Feng Qingyun’s eyes widened. Understanding the unspoken meaning in Long Yin’s gaze, every hair on his body stood on end, a shiver racing up his spine like static. But after dropping that threat, Long Yin said nothing more. He simply smiled, watching the man in his arms.
Tears hung on Feng Qingyun’s lashes. In the end, he didn’t even know how he’d come to obey the Demon Lord’s orders. Under the moonlight, he hardly dared open his eyes. Sobbing softly, he was forced to raise his hand and rub his own flower stamens until sticky rose nectar coated his fingers, clinging to his skin.
And in his heart, he cursed Long Yin to hell and back.
But he didn’t dare show a trace of what he felt. He could only endure, angry and silent.
To a human, the scene might have been nothing remarkable. At most, they might call it a beauty plucking a flower, charming, perhaps, but not truly indecent.
Yet to a flower demon who had not bloomed in hundreds of years, to open his eyes only to be forced by a scoundrel to rub his own stamens before the man’s gaze until nectar dripped from them, was a shock beyond words.
Feng Qingyun’s tears fell like beads on a broken string, sliding down his face, some even landing on his own flowers, looking heartbreakingly pitiful. But reality quickly taught him a lesson. As the saying goes, those who seek peace by surrendering land were only feeding fire with wood shavings.
Appeasement brought no safety, only greater invasion.
Long Yin’s gaze darkened as he watched. Then the corner of his lips lifted slightly, and with a flick of his wrist, the brush that had lain on the table appeared in his hand.
“!?”
Feng Qingyun trembled, unable to believe that the man could truly be so shameless.
“I already rubbed it…” he said through gritted teeth, raising his wet fingertips as he glared at the man, voice shaking. “How can you go back on your word…”
Long Yin chuckled, leaned in, and brushed a kiss across the tip of his nose. “Because I am that shameless bastard who goes back on his word… Isn’t that what the Little Palace Master has been calling me in his heart all this time?”
The sudden exposure of his thoughts stunned Feng Qingyun. His eyes widened as if he’d seen a ghost, staring at the man before him.
Long Yin found his expression amusing and couldn’t hold back a laugh. After that, he cupped the flower before him, dipped the brush in water, and drew it gently across.
The instant the wolf-hair tip brushed the tender core, it felt as though it had struck directly against Feng Qingyun’s heart. He jolted awake, gripping Long Yin’s wrist, tears catching in his throat.
“No… you can’t…” Faced with the man’s unrelenting dominance, Feng Qingyun finally broke down, crying as he pleaded, “Anything else… anything but that…”
He still lacked experience. If it had been Feng Qingyun who hadn’t lost his memory, he would’ve rather fainted from mortification than say such a thing.
After all, no one knew better than him how much mischief and malice hid within that ancient dragon’s heart.
But the Feng Qingyun before him knew nothing, and in his panic, he made the very promise Long Yin had wanted to hear.
Long Yin raised an eyebrow, amused. “Anything?” he asked.
At those words, Feng Qingyun’s heart gave a violent jolt. He hesitated, panic flickering across his eyes, but a gentleman’s word was not easily withdrawn. In the end, he could only grit his teeth and nod.
Under the moonlight, the man pressed a hand to his waist and slowly undid his sash, his movements practiced, like he had done it ten thousand times before. Feng Qingyun trembled, his palms pressing unconsciously to Long Yin’s shoulders. The man leaned close, his voice low beside his ear. “After leaving the illusion,” he asked. “Why did you no longer recognize this Lord? Hmm?”
Driven to the brink, Feng Qingyun almost went mad. No one could have imagined that the dragon God within the illusion and the Demon Lord outside were one and the same. Cornered by the question, he could only shake his head helplessly, answering: “…I don’t know.”
Long Yin gave a faint laugh, not pressing further. His hands simply continued their work. Feng Qingyun loved lychees, but now, he looked like one himself: his shell peeled away, revealing the pale, glistening flesh beneath. His upper body was stripped bare, smooth shoulders gleaming under the light. The arms that once held a sword were not fragile, but lithe and steady, strong, yet refined.
Just like Feng Qingyun himself: gentle on the surface, yet unyielding within.
