Xuanxu Residence was even more lavish than Deer Jade Terrace.
He Xing, in high displeasure, led Qingshan Qi toward Zhuoyu’s quarters, squinting at him the whole way.
Earlier, glimpsing this person clinging to Zhuoyu from afar, he had assumed his Little Junior Brother had brought back some delicate female cultivator and nearly charged in swinging. He’d even rehearsed the words: This woman is taller than you—you’d have to stand on tiptoe just to get close. Hardly a good match!
He himself, by contrast, could simply look down.
Qingshan Qi gave him a cool glance, thinking, What an eyesore.
Catching sight of the two characters “Xuanxu” overhead, Qingshan Qi could only feel it sat ill with Lin Zhuoyu. Xuanxu was winter—biting, bitter cold. Zhuoyu, though, was like the third month of spring, peach catkins adrift, radiating warmth and light—and the brushstrokes of those two characters were unnervingly fierce, savage and freezing to look upon.
…He couldn’t imagine why Zhuoyu would choose such a name for his dwelling.
Seeing Qingshan Qi studying those characters, He Xing—whose mouth had never once been guarded—sneered. “The Eldest Senior Brother wrote that. He was madly in love back then—absolutely insisted on carving it into a plaque.”
Qingshan Qi’s brow stirred faintly. “Elder Brother and Commander Yan are close, then?”
Along the road here, one would never have guessed.
“Oh yes.” He Xing, oblivious that he’d been pumped for information, went on. “Of the five disciple-brothers on Floating Jade Mountain, those two are the closest. Before the Eldest Senior Brother went to the Demon Suppression Bureau, the two of them even lived together.”
Qingshan Qi gave a soft laugh. “Then they are indeed close.”
The air was steeped in a scent that belonged to Zhuoyu alone. Immersed in it, wrapped seamless in that smell, Qingshan Qi felt the restless irritation of being apart from him ebb a little.
Once He Xing left, Qingshan Qi shed his frail outward manner entirely, rising to survey the room.
A dwelling reveals its owner’s temperament best. Zhuoyu was no sluggard—everything was kept in immaculate order. Peach branches from outside leaned in through the window, scattering pink catkins across the writing desk.
Qingshan Qi stepped closer and swept his gaze over it. Most of the books were on cultivation and artifacts; spread open at the center lay a yellowed copy of the Records of the Demon Race, its pages crowded with dense annotations.
On the open page, the characters “Lingshu” could faintly be seen.
At one side rested a bookmark of peachwood, hung with a small tassel, brushed with a single sprig of peach blossom—and in the corner, a signature, half hidden.
Linyuan.
Qingshan Qi’s eyes went dark with shadow, and he shut the book impatiently.
What an ill omen.
Before long, movement sounded outside.
Zhuoyu had returned—having respectfully invited back a female cultivator, fussing over her all the while. “…I’m begging you, Shishu. You’re my dearest little Shishu!”
“Is that so?” Wei Qingxiao said flatly. “And here I recall you saying just before that that scoundrel Li Buwei was your favorite Shishu.”
Zhuoyu argued in all seriousness, “Hearts are fickle. Li and I were nothing but a passing flirtation.”
Wei Qingxiao couldn’t hold back a laugh. “Fine, fine. Just this once, I’ll help you.”
“Thank you, Shishu!”
Pushing the door open, they found Qingshan Qi seated in the main hall; he rose with a stifled cough. “Elder Brother…”
Zhuoyu: “What are you doing out here? Didn’t I tell Senior Brother He to take you and let you rest properly?”
Qingshan Qi smiled at him. “It’s nothing serious; I’m much better already. And this is…?”
“Shishu Qingxiao, this is Lu Qi, the one who saved me,” Zhuoyu said. “And this is my Shishu Qingxiao, of the Medical Sect of the Three Realms—hands of miracle-working skill, who can raise the dead and regrow flesh on bare bones…”
Wei Qingxiao laughed. “Enough, enough, spare me the flattery. Go stand in the corner.”
Zhuoyu: “As you command!”
Wei Qingxiao sat and began to probe Qingshan Qi’s spirit meridians.
Qingshan Qi’s brow moved, soundless.
This person was not diagnosing him—she was searching his meridians, spirit platform, and inner palace, testing whether he was a demon.
A hidden smile touched Qingshan Qi’s lips.
However high this person’s cultivation, she would never find a wisp of demonic qi in him.
After all, this shell of a body was veritably, undeniably of the human race.
Just as expected: after probing meticulously for the better part of a day, Wei Qingxiao finally laid her suspicions to rest.
Zhuoyu, off to the side munching the Spirit Pills Wei Qingxiao had stuffed into his hand, hurried to ask the moment she opened her eyes. “Shishu, Shishu—how is he?”
