Chapter Sixty-Five

Inside the palace.

An indescribable charge spread through the hall.

The man of excessive height sat at the edge of the jade couch, cold and flawlessly handsome as a god — yet looking more carefully, you could see the taut clench of his sharply-lined jaw, and the pitch-black waves surging relentlessly through his fathomless, dark eyes. The aggressive aura radiating from his entire person was enough to make one's scalp crawl.

In the suffocating silence, Chú Róng could hear nothing but the anxious beating of his own heart. Inside his sleeve, his jade-white knuckles curled tight. His nerves were strung to their absolute limit. His clean white teeth were sunk into the soft flesh of his lower lip, making his lips look even more deeply red.

Reflected in the eyes of the man across from him, another vein rose stubbornly at the temple.

Ning Yuan's Adam's apple rolled. His breathing grew gradually heavier. Chú Róng had not even caught how the man moved — in the blink of an eye, he was right in front of him.

"Róng." Ning Yuan reached out his long-boned, large hand and looped it around Chú Róng's slender waist, drawing him seamlessly into his arms.

His other hand caught the white, delicate chin, and he bent his frame, with something almost like urgency, to seize the orchid-laced breath that had been luring him in — swallowing down Chú Róng's stunned cry before it could sound.

A small, soft sound slipped from Chú Róng's nose. Caught in the man's sudden, storm-like assault, his face flushed red, and both jade-pale hands pressed against the man's broad chest in front of him, pushing and shoving hard — yet unable to move him even the tiniest fraction.

He was a mortal, true enough — but he was a grown man, and not weak. Yet in front of a Mahayana-stage cultivator, he might as well have been a mayfly trying to shake a great tree.

Chú Róng was forced to tilt his head back. His slender neck arched. A thin thread of moisture escaped from the corner of his mouth, and his black hair trailed all around him — like rippling, shimmering waves of water.

Outside the palace.

Dense, abundant spiritual energy wound through the air. Somewhere, a rushing waterfall plunged downward, crashing against stone, droplets flying.

Wū Lǐ stood rigidly before the imposing, cold palace doors, and having waited the time it takes to brew a cup of tea without receiving permission to enter, he bowed respectfully again, a model of propriety: "Inner Door Steward Wū Lǐ, responding to the summons to meet with the Immortal Venerable!"

His voice had the same quality as his face — enunciated one word at a time, upright and resonant. Even through the thick palace doors, it came through clear and unmistakable.

Chú Róng's long, dense lashes trembled. The hands pressing against the man's chest pushed and shoved a few more times, reminding the man that there was someone outside and trying to use it as another chance to escape from the man's arms.

Ning Yuan, however, didn't play along at all.

He seemed to have heard nothing of Wū Lǐ's request. He released the beautifully shaped chin of the person in his arms. He stretched out his long arms and lifted Chú Róng into a carry.

His body suddenly suspended, Chú Róng was startled. His jade-pale fingers instinctively grabbed two small corners of the fabric on the man's chest. He glared at the man in wide-eyed alarm: "What are you doing?"

His eyes were luminous, the red corners vivid — there was not an ounce of threat in this look. Rather, it was bewitching to the uttermost extreme.

Ning Yuan's jaw clenched even tighter. The tide in his eyes surged wildly and violently, almost turning solid, almost pouring out.

Chú Róng's heart gave a lurch. He was frightened — his glistening, bright red lips parted. The words hadn't yet come out when Ning Yuan took two steps to the jade couch, bent his upper body, and pressed him down onto it.

His forceful large hands — one cradling the back of his head, one gripping his waist — and his sharp-edged face descended and plundered his breath in a seamless, airtight assault once more.

A tiny moan escaped from between Chú Róng's lips. The glistening, flowing eyes began to cloud over with a thin layer of mist, and his otherwise clear mind grew increasingly muddled from the lack of air.

Another cup-of-tea's worth of time passed outside, and the palace interior still gave no response.

Wū Lǐ's upright face showed not a trace of impatience. He bowed in the prescribed manner and made his third request: "Inner Door Steward Wū Lǐ, responding to the summons to meet with the Immortal Venerable!"

This time, the palace finally produced a response.

Ning Yuan's Adam's apple slid. He breathed in quietly and pressed down the churning restlessness in his chest. He withdrew from the swollen lips of the person beneath him. His always-flat, cold, authoritative voice carried a noticeable hoarseness now: "I have some matters that need you to attend to immediately."

There was something not quite right about the Immortal Venerable's voice, was there?

