Chapter Eighty One

The tavern was ablaze with light.

There were quite a few customers inside, yet not a single one spoke. They all stared fixedly toward the far corner, their breath hot and labored, their breathing ragged and heavy.

The mellow fragrance of wine, the delicate scent of orchid blossoms, and the raw smell of sweat rising off the big, broad-shouldered men — all of it mingled together and drifted through the air of the tavern.

Chú Róng instinctively furrowed his beautiful brows, dodging the hands reaching toward him from every direction. His crimson lips parted slightly, and he couldn't help but let two words slip out: "Get away."

The voice was soft and lingering, the end of each syllable curling upward like a tiny hook, instantly snagging the souls of every person in the tavern and threatening to yank them clean out of their bodies.

The breathing of the men surrounding him abruptly grew even rougher. The faint, drifting orchid fragrance crept into their nostrils from every direction, and they were nearly going mad from the scent.

"What's there to be shy about? Drink this cup of wine, and we brothers will go easy on you afterward." The men stuck out their thick, broad tongues and licked their lips; far from pulling back, their words grew ever more brazen.

Just as the men's sweaty, meaty palms were about to close around Chú Róng's shimmering, iridescent gauze robes, a spiritual sword wreathed in tremendous spiritual energy descended from above, and as casually as one might chop through cabbage, it severed the men's unruly hands at the wrist.

Thud, thud, thud——

The severed hands dropped to the ground one after another. The men clutched at their stumps and let out howls of agony, while the thick, coppery smell of blood slowly began to permeate the air.

A flicker of surprise crossed the depths of Chú Róng's luminous eyes. In the next instant, his vision blurred — a powerful arm hooked around his waist from the side, lifted him clean off his feet, and swept him out of the tavern at terrifying speed.

An unfamiliar masculine scent surged into his nose. Chú Róng's body went rigid. His fingertips drifted with studied nonchalance over the empty space at his waist, his knuckles curling inward as he fought down the urge to struggle free.

The man carried him weaving through the crowd along the main street. He didn't know how long they moved before the man ducked into a quieter side lane, set him down gently, then turned and pulled him tightly into an embrace.

Chú Róng could hold back no longer and began to struggle violently — when suddenly, a familiar voice trembling slightly at the edges sounded in his ear: "Chú Róng, it's me."

Cen Yan??

Had the people from the Hundred Immortal Sects already reached the Dragon Vein Ancient Land this quickly?

Chú Róng's eyes shifted, a glint of light flashing through their depths before vanishing. He raised a hand and pushed Cen Yan away, taking several steps back to put distance between them.

Two months apart had stripped away Cen Yan's last traces of youthful rawness. He had grown steady and self-contained. The clear, cold eyes that had once been so striking now resembled a deep well — utterly still at the surface, as though even heaven's collapse and earth's rupture before him would be no more than a pebble dropped into a calm lake.

Chú Róng's heart gave a small jolt, though his face revealed nothing. He raised his gaze, let out a light, deliberately ignorant laugh, and spoke in a tone that was distant and detached — no longer carrying its former warmth — which stung Cen Yan like a needle to the chest: "What brings you here?"

The arm hanging at Cen Yan's side had its five fingers tightening one by one into a fist. He lifted his head to look at Chú Róng. "Shouldn't that be the question I'm asking you? How did you come to be……"

The words died in his throat the moment he saw the person before him clearly. Cen Yan's mind went suddenly, utterly blank.

The light in the side lane was not particularly bright. A dim halo of lamplight settled over the young man, and yet his skin was still fine-grained and almost translucent, without a single blemish. His features were devastatingly, breathtakingly beautiful.

His slightly curved lips were a deep crimson. The soft, hazy light played over them in a shimmering wash, making them appear flushed and moist — unconsciously, irresistibly enticing.

Cen Yan felt his heart give a light, feathery tug. He let out a quiet breath, and his voice came out slightly hoarse: "Don't you know how dangerous it is inside the ancient land?"

Chú Róng was an ordinary person — how had he come to be inside the secret realm?

And where was Immortal Venerable Ning Yuan?

He had taken Chú Róng away, yet couldn't even be bothered to watch over him, leaving him alone in the secret realm with his life hanging in the balance? How was that any different from trying to get Chú Róng killed?