But the more beautiful the person, the sweeter the surrender, and the more it drove Long Yin mad with desire.
In the darkness, Long Yin couldn’t help but smile. With a flick of his hand, he swept everything from the table, even the untouched wine, inside his storage ring, leaving the surface spotless. Cold moonlight poured through the window. Feng Qingyun blinked in surprise as Long Yin lifted him and set him down upon the table.
A faint breeze drifted through the open window. For a fleeting moment, Feng Qingyun felt like a piece of fine jade, being examined under moonlight.
And that piece of jade was exquisite beyond compare.
His discarded clothing pooled around his elbows, layer upon layer, much like the silken sheets cascading from the nearby bed.
Long Yin rested his chin in his hand, staring without blinking. Watching Feng Qingyun’s ears flush from white to red, he pressed a palm to that pale, narrow waist and said, “The rest… why not let the Little Palace Master do it himself?”
Feng Qingyun instantly slapped down on his wrist, furious.
“You!”
He wanted to curse him, call him a scoundrel or a beast… and curse himself too, for ever having loved him! But before the words could escape his lips, his mind suddenly went blank. It was as if something had struck him hard, not painfully, but utterly stilling.
The room fell into dead silence.
Long Yin froze mid-smile as he noticed Feng Qingyun sitting motionless and dazed, his gaze unfocused, like a doll without a soul. The light in his eyes vanished as his pupils dilated faintly under the moonlight. Surrounded by countless roses and that exposed, alabaster skin, Feng Qingyun looked heartbreakingly, dangerously beautiful.
But Long Yin’s smile vanished. From the sudden silence in the other’s mind, unease clawed its way up his chest.
And in the next instant, his premonition came true.
The potion had gone out of control.
Not failed, but lost control.
A flood of chaotic memories surged through Feng Qingyun’s mind, blending into a maddening collage where truth and illusion became indistinguishable. The Demon Lord who had stood before him at the world’s end, sword in hand and arm torn apart, merged with the dragon God who had once coiled around him in the illusion.
The dragon pinned in blood against a pillar overlapped with the man lying before him now.
Feng Qingyun’s hand shot out, gripping Long Yin’s wrist. His pupils constricted sharply as he stared, unblinking, like a ghostly beauty risen from the grave.
Long Yin, hearing the cacophony of thoughts in his mind converging into a single, furious clarity, felt his heart drop.
In the end, only one word echoed inside him…
Finished!
His foresight had always been accurate, and sure enough, in the next heartbeat, Feng Qingyun released his wrist, seized his collar, and flipped him over. The small table crashed to the ground with a loud clang, but Feng Qingyun seemed not to hear. Without a word, he simply dragged Long Yin to the bed, straddled his hips, and looked down at him from above.
His expression was cold as moonlight, devoid of all emotion. And yet, with roses sprawling across the floor and his bare, luminous shoulders gleaming under the moonlight, the scene was both divine and sinful.
Pinned beneath him, Long Yin could only laugh bitterly, seeing the look in those eyes. “Looks like the potion’s worn off,” he said. “The Little Palace Master remembers everything now?”
“I do,” Feng Qingyun tilted his head, yanking sharply at his collar. The Demon Lord’s fine garments tore apart like paper, and Long Yin felt a dangerous chill across his chest. He’d never seen his Little Rose so fierce, and for a moment, he didn’t know how to react. Quickly, though, he raised both hands in surrender, coaxing: “Qingyun, now, let’s not be rash. What’s there to regret?”
“Regret?” Feng Qingyun’s voice was soft and cold. “You must regret that the gullible little rose you could trick and toy with is gone.” With a flick of his fingers, sword Qi burst forth, shredding every last scrap of fabric from Long Yin’s body and revealing the firm lines of his chest.
Long Yin’s breath caught. Just as he was about to speak, Feng Qingyun narrowed his eyes, pressed a hand to that chest, and said evenly, “That egg, was it really mine? And all that nonsense about feeding it with flower nectar?”
Serves me right, Long Yin could only think. Tease your wife once, and this is what you get!
But while his mind screamed disaster, outwardly, Long Yin played the obedient husband, wrapping an arm around that slender waist and admitting without hesitation: “My mistake.”