Wei Qingxiao shook her head. “The Origin Core is gone; his meridians have no spiritual power to sustain them and are withering even now. At my estimation… he has half a month.”
Zhuoyu’s brow knotted tight. “Even you can do nothing, Shishu?”
“It would be difficult beyond difficult,” Wei Qingxiao said gravely. “The best recourse would be to recover the Origin Core—there might still be a chance to save him then. Where did his core go?”
Zhuoyu pressed his lips together, then reached out and clasped Wei Qingxiao’s hand, setting it on his own wrist.
Bewildered, she sent her spiritual power circling once through Zhuoyu’s body—and in a flash of lightning comprehension, her eyes flew wide.
“Little Yu?”
Clutching at the last thread of hope, Zhuoyu asked her, “Is there any way to make my Origin Core heal faster?”
Wei Qingxiao’s face darkened. Seizing his wrist in turn, she hauled him outside.
Zhuoyu knew what she meant to say. “It’s all right—wait for me a moment, hm?” he told Qingshan Qi, and Qingshan Qi nodded lightly, watching the two walk out of the hall, smiling soundlessly.
“Shishu… Shishu!”
Wei Qingxiao hauled him beneath the Peach Tree in the courtyard and said sternly, “Tell me the truth. What exactly happened out there?!”
“It’s just as you saw.” Zhuoyu looked up at her pleadingly. “Can he still be saved?”
Wei Qingxiao’s head ached. “If your core had merely shattered, your Shishu has a thousand ways to keep your little life hanging on. But with his core wrapped around yours, no medicine can reach it, no spiritual power may touch it—ten thousand arts, and your Shishu cannot employ a single one.”
Zhuoyu’s small face screwed tight. “So the only way he lives is to give the core back to him?”
At those words Wei Qingxiao’s expression shifted, and she said in a low, sharp voice, “Absolutely not! Give him your core—and what, you stop living?!”
Zhuoyu: “But he only did it to save me…”
Wei Qingxiao had no wish to frighten him, and softened her voice to coax.
“The day it happened, the Sect Master—my senior brother—sat in the Life Lamp Hall cradling your Life Lamp in a daze, his divine soul so shaken he vomited blood again and again. I was terrified that if your lamp truly went out, he would either die of grief or fall to Qi Deviation and slaughter the Three Realms. Be good and think: if the Foremost Cultivator Beneath Heavenly Dao went mad, who in the Three Realms could survive a single stroke of his sword? If not for your own sake, then for Shizun’s—never, ever harbor such a thought again.”
As he listened, Zhuoyu’s eyes rimmed red, his heart aching toward breaking all over again.
“And your Senior Brother.” Wei Qingxiao pressed on quickly. “He has always doted on you; the moment he heard, he flew to Guping City without pausing to breathe. Just now I saw him—his face dreadfully pale. I wonder if he, too, took internal injuries when his Dao broke.”
Zhuoyu froze.
Wei Qingxiao said, “Cultivating the Heart-Purifying Dao demands curbed desire and severed feeling. After turmoil that violent, his Sea of Consciousness must have taken damage—but he’s too proud by half, and never says a word of it to anyone.”
Zhuoyu lowered his eyes, chest sour and aching.
Seeing the words land, Wei Qingxiao breathed easier and pressed several bottles of life-sustaining Spirit Pills into his hands. “Make him take these to hold his life in place. I’ll go confer with the Sect Master, all right?”
Zhuoyu knew that if even Wei Qingxiao could not treat him, further councils would yield nothing. And with Tongxu doting on him so, the Sect Master would never allow Lord Qingxiao to attempt any other risky method.
…Most likely, it would drag out until Lu Qi died.
Zhuoyu didn’t call the pretense out. He nodded, soul adrift. “All right.”
Wei Qingxiao exhaled and patted his head. “Be good. Don’t take anything into your own hands—unless you want to cost your Shizun and your Senior Brother their lives.”
Burdened with worry, Zhuoyu saw Lord Qingxiao off.
Qingshan Qi’s stifled coughs drifted from within, pulling Zhuoyu’s attention back.
He drew a deep breath and stepped inside.
Qingshan Qi sat in the chair, coughing softly, his face pale as paper; tall as his frame was, somehow he looked frail and thin to behold.
“Elder Brother…”
Zhuoyu forced a smile and took out the Spirit Pills to feed him. “Don’t worry. I will save you. I swear it.”
“I knew this day would come. I went into it willingly.” Qingshan Qi even smiled at him, gentle, soothing. “As long as you’re safe, my wish is fulfilled.”
The words only made it worse. Zhuoyu said nothing, throat tight.