Cen Yan could not suppress the surge of fury rising in his chest. He stepped forward and seized Chú Róng's wrist. "Come with me. I'll protect you and get you out."

The dragon breath, after all, was nowhere near as important as Chú Róng's safety.

The grip on his wrist was heavy. In an instant, Chú Róng felt as though iron tongs had closed around him — it hurt a little, and it was also a little… nauseating.

Strange.

Over the past two months, Ning Yuan had been constantly holding him and kissing him, and yet he had never felt this much revulsion.

The smile on Chú Róng's face faded away by degrees. His face, pale as white jade, went utterly expressionless. He fixed Cen Yan with a cold stare. "Let go."

The fury in Cen Yan's chest gave a small lurch. His fingers closed tighter instead, gripping the slender wrist in his palm with even greater force. He had been the one who had been blind; it was only right that Chú Róng despised him.

Cen Yan drew a slow breath and quietly pressed down on his emotions. His expression softened as much as he could manage. His clear, melodious voice held unprecedented patience and gentleness, yet his tone left no room for negotiation: "Chú Róng, be good. The secret realm is fraught with dangers on all sides — it's no place for an ordinary person like you to be lingering."

No one knew better than Chú Róng how dangerous the ancient land was. He didn't need Cen Yan to tell him.

Chú Róng reached out with his other hand, broke free of Cen Yan's grip, withdrew his wrist, and looked steadily at the young man. He enunciated each word with deliberate care: "There is no need for you to concern yourself."

He was no longer an ordinary person.

It was just that after he had entered the ancient land, the teleportation array had separated him from Ning Yuan, and for some inexplicable reason, he had been completely unable to draw on his spiritual energy. Even the Soul-Capturing Bell and all the other protective spiritual tools Ning Yuan had given him had vanished without a trace.

Otherwise, he would never have been reduced to being surrounded and harassed by a group of men, unable to get away.

In the original novel, there had been no such restrictions inside the secret realm, nor had anything similar been described happening to any other character. Chú Róng felt faintly uneasy. Not daring to act rashly, he had been waiting as agreed for Ning Yuan to find him.

He just hadn't expected that the person to arrive first would be Cen Yan.

How truly — the narrowness of the road always brings enemies face to face.

Chú Róng had no wish to deal with Cen Yan any further and turned to leave. He didn't know how much time had passed inside the secret realm, but now that Cen Yan had arrived, several days must surely have gone by since Cen Yan had entered.

That Ning Yuan had not appeared in all this time meant that something unforeseen must have occurred in between. He had to find a way out — otherwise, forget ever obtaining the true dragon's breath; he himself might be permanently trapped inside the secret realm.

But Cen Yan seemed not to have heard him. His figure flickered, and he stepped in front of Chú Róng once more. His voice softened further still, taking on what could almost be called a coaxing note: "I know you hate me. But the secret realm is no child's game. Come with me, will you? I promise — this time, I will absolutely not harm you."

No. From now on, he would never let anyone hurt so much as a single hair on Chú Róng's head.

Did Cen Yan simply not understand human language?

Hadn't he been calling for Chú Róng's death and destruction just two months ago? And even back at the marquis's residence, after hearing the full truth, he had behaved like a coward — not daring to face it.

Chú Róng furrowed his brow. He had no idea why Cen Yan's attitude had undergone such a drastic shift, and he had no interest in finding out. Cen Yan's repeated persistence stirred up a wave of irritation in his chest, and the words that came out carried an extra two degrees of chill: "I said, there is no need for you to concern yourself — do you not understand? As far as I am concerned, the farther away from you I am, the safer I am. Cen Yan, do I really need to repeat what you have done to me?"

Such an ungrateful wretch — and he thought himself worthy of speaking of protection? Besides, he didn't need anything Cen Yan was calling protection.

Chú Róng stepped around Cen Yan and left again.

Cen Yan's face drained of color. What he had done — of course he knew it clearly. And it was precisely because he knew it so clearly that he could not possibly stand by and disregard Chú Róng's safety.

But seeing how Chú Róng kept him at arm's length, he feared Chú Róng would not be easy to bring along willingly.

