T.N: This chapter contains brief mentions of dismemberment and body horror.
For all his centuries of cultivation, Feng Qingyun had never imagined something like that could happen to him. Tears streamed down his cheeks, pitiful beyond words. The assault of so many sensations at once left him wishing he could simply faint, but he couldn’t. He couldn’t even speak. He could only let out muffled sobs like a mute child.
The violet-eyed heart demon smiled as it toyed with the small rosebud in its hand.
“If you admit your mistake, you should show some sincerity, Little Rose.”
Feng Qingyun couldn’t take it anymore. His head dropped helplessly as he nodded through his tears and released his true form, the fully bloomed, vivid, and glistening main vine. He was hoping that by appeasing the heart demon of Desire, he could calm the one born of Anger.
But sometimes, the more one gives in, the more the other takes.
The instant his true body appeared, both heart demons lifted their heads at the same time. Without a word, they each reached toward the nearest rose on his vine. Feng Qingyun’s entire body trembled, and his eyes squeezed shut.
Four hands, two from each demon, played idly with buds both tender and mature. In front of him still stood the imaginary Mu Hanyang, and beyond him, the open courtyard. Exposed, unguarded, as though the sky itself were their ceiling. The sheer illusion of being laid bare in full view made Feng Qingyun’s whole body curl in on itself.
But mere teasing, it seemed, was not enough. At least, not for the demon of Desire.
Feng Qingyun saw that small, knowing curl of the violet-eyed demon’s lips and his heart leapt in alarm. And sure enough, the next moment, the demon lifted the blossom by its petals and pressed it gently, but firmly, against the one-way transparent barrier.
“!”
The surface was cold and smooth like a mirror, and the touch alone brought back memories Feng Qingyun wanted to forget. His scalp tingled as he instinctively tried to close the petals, only for a thumb to force them open, exposing the flower’s heart and the dew upon it, smearing them against the glass-like surface.
If it had been just a mirror, it might have been bearable. But that one-way transparency, that sense of being watched, turned the act into unbearable humiliation.
The dual shock of body and mind left him trembling uncontrollably, slick with sweat, barely able to stay upright even on the bed. He didn’t know how long it went on. When his chin was finally lifted, he saw the violet-eyed heart demon smiling down at his tear-streaked face.
Feng Qingyun glared up through his tears, defiant but trembling inside. The fear of what might come next clawed at him. He might have looked fierce, but his heart was trembling. Perhaps sensing that fear, the heart demon chuckled and lifted a hand, dispelling the silencing spell over his mouth.
One moment, Feng Qingyun was glaring; the next, he froze suspiciously, uncertain whether it was another trick. Then, a familiar, searingly warm hand settled on his bare back, making him flinch. The violet-eyed demon smiled.
“Now do you recognize us, Little Rose?”
Feng Qingyun’s scalp prickled as he blurted out, “Yes…”
The demon leaned close, his tone seductive. “Then say our names.”
“You are the heart demons of Desire and Anger.”
The violet-eyed demon smiled approvingly. “Congratulations, you’re right.”
Behind him, the red-eyed demon traced his fingers up Feng Qingyun’s neck, cupping his face as he murmured his first words of the night, voice low and smoldering, like fire barely contained: “We’ll meet again, my Little Rose.”
Their voices were nearly identical, only the red-eyed one’s was deeper, carrying a restrained fury. Feng Qingyun nearly choked on his own breath.
Meet again?!
He wanted nothing less!
But as soon as he uttered their names, the illusion began to change. Still dazed from their onslaught, Feng Qingyun blinked and found himself sitting alone in darkness. He wiped his tears and steadied himself, one hand at his waist, the other probing into the void. His eyes darted around in confusion.
Was it… over?
Had one illusion ended, or had everything ended?
However, he quickly rejected the second thought. He had already faced three heart demons. There were still four remaining, not counting Long Yin’s original body, so there was no way it could be over.
Muttering to himself, Feng Qingyun began walking forward through the dark.
The world around him was utterly silent. No path, no light, nothing. As he walked, his thoughts drifted. So this is what becomes of one who cultivates the Path of Ruthlessness, he mused. Long Yin’s heart must have split itself into seven, so the man was practically insane.
That thought almost made him laugh, though the sound died quickly in his throat. The darkness thickened until it pressed around Feng Qingyun like a living thing when, underfoot, he felt something solid. A road.