Feng Qingyun gave a cold laugh. “How could the mighty dragon God ever be wrong?”
But from that single form of address, it was clear that his memories had not fully returned. Instead, they were in a state of violent chaos. For once, a chill ran down Long Yin’s spine. Just as he was about to speak, the vines that had lain still suddenly came alive, lashing upward to bind his wrists tight against the bed.
Petals brushed affectionately along his cheek, while Feng Qingyun lifted a hand and lightly, almost lazily, closed his fingers around the man’s throat.
Long Yin’s breath caught, and the next second, the flower’s scent surrounded him, heady and intoxicating.
At such close distance, Feng Qingyun’s dark hair fell over his shoulder, face lit by cold moonlight. His lips curved into a smile that never reached his eyes as he asked: “So you like playing with brushes, do you?”
In that moment beneath the night sky, Feng Qingyun no longer looked like some banished immortal, but something else entirely: a ghostly, breathtaking beauty…
…And a far cry from the trembling, helpless creature he had been just moments ago.
Yet even facing such a dangerous flower demon, Long Yin couldn’t help but twitch the corner of his lips upward. He even dared to tease, “And if I said I did… what would the Little Palace Master do about it?”
Feng Qingyun met his gaze for three silent seconds. Then he let out a sharp, quiet laugh, picking up that same brush still slick with his own nectar. Holding it delicately, he drew one wet, glistening stroke across the ridges of Long Yin’s abdomen, then slowly, deliberately, began to move it downwards.
Long Yin’s breath hitched as the laughter died in his throat. His eyes darkened as the brush inched lower and lower, nearing the sash at his waist. Finally, he couldn’t restrain it anymore, and his pupils slit, turning to a dragon’s eyes.
He looked, in that instant, like a predator, staring at a reckless prey that had no idea how close it was to being devoured.
But Feng Qingyun showed no fear. Instead, he lowered his gaze, ignoring those dangerous eyes, and pressed a vine’s thorn against the pulse of Long Yin’s neck in a silent warning not to move. His hand didn’t stop. But just as the dragon’s muscles tensed to breaking, on the verge of snapping, Feng Qingyun suddenly paused.
It was like an arrow drawn to its limit, only for the bowstring to be deliberately slackened at the final moment.
Long Yin’s face twisted; his demonic Qi surged, leaking uncontrollably into the room.
“Can it be,” Feng Qingyun said coolly, twirling the brush in his fingers, “that the great Demon Lord can’t even handle a little interrogation?”
“Ah… so this is an interrogation,” Long Yin chuckled darkly, leaning forward to bite at Feng Qingyun’s neck. Feeling the slight tremor in the man’s body, he licked the wound and murmured, “If my Little Rose is interrogating me, then shouldn’t I at least be told the crime?”
“Otherwise, suffering such a long punishment without knowing why… It’s terribly unfair, isn’t it?”
Feng Qingyun let out a low, dangerous laugh. Grabbing Long Yin by the hair, he yanked his head back and said flatly, “Fine. Then tell me, why didn’t two bottles of Mengpo Soup work on you?”
He wasn’t stupid. Forget the nonsense about flower nectar and eggs; none of that mattered. What mattered was this:
Why had Long Yin drunk two full bottles of Mengpo Soup without any effect, while barely a sip had been enough to make him lose his memories for half the night?!
Excuses about cultivation levels wouldn’t cut it. Feng Qingyun was as good as being a Golden Core cultivator himself, and since the potion had affected him, it should have worked on Long Yin, too.
At the question, Long Yin stiffened. Then, forcing a smile, he said, “Well, I am a dragon God… Surely it’s only natural that I’d have some resistance to potions?”
“Is that so?” Feng Qingyun sneered. Seeing that the man still refused to confess, he lost patience entirely.
Long Yin opened his mouth to spin another lie, but Feng Qingyun had already decided not to listen. Instead, his vines coiled around the man’s neck, lifting him slightly off the bed as he looked down coldly.
“Didn’t you want to drink flower nectar wine?” he asked. “If Mengpo Soup can’t knock you out, then why not drink more of something that can?”