A flicker of puzzlement passed over Wū Lǐ's composed face. But Ning Yuan's commands were absolute within Qīngxū Sect, obeyed by everyone without question. He reined in any extraneous thoughts and answered with compliance: "The Immortal Venerable, please instruct."

Ning Yuan lowered his gaze onto the person on the couch. Chú Róng's cheeks were flushed red all over. His eyes were half-closed, misted over. His mind was no longer quite clear, and his lips — stained a vivid pink — parted and closed with the effort of rapid breathing, the tip of his tongue visible inside.

There was no mistaking it — his lips had been thoroughly and mercilessly harvested.

Ning Yuan's gaze darkened. He raised the large hand that had been gripping Chú Róng's waist and crooked one long finger, gently wiping away the moisture from the corner of his lips — then, unable to restrain himself, bowed his head and began a slow, grazing motion against his lips once more: "First — find several kitchen workers of exceptional skill and have them brought here, for the exclusive use of Wangxian Peak."

Chú Róng's raven-wing lashes trembled faintly. He shook his head instinctively, trying to dodge — but his head, held by the large palm at the back of his skull, could not move.

His entire body had gone soft and boneless, and the hands pressed against the man's chest couldn't muster any strength to push the man away — leaving him no choice but to let the man grind his lips even redder.

The Immortal Venerable was of the Mahayana stage. He had been fasting for who knew how many years. He had long since ceased to need the five grains. For what possible reason would he need kitchen workers?

But the Immortal Venerable's ways were not for him to question.

Wū Lǐ bowed his head in compliance, and continued to listen as Ning Yuan issued his orders.

"Second." Ning Yuan's movements paused slightly. He turned his head to one side and announced a series of measurements, then waved his hand open the palace doors. Several bolts of South Sea Shark Gauze floated out, coming to a stop before Wū Lǐ: "Have a few sets of robes cut from these, according to the measurements I gave."

Wū Lǐ's expression changed subtly. South Sea Shark Gauze was thin as a cicada's wing, warm in winter and cool in summer — and indestructible. It repelled both water and fire, and was impervious to blades. In the entire cultivation world, tens of millions of cultivators had broken their heads fighting over even an inch of it. The Immortal Venerable was producing this much of it all at once, just to make a few sets of robes?

Before Wū Lǐ could fully recover from the shock, the palace continued to emit a steady stream of treasures and artefacts — things that the Hundred Immortal Sects hadn't seen or heard of in a thousand years — to be made into boots, hair ornaments, accessories…

This — this…

Wū Lǐ knew the Immortal Venerable never lacked for resources — but wasn't this manner of extravagance taking "casting pearls before swine" just a little too far?

Ning Yuan paid no attention to what Wū Lǐ thought. He raised his hand and closed the palace doors, then bowed his head again, pressing against the person in his arms.

Chú Róng hadn't even managed to catch his breath before his lips were blocked again.

In a haze, he could vaguely hear the man issuing order after order, the content meticulous and detailed — yet not a single item was for Ning Yuan himself.

It was plain to see that every one of Ning Yuan's instructions had been given for his sake.

Even three years ago, when Cen Yan had owed the original host a debt of saving his life, Cen Yan had never treated the original host with such thorough consideration.

……

Chú Róng's consciousness gradually blurred. Whatever Ning Yuan said later, he could no longer hear clearly. By the time the man finally withdrew from his mouth, his mind was completely dizzy, and there was not a scrap of strength left in his body.

He lay on his back on the couch. His ink-black hair spread across the jade couch like ink-black lotus flowers. His airy gauze robe rose and fell with the heaving of his chest beneath it. His eyes were hazy and unfocused, and his lips were flushed and swollen beyond all redemption.

Wū Lǐ had already withdrawn from outside. Ning Yuan held Chú Róng's shoulders and sat him up, drawing him into his arms and patting his back to ease his breathing. His hoarse voice was thick and undisguised with longing in a way that made the heart race to hear it: "You may go to the mortal realm — but you cannot leave my sight by even a single step."

Chú Róng's lashes gave a small start. A wave of cold crawled up his back. Out of the haze of his muddled mind, one thread of clarity exploded free.

He raised his limp hand and braced it against Ning Yuan's chest, trying to create some distance. His eyes, still misty with water, looked up at the man close before him. He gasped out a breath: "You agree… to take me to the mortal realm?"

In truth, Ning Yuan did not want Chú Róng to go to the mortal realm.

