Lin Zhuoyu’s hand froze. Pouting, he pulled the Demon Suppression Bureau’s Violet Fox archives—the one he’d secretly stuffed into his sleeve—and tossed it onto the table with a clack.
“Fine, fine, fine, I won’t look. Is that any reason to throw me out?”
Yan Su closed his eyes. “You’ve come of age. You’re not a child anymore.”
Lin Zhuoyu lay draped over the desk, head cocked, watching him. Failing to extract any “order to leave” from Yan Su’s words, he answered carelessly, “I know, I’ll go in a bit.”
Yan Su, seeing it wasn’t landing, pressed further, saying bluntly, “Later I’ll have your things from Warm Spring Peak sent back.”
Lin Zhuoyu had been idly humming his “mm-hm”s, but at this he belatedly lifted his head to study Yan Su’s expression. A good while passed before he confirmed that Yan Su was not joking.
In that instant, Lin Zhuoyu panicked a little.
Daoist Lord Tongxu’s indulgence and doting had placed his residence right by Deer Jade Terrace, where a hundred thousand sigils gathered spiritual energy and repelled evil—no place in the Three Realms was more blessed.
Living close meant Shizun’s strict supervision: this forbidden, that forbidden, a constant stream of spirit pills and bitter medicine every day.
More than once, half-asleep in the deep of night, Lin Zhuoyu had sensed Daoist Lord Tongxu slipping in soundlessly, gently checking his breathing and warmth, confirming he was still a living creature, before leaving with a soft sigh of relief.
Lin Zhuoyu couldn’t bear such intensive care, and loved running to the secluded Warm Spring Peak to hide and laze.
Yan Su spent most of his time at the summit cultivating the Heart-Purifying Dao anyway, and one thing led to another—Lin Zhuoyu had all but taken up residence at Warm Spring Peak.
“Senior Brother, I really do know I was wrong.” Lin Zhuoyu stood up obediently and brought out his long-prepared apology. “I frightened you this time. I’m ashamed! Next time—next time I absolutely won’t act on my own. I’ll stick to you and never leave your side. You tell me to go east and I won’t go chase chickens!”
Yan Su realized he had been too hasty, and exhaled silently. “I’ll be in secluded cultivation these next few days.”
Only then did Lin Zhuoyu understand. “So you were worried about me! Why didn’t you say so—I thought you wanted to draw a line between us. I’m off then; I won’t disturb your seclusion and recovery.”
Lin Zhuoyu moved fast, sweeping his outer robe over his shoulders and bolting out, three steps turned two.
Yan Su’s taut body slowly relaxed.
But a single thread of desire, drawn out by a hair-fine wisp of fox fire at the Big Dipper Festival, had in mere days spread like wildfire, nearly claiming his entire sea of consciousness.
If Lin Zhuoyu stayed any longer, then…
Suddenly, hurried footsteps sounded behind him.
Off his guard, Yan Su felt a familiar presence rush at his back and press against him, arms locking tight around his waist.
“Senior Brother…”
Yan Su went rigid.
Lin Zhuoyu had come back, hugging him from behind, cheek pressed to Yan Su’s firm, taut back, saying quietly, “Shizun always says what the Heart-Purifying Dao fears most is a wounded spirit and stirred thoughts. Senior Brother, you nearly fell into Qi Deviation this time—was it because I wouldn’t listen and got myself hurt, and dragged down your peace of mind?”
And so… the thought of sending him away?
Yan Su’s pupils burned as if scorched by flame, the fire searing his sea of consciousness in waves of agony.
Lin Zhuoyu said, muffled, “I’m sorry. I really know I was wrong. You… don’t send me away.”
The succubus-like “Lin Zhuoyu,” remade from a handful of peach blossoms, clung inseparably to Yan Su’s shoulder, ghosting at his ear, laughing softly: “Stirred thoughts? Senior Brother, what thoughts have you stirred, and which heart have you disturbed?”
Yan Su’s nails dug nearly through his palms, pain lancing through them.
“Lin Zhuoyu’s” robes hung half-open. A gruesome scar lay across the back of his shoulder, yet it seemed to invite touch, kisses—even bites upon that freshly healed, tender wound.
“Senior Brother, don’t send me away. Take me in Dual Cultivation, won’t you?”
BOOM—
Yan Su violently flared his spiritual power, shattering the half-naked illusion in his arms.
He couldn’t remember what he had answered Lin Zhuoyu. Turning slightly, he saw that azure figure scampering joyfully down the mountain steps of Warm Spring Peak.