A familiar one.
It wasn’t until he reached the end of that road and saw what lay ahead that he froze completely.
Could Gods feel fear, too?
He had never known the answer. But now, he did.
Before him lay a field soaked in blood, and the broken body of his dragon God. Shattered rocks littered the ground, and, for the first time since entering the dream, Feng Qingyun found himself watching as an outsider. From what he remembered before death, he should have died by suffocation, and the scene before him confirmed it. He saw “himself” lying peacefully in the dragon’s arms, face serene, as if merely asleep.
But the contrast was horrifying.
The dragon’s body was torn open by the falling stones, its flesh split and bleeding. Seven nails had once pierced through his scales; now, with them torn out, the wounds gaped wide. As for the fresh injuries from the rockfall, they had nearly caved his chest in. It was barely a body.
More like a corpse ripped apart.
The blood, the ruin… it left Feng Qingyun staring, hollow and dazed. His mind blanked until he stumbled over something on the ground. Looking down, he saw what it was: a broken dragon horn. There were fragments of him everywhere. A divine body, reduced to dust just like that.
Was that what he feared most?
No.
Feng Qingyun shook his head amidst the tide of grief, as realization struck him like lightning. Long Yin wasn’t afraid of death. He was afraid that even in death, he couldn’t save the one he loved.
Feng Qingyun didn’t even know what emotion guided him as he knelt and picked up the shattered horn. His hands trembled as he approached the ruined body, fingers brushing against mangled flesh. He stared, blank and lost, and words surfaced in his mind unbidden…
“Dismembered in death.”
Even without memories, those words hit like a hammer. Feng Qingyun’s chest constricted painfully, and grief welled up uncontrollably. He didn’t care about the blood as he pressed himself against the dragon’s body, staining his face with red. His eyes, rimmed with tears, looked heartbreakingly pitiful.
Then, invisible hands cupped his face, gently wiping his tears away.
Feng Qingyun froze.
A low voice murmured in his ear: “There now. Don’t cry. Why look like a little widower who’s lost his beloved?”
Feng Qingyun’s head snapped up through his tears, but there was no one there. His heart lurched, and a strange, fated panic rose in his chest. “Long Yin… where are you?!” Feng Qingyun’s voice trembled. “Why won’t you come out?!”
“I’ve been here all along,” the voice whispered. “Don’t be afraid. Just say my name quickly, and go to the next place.”
For the first time, Feng Qingyun hesitated. A heavy sorrow, a deep, unnameable fear, wrapped around him completely. He didn’t know how long he knelt there, the voice urging him again and again, until at last he laid his trembling hand upon the dragon’s broken horn and whispered, through quiet sobs: “You are the heart demon of Fear.”
A soft breeze brushed against his cheek, gentle as a caress.
“Good. I’ll always be with you. Don’t be afraid.”
Feng Qingyun clung tightly to the blood-soaked body in his arms, eyes shut as the cave around him began to melt away. In his chest, a single thought remained: Are you telling me not to be afraid… or telling yourself not to be?
What are you afraid of… what are you trying to do, Long Yin?
The possibility of that thought alone made Feng Qingyun’s heart seize, and he didn’t dare think any further. Grief surged within him, vast and suffocating, drowning out every other feeling. And amid that sorrow, he suddenly realized.
He already knew what the next heart demon would be.
So he buried his face against the dragon’s scales for a long time, forcing his heartbeat to steady, bracing himself for what was to come. Yet even then, he hadn’t guessed right.
He hadn’t imagined what truly made Long Yin grieve.
The cave, and the dragon’s corpse with it, dissolved into nothing. The illusion twisted again, and when Feng Qingyun opened his eyes, he found himself standing before a familiar sight once more.
The front gates of the Xiān Gōng Sect.
But unlike the pristine, orderly palace he remembered, this one was bustling with people. Immortal mist coiled around the gates as countless cultivators arrived on clouds and flying swords. He froze for a moment. Then, among the crowd, he saw a figure he knew all too well. And in that instant, he understood.
It was that day.
The day, in his previous life, when Long Yin gave up on crashing his wedding. Feng Qingyun had also relived that day countless times in dreams and memory, but he had never once seen it from Long Yin’s point of view.