But even as he spoke, the vines loosened all of their restraints, the complete opposite of a threat.
Long Yin’s pupils narrowed in alarm, and just as he raised his hand, Feng Qingyun suddenly leaned down, lips brushing his fingers as he bit off the man’s storage ring, pulling it free with a slow, deliberate motion.
His cool hair swept over Long Yin’s arm, light as silk, sending shivers across his skin.
He could feel it, taste it even, but couldn’t touch it. The teasing nearly drove Long Yin mad, his muscles tensing hard as stone beneath the touch of the flower’s petals.
Feng Qingyun trembled faintly but composed himself almost at once. Holding the ring delicately in his mouth, he flicked his tongue to roll it deeper inside.
Then, with a soft exhale toward the man’s chest, the untouched pot of wine from earlier poured itself out, all over Long Yin’s body.
The pale liquor cascaded down his torso, soaking his abdomen, leaving the bedding slick and shimmering in the moonlight.
And Feng Qingyun, as if it were nothing, slipped Long Yin’s ring onto his own hand. Anyone could see he was on edge, with anger simmering beneath a surface of icy calm, the kind that exploded when it broke.
Long Yin, the clear culprit, didn’t dare make a sound. The wine clung to his skin in bright droplets, beading on the tight lines of his muscles, making every contour stand out even sharper. The surrounding roses surged closer, their petals brushing over the slick skin, tracing the droplets along the hard muscles.
The burning, heady sensation shot straight to Feng Qingyun’s brain, and whatever composure he’d had melted away; his breath hitched as he bit his lip unconsciously.
Seeing that, Long Yin couldn’t resist murmuring, teasingly, “Qingyun, you’ve truly gone all out to punish me. There’s an old saying, kill the enemy, but lose eight hundred of your…”
He didn’t finish. A rose blossom, dripping with wine, pressed directly to his lips.
“Shut up,” Feng Qingyun ground out between his teeth.
The liquor’s sweetness was laced with the fragrance of rose nectar. Two gulps later, Long Yin nearly choked, but still managed to smile against it. The taste of flower nectar wine slid down his throat; it was everything he’d ever wanted, yet the satisfaction lasted only a heartbeat.
Because the next moment, heat flared from his abdomen, searing and heavy, as Long Yin’s eyes widened in alarm.
It wasn’t ordinary nectar. It was nectar ripened by demonic Qi.
Long Yin’s face changed instantly. “Wait…”
“Wait for what? You want to move?” Feng Qingyun yanked sharply on his hair, leaning down to whisper, “Didn’t you say you liked it? Don’t waste it. Keep drinking.”
And with that, he gently, irresistibly, cupped one of his blossoms, tilted Long Yin’s chin up, and poured the rest of the liquor straight into his mouth.
The mighty Demon Lord, being fed wine like a pampered courtesan by his own lover, ended up coughing from the sheer force of it. And yet, the sight seemed to greatly please Feng Qingyun. He smiled faintly, moonlight reflecting in his eyes like liquid silver.
When the last drop of wine was gone, he wiped the man’s lips with his thumb, then let his hand wander across the hard line of his cheek, murmuring approvingly, “So this is how mortal courtesans serve their patrons with wine. But compared to Your Majesty… those courtesans were all poseurs.”
At such praise, Long Yin’s eyes narrowed, the faint shimmer of dragon scales flashing at his throat. Still glistening with wine, he ignored the thorns that were still too close to his neck and said in a low, dangerous voice, “Oh? So the Little Palace Master met mortal courtesans before?”
Feng Qingyun, bracing a hand on his abdomen, said nothing. His hair was in the way, so he pulled his rose hairpin, twisting his long hair up. The moonlight in Fengdu was pale and cold. It lit the side of his face like that of a ghost from a tale, beautiful, deadly, and inhuman.
When his hair was finally gathered, his smooth shoulders and pale neck gleamed under the light. Only then did Feng Qingyun glance down lightly and reply, “And if I have? What would you do about it?”
Long Yin smiled. “Nothing at all. Only that since the Little Palace Master has already seen the pleasures of the world… this Lord will have to serve you well, lest you be tempted away by someone else.”
And with that, he grabbed the back of Feng Qingyun’s head and kissed him.
