Chapter Sixty-One

The enormous spirit ship sailed smoothly above the clouds, gradually disappearing from the sight of the assembled Hundred Immortal Sects.

Inside the vast main hall at the ship's centre, by the side of a soft white jade couch, a man of excessive height bent his upper body, hovering completely over the person lying on the couch, enclosing them entirely.

His large, well-defined hand pressed down on the person's fair, slender wrist with one palm, and held the exquisite chin in the other, as though pillaging — seizing the orchid-laced breath in abandon, giving the other person not a single moment to rest.

The person on the couch had lips stained a deep red. Forced to keep their lips parted, they bore the man's occupation. Threads of glistening moisture streamed from the corner of their lips. Their ink-black hair trailed and spread across the couch like ink-black lotus blossoms, one after another. Their brows pressed together in distress. Their luminous eyes were filmed over with a layer of shimmering tears.

Slender, jade-pale fingers were pulled taut, gripping a corner of the fabric on the man above them — tugging and pulling and pushing — wanting to push the man away — but the body pressing down from above was as heavy as if cast from steel, utterly immovable by even a fraction.

Rather, the man on top, sensing his intent, gripped his wrist even tighter, and lowered his powerful body even further, growing more and more fierce in seizing the breath from him.

Chú Róng's dense, butterfly-wing lashes trembled in a panic. A fragile, trembling hum escaped from his delicate throat, and the wet crimson spreading at his eye corners looked like crushed peach petals dissolved into juice — it was enough to muddle the mind of anyone who looked.

Ning Yuan felt a numbing rush spread through his chest. The dark tide in his eyes surged with wild abandon, and a flash of red light passed through them — provoked by the person before him to the very edge of his animal instincts breaking loose right then and there.

The veins at his temples, the lines of his sharp, pale face, stood out visibly — the terror below, of a size far beyond any ordinary man's measure, full of aggression, not concealed by even an inch of his wide hem.

Ning Yuan released the person beneath him from the hold on their chin, and his hand, moved beyond his own control, ran up to trace the supple, lean waist — then, seemingly recalling something, the sweeping movements came to an abrupt stop.

Forcing himself to endure the restlessness in his heart, he withdrew his large hand and took firm hold of the chin again, pressing deeper into the recesses of the mouth beneath him.

Chú Róng's slender body shuddered violently. He tipped his head back, the jade-pale fingers gripping the man's robe clenched suddenly tight, then — as if all strength had drained out — slowly uncurled, one by one, and dropped to the couch beside him.

His eyes brimmed with tears. His gaze scattered and unfocused. Countless thin tendrils wrapped themselves around his consciousness like vines, dragging him toward a dark abyss.

Chú Róng could bear it no longer. His lashes fluttered twice, weakly, and slowly closed. He lost consciousness entirely.

Ning Yuan's addled mind finally managed to drag itself back, barely, some fraction of its faculties. Unsatisfied, he released the lips and tongue that had been so thoroughly occupied, and withdrew from Chú Róng's mouth. He spread his long arm out and gathered the person into his embrace, examining him carefully.

Confirming that Chú Róng had merely fainted, he let out a rough, heavy breath, pulled the person close, and curved one knuckle to stroke the fine cheek flushed with red: "Róng."

In his cold, flat voice was a husky, still-unsatisfied resonance. A mortal's body was, after all, too fragile — only a single kiss, and already unable to endure it.

Entirely unaware that his way of kissing was how terrifying and frightening to the person being kissed.

Chú Róng, insensible and still, rested quietly against the man's broad chest, hearing nothing of what was said. The corners of his lips remained parted and vividly red, his lips glistening and damp.

Ning Yuan's gaze darkened again. He bowed his head and kissed away the glistening threads one by one from the corner of his lips.

On the otherwise pristine robe, several creases had been dragged into it, wrinkled all over — yet he seemed not to notice. Having kissed away the moisture, his tongue pressed in again through the orchid-fragrant lips.