So now, he watched as Long Yin, his aura and face disguised, walked alone through the joyous crowd, heading straight for his sect. Laughter, music, and celebration filled the air, but none of it had anything to do with him. No one came to greet him.
No one even saw him.
Even when he passed through the gates and reached the Main Hall, it was another man, Song Qian, a mere Foundation-Building cultivator, whom the host, Liu Wu, greeted with reverent smiles and bows.
“Senior Song! What an honor! My apologies for not welcoming you sooner!”
“Fellow Daoist Liu, it’s been too long! Congratulations on your sect’s joyous event!”
They exchanged pleasantries, laughing warmly, while the mighty Demon Emperor walked among them unnoticed. After all, he had never received an invitation.
So there was no place for him here.
Back then, for Feng Qingyun, it hadn’t even been a question. Of course, he wouldn’t invite the Demon Emperor to his wedding. The entire world would have said the same. But in this life, Feng Qingyun had often wondered, what had Long Yin looked like that day? How had he stood there, and when had he left?
Every time he’d thought about it, his chest had ached until he couldn’t bear it, so he’d comforted himself with the idea that, knowing Long Yin’s wild and proud nature, even if he had let go, he must have done it freely and without regret. But now, seeing it with his own eyes, he realized just how wrong he’d been. No one can be unmoved when watching the one they love marry another.
Not even the Demon Emperor.
Music soared through the air as guests filled the hall, everyone bright and joyful. Everyone except Long Yin. His face held no expression, not joy, not sorrow. And yet, the mere sight of him standing there quietly was enough to break Feng Qingyun’s heart.
He looked like someone who didn’t belong: out of place, yet trying to appear composed. A passing guest, stopping only to take one last look at what he could never have. He couldn’t see Feng Qingyun watching him from within the illusion, so even when Feng Qingyun sat beside him at the banquet table, Long Yin didn’t notice at all.
Laughter rippled around them, but Long Yin said nothing. He only stared up at the celestial canopy, unblinking, his face still and solemn. When everyone finally took their seats, he withdrew his gaze and reached into his robe, taking out a small lotus-shaped hairpin.
Unlike the peach blossom hairpin Feng Qingyun once knew, this one was rougher, the carving less refined. But the jade was pure, and its color as clear as spring water. Feng Qingyun froze. Then, as if struck by lightning, he went rigid, pain twisting through his chest like a blade.
So that’s what he’d wanted to give me all along… Long Yin hadn’t only carved one hairpin, but when Feng Qingyun got married, he had never even known what flower his beloved liked. And in the end, Feng Qingyun had never received that lotus hairpin. Just as Long Yin once said, if he’d given the gift that day, it would only have stained Feng Qingyun’s long-awaited wedding.
Better, then, not to give it at all.
Feng Qingyun watched as Long Yin held the hairpin, his thumb brushing over it gently. Then, as the wedding bells rang out, the man smiled faintly, lowered his eyes, and slipped it back into his robe. Far away, upon the Heavenly Steps, the past Feng Qingyun was radiant with joy. But up close, the present Feng Qingyun broke into tears. The rest of the ceremony went perfectly. Guests toasted, laughter filled the air, only Long Yin sat apart, quiet and still, utterly out of place.
He didn’t leave.
He stayed, sitting in that same corner, watching the man he loved smile beside another. He watched until the night fell, until moonlight bathed the Xiān Gōng Sect in silver. Until all the guests had gone home.
Yet still, Long Yin did not move.
Feng Qingyun, standing beside him in the illusion, felt his heart twist painfully. He had never known that on his wedding night, under the same moonlight, he hadn’t been the only one sitting awake and alone.
When everyone else had left, his man had remained, alone in the empty hall, staring at the same moon and keeping vigil in silence. Through the reflected light of the water, Feng Qingyun looked at him and felt a dull, unbearable ache rise in his chest.
What were you thinking, sitting there, Long Yin? When you thought your beloved was in another’s arms, what filled your heart?
He didn’t know.
He only knew that Long Yin had taken out that same lotus hairpin again and again throughout the night. And when dawn broke, perhaps from a lingering trace of unwillingness or tenderness, he finally made a decision. He stood, placed the hairpin on the now-empty ceremonial platform, and pressed a sheet of paper beneath it. On it were written just a few words.
“Wishing you peace and a smooth journey ahead.”
