Zhao Lixuan’s excuse for faking illness these past few days felt flimsy even to him.
He claimed he’d caught a chill from lounging in the cool air.
But everyone knew immortal bodies were pristine and impervious to malign influences—how could one catch a cold so easily?
Yet some people actually bought it. Like Yu Rumu, who specially went to the medicine garden to gather immortal herbs and brewed a nourishing soup just for him!
The soup was masterfully prepared: century-old snow jade lotus root paired with the wing bones of Tianshan immortal cranes, simmered over a low flame with ginseng and astragalus for a full hour. The broth was thick and snow-white, its aroma thick and nose-tingling. Zhao Lixuan took a shallow sip from the bowl and immediately felt its exquisite freshness flood his mouth, invigorating his limbs with warmth.
He cradled the soup bowl right then—gulp gulp gulp.
Gulp gulp gulp gulp gulp.
Yu Rumu: “…So, you really were faking it.”
He’d clearly heard plenty of rumors these days and couldn’t help worrying: “But Lixuan, even if you’re avoiding Jiang Immortal Lord by claiming illness, this isn’t a long-term solution, is it?”
“Besides, for someone as good-natured as you to be forced into hiding… it really shows how difficult that Immortal Venerable is to deal with.”
Zhao Lixuan kept his head down the whole time, focused on his soup.
Gulp gulp gulp, slurp slurp slurp.
“You…” Seeing him drink so contentedly, Yu Rumu sighed helplessly.
Sunset glow filtered through the window lattice, casting a soft light on his lonely profile.
Zhao Lixuan drained the last drop just then, and for once, he caught a rare, genuine smile lighting up his little shixiong’s face.
The evening clouds burned like fire, dyeing the courtyard’s fallen pear blossoms pink and gold. They rustled down in the breeze. For a moment, time seemed to rewind to many years ago.
Back then, his eldest brother was still around, and Fu Xi Palace buzzed with life every day.
Mornings and evenings always rang with Senior Sister Lu’s clear voice drilling the junior disciples; the back mountain training grounds always glittered with Senior Brother Shen’s flashing sword light.
Xia Yunjie had been the second biggest slacker in the sect after him back then, forever napping atop the tallest persimmon tree; every so often, a massive boom from the backyard alchemy room meant Yu Rumu had blown up the furnace again.
Of course, Immortal Lord Rumu was already renowned in Fu Xi Palace for his deft hands—he was a superb cook, and even skilled at woodworking and tailoring.
But the long path of medicine still meant the occasional furnace explosion.
Every time Zhao Lixuan rushed over, he’d find Yu Rumu amid wisps of green smoke, his robe hem charred black, standing there dazed like a startled little gray rabbit.
Zhao Lixuan had always thought his shixiong Rumu should’ve been a rabbit spirit.
That soft, warm presence, the way his ears would twitch at the slightest scare—it was just so rabbit-like.
Yu Rumu had been around ten when Zhao Lanze picked him up and brought him back to Fu Xi Palace.
Before that, like Jiang Chen, he’d been a street urchin battered by the world’s malice. Much later, Zhao Lixuan came to understand that children who’d endured so much suffering at such a young age often ended up at one of two extremes.
Either like Jiang Chen: prickly all over, ice-cold, impossible to warm.
Or like Yu Rumu: outwardly gentle, but inwardly harboring a near-servile need to please. A scrap of kindness, and he’d pour out everything in return. Yet he’d always remain anxious, clinging desperately like a drowning man to driftwood.
Even the carefree, oblivious Zhao Lixuan back then had sensed it faintly.
I’ve got to be kinder to Shixiong Rumu.
Otherwise, if I’m not watching, he’ll wither away and die on his own.
…
Two days later, Fu Xi Palace held its first strategic briefing.
With the Demon Hunt drawing near—a matter tied to the safety of the Three Realms—Zhao Lixuan had no choice but to “recover” and attend.
The morning session began with Xia Yunjie detailing the Moon Hunt protocols, refined over days of deliberation in the Unstained Immortal Realm, to the immortals of Liao Yuan Court.
It covered everything from personnel assignments to logistics, routine patrols, and array rotations. Then several Immortal Lords reported in turn, from mapping the Misty Crevice Abyss to demonstrating cooperative combat formations.