The secret realm was riddled with dangers. Every moment Chú Róng remained was one more moment of peril. Cen Yan pressed his lips together tightly, his gaze locked on Chú Róng's retreating figure, the look in his eyes darkening little by little.

Chú Róng didn't notice. He had barely taken two steps when a gust of wind swept past the back of his head, and a sharp chop came down hard on the nape of his neck. His neck flared with pain, his vision went black, and his body lost all control and crumpled.

"I'm sorry." Cen Yan spread his arms and steadily caught the falling man. Half his face was swallowed in the shadow beneath his hair; the other half flickered in and out of light cast by the candles on either side of the narrow lane. The calm in his eyes shattered — fury, anguish, and something bordering on manic stubbornness surged and churned within their depths.

But he could not watch helplessly as something happened to Chú Róng again.

He absolutely could not.

The purple light in Cen Yan's eyes flowed and flickered. He half-cradled the unconscious man, drawing him into his arms, his head bending close to the man's neck, his breath falling on the pale and slender skin along the side of Chú Róng's throat: "Once we're out, you can hit me or scold me all you like — I won't have a single word of complaint."

As long as Chú Róng could come out unharmed, he was willing to do whatever it took.

Chú Róng lay against his chest with his eyes closed, unknowing and unfeeling. His dense lashes lay in shadow; his smooth black hair spilled across his shoulders and back, trailing in and out of the layers of his clothing.

Nothing like the bold purples and greens he had worn at Qingyang's sect — the gauze robe's colors were quiet and understated, thin yet not see-through, layered upon layered. Under the lamplight, it reflected a rippling, prismatic shimmer. One look was enough to tell it was no ordinary article of clothing.

Cen Yan's gaze snagged on it for a moment. He was about to look more closely when, in his peripheral vision, he noticed that the collar of the man in his arms had come slightly loose. Below the half-concealed, half-exposed collarbone, there was a distinctly ambiguous red mark.

The mark was faint — it looked as though some time had passed since it had been pressed there — but because Chú Róng's skin was so pale, it was still plainly visible, like a red plum petal fallen into the snow.

Cen Yan's breath abruptly stalled.

He had no experience with matters of intimacy, but he was no fool. He knew what this kind of mark meant.

Who?

Ning Yuan?

Was it for this that Ning Yuan had taken Chú Róng away?

Cen Yan suddenly remembered — Chú Róng had once been afflicted by the Entanglement of Spring Desire.

He had asked Valley Master Jīng of Yúnyǐn Valley and learned that the Entanglement of Spring Desire was an extremely potent pleasure drug. To lift its effects, one either had to take the antidote, or couple with another person.

But at the time, none of the sects that had been invited had included any from a dual-cultivation sect. So how had Chú Róng's drug been neutralized?

There was only one answer: coupling.

And the only person who could have done it was the man who had taken Chú Róng away from the back mountain — Ning Yuan.

Cen Yan clenched his hands into fists at his sides. The muscles of his arms tightened and swelled. An indescribable heaviness, an acidic bitterness, spread through his chest. So it had begun from that moment, had it?

Chú Róng had feelings for him — he surely had not been willing to be with Ning Yuan. Ning Yuan must have used underhanded means to coerce him.

These past two months — what had Chú Róng endured?

In Cen Yan's mind, an image rose unbidden: inside a magnificent and towering palace, Chú Róng stripped of his robes, humiliation and fear etched between his brows, yet with no choice but to serve beneath Ning Yuan.

……

A man of standing, caged in a gilded birdcage, made into a plaything in Ning Yuan's palm — how deep must Chú Róng's humiliation have run?

"I could have prevented this……" The purple light in Cen Yan's eyes blazed brighter. A towering tide of remorse swept over him once more, gnawing at his insides, threads of red seeping into the whites of his eyes. "It was all my fault."

He had let himself be misled by one-sided words. Knowing full well that Chú Róng was an ordinary person with no power to resist, he had still pushed Chú Róng into a corner where an entire crowd bore down on him with no way out — and in so doing, had let Chú Róng fall into Ning Yuan's hands.

He had failed to protect Chú Róng, and that was why Chú Róng had suffered such indignity.