Yan Su’s every breath tasted of blood. Standing dazed in a dwelling saturated with Lin Zhuoyu’s presence and traces, it took him a long while to come back to himself.
He raised a hand and swept it lightly.
In an instant, everything belonging to Lin Zhuoyu was gathered into a Mustard-Seed Storage Artifact.
Wind poured in through the window.
The vast Warm Spring Peak stood empty, silent and desolate—nothing but black and white, no other color left.
A few scattered peach blossoms drifted in from the courtyard, settling softly on Yan Su’s shoulder.
Before he could decide whether to keep them or brush them away, the wind came again, carrying off the peach blossoms that were not his, scattering them high and wide.
A petal landed on water, rippling the surface in faint circles.
A crisp tack.
Lin Zhuoyu’s toe skimmed the lotus pond, his whole body gliding over it like a light white crane.
The Floating Jade Mountain disciples were long used to it, calling after him, laughing, to fly slower.
Lin Zhuoyu, in high spirits, flung out a sleeve and loosed a wave of spiritual power, whipping up a sky-filling, drifting rain of peach blossoms as he swept away with a great laugh.
Deer Jade Terrace was split in two; the south side, richest in spiritual energy, was Lin Zhuoyu’s residence—the Xuanxu Residence.
He had been about to fly straight in when a glance out the corner of his eye caught He Xing pacing endlessly outside the Xuanxu Residence, and he banked down to land.
“Senior Brother He?”
He Xing’s head shot up and he hurried over. “Little Junior Brother, why are you flying alone? Has your spiritual power recovered? How’s the wound? Does it still hurt?”
Lin Zhuoyu smiled. “You know Shishu Qingxiao’s medical skills better than I do. Those little flesh wounds were fine ages ago.”
He Xing already felt terribly guilty, and hearing him talk so lightly made it worse; his eyes reddened again.
“You don’t blame me?”
Lin Zhuoyu’s lashes quivered.
In truth, that was his question to ask.
At that life-or-death moment under the fox demons’ assault, hatred had blinded him, and he had—vilely—entertained the thought of leaving He Xing to his fate.
Even if only for an instant, looking back now, Lin Zhuoyu still felt a chill of fear and shame.
Lin Zhuoyu murmured, “I’m just glad you don’t hold it against me.”
He Xing: “What?”
“Nothing.” Lin Zhuoyu said. “In less than five days I’ve saved you twice. What do you plan to pay me back with?”
He Xing drew a deep breath, screwed up his courage, and declared solemnly, “A great kindness needs no thanks—I owe you a life! Offering myself in marriage—want me?!”
Lin Zhuoyu knew he’d pull this nonsense and was about to mock him when faint footsteps sounded in the distance.
The two turned together—and there were Daoist Lord Tongxu and Perfected Zhou, in black-and-white daoist robes, arrived none knew when, gazing at them in silence.
Lin Zhuoyu: “…”
He Xing: “…”
Perfected Zhou studied the two of them, and after a good while it dawned on her: “So Wuyou and Shengzhi are…”
Daoist Lord Tongxu, expressionless: “You misheard.”
Perfected Zhou counted on her fingers, musing, “But this humble daoist distinctly calculated…”
Daoist Lord Tongxu: “You miscalculated.”
Perfected Zhou: “?”
Daoist Lord Tongxu had no wish to hear more and stepped forward.
The pressure of the Foremost Cultivator Beneath Heavenly Dao was too much. He Xing knew he’d misspoken; sensing the Senior Martial Uncle’s might, he nearly dropped to his knees on the spot.
Fortunately, Daoist Lord Tongxu didn’t thrash him in front of outsiders, saying only, “Your Shizun has business with you.”
He Xing, the fourth personal disciple of Floating Jade Mountain—unloved by his Shizun, uncared-for by his senior brothers, fair game for anyone to rough up—dared neither rage nor complain. He bowed and bolted.
At the sight of Perfected Zhou, Lin Zhuoyu’s mouth twisted, but he knew his manners and stepped up obediently to bow. “Perfected Zhou.”
Perfected Zhou was rumored to be cold as a deity, yet she was all smiles toward Lin Zhuoyu—he guessed it was because his Shizun was her biggest sucker, patronizing Xiangdao Pavilion year after year.
Perfected Zhou reached up and patted his head, handing him a protective talisman of her own carving. “Little friend Wuyou. Was the past year peaceful and smooth?”
A gift binds the hand; Lin Zhuoyu took it and said sweetly, “Very smooth.”
Perfected Zhou pinched his cheek again. “Come along—this year I’ll divine your fortune for the next ten years.”
Lin Zhuoyu rolled his eyes silently and trotted after the two of them to Deer Jade Terrace.
