The platform seethed with hidden currents, each leader silently weighing schemes behind their calm faces. To Liao Tingyan, it was nothing more than a nap. Yet her casual slumber had drawn every eye.
Shi Qianlü, in particular, grew convinced. A woman who could win over Sima Jiao could not possibly be so guileless. To fall asleep now, of all times, just as the Clear Valley Heaven disciples fought below—this was no accident. It was a perfect evasion of his test. She must be deep, calculating, far more dangerous than she appeared.
Such a woman was no ordinary branch disciple. His prior investigations had turned up nothing unusual—mere luck, it seemed, had carried her here. But now doubts sharpened again. He quietly ordered his men to dig deeper. She was a variable, and one he must seize before another faction did.
From the back row, Yuan Shang watched in silence. Few spared him a glance, given his reclusive ways, but he saw everything. Daoist Lord Cizang’s indulgence toward this woman—it was beyond what he had ever hoped. His heart thrilled with triumph. Perhaps Heaven itself was aiding him. If he could control her, revenge on Gengchen Immortal Manor would finally be within reach.
By nightfall, a letter, sweet with fragrance and painted with flowers, slipped into her meal:
Tonight, at midnight, by the Blue Glow Flowers. I’ll be waiting.
To any outsider, it reeked of romance, a moonlit tryst. Liao Tingyan stared, horrified. The original owner’s lover? A secret affair? Cold sweat dampened her palms. She wasn’t the original—how could she go?
When the letter dissolved into drifting petals, she let them scatter, deciding firmly: she would not go.
But Yuan Shang waited beneath the Blue Glow Flowers, his schemes elaborate—treasures prepared, heavenly eyes blinded, certainty burning in his chest. When she did not come, his triumph curdled into rage. He crushed one of the bells tied to her life, the sinister Demon Realm technique meant to ensure loyalty.
Far away, Liao Tingyan woke in agony, clutching her stomach. Not her period. Not an illness. A pain like before—razors twisting in her organs. Desperate, she dragged herself toward Sima Jiao’s hall, a pale shadow hunched beneath the crystal lamps.
Inside, White Deer Cliff’s cold pool steamed with mist. Sima Jiao floated motionless, eyes closed.
She reached him just as the bell’s shattering echo tore through her mind. Her world spun. Pain devoured her. She toppled into the pool, choking on blood.
And in that instant, Sima Jiao’s eyes snapped open. He rose in a surge of water and fire, one arm clamping around her waist, dragging her against him as if to tear her back from death itself.
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