Then, after one last lingering glance into the distance, he turned and walked out of the Xiān Gōng Sect. No one came to see him off. He never saw the rising sun.
Only the faint morning light followed him on his way out.
Feng Qingyun finally couldn’t stand it any longer as he reached out, wanting to seize that hairpin, but his fingers passed straight through it. A sharp pain shot through his chest, and in that moment, an inexplicable question surfaced in his mind:
Why a lotus flower?
“Like gazing from the lotus dais to the clouds beyond”… You, who they say are an almighty dragon God, why couldn’t you even bring yourself to look at me, Long Yin?
A faint, bitter anger welled up within him. Anger at Long Yin’s fear born of love, and anger at his retreat, his cowardice. But before that emotion could burst free, two figures appeared in the morning light: Liu Wu and Hua Ying, sent to tidy up after the ceremony. They chatted idly as they approached the ceremonial platform, and when they noticed what lay upon it, both stopped in surprise.
“…There’s a hairpin here!” Hua Ying murmured.
They quickly spotted the folded paper beneath it. Liu Wu picked up the hairpin, looked down, and read aloud:
“Wishing you peace… and a smooth journey ahead?”
There was no greeting, no signature. Just those simple words. And yet, both of them felt the same instinctive certainty: that wasn’t meant for Mu Hanyang. Liu Wu’s expression darkened instantly, as if he’d been slapped across the face. Hua Ying, puzzled, said softly, “Could it be… a gift from another cultivator for Martial Uncle?”
“Cultivator?! More like some shameless scoundrel!” Liu Wu’s voice cracked like a whip, louder than his Master’s ever was. “To give something like this on the day of his wedding, what kind of lecher dares!”
Before Hua Ying could stop him, he raised the jade hairpin high and hurled it to the ground.
“Senior Brother, wait!” Hua Ying, sensitive to spiritual minerals, gasped. However, she was a beat too late as the hairpin hit the stone floor and shattered into glittering shards. Jade dust scattered across the ground, and Liu Wu looked down coldly.
“A filthy thing from a filthy man! What else should we do, keep it?!”
“Aiya, Senior Brother!” Hua Ying groaned, bending down quickly. She gathered the fragments in her hands and froze. “…This is Celestial Jade!” she said, her voice trembling with disbelief. “You just smashed Celestial Jade?! Do you have any idea…”
Liu Wu blinked, stunned. “What? Celestial Jade?!”
The two of them stared at the shards, dazed and uneasy. Finally, Hua Ying whispered, “Something that precious… no matter who sent it, we should take it to Uncle…”
“No!” Liu Wu cut her off sharply. “Who knows which degenerate sent it? We’ll give it to Master for judgment!”
Hua Ying hesitated, then, reluctantly, she nodded. “…Fine. It’s not our place to meddle in our elders’ affairs.”
And with that, the two gathered the fragments and the letter and turned toward the Main Hall.
Feng Qingyun watched it all unfold. And in that instant, like lightning splitting the sky, he understood everything. So that was why, in his previous life, Mu Hanyang’s hostility toward Long Yin had always been so fierce. Because he’d known.
He’d known the Demon Emperor had come to the wedding.
The priceless Celestial Jade had been smashed to dust. And Feng Qingyun of that lifetime hadn’t seen either the shards nor the letter. Mu Hanyang must have hidden them all away. And centuries later, Long Yin had searched for another piece of jade, sparing no effort to find something even better. He then carved a new hairpin with his own hands and placed it quietly upon Feng Qingyun’s desk.
And once again, within mere seconds, Feng Qingyun had shattered it.
Peach blossoms, burning bright. But those fiery feelings, like the peach blossom hairpin itself, were ground to dust. Unseen, unloved, and unspoken.
And yet Long Yin, through all of it, had never uttered a word of complaint.
The past cannot be mended, Feng Qingyun thought, but the future can still be redeemed.
In this life, Long Yin had already fulfilled his long-held wish, but after all the pain his Little Rose had endured, every regret, every sorrow from the last life, Long Yin decided to bear them alone.
Feng Qingyun looked at the now-empty platform.
Morning sunlight poured down like molten gold, and beneath its glow, a thousand indescribable aches and tenderness welled in his chest. Tears streamed freely, blurring his vision so much that he didn’t even notice when the world began to change again.
