If he returned and learned of these deeds, he would surely never forgive him.
“Thus, I took it upon myself to seal away all of his memories of ‘Shen Fengyan’ before he revives.”
“I hope you all… will never mention me again.”
“Let him forget me completely. Let him live freely and boldly, anew.”
“Brother Shen…”
Zhao Lixuan clutched the brocade box and leaned closer to the limpid springwater.
At first, the surface reflected only his own face—dusty and weary after a year on the road, exhaustion impossible to hide. But soon, the ripples stirred by his deep longing and regret began to swirl, gradually revealing the image of the one etched forever in his heart—
It was Jiang Chen.
The figure who haunted his every thought, who caused him bone-deep pain, whom he both longed for and wanted to fiercely reproach, even strike.
In that moment, he recalled their final moments together. In the gaps when Jiang Chen’s mind cleared amid his delirium, he would suddenly, without warning, ask about Shen Fengyan with an almost obsessive mania—asking if they looked alike.
The question made no sense.
Even then, Zhao Lixuan had glimpsed, on that pale face, a flicker of something deeply concealed, an indescribable bitterness.
Even… jealousy?
He had thought he’d imagined it.
After all, back then, he couldn’t fathom why Jiang Chen would envy Shen Fengyan.
But now, he understood everything.
Shouldering everything on his own, acting in the shadows, resolute enough to self-destruct for a chance to start over—yet so stubbornly convinced he wouldn’t be forgiven that he decided his own fate: to be forgotten, erased.
These two… aren’t they exactly the same?
…
Jiang Immortal Lord’s remains had later been gathered by the Divine Temple and placed in a specially crafted ice coffin, in a futile attempt to delay the final dissipation of his last breath.
Sadly, after just a few days, that body dissolved into motes of light, returning to the heavens and earth, leaving nothing behind.
It shouldn’t have scattered so completely, so… cleanly.
It was only now, before this legendary Clear Heart Spring said to reflect one’s true heart and past, that Zhao Lixuan finally glimpsed the full truth.
The springwater flowed silently, unrolling a long, bitter scroll of images.
He saw a small child locked in a dark iron cage, beaten, throat slit, curling up to endure hunger and cold, falling asleep each night streaked with tears and fear.
He watched him grow, still tossed and tormented by fate, gradually turning silent and withdrawn, sealing all his emotions into those deep, dark eyes.
He saw him mocked by peers, then grit his teeth and strive, excelling in everything.
After they met, he watched Jiang Chen flounder in confusion, anxiety, fear, and helplessness—clinging desperately to everything while denying it all, trapped in self-contradiction and self-negation, until he struggled, fell, and drowned.
He saw him go to the Demon Bright and become the lord of Drunk Moon City.
By day, he was calm, efficient, and just, handling city affairs impeccably to the acclaim of the citizens. But when night fell, he lay sleepless, alone in the frost-laced courtyard until dawn broke.
He watched him flare with nameless anger, yanking out every Dew Forget-Sorrow Grass in the yard in a fit of rage, hands caked in mud, panting with exhaustion.
He watched him read the letter Zhao Lixuan had sent, over and over, fingers tracing every word—then toss it aside, never replying.
…
He watched him, night after night, stand by the Three Realms Gate that forever separated the Unstained Immortal Realm from the Demon Bright.
Watched him curl up and sleep beneath that tree.
Letting frost and dew soak his clothes, yet stubbornly refusing to leave.
Then, he watched him venture into the Beiming Abyss, trading with that ancient divine miracle for a medicine that would cost his lifespan to return him to the Mortal Realm. He swallowed it, enduring agony like his heart and bones being carved out, emerging scarred and frail… back in the Mortal Realm.
He finally returned to that little courtyard in their Mortal Realm.
The loofah vines were still lush and green.
He began a long, hopeless wait.
At first, all was quiet. Clumsily and devoutly, he tidied the courtyard, awkwardly learned to light fires and cook, practiced drawing his sword repeatedly, tried brewing wine.
From nearly burning the kitchen at the start, to producing some monstrous-tasting brew, and gradually mastering dishes that were fragrant, flavorful, and perfect.