Zhao Lixuan had helped draft all this repeatedly, so it was second nature to him.
Before long, he zoned out.
Seizing a moment when no one was looking, he slipped a Clarifying Heart Hall Jade Note from his cloud-patterned wide sleeve and secretly wrote to his friend.
Yu Rumu sat right beside him and happened to glance over, catching the neat, elegant handwriting at the top of the note: “To Young Master Di Chun.”
Yu Rumu: “Ah.”
Fu Xi Palace had a fine tradition of “picking strays off the streets.” Few had Yu Rumu’s rotten luck—his one pickup had been a Demon Clan general.
Zhao Lixuan’s luck with rescues was much better.
Take this Young Master Di Chun. Seven or eight years ago, Di Chun had fled into the nearby Tu Flower Immortal Grass Meadow, gravely wounded from his enemies’ pursuit, and run straight into Zhao Lixuan, who was out flower-viewing. Just like that, he’d been brought back to Fu Xi Palace.
Once healed, Di Chun repaid the favor by taking over the Zhao family’s largest enterprise, the Three Realms Crossroads Trading Company. In just three short years, he’d turned it into a roaring success, doubling the profits.
Of course, Di Chun had his own reasons for taking the trading company—
As a half-human, half-immortal, he carried family secrets and needed the firm as cover to hide his tracks and change his appearance from his pursuers.
Conveniently, Zhao Lixuan needed someone reliable to gather intelligence from all quarters on his behalf.
They’d hit it off perfectly.
For years after, Di Chun led caravans far and wide, sending back one or two encrypted letters each month detailing roadside sights, Demon Immortal oddities, and human-demon secrets.
The habit had continued—until three months ago, when it abruptly stopped.
Zhao Lixuan had sent waves of spirit birds and immortal butterflies to track them down, but not a trace of the caravan turned up.
It was too suspicious.
For now, Yu Rumu could only reassure him gently: “Little brother Di Chun’s always been meticulous and elusive. He’s a master of disguise, medicine, and escape—no one could easily catch him.”
“Remember last time he went dark? He’d stumbled into an ancient immortal tomb and gone exploring secrets.”
“Maybe this time he’s found some opportunity and is off treasure-hunting.”
Zhao Lixuan could only hope for the best.
Either way, he kept writing the letter—who knew if a reply might come? He’d also dispatched more people to the Immortal Capital, praying for news on the caravan soon.
All day, the two whispered conspiratorially, shoulders brushing as they sat close.
They never noticed the gaze from the nearby seat, fixed steadily on them.
Jiang Chen sat quietly in the shadows, taking in their intimate posture inch by inch, his eyes dark and inscrutable.
…
After the day’s interminable meeting, dusk deepened like ink.
Fu Xi Palace lit up with lanterns, the clink of cups and lively chatter chasing away the morning’s solemnity.
The Immortal Lords relaxed, bantering and mingling amid the feast. Candlelight flickered, spirit flowers perfumed the air, and bursts of laughter rang out, filling the hall with joy.
In this harmonious scene, one person stood apart.
Jiang Chen sat alone in a dim corner of the great hall, his ink-black robes blending into the shadows. He neither looked up nor spoke to anyone, isolating himself from the revelry. Eyes downcast, he poured and drank cup after cup, exuding his usual “strangers keep away” icy aura.
Zhao Lixuan: “…”
Honestly, he sometimes admired the man from the bottom of his heart—
He doesn’t even pretend.
He remembered back at Xiao Xue Tower, Jiang Chen had always kept to himself. Fine for a proud youth, but now he was the Sword-Holding Immortal Venerable of the realm’s top sect—how could he still be so aloof and antisocial?
Zhao Lixuan had no doubt: if no one approached, this Jiang Immortal Venerable would ignore the hosts’ merriment and sit alone in that corner until the banquet ended.
…That would be a sight.
No helping it.
Zhao Lixuan inwardly cursed the ancestor-level headache, took a deep breath with his wine cup, and steeled himself to head over.
…”Mission accomplished, greater good first—Demon Immortals must get along!”