"It won't happen again." Cen Yan lifted Chú Róng into his arms, his voice low and roughened. From now on, he would not let anyone touch Chú Róng again.

He owed Chú Róng a debt — one he was willing to spend his entire life repaying. Once the matter of the Dragon Vein Ancient Land was settled and they returned to the sect, he would form a betrothal bond with Chú Róng and marry him.

Cultivators' physiques were formidable. Chú Róng was a grown man — not exactly light — yet for Cen Yan, holding him was like holding a white feather.

Cen Yan carried Chú Róng out of the side lane, spreading his spiritual sense to search for a teleportation array that led out.

But street after street stretched on endlessly before him. Cen Yan swept through a hundred li in every direction and found no teleportation array at all — not even the one that had transported him here in the first place.

Something was wrong.

Something was very wrong here.

Cen Yan frowned. His heart began to sink. He was about to carry Chú Róng and expand his search further when a vertical barrier materialized before him out of thin air, rippling like water. A monk who looked like an exiled immortal stepped through it, one palm held upright before his chest, a strand of smooth sandalwood beads suspended from the hollow of his hand.

"Yún Tán Saintly Son?" Cen Yan was momentarily taken aback. From the corner of his eye, he saw the barrier dissolving away like water and rushed forward at once — but passed straight through it.

The teleportation array couldn't be used?

Yún Tán raised his eyes. His gaze, calm as an ancient mirror, paused briefly on Cen Yan before sliding downward to rest on the face of the person in his arms.

"Master Chú." Yún Tán's long fingers abruptly curled tight, clenching the sandalwood beads in his grip. Eyes that had been still and unruffled a moment ago now rippled with ring upon ring of wavering light. The voice that usually carried the resonance of sacred chant dropped lower. "What did you do to him?"

Cen Yan hadn't caught on. Watching the teleportation array disappear before him, he turned to Yún Tán. "Does Saintly Son know the way out?"

Yún Tán seemed not to have heard. Still looking at the motionless man, his gaze cooled by three degrees. "What did you do to him?"

Was Master Chú not an ordinary person?

The Dragon Vein Ancient Land was a place only cultivators could enter. How had he gotten in?

Given what Cen Yan had done to Chú Róng before, Yún Tán could not help but entertain darker thoughts.

"It's a long story." Yún Tán was widely known throughout the cultivation world for his benevolent heart. Cen Yan, seeing the misunderstanding, felt no anger, and proceeded to recount how he had happened upon Chú Róng inside the secret realm.

Chú Róng was an ordinary person. If someone had truly wanted to harm him, he would have been utterly defenseless.

Yún Tán's suspicion was not entirely dispelled, but the coldness at the bottom of his gaze gradually thawed. His eyes did not move away as he answered plainly: "Tán does not know either."

He had only ended up here by sheer coincidence himself. He had no idea how to get out.

A flicker of disappointment crossed Cen Yan's eyes. Then he heard Yún Tán continue: "From what fellow cultivator Cen has described, this place is most peculiar. Tán also wishes to find a way out. Would you object to traveling together?"

One more person meant one more measure of strength. Why not?

Cen Yan did not refuse, and carried Chú Róng carefully as he walked ahead.

Yún Tán withdrew his gaze without any outward sign, lowered his eyes quietly, murmured a soft "Amitābha," and fell into step behind them.

The two men wandered through the streets. At some point they passed in front of a pleasure house. A thick, saccharine scent drifted out from within — twisting and clinging, pouring unstoppably into both men's nostrils.

Cen Yan furrowed his brow slightly, turned his head aside with a look of faint displeasure, gave it no further thought, and quickly passed by the pleasure house.

Yún Tán's footsteps slowed for an instant. He walked past the pleasure house without looking sideways.

They walked on, and on, yet still the streets stretched before them without end. The sky above was a heavy, sunken black — not the faintest sign of lightening.

The sense of unease in Cen Yan's chest grew stronger and stronger. He tightened his hold on the person in his arms and was just about to change direction when he took one step forward — and couldn't stop a muffled groan from escaping him.

