Chapter Seventy-Five

Chú Róng's head fell back. His ink-black hair cascaded like a waterfall through the air. His dense lashes trembled uncontrollably. The flush at the corners of his eyes rapidly deepened into a wet, glistening crimson.

His lips parted. The corners of his mouth reddened more and more under the man's assault. Clear threads of saliva spilled from his lips and slid along the line of his beautiful jaw.

This was not the first time Chú Róng had been this close to Ning Yuan, yet he still found it difficult to adapt. After all, in his own understanding of himself, he was not attracted to men.

Chú Róng's jade-pale fingertips pressed against the man's broad, powerful chest and pushed him outward. His lips were dark red and half-open as he gasped: "Don't…"

Before he could finish the words, the broad tongue withdrew from his mouth. Ning Yuan kept one hand controlling his waist, holding him imprisoned against himself. With his other hand, he swept aside the silken hair flowing like water along the side of Chú Róng's neck, lowered his head, and gently bit the side of his neck.

Chú Róng's entire body gave a violent shudder. His fingertips clenched instinctively. A fine, dense stinging pain traveled up from his neck, climbing along his nerves all the way to his brain — as though releasing some kind of extremely dangerous signal, stirring a primal unease within him.

"Ning Yuan!" Chú Róng struggled in resistance, pushing forcefully against the man's chest.

But his strength against a Mahayana cultivator was entirely without effect. The man's thin lips only grew more brazen and bit into the side of his neck a second time.

Chú Róng's pupils trembled. His supple body shuddered again. The orchid fragrance around him drifted up faintly, making the darkness in Ning Yuan's eyes deepen by several shades. The restless surge churning in his chest boiled and raced through his blood, making him want nothing more than to crush the person in his arms to pieces and dissolve him into his own bones and blood.

Ning Yuan tightened the large hand that was holding Chú Róng's waist. A vein stood out at his sharp-angled temple. His thin lips moved inch by inch across the snow-white skin fragrant with perfume. His voice came low and rough: "Róng'er, you promised me a reward. You can't take it back."

When had he promised any such thing?

Chú Róng pressed his red lips lightly together. His body trembled beyond his control. He knitted his brows, turned his head away, and tried to evade the man's presence. His voice was unsteady: "Let me go."

Ning Yuan raised his head. The shadow that had dispersed from those deep, still eyes gathered again. The dark current surging beneath that pall seemed capable of swallowing a person whole.

Chú Róng's eyes flickered, as though he had been scalded. He looked away. The lustrous skin along the side of his neck had already been rubbed to a flush of red — like red silk threads bleeding through white jade.

Ning Yuan bent his long, powerful fingers and pressed them against the reddened place, rubbing gently. His Adam's apple moved. His restraint finally gave out. He pulled one side of the collar of the person in his arms open, exposing the luminously white jade of one shoulder and neck, and buried his head there, pressing his lips down.

Chú Róng went rigid from head to toe, and by reflex his slender, jade-like neck arched upward. His hands clutched the front of the man's robe into a crumpled mess.

—

The following day.

Yún Sōng arrived punctually to deliver the freshly decocted medicine to Wangxian Peak. Chú Róng was still eating. The table was laid with several exquisitely prepared dishes, beautiful in appearance and fragrant in smell.

Ning Yuan sat beside Chú Róng, occasionally picking up dishes for him with a jade chopstick.

Yún Sōng had seen this scene every day of late, yet still found it hard to believe. He had never imagined that the Immortal Venerable would one day lower himself to the mundane habits of the mortal world for the sake of a single mortal.

Yún Sōng carried the warm medicine with a slight bow, walked to the table, and set it gently beside Chú Róng. As he turned to leave, the corner of his eye caught the side of the person's neck, and his gaze froze in place.

What he saw: on Chú Róng's snow-white skin, scattered red marks — like petals of red plum blossom fallen into snow — so vivid and delicate they made the heart ache.

Yún Sōng's eyes went wide. His hands gave an involuntary tremor, nearly knocking over a dish on the table.

"Out." Ning Yuan picked up a piece of stir-fried lotus root and placed it in Chú Róng's jade bowl. He glanced up at Yún Sōng, his eyes a sheet of cold ice.

Yún Sōng's scalp tingled. He came back to his senses — but did not obey and withdraw. He ground his teeth and, bearing Ning Yuan's gaze sharp as a blade, turned his head to carefully observe Chú Róng, who was sitting quietly with lowered eyes, eating his meal. After confirming something, he let out a long breath.

But then another thought came to him, and he clasped his hands in a bow toward Ning Yuan and, in trepidation, spoke up: "I have something I wish to say to the Immortal Venerable. I ask that the Immortal Venerable step aside for a moment."

"Speak." Ning Yuan, holding the jade chopstick, added another dish to Chú Róng's bowl. He showed no sign of intending to rise.

Yún Sōng feigned a small cough and shot a glance at Chú Róng from the corner of his eye, indicating that the matter concerned Chú Róng and was not convenient to say directly in front of him.

Ning Yuan lowered his eyes slightly, set down the jade chopstick, and walked out of the palace.

Yún Sōng quickly followed after Ning Yuan in two swift strides.

Chú Róng had no awareness of what the two were doing. Seeing them leave one behind the other, he assumed Yún Sōng had something of importance to report to Ning Yuan, and didn't think further on it, focusing on finishing his meal.

……

Outside the hall.

Ning Yuan stood with his hands clasped behind his back. His aura was entirely reined in, yet his tall frame still radiated a palpable pressure: "What is it?"