Feng Qingyun’s eyelashes trembled slightly. He didn’t pull away, just lowered his gaze and let Long Yin have his way.
Though Long Yin’s words carried the air of someone completely at ease, as if none of it mattered to him, the moment the kiss broke, he pressed his forehead against Feng Qingyun’s, staring straight into his eyes without blinking, and asked, “That courtesan you mentioned… when exactly did you meet him? Was he more handsome than me?”
He clearly cared, more than he wanted to admit.
The mighty Demon Lord himself had fallen to the point of comparing his looks with a male prostitute.
Something inside Feng Qingyun softened inexplicably, but he only curved his lips, refusing to answer while watching Long Yin with that faint, teasing smile.
Long Yin couldn’t stand it anymore. The flower nectar wine still burning in his belly left him unbearably hot.
He was just about to press another kiss to Feng Qingyun’s lips when the man turned his face aside and, at last, answered the earlier question.
“Back when I took Ruolin down to the mortal realm, we went to watch a play.”
“The script was well written. I copied it and sent a copy back home. But the rest of the performances were all exorcism plays about slaying demons. Ruolin wanted to stay and watch, so I went to wait next door.”
As a member of the demon race, he naturally had no interest in plays about killing his own, but he couldn’t spoil his Junior Sister’s fun, so he went alone to a nearby tavern.
From the outside, the tavern had looked bright and elegant, built right by the street, and seemingly quite proper. But once he entered, he realized it wasn’t what he thought at all. It wasn’t exactly a brothel, but the moment he sat down, a line of handsome young men appeared before him for him to “choose” from, apparently just for pouring wine, though Feng Qingyun wasn’t so naive. So, of course, he had risen to leave immediately.
Long Yin narrowed his eyes, asking: “And then?”
“The boy leading them saw that I was about to leave,” Feng Qingyun recalled, “and knelt at my feet, begging me to buy him a meal.”
“I couldn’t bear it, so I asked him to sing one song. Before I left, I pitied him and gave him a spirit stone to buy back his freedom.”
At those words, Long Yin knew this story wasn’t going to end well. “And then? Did he actually go home?”
“No.” Feng Qingyun shook his head, just as expected. “Later, I learned that my single act of generosity made him famous overnight. He didn’t go home to care for his sister, but became the most sought-after performer in that tavern. Eventually, he was invited to Nanfeng Pavilion to become their top courtesan.”
Long Yin squinted. “But you went back to your sect afterward. How did you know all that in such detail?”
“…Mu Hanyang heard about it while traveling,” Feng Qingyun said quietly. “He came back and told me the story. Ruolin caught on that I was the ‘fool’ who’d spent a fortune on that man, and when Mu Hanyang found out, he dragged me back down the mountain to ‘settle’ it with the courtesan… but when we met, the man cried and said his father was in debt, his mother was sick, his sister was young, and he had no other choice. So the matter ended there.”
“So that bastard Mu was jealous of a male courtesan,” Long Yin snorted, his tone dripping with the scorn of the rightful lover mocking the ex. Then his voice turned colder, taunting, “A gambling father, a sickly mother, a little sister to feed… and you actually believed that nonsense?”
Feng Qingyun pressed a hand to his chest and gave a soft laugh, his tone deceptively light. “If I can’t believe him, should I believe you instead, you lying bastard?”
Long Yin: “…”
He was about to speak when a rose brushed its blossom against the scale at his throat… his reverse scale.
The most untouchable spot on a dragon’s body.
Long Yin froze instantly, every muscle tensing.
The petal slid away a moment later. Feng Qingyun lowered his head and, amidst the thick rose fragrance, bit down on that single scale still slick with his own nectar.
“!”
Holding the scale between his teeth, Feng Qingyun deliberately ran his tongue along the root of it where it met the dragon’s neck, ignoring the hands that had tightened suddenly around his waist.
Only when Long Yin could bear it no longer, struggling against the vines and nearly sitting up, did Feng Qingyun finally lift his head. The vines snapped taut once more as he looked down and said coolly, “Did I say you could move?”
Long Yin’s throat tightened. The scale still glistened with nectar, but he couldn’t do a thing.