Over three-plus years in Qingyang Heavenly Sect, Chú Róng had not had a good time. Presumably he had no pleasant impressions of the cultivation world. If he returned to the mortal realm, Chú Róng might not be willing to come back — and Ning Yuan would inevitably have to use some more forceful means again.

By then, Chú Róng would likely dislike him even more.

But looking at the hopeful gaze of the person in his arms, he genuinely couldn't bring himself to refuse.

"This will be the only time." Ning Yuan gave Chú Róng just this one chance. If Chú Róng grew attached to the mortal realm and refused to return to the cultivation world with him…

A dark, ominous light flashed through the depths of Ning Yuan's shadowed eyes — enough to send a shiver through anyone who glimpsed it.

Ning Yuan turned his wide hand over. From his storage artefact he produced a collection of top-grade magical artefacts — items the Hundred Immortal Sects had never seen or heard of — each carrying devastating destructive power and shocking force, the kind that would set the Three Realms scrambling to possess them.

"Keep these on you for self-protection." Ning Yuan's tone was casual, as though what he was handing over were not rare artefacts that defied the imagination, but small toys to amuse the person in his arms.

None of Ning Yuan's artefacts were recorded in the original text — but given his level of power, it went without saying that none of them would be ordinary.

But as a mortal with no spiritual energy, even holding them would be useless.

Chú Róng's head was still very foggy. Even moving was an effort. He parted his flushed lips and was just about to say something.

Ning Yuan then produced a silver-white small bell. The bell was about the size of a walnut. The interlocking patterns on its surface were intricate and complex, resembling a formation array. At its tail hung a row of tassels of the same colour.

"Soul-Capturing Bell." Ning Yuan fastened the Soul-Capturing Bell with one hand to the sash at Chú Róng's waist, his voice dropping to a low, husky explanation of its function: "When shaken, it can disturb the soul — at the mild end, causing dizziness; at the extreme, scattering the soul entirely. There is a formation array within it. No person can come within three feet of you. It will allow you to move freely within Qīngxū Sect."

No person?

Chú Róng closed his eyes briefly, riding out the dizziness in his head. The vivid, cherry-like red at his eye corners glimmered softly. He asked, testing: "Does that include you?"

Ning Yuan stared at his eye corners. The dark tide in his eyes surged fiercely and without restraint, and unable to stop himself he leaned toward Chú Róng's lips: "Of course not."

The Soul-Capturing Bell was Ning Yuan's artefact. Naturally he was not subject to its effects.

In other words, in all the Three Realms, only he could touch Chú Róng.

Chú Róng had no way to dodge. His warm, moist mouth was seized and occupied entirely by the man's presence once more.

In the air — entirely incongruous with the cold, sparse palace — the orchid fragrance grew denser and denser, wisp by wisp of it beguiling to the soul, enough to leave one's mouth dry and tongue parched.

—

At the same time, at Qingyang Heavenly Sect.

Without Ning Yuan to oversee things, the assembled Hundred Immortal Sects paid lip service to Nán Xíngyě's authority, but in truth the older, more experienced cultivators among them paid his words no real heed.

Over the past seven days, the assembled group had deliberated and debated — and not come up with a single useful idea.

Qingyang Heavenly Sect had no voice among the Hundred Immortal Sects. Lian Ci couldn't get anyone to listen when he tried to calm things down. Especially since seven days ago, when Ning Yuan had settled scores with the entire sect, dropping everyone's cultivation by one full stage and leaving them gravely injured. Cen Yan had collapsed outright and hadn't woken since. The sect had fallen even further in everyone's estimation.

"Sect Master Hè — with Tiānjī Sect's intelligence network spanning all under heaven, can it really be that there is no record of a way to eliminate the malignant evil energy?" asked a white-bearded cultivator, his eyes sharp and full of calculation.

Hè Tíng smiled with warm composure, as if the dark, brooding look from outside Wusong Lodge had never been: "If Hè truly knew the answer, would I still be sitting here?"

Fair enough.

Tiānjī Sect was in the business of trading intelligence. If they had known of a way to eliminate the evil energy, they would have long since leaked the information and sold it to the Hundred Immortal Sects at a premium, making a handsome profit in the process.

The main hall fell into silence again.

Just then, a tall, broad silhouette appeared at the hall's entrance. Yunzhi's dark face was lifeless and hollow. He walked to behind Hè Míng and said in a low voice: "Elder Hè, Senior Brother Cen has woken."

作者有話說:

久等～