Yún Sōng's eyes darted left and right. He rubbed the tip of his nose twice, seeming a little embarrassed: "A mortal's constitution is fragile. If subjected to a sudden infusion of powerful spiritual energy, the body cannot withstand the impact — at best, the meridians would be entirely severed; at worst, it could even be life-threatening. Moreover, the young master's body still carries uncleared accumulated toxins, and his qi and blood have been severely depleted…"

"What exactly are you trying to say?" Ning Yuan's gaze swept over Yún Sōng, his expression entirely blank, cutting off Yún Sōng's lengthy preamble.

Yún Sōng's words died in his throat. After a moment, he said, face flushing to the ears, and stumbling over every word: "A cultivator's primordial yang contains a great quantity of vital essence. The vital essence in turn carries powerful spiritual energy. Immortal Venerable, your… ahem, your primordial yang having been preserved for over three hundred years, the spiritual energy stored within it is far beyond that of any ordinary cultivator. With the young master's constitution so weak, if all of it were channeled into his body at once, I'm afraid… so the young master is currently not suited to… ahem, to share a bed with you."

Speaking of matters pertaining to Ning Yuan's private bedchamber, Yún Sōng's voice grew weaker and weaker with every sentence, more flustered with every word. By the time he reached the last two characters, he nearly bit his own tongue.

Yún Sōng quietly wiped the cold sweat from his brow and cautiously observed Ning Yuan — only to find that Ning Yuan's expression had not changed in the slightest.

A thread of surprise passed through Yún Sōng's eyes. He said in astonishment: "The Immortal Venerable already knew this?"

"I knew." Ning Yuan offered no concealment. He turned to gaze at the person eating inside the palace, his eyes deep as still water. Had it not been so, at Qingyang Heavenly Sect, when Chú Róng was afflicted with the spring-snare poison, he would not have merely helped Chú Róng find relief.

No wonder, Yún Sōng thought, his expression growing contemplative. He had just examined the young master and found not a single sign of any discomfort following the sharing of bedchambers. It turned out the Immortal Venerable had not yet touched the young master at all.

But with the Immortal Venerable's ways, it was only a matter of time before the young master could not escape it.

The moment that thought surfaced, Yún Sōng heard the man ask in a low, hoarse voice: "Once the accumulated toxins are cleared — will he be able to bear this venerable one?"

Yún Sōng's brows gave two violent twitches. The shock nearly prevented him from drawing breath: "Cough cough cough cough!"

Ning Yuan's brow furrowed. The pressure emanating from him intensified abruptly, pressing down with a force that made the heart pound.

Yún Sōng hastily covered his mouth, swallowed the coughs rising to his lips, and with a face that had turned bright red from holding them back, answered dutifully: "…He cannot."

Ning Yuan lowered his eyes. He was silent for a moment, then said again: "What about after he begins cultivating?"

Yún Sōng still shook his head, and said with perfect seriousness: "Still no. Not unless the young master's cultivation reaches the Nascent Soul stage."

Given Ning Yuan's cultivation was so extraordinarily high, the gulf between the Mahayana stage and anything below Nascent Soul was like an abyss — to be completely safe, Nascent Soul or above was most appropriate.

The trouble was, with spiritual energy scarce throughout the cultivation world as it was today, for a mortal to cultivate all the way to the Nascent Soul stage was no easy matter. Golden Core cultivators were plentiful across the Hundred Immortal Sects, yet in all of several hundred years, not a single new Nascent Soul cultivator had emerged.

—

Ning Yuan returned to the hall. Chú Róng had already finished his meal and was holding the medicine bowl, drinking the medicine — his slender brows creased, the jade of his cheeks tinged faintly white.

He drained the entire bowl in one breath. Chú Róng endured the thick, lingering taste in his mouth and reached out to take a candied fruit — when a large, clearly-jointed hand appeared before his eyes, its long fingers pinching a candied fruit dusted in frosted white sugar.

Chú Róng looked up, glanced at Ning Yuan, parted his lips slightly, and took the candied fruit from between the man's fingers into his mouth.

"Once the accumulated toxins are cleared, I'll teach you how to cultivate." Ning Yuan lowered his hand, took the jade bowl from him, and set it on the table.

"Cultivate?" This was the second time Chú Róng had heard Ning Yuan mention teaching him to cultivate.

Chú Róng found it a little strange. Ning Yuan had been by his side from the first day he transmigrated, and would surely have witnessed his failed attempt at drawing qi into his body — knowing he had no cultivation talent, why did he keep bringing it up?

Chú Róng swallowed the candied fruit and asked, puzzled: "Can I cultivate?"

"Why not?" Ning Yuan picked up another candied fruit and offered it to his lips. The chiselled lines of his profile were framed by eyes as black and deep as ink, unreadable: "Your failure at drawing qi last time was due to the accumulated toxins — spiritual energy could not enter your body because of them."

Chú Róng blinked. The previous failure wasn't a problem with his talent? Then he was different from the original host — and perhaps he was not entirely without cultivation aptitude after all?

As a person of the modern world, the yearning to cultivate and become an immortal was etched into his very bones. He had previously believed himself fated to be forever outside of cultivation — and Chú Róng had already resigned himself to that, prepared to live out a quiet existence as an ordinary mortal.

But those words of Ning Yuan's had opened up an entirely new path in the darkness, and a thread of hope kindled again within his heart.

Chú Róng parted his lips and took the candied fruit. His eyes — dark and lustrous as glazed obsidian — shimmered with shifting light, enough to steal one's breath away: "All right."

No one could refuse the prospect of becoming stronger. Chú Róng was no exception. He wanted to cultivate. Even if he could never find his way back to his own world, at the very least, in this cultivation world where the strong preyed upon the weak, he could have the means to protect himself.

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Sorry for the long wait~