He didn't know when it had started, but his body temperature was rapidly climbing. It was as though a ball of scorching flame was careening wildly through him — everywhere it passed felt as though it had been set alight, his five organs and six viscera all seared by raging fire.

Cen Yan's fair face turned red. Beads of rolling sweat broke out on his forehead and slid down along his temples, the back of his neck going faintly flushed as well.

What was happening?

Cen Yan was greatly alarmed. His body staggered involuntarily. The person in his arms lurched up and down with the motion, and wisps of orchid fragrance drifted out.

Cen Yan's scalp prickled. His gaze fell against his will onto the person in his arms. His mind shuddered involuntarily, his throat giving a helpless, labored roll.

More than three years ago, he and Chú Róng had formed a betrothal agreement — yet he had never once looked Chú Róng in the eye.

Half a year ago, Chú Róng had gone even further to avoid him, and had never exchanged so much as a word with him willingly.

It was only two months ago that he had learned Chú Róng had never disfigured himself, and come to understand the full truth of everything that had happened before.

When he added it all up, he and Chú Róng had been together for nearly four years, yet they had never once spent a single moment in genuine harmony. And Chú Róng had never lain as docilely as this in his arms before.

Chú Róng was his fiancé. They were supposed to be the closest people in the world to each other.

Yes.

Chú Róng was his fiancé.

The thought struck Cen Yan's mind like a bolt of lightning. The shreds of lucidity that still remained amid the inferno burning inside his body abruptly crumbled into chaos. His breathing became disordered. His eyes began to lose focus. His head dropped of its own accord, tilting toward the crimson lips of the person in his arms.

If he was being intimate with his fiancé, what was wrong with that?

Whoosh——

At a distance of three inches from that richly fragrant orchid scent, a gust of wind carrying spiritual energy struck Cen Yan's shoulder.

"Fellow cultivator Cen — conduct yourself with restraint." Yún Tán's voice, dropped to its lowest possible register, rang out like a crack of thunder.

Cen Yan's reeling mind jolted back into partial clarity. The moment he remembered what he had been about to do, something like panic flashed across his face. What had he been thinking?

Wasn't he supposed to be making it up to Chú Róng?

Hadn't he vowed never to hurt Chú Róng again?

How would what he'd been about to do be any different from what Ning Yuan had done??

Cen Yan clamped his eyes shut and stopped looking at the person in his arms. He circulated his spiritual energy inward, trying desperately to suppress the strangeness overtaking his body. But his spiritual energy swept through him in one full circuit and accomplished absolutely nothing — the scorching heat inside him continued to climb.

This wouldn't do.

If it went on like this, he was certain to do something unforgivable.

"Yún Tán Saintly Son." Cen Yan bit down hard on his teeth and, still carrying Chú Róng, walked toward Yún Tán, who stood two steps away. The monk's kasaya draped over his tall, straight figure; in the glow of the lamps lining both sides of the street, his facial features were slightly blurred.

Cen Yan vaguely made out that the line of his jaw seemed clenched tight — as though he were enduring something — but before he could think further on it, the heat inside him surged again to a new height.

Cen Yan hastily transferred the unconscious man over to Yún Tán, his voice rough and hoarse: "I must trouble Saintly Son to look after this one Cen's fiancé for a moment. This one Cen will return as swiftly as possible."

Having said this, without even pausing to see Yún Tán's reaction, Cen Yan fled as though the ground itself were chasing him.

Yún Tán stood tall and motionless where he was. Both arms spread open, both hands gripped into fists, just barely holding the person in his arms. His dense, long lashes hung low. His expression seemed, on the surface, to hold neither sorrow nor joy. But his fingers gripped the sandalwood beads with a white-knuckled grip. The fair skin of his neck had turned an unusually deep red. Here and there, one could faintly make out the pulse of raised blue veins.

On the bustling main street, the saintly monk — beautiful as a Buddha — stood as though sunk in meditation, not moving a single inch for a long, long time.

A quarter of an hour.

Half an hour.

……

The monk's entire body had gone rigid as stone. The arms beneath his kasaya, powerful and well-muscled, showed the clean lines of taut, straining muscle. As though finally surrendering to something — he abandoned resistance and locked his arms tightly around the slender waist of the person in his arms, pulling him close.