When he finally lifted his gaze, he found himself sitting on a crimson wedding bed. The tears froze on his cheeks, and he blinked, dazed, then looked around.
The same familiar, festive bedchamber. The same twin candles, one dragon and one phoenix, burning halfway down. Once, he had dreamed endlessly of that wedding night. Now, surrounded by all that vivid red, it felt like a mockery.
Feng Qingyun stood abruptly. The scarlet robes swept behind him as he stormed out of the room. As for Mu Hanyan, angered by the previous night’s argument over Feng Qingyun’s “filthy desires”, was nowhere to be found.
Meanwhile, Liu Wu and Hua Ying, still clutching the jade fragments and the note, had searched the entire palace in vain. When they turned a corner, they nearly collided head-on with a figure draped in blood-red wedding silk, his eyes rimmed with crimson.
For a heartbeat, both of them froze.
Feng Qingyun looked almost too beautiful, like a celestial bride stolen by another man, fragile, humiliated, and breathtaking. Liu Wu went rigid, stunned to the core, but when he finally recovered, his first instinct was to hide the letter behind his back.
“M–Martial Uncle, you… Why are you…” But he didn’t finish. The next second, Feng Qingyun’s hand swung out, and the slap echoed, sharp as thunder.
The entire world seemed to fall silent. Liu Wu stared at him, dumbfounded, his hand pressed to his cheek.
“…Martial… Uncle?!”
But Feng Qingyun didn’t have time to respond. Light flickered between his fingers, and with a single gesture, he snatched the folded paper straight from Liu Wu’s storage ring.
Hua Ying also gasped while trembling, but Feng Qingyun didn’t even look at them. Clutching the letter, he took off at a run. Wrapped in his blood-red robes, he poured every ounce of spiritual power into his flight, racing in the direction Long Yin had gone.
He thought, if he moved fast enough, he might just catch him. But he had barely cleared the sect’s gate when, not even ten steps beyond the mountain path, he saw him. Long Yin stood among the trees at the foot of the hill, startled as if by fate itself. He turned, and their eyes met.
For a moment, neither could move.
In the shallow light, Feng Qingyun’s wedding robes blazed scarlet. Tears glistened at the corners of his eyes, his beauty so fragile it hurt to look at. Long Yin’s heart lurched. “Did Mu Hanyang hurt you?!!” he blurted. But the instant he said it, he froze, realizing he had no right to ask.
Feng Qingyun said nothing. He only shook his head and nodded, and then shook it again, tears falling faster, one after another. Each drop struck like a hammer against Long Yin’s chest. He stood there, helpless, until he glimpsed the crumpled note in Feng Qingyun’s hand.
“…He found what I left behind, didn’t he? And because of that, you quarreled?”
Feng Qingyun shook his head again, tears spilling freely.
Even the heart demon of Sorrow would have softened at that sight. Long Yin’s voice lowered, tender, almost afraid to breathe. “Then… what happened?”
Feng Qingyun still didn’t answer. He only stood there, crying, while in his mind a question churned.
Why, when the Demon Emperor could cross a thousand miles in a step, had he chosen to walk this road, one footstep at a time?
Was he… hoping someone would stop him? But in that past life, no one had. Long Yin had left the mountain alone and returned to the Demon World alone, as if nothing had ever happened.
And when Feng Qingyun saw him again, the world had already fallen. Long Yin’s arm was severed, and the Heavens collapsed. In the end, he’d traded his own life and soul for a single fragile chance at survival. He’d spent a lifetime trying to make amends, to rewrite that nightmare of dying together under the ruined mountain. But the dragon God only wanted his beloved to live, for his bride to ascend alongside the one he loved, whoever that might be.
Everything else, even himself, meant nothing.
Whereas now, Feng Qingyun stood before him in scarlet silk, tears gleaming in his eyes, crying for who knows how long. At last, he wiped his face, drew a trembling breath, and whispered, “…Weren’t you here to steal the bride?”
Long Yin froze. His throat tightened, but no words came. And Feng Qingyun, as if not expecting an answer, lifted his hand toward him in the golden morning light.
All the bitterness of two lifetimes melted into sweetness. Through his tears, he smiled faintly, his hand still extended, as if fulfilling an old, unfinished dream.
“Then take me,” he said.
“I’ll go with you.”
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