Qingshan Qi’s pupils contracted, soundless, his gaze fastening on Zhuoyu’s face with something close to greed.
The agony of the core being dug out, the torment of the Violet Fox’s Heart’s Blood burning his heart to mask his demonic power—all of it had been for this moment. Zhuoyu’s guilt, Zhuoyu’s aching tenderness—these were the nutrients he so desperately craved.
The Exquisite Heart knew everything now. Only one of them could live. How would he choose?
With Shizun’s devotion, his Senior Brothers’ tenderness, the whole of Floating Jade Mountain doting on and loving him—how could he bear to throw all that away and walk to his own death?
Qingshan Qi’s satisfaction was exquisite.
Guilt pressed too heavily on Zhuoyu to look up; only after a long while did he steel himself and lift his head.
In the blink of an eye, Qingshan Qi veiled that uncanny, gloomy look.
Zhuoyu asked gently, “Lu Qi… are you afraid of death?”
Qingshan Qi: “No.”
“Silly talk.” Zhuoyu laughed softly. “How could a person not fear death?”
Qingshan Qi did, in truth, fear death.
In the Qingshan Clan, the powerless lived in perpetual terror; the smallest misstep, and your own kin would tear you apart, leaving not even bones behind.
…Just like his mother.
A little wild fox who had cultivated long years just to take human form, who should have lived carefree—until fate raised her up overnight and Qingshan Sheng laid eyes on her. She never enjoyed any wealth or splendor; Qingshan Sheng strangled her with his own hands before the eyes of his own trueborn son.
Her body, reverted to a little fox, merged into a handful of yellow earth—not even a single bone was left to keep.
Qingshan Qi feared death—feared dying as his mother had, ugly, wretched, and without a sound. So from childhood he had clawed with all his strength to climb.
Live a little longer, and a little longer still, and one day he would grind those who had scorned and humiliated him beneath his feet.
Seeing him silent, Zhuoyu couldn’t help rapping him lightly on the head, smiling. “If you’re so afraid, where did you find the nerve to cut out your own core to save someone?”
Qingshan Qi still said nothing.
Zhuoyu sighed. “Clutching at life, however humbly—that is only human nature.”
Qingshan Qi started slightly. He hadn’t expected the Exquisite Heart to say such a thing.
Then, on reflection, excitement surged hotter in him. He stared unblinking at Zhuoyu, his body trembling faintly in anticipation of what Zhuoyu was about to say.
Zhuoyu let out a soundless breath and met Qingshan Qi’s eyes. “Lu Qi, there is something I want to discuss with you.”
Qingshan Qi: “Say it.”
He had already foreseen what was coming.
Righteous sects always dressed their words in the pleasantest finery—and Zhuoyu, whose honeyed tongue could coax the whole world into orbiting around him, most of all.
There were only so many things Zhuoyu could say:
One—play the sanctimonious hypocrite, soothe him with promises that the Medical Sect would do everything in its power, tell him not to worry—then, in half a month, when he lay at his last gasp, shed a few performative tears, and once he was dead, claim the spirit core with a satisfied heart.
Two—put on an act of offering to cut out the core and return it, let Qingshan Qi refuse him, then reluctantly “give in” and go on enjoying the core in comfort.
Three—be sincere, and return the core outright.
But after everything the Medical Sect’s elder had told him, Zhuoyu would certainly never choose death.
The thought of Zhuoyu at last proceeding, step by proper step, into exactly the “clinging to life” Qingshan Qi had anticipated filled him with joy such as he had never known.
He was laughing, soundlessly, shoulders trembling with suppressed delight, savoring the scene to come—the Exquisite Heart, shattered at last.
Wind breathed in through the window lattice; peach blossoms drifted down to settle across Zhuoyu’s shoulders.
Such lovely petals, framing that young man translucent as glass, radiant as sun and moon—and about to be broken, to fall with him into the filthy mire.
Zhuoyu raised his eyes to Qingshan Qi and spoke, earnest.
“…Will you form a Dao Companion bond with me?”
For one instant, Qingshan Qi had been ready to sneer at Zhuoyu revealed in his true colors—to mock his venom and heartlessness, to jeer that the famed Exquisite Heart was nothing special after all.
…As if Zhuoyu’s sordid cruelty could somehow offset his own cowardice and selfishness from back then.
The two of them, no different from each other. Both rotten people.
But as Zhuoyu’s words belatedly registered, the expression Qingshan Qi had yet to finish arranging on his face froze solid, and he could only stare, dumbstruck.
Silence fell all around, quiet enough to inspire dread.
Only after a long, long moment did Qingshan Qi’s frozen body, his frozen heart, begin at last to move again. His lips trembled faintly, his voice hoarse.
“What… did you say?”