Perfected Zhou of Xiangdao Pavilion charged exorbitant prices, and her divination artifacts were complex and varied; even with Lin Zhuoyu’s broad knowledge of artifacts, he couldn’t name them all.
Kneeling beside Daoist Lord Tongxu, Lin Zhuoyu watched Perfected Zhou fiddle with the strange, cumbersome instruments, and couldn’t hold back a yawn.
Daoist Lord Tongxu glanced down at him. “Sleepy?”
“No. That iron thing keeps spinning in circles; it’s making me dizzy.”
“Then stop staring at it.” Daoist Lord Tongxu said. “We’ll calculate a full ten years this time, so we needn’t go through this year by year anymore.”
Foremost Cultivator Beneath Heavenly Dao, and still fussing over fates and fortunes, Lin Zhuoyu grumbled inwardly. But he knew matters of life and death were an old wound in Shizun’s heart, so he nodded meekly and made no argument.
Then a thought struck him, and Lin Zhuoyu grabbed Daoist Lord Tongxu’s forearm, looking up hopefully. “Shizun, if Perfected Zhou finds no great blood calamity in these ten years—if my fortune is smooth—will you let me go out and train?”
Daoist Lord Tongxu said mildly, “Let’s see the results first.”
Lin Zhuoyu: “Promise first!”
Had he heard this before, Daoist Lord Tongxu would have refused flatly.
But this time Lin Zhuoyu had snuck out and come back gravely wounded—it had genuinely frightened Daoist Lord Tongxu, even prompting him to wonder whether he’d been too strict with the child.
Damming a stream is worse than channeling it. Lin Zhuoyu was stubborn; sooner or later he would yearn for the world beyond Floating Jade Mountain.
And with the blood feud of Chaoping Marsh unavenged, Lin Zhuoyu could hardly spend his whole life obediently shut inside this gorgeous cage.
Under Lin Zhuoyu’s eager, pleading gaze, Daoist Lord Tongxu finally said, “Mm. Very well. Shizun agrees.”
Lin Zhuoyu had only meant to try his luck, never expecting Shizun to grant it. “Shizun is the best Shizun under heaven! Sister Zhou is the greatest diviner alive!”
Perfected Zhou, mid-divination, said mildly, “Calling me ‘sister’ won’t get this humble daoist to falsify results.”
Lin Zhuoyu summoned Qingru, poured a cup of water, and pushed it over. “It’s simply heartfelt praise.”
Perfected Zhou opened one eye, looked at the cup full of the rare Boundless Water, coughed, and closed it again.
She put on a show of manipulating a whole pile of artifacts, and half an hour later finally struck the chime with a clear ring.
Lin Zhuoyu, who had fallen asleep sprawled across Daoist Lord Tongxu’s legs, shot upright, gazing at her hopefully.
“Little friend Wuyou’s fate is turbulent. Orphaned young, these next ten years will mostly see him treading on the tiger’s tail.”
Lin Zhuoyu’s face fell at once.
Treading on the tiger’s tail—one listen and you knew it was nothing good.
“However…” Perfected Zhou said, “they are not fatal calamities. Under the shelter of his blessings, even should he meet with calamity, he will swiftly turn danger to safety, smooth and unharmed.”
Lin Zhuoyu startled, then hurriedly patted Daoist Lord Tongxu. “Shizun!”
Daoist Lord Tongxu’s brow furrowed; he pondered a long while before saying, “Only once the wound is fully healed.”
Lin Zhuoyu leapt up in an instant and ran out cheering.
The detailed reading was left to Daoist Lord Tongxu; Lin Zhuoyu was already busy planning his journey.
Perfected Zhou turned the smooth tortoise shell in her palm, glancing at Lin Zhuoyu’s whirling figure of joy, and said mildly, “You’re certain Wuyou and Shengzhi feel nothing for each other?”
Daoist Lord Tongxu gave her an icy look.
Perfected Zhou gazed at a peach tree outside and said lazily, “I know you guard Wuyou like the apple of your eye. But the divination is never wrong.”
Daoist Lord Tongxu frowned. “What divination?”
“Peach blossoms bearing tribulation, meeting the Seven Killings star. The Red Luan Star stirs—threads of passion entangling him.”
Daoist Lord Tongxu’s expression grew grave.
Perfected Zhou pressed a hand to her forehead. “In plain words: this year, Wuyou will have a whole tangle of peach blossoms he can’t shake off. One bloom, two blooms, grudges and debts, entanglements and disputes—the threads are so tangled they give me a headache.”
“And among those peach blossoms, one will be his Fated True Love.”