He even learned to thread a needle, using those sword-callused hands to patiently mend the shabby, ugly goose-down pillow worn by time. The stitches were crooked but tight.
Flowers bloomed and withered, withered and bloomed again.
Freshly brewed green plum wine was buried under the pear tree, and golden-silver grass planted across the hillside. Year after year.
Time slipped from hopeful embrace into bottomless despair.
He began sleepless nights again, stomach knotted like stone, breath catching for no reason, limbs stiff and cold in the dead of night. Only stronger liquor could force him into brief, chaotic slumber.
By day, he remained the stern, composed Sword-Holding Immortal Venerable, methodical in all things. But once back in the empty courtyard, he let himself drown in drunken stupor.
Soon, just as he had once failed to handle love,
He failed to digest this bone-gnawing despair.
He sought new divine miracles relentlessly, and one day, in a frenzy, he slashed open his own throat and wrists with a dagger—as if becoming that scarred, empty “Jiang Chen” from before would reset everything.
But that didn’t work either.
The one he waited for never came; no path appeared.
He grew more lost, and began to hate.
Endless resentment swelled, filling the vast, gaping hole in his heart.
Pitifully, he found that only hating that person kept him from total collapse.
Hatred became the last twisted pillar propping up his crumbling world. He even sank into delusions, curling on the old bed amid the ugly geese, murmuring hoarsely over and over: “It’s not real after all…”
“‘He’s deceiving me, he doesn’t want me… all lies…”
In the final years, that crumbling hatred sustained him until the day he went to the Unstained Immortal Realm for the Demon Hunting Moon Hunt.
Jiang Chen received the messenger jade slip with a blank face.
Just like back in the Demon Bright when he’d gotten that certain someone’s letter: cold, impatient, disdainful.
Twenty years.
He wasn’t the type to cling or humiliate himself; he had his pride and dignity too.
Since Zhao Lixuan had long since abandoned him, fine.
A clean split, no debts owed.
What was there to miss?
However.
Just learning that Immortal Lord Li Xuan would be receiving him made his heart… start beating uncontrollably again.
Suddenly, the hatred vanished.
Suddenly, all resentment evaporated; suddenly, twenty years of waiting were worthwhile.
He secretly kept the spirit butterfly messenger, and though the message would fade in a day, he unfolded it repeatedly to read again.
Zhao Lixuan, Jiang Chen.
The illusory words, those few lines of official notice, had their names side by side.
Maybe… Lixuan hasn’t completely forgotten me?
Maybe twenty years of silence hides some hardship?
This faint, unspoken hope lasted only a moment.
Soon, their reunion in the Unstained Immortal Realm shattered the illusion.
Zhao Lixuan had changed completely.
Poised and elegant, upright and refined, warm and courteous… yet utterly unfamiliar.
He didn’t care if old wounds had healed, forgot his food preferences, overlooked his intolerance to alcohol. His attitude was impeccably cordial—and strictly professional, through and through.
Hah.
The hatred that had just subsided roared back like embers doused in oil.
He hated him again.
…
Zhao Lixuan raised a hand to cover his eyes.
Scalding tears still seeped through his fingers, trailing down. His heart clenched and twisted in agony, nearly doubling him over—yet he couldn’t help laughing.
He knew there was nothing funny about it, not one bit.
He just couldn’t stop picturing it in his mind—Jiang Chen’s days and nights soaked in despair, waiting in vain; the drunken, suffocating, painful, hopeless nights.
But at the same time, he thought…
This really is my Little Ginger.
Clumsy and awkward, unable to even accept love straightforwardly, even scorched by warmth. Yet stubborn to the bone, willing to shatter and remake himself in secret, endure inhuman torment for a slim chance at a redo—yet too proud to utter a single soft word or complaint.
“He’s really so dumb…”
What could he do? He’d fallen for a scarred, stubborn little butterfly.
Little Ginger had never known true happiness.
Even in their brief two years together, that love had always been shrouded in unease, fear, and self-doubt—never truly unfolding under warm sunlight.
The images in the spring depths faded gradually, merging into calm nothingness.
The final glimmer lit his eyes.
If there was another chance…
He wanted to give him real happiness, unclouded by shadow.