Even without Xia Yunjie’s constant fatherly nagging, he had eyes. He could see Xia Yunjie smiling as he blocked wine for Lu Ziyuan, Yu Rumu attentively serving dishes to Chu Fusheng.
The other Immortal Lords were all dutifully entertaining their assigned “honored guests.” Lights swirled through the hall, figures paired off perfectly.
He refused to be the lone odd one out, giving others gossip fodder later!
Thus, Immortal Lord Li Xuan forced out 120% warmth, gracefully taking a seat beside Jiang Chen with an elegant, upright smile: “Jiang Immortal Venerable.”
“I was unwell these past days and couldn’t personally attend to you—please forgive any neglect. Here, let Lixuan toast you.”
He raised his cup in perfect amity: “Still recovering from the chill, so tea in place of wine. I’ll drink first as respect!”
…
No response.
It proved one-sided enthusiasm never worked on Jiang Chen. Not twenty years ago, when he’d brimmed with youthful ardor, nor now, when he sincerely just hoped Jiang Immortal Lord would give him a modicum of face for the greater good.
Jiang Chen remained uncooperative as ever.
The only difference from twenty years ago: back then, his dislike meant cold rejection—averted eyes, stony face, freezing Zhao Lixuan in place.
Now?
Same silence, but those pitch-black eyes had locked onto him the moment he sat, staring fixedly, unrelentingly.
Ice-cold, restrained, profoundly dead.
…
Hard to imagine any other colleague enduring that sinister glare without squirming.
Luckily, he was different.
He knew all of Jiang Chen’s tricks inside out from twenty years back. No matter how many thorns he bristled with now, they couldn’t touch him.
He even met those cold black eyes and continued smiling casually:
“Right, speaking of which, there’s a Tu Flower Immortal Grass Meadow in the Flower Valley not far from the palace. The Dew Forget-Sorrow Grass is in full bloom this season—golden stamens, jade petals glowing faintly. At night, it flows like a river of stars… utterly breathtaking.”
“If you’re free tomorrow, Jiang Immortal Venerable, would you care to join me for a stroll? It’s a rare sight unique to the Immortal Realm, now that you’re here in the Unstained Immortal Realm…”
A low, mocking snort cut him off.
“Immortal Lord, you are… truly… forgetful.”
Zhao Lixuan: “Ah?”
Seeing his baffled look, mockery deepened in Jiang Chen’s eyes: “Forget-Sorrow Grass… exists in the mortal world too. Just a few years… and you’ve forgotten?”
Zhao Lixuan was utterly baffled.
Dew Forget-Sorrow Grass was an Immortal Realm exclusive—how could the mortal world have it? What nonsense was this?
But Jiang Immortal Lord seemed utterly convinced, his ink-dark eyes like frozen pools, the last trace of warmth vanishing.
“Also… Immortal Lord has many… dear friends. Carefree… at ease.”
“Naturally… you’ve forgotten.”
Zhao Lixuan: “…”
What the hell does he mean?
Whatever. He’d extended the invite; rejection was perfect—he could report back to Xia Yunjie just fine.
The Forget-Sorrow Grass fields were a world-class wonder; missing out was Jiang Chen’s loss…
As he thought that, a long-buried memory suddenly resurfaced.
Jiang Chen had never been one for flowers.
There’d been that one time: he’d eagerly dragged Jiang Chen to the world-famous Anmu Flower Sea. Bursting with excitement, they’d sailed over to a riot of rainbow blooms like fluttering silks—and Jiang Chen had just stood there, stone-faced the whole time.
From start to finish, only Zhao Lixuan bounced around joyfully, pulling him this way and that.
The other man just glowered, finally barking, “Done looking? Can we go?”—dousing his enthusiasm cold.
…He’d actually fallen for a killjoy like that back then, thorns and bad temper included.
Truly absurd.
Lost in the reverie, he suddenly heard the ice-cold voice beside him: “Fine.”
Zhao Lixuan: “Oh, ah… Huh? What?”
His dumbfounded, slow-on-the-uptake look clearly irked the man. Jiang Chen’s profile tensed rigidly:
“…Nothing better to do.”
“Let’s… see the flower sea.”
He turned away, as if too lazy to look at Zhao Lixuan anymore, and muttered with self-mockery: “If not… forget it.”