To see, to want, to be helpless beneath the other’s control, it made his throat burn with heat and frustration alike. So he swallowed hard, and the thought flickered through his mind… the backlash of their blood deed hadn’t even begun yet.
If it ever did…
He didn’t dare imagine further. Not only because the idea made his scalp tingle with dread and excitement both, but because Feng Qingyun, seeing that he listened and stopped moving, reached down as if to reward him.
Long Yin went rigid. For him, that “reward” felt more like a punishment.
He lifted his head in surrender, pressing a kiss to Feng Qingyun’s ear, voice low and coaxing: “I was wrong. Great Sword Master… please, let me in, won’t you?”
At that moment, his movement brushed a rose blossom’s heart. Feng Qingyun gasped softly, the corners of his eyes flushing red, though his tone stayed cold. “Say it clearly and I’ll let you in. Why were two bottles of Mengpo Soup useless on you? And that ascension method you mentioned before, what did you mean by it?”
Long Yin fell completely silent.
Feng Qingyun gave a quiet, humorless laugh. He picked up the brush again, his hand trembling slightly as he dipped it into his own flower nectar and drew another stroke across the man’s abdomen, this time not in random patterns, but forming deliberate words.
In the moonlight, it was hard to see what he’d written, only that the glow of nectar glimmered faintly against taut muscle. Long Yin’s breath caught, a strange excitement rushing to his head.
Then Feng Qingyun’s hoarse voice said, “I suddenly think nailing you against a pole somewhere might have been the right choice.”
A shiver ran through Long Yin, but his mouth still curved in defiance. “No need for all that trouble,” he answered. “Just write your name on me, then everyone will know I already belong to you.”
The Demon Lord, once a god in his own little world, now lay utterly subdued, letting the one he loved press him down, even pleading to be marked as his.
But Feng Qingyun only smiled faintly. “And if I did, would that make you truly mine?”
Long Yin kissed the corner of his lips. “Even without it, I’m already yours.”
Feng Qingyun didn’t answer. Instead, he tilted his head, watching Long Yin for a long time, then said suddenly, “I’ve heard your Ruthless Path claims that if one kills their Dao partner, the partner’s soul will follow them forever, even through ascension.”
“Careful with your wording, Little Rose,” Long Yin murmured, brushing another kiss against his mouth. “I no longer walk that path.”
Feng Qingyun remained unmoved, his eyes shadowed. From Long Yin’s angle, his face was unreadable.
After a long silence, Feng Qingyun tossed the brush aside and laid his hand lightly around Long Yin’s throat.
The dragon’s breath hitched. Then he heard the quiet, distant voice say, “Long Yin, if I killed you… Would you stay by my side forever? Even through ascension?” But Long Yin laughed softly, unafraid. Leaning forward to kiss him, he murmured against his lips, “Would you really bear to kill me? How would you do it, hm?”
Feng Qingyun said nothing while Long Yin held him close, smiling as if offhandedly. “Don’t tell me, Little Rose, you’re thinking of eating me?”
Blood roses drank blood, but rarely flesh.
It was said that only prey truly beloved by a blood rose could be devoured whole.
Feng Qingyun paused at that, not denying it. His eyes narrowed slightly as he looked down. “How is it,” he said softly, “that you always know exactly what I’m thinking, as if you’re a worm living in my belly?”
He spoke as his hand continued to move, tracing along the grooves of the dragon’s abdomen, as if conducting some cruel interrogation.
Long Yin’s breathing faltered, the tension in his muscles near breaking point, but he still managed a grin. “Naturally,” he answered, “your dragon God knows everything.”
“Is that so?” Feng Qingyun murmured. “Then tell me, what am I thinking now?”
As he spoke, the roses lay innocently against Long Yin’s cheek; a few brushed against his abdomen, their petals soft, their nectar sticky and sweet, smeared between their skin like liquid silk.
It was an image both seductive and strangely serene.
Yet Long Yin, staring up at the man above him, suddenly heard it.
Feng Qingyun’s voice, echoing not in the air but inside his mind.
[Dragons who refuse to confess are so annoying.]
[But I still want to eat him.]
[Scales and all.]
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