…
The ancient gods’ divine breath was crushed by Shen Fengyan and reduced to nothingness. But in that final instant of annihilation, not everything vanished completely.
The Breath of Chaos hadn’t fully dissipated, for a portion lingered in Shen Fengyan’s body.
A tiny strand of divine fragment, weak as a candle in the wind, capable of nothing else.
Yet it held the purest essence of life’s origin.
Enough… to remake a mortal immortal’s soul and reverse death.
“Thank you, Brother.”
Zhao Lixuan murmured to the void, cradling the small, warm-glowing cluster at the brocade box’s bottom.
Gently, as if holding a dream that would shatter at a touch, he infused it into the springwater before him.
…
Mortal Realm.
An ordinary farmhouse courtyard, the earthen walls still carrying the faint, earthy scent after rain.
In the corner, lush vines climbed the simple bamboo trellis, dotted with pale yellow loofah blossoms. Sunlight filtered through in dappled patterns.
On the bamboo recliner lay a man, still and serene.
Hair black as ink framed his tranquil sleeping face. The same sharp, refined brows and eyes, thin lips pressed tight, slender neck and lean shoulders… every inch the image Zhao Lixuan had traced in his heart a million times.
“Little Ginger.”
“Sweet Little Ginger, wake up. You’ll catch a chill sleeping outside.”
The man on the recliner didn’t stir, his breathing shallow.
The voice drew closer, warm breath brushing his ear: “If you don’t wake, I’m going to kiss you~?”
It was a long dream.
No cold night of the Demon Bright, no agony of the Beiming Abyss, no twenty years of bone-erosing wait and despair.
Just the turning seasons in the little courtyard. Spring: planting new flowers together. Summer nights: reclining side by side under the stars. Autumn: harvesting heavy loofahs and pears from the vines. Winter: huddled by the hearth, sharing warmed wine as silent snow fell outside, warmth filling the room.
He was willing to stay drunk in this dream forever.
But his lashes trembled, slowly lifting.
His vision blurred at first, then sharpened. Tree shadows danced in spots of light, and a face loomed very close—strange yet achingly familiar.
That man wore a brocade robe embroidered with gold and silver threads, its colors vibrant and radiant. At this moment, he propped his cheek with one hand, tilting his head to gaze at him, his eyes brimming with warm amusement that shone with startling brightness.
Jiang Chen froze.
Dazed, as if his soul hadn’t fully returned to his body, his eyes dazzled by that smile. He simply stared blankly, his mind a complete blank, unable to think, unable to look away.
A gentle breeze happened to sweep through just then, rustling the pear tree in the courtyard. A few leaves, on the verge of falling, spiraled down from the branches. One brushed right past the tip of his nose, carrying a fresh scent of grass and wood.
The faint tickle made his eyelashes quiver lightly.
“Still groggy from sleep?” The youth reached out and naturally clasped the hand Jiang Chen had left resting outside the blanket, its fingers slightly cool.
His palm was warm, his grip firm, carrying an undeniable sense of reality.
That warmth seeped through the skin, scorching into blood vessels that had been cold for far too long. Jiang Chen shuddered violently.
As if this sudden touch and warmth had awakened all his dormant senses. Instinctively, almost excruciatingly slowly, he gripped that hand in return.
He parted his lips, but his throat was parched, no sound escaping.
He only lifted his head, his gaze piercing through the fluttering shadows of falling leaves to lock firmly onto the man before him.
Those eyes, once reflecting starry rivers and frosty snow, once filled with utter despair and desolation, now held only pure, incredulous bewilderment—and a fragile, tentative probe.
Sunlight bathed everything in a soft glow, time standing utterly still.
The wind whispered through the vines with a soft rustle, like a long, settling sigh of peace.
Zhao Lixuan let him hold on, lifting his other hand to gently brush away the leaf fragments caught in his hair. His fingertips lingered over the cool shell of his ear before finally cupping his face, his thumb tenderly wiping at the corner of his eye—
Where, unbeknownst when, a trace of wetness had gathered.
“Not a dream, Little Jiang.”
He leaned down, forehead gently pressing against his. “I’m back.”
“We’re both back.”
“Let’s go home together.”