The two figures in the hall became entangled once more. Not knowing how long had passed, Ning Yuan's dark eyes gradually lifted, and he drew back slowly from Chú Róng's mouth, carefully setting the person back onto the couch.

He used his finger to seal a Dust-Cleansing technique on himself, casting it over ten times until he had completely suppressed the heat and restlessness inside, then bent to remove the white boots from Chú Róng's feet.

The pair of delicate, snow-white feet — the soles flushed pink — bore a few clear, rounded bite marks on the pale insteps. Ning Yuan's prominent Adam's apple rolled. His fingertips grazed over the marks, and he pulled open the snow-silkworm quilt on the couch and covered Chú Róng's body with it.

Ning Yuan raised his hand and laid down a restriction seal in the main hall, cutting off all sound from the outside world, and went to the galley aboard the Spirit Canal. From his storage artefact he produced several kinds of ingredients.

Called "ingredients," they were actually spirit grasses and spirit flowers — and any that met Ning Yuan's standards must have been of the finest quality, things that would be impossible to find even if one searched all the cultivation world.

Half a time-unit later, several dishes of colour, fragrance, and flavour were finished and served hot, their steam curling upward, threaded through and through with spiritual energy — abundant and pure.

A mortal without any cultivation could not absorb spiritual force. The body would not be able to process it. Ning Yuan raised his hand and drew out the spiritual energy from the dishes, then carried the food back to the main hall.

Chú Róng had not yet woken. Ning Yuan used spiritual energy to keep the dishes warm and set them on the long table. He walked to the jade couch and lay down beside Chú Róng, wrapped an arm around his waist, and pulled him seamlessly into his arms.

—

By the time Chú Róng regained consciousness, it was already sunset.

The setting sun scattered its ten thousand rays of rosy light, piercing through the clouds all around the spirit ship. The main hall was bathed in a clear amber glow.

Chú Róng's long lashes fluttered. He opened his eyes slowly. All he saw was a hazy white — as though a thin gauze had been draped over everything, making it impossible to see clearly.

His head still felt somewhat dizzy. On instinct he raised a hand to rub his forehead, but his fingers accidentally brushed against a strong, muscular arm.

There was someone there!

Chú Róng's head snapped back, and reflected in his eyes was a face of godlike, flawless beauty — the man's features sharply carved, his nose bridge high, his fathomless pupils locked onto him, churning with a heart-stopping darkness.

The memories from before he fainted crashed over him like a tide. Chú Róng's pupils flew wide. Every muscle in his body abruptly tensed, and the colour drained from his face.

He had still underestimated Ning Yuan. He had thought that by agreeing to go back to Qīngxū Sect together, the man would leave him alone — but the moment they boarded the Spirit Canal, his true colours showed.

No — perhaps Ning Yuan had always been this way. It was simply that he and the man had barely been properly acquainted for a day, and he hadn't known.

Thinking of that suffocating kiss, a chill ran involuntarily down Chú Róng's back. Wave after wave of terrified shuddering rolled through him. From his still-flushed lips, a rapid, breathless gasp escaped — each inhale and exhale edged with a hook of its own.

Ning Yuan's breath caught. The colour of his eyes deepened further. He couldn't help himself — he lowered his head, and was heading toward those lips again.

Chú Róng's scalp went numb. He immediately bit his lip and turned his head to dodge away, and with pinkish fingers he pushed the man's arm aside, pulling free of the man's arms in panic.

But before he could get off the couch, the man's arm reached out and effortlessly scooped him right back in.

"Let go of me." The overpowering male scent closed in from all sides. Chú Róng's nerves drew tight to the absolute limit. His hands pressed against the man's chest, his body shaking and trembling beyond his control.

Ning Yuan seemed not to hear him, and sat up with Chú Róng in his arms. He looped his arm around Chú Róng's waist and circled him in from the front, his voice coming out in a hoarse drawl: "Would you like to eat something?"

