was kneeling, his face composed as the empress’s accusations washed over him. Enthralled?

“You have betrayed A-Ran again.”

He let her words fade into a dull buzz, mind already retreating, thoughts multiplying like an uncontrolled disease. Silently, he recited sutras to steady himself.

“You won’t admit it, but I know,” she murmured, leaning close. “You’ve used a dual cultivation spell to ensnare him. So shameful.”

He drew a deep breath, his brows knitting in baffled silence as he forced himself to disregard her venomous whispers.

With Mo Ran away from Sisheng, Song Qiutong seized the opportunity to corner him. Since the foolery at Wushan Palace the few days before, Mo Ran had drilled Chu Wanning with questions, unable to ignore the faint spiritual power he’d sensed flowing through him, wholly distracted from the deeper scheme: Hua Binan’s orchestrated exposé.

Graced by chance, Mo Ran had not blamed or questioned him. Instead, he directed his frustration at the palace healer, convinced that any lingering issue must stem from his own fractured core. But Song Qiutong saw through the cracks, ordering Chu Wanning to what was once Yanluo Hall, where her interrogation felt all too familiar to the time she’d dragged him to the prison to be whipped.

“Concubine Chu!” she snapped, her voice at its highest pitch, strained and imperious. “Answer me!”

How could a woman who could be so soft-spoken and charming turn like this? Her two-faced nature was unsettling.

She glared down at him, eyes vacant yet ablaze with triumph. Posture spoke of her as decisive, as though she were preparing to unleash the next wave of her dominant tirade. Before she could, Chu Wanning broke his proud silence.

“Empress Song, I am not your enemy.”

“Enemy?” she repeated, curiosity piqued.

“I don’t understand any of this.” He meant every word—the accusations, her readiness to disparage him, Hua Binan’s manipulations weaving her anger like a spell.

She gawked at him, then leveled her expression. “Don’t pretend. You asked Hua Binan about a flower known to aid dual cultivation, whatever its purpose. So, I encouraged him to pursue it.”

“Why do you hate me so much?”

She didn’t hesitate. “Was I supposed to watch as you use A-Ran? You’ve been twisting his decisions, meddling in his mind when you know he despises you.” She paused, her next words pointed and oblique. “You saw me on the road that night.”

Of course, Chu Wanning knew exactly which night she meant. Then, he had been out of his mind with the very things she now condemned him for. “Yes,” he said quietly. “I did.”

Her face twisted in raw disgust, and then a sharp crack resounded through the room as her hand struck his cheek. Chu Wanning’s control unraveled at its ends; his head whipped to the side with the force, but his gaze snapped back to meet hers just as quickly. 

“Use your words!” he shouted.

“I will!” she shot back, her hand dropping to her side.

But he pressed on before she could, each sentence strained thin. “I didn’t ask for any strange spell to be put on me. I don’t even know what it is. But I’m not your rival.” He took a breath, shutting his eyes as if that could distance himself from the words. “Mo Ran sees you more often than he does me—he hates me.”

The admission tasted bitter. Humiliating.

Song Qiutong took a moment to process, a short, incredulous laugh breaking the silence. “Chu Wanning, is that how it is?” She cast her eyes to the ceiling in thought before looking back down. “What do you mean you didn’t ask for a spell to be put on you?”

“…Even if I wanted to, I couldn’t cultivate high-caliber spells or medicines.” His breathing came fast, despite his efforts to conceal it.

She weighed his answer, eyes narrowing. “Then who else would bind you with a spell or poison?”

Chu Wanning wished he knew the answer to that same question. Could it be Mo Yan? The thought hovered. If not her, then it could only be Mo Ran or Song Qiutong.

Perhaps Hua Binan had orchestrated it all, yet his eagerness to expose it seemed almost too earnest, as though the matter struck especially close to home. Was he truly that loyal to the empress? Or was this just another move to secure her favor?