Eat?

The subject changed so abruptly that Chú Róng froze for a brief moment.

Only then did he notice a very appetising fragrance floating in the air. He turned his head and looked toward the long table in the hall, where a few finely-made dishes sat, kept warm by spiritual energy, not a trace of their colour or aroma diminished — looking far more sumptuous than anything he had been given at Qingyang Heavenly Sect.

Chú Róng pressed his lips together slightly. A flash of something complex passed through his eyes: "Did you make these?"

On the spirit ship there were only him and Ning Yuan, and he had been unconscious the whole time. The only one who could have made them was Ning Yuan.

Ning Yuan didn't deny it. He held Chú Róng close. The rosy evening light fell across his profile, softening the sharpness of his features, and for a rare moment he looked almost gentle: "I've imposed on you for a few days. Once we get back to Qīngxū Sect, I'll have someone find you a few kitchen workers."

Taking the spiritual treasures that every cultivator would have given anything to obtain and making them into dishes for a mortal, and still feeling that he was somehow slighting the other person — if the cultivators of the immortal sects ever found out, they would very likely spit blood in outrage.

Chú Róng's fingertips tightened inside his sleeve, and there wasn't much of a wave raised in his heart.

He only found Ning Yuan's conduct contradictory. Most of the time, the man seemed to treasure him, protect him — yet on the bed he was completely like a different person.

In his twenty-some years in the modern era, Chú Róng had poured all his energy into his career, with little outlet for personal release of any kind. He didn't understand how a man could develop such an intense obsession with another man.

He felt deeply uncomfortable, deeply ill at ease — and there was also, somewhere underneath, a kind of… instinctive fear.

Ning Yuan released Chú Róng, rose from the couch, and crouched before it, exactly as he had done twice before, cradling Chú Róng's lustrous pale feet in both hands.

Chú Róng's foot soles went numb. He came back to himself and reflexively tried to pull his feet back.

"Don't move." Ning Yuan tightened his hold slightly over the soles of his feet, picked up the white boots, and carefully slid them on.

Chú Róng clutched the edge of the couch with spread fingers, suppressing the impulse to flee — with Ning Yuan's strength, running was futile anyway.

Once the man released his hands, Chú Róng quickly pulled his feet back. His flowing hem glided over his snow-white boots, and he put as much distance as he could between himself and the jade couch.

Ning Yuan made no move to stop him. His voice was only a dry reminder: "There's spirit-force outside."

Chú Róng's footsteps came to an immediate halt. He remembered — Ning Yuan had said the spirit-force outside the ship could tear a person apart.

Chú Róng lowered his eyes. The light in their depths shifted like rippling water. His smooth hair, sleek as silk, fell forward and concealed half of his astounding, devastating profile.

A ripple of movement passed through the depths of Ning Yuan's eyes. He truly could not bring himself to push Chú Róng too far. His voice dropped, flat and low, as he made a concession on his own initiative: "I'll go out. If there's anything you need, call me at any time."

With those words, he stood up to his full height and walked out of the main hall in long strides.

Creak——

As the hall doors drew slowly together, the imposing silhouette of the man disappeared entirely from view.

Chú Róng parted his lips slightly, let out a long breath, and stood where he was for a moment before sitting down at the long table.

Looking at the still-steaming dishes on the table, he picked up a pair of jade chopsticks, tried picking up one of them and placing it in his mouth. In an instant, the fragrance lingered on his lips and tongue.

Contrary to Chú Róng's expectations, the taste was very good — and the flavour even matched his own personal preferences.

—

Having simply filled his empty stomach, Chú Róng left the table and looked around, taking in the main hall.

The main hall was large, its interior ornate and magnificent, every furnishing in its proper place.

Jade couch, writing desk, incense burner, bronze mirror… Chú Róng's gaze drifted away, then slowly returned, fixing on the polished bronze mirror reflecting the last of the sunset.

作者有話說:

久等～