Cold, hard, round, and flat.
Liao Tingyan snapped her fingers, summoning a small ball of light. She pulled the object closer for inspection. It turned out to be a face-sized mirror, its edges carved with intricate patterns that exuded an antique charm. It looked expensive—valuable, even.
Holding it up, she found both sides reflective, but equally blurry. Clearly, it wasn’t just an ordinary mirror. Curious, she glanced at Sima Jiao.
“How do you use this?” she asked.
Sima Jiao’s long, pale fingers—beautiful in a way that almost distracted her—took the mirror. With a few effortless movements, he split it into two.
“As long as there’s spiritual energy, no matter how far apart they are—even ten thousand miles—you can see what’s happening on the other side.”
Liao Tingyan kept her face neutral. Honestly? She wasn’t that impressed. Sure, this world had flying cultivators and casual weather manipulation, but… modern tech still won. A smartphone, with Wi-Fi and apps, could do the same thing—show faraway images, with way better resolution, plus messaging, music, and games. She stared at the fuzzy mirror surface. Yeah, definitely worse than a phone.
Sima Jiao noticed her lack of enthusiasm. His expression darkened. Without hesitation, he snapped one of the mirrors in half.
Liao Tingyan: “???”
She quickly tucked the surviving piece away before this dangerous ancestor destroyed that too.
“If you don’t like it, break it,” he said flatly.
“I like it, I like it!” she blurted out, panicking. Heaven help me, does he think gifts are supposed to be broken? What is this, elementary school-level gift-giving logic?
Sima Jiao narrowed his eyes, clearly unconvinced. With his truth-compelling aura, he pressed again, “Do you like this thing?”
“I like it,” she repeated, though her mind was full of question marks. What is wrong with you, ancestor? Why waste your truth buff on this? Before, you’d threaten to kill people over lies. Now you’re sulking because someone might not like your present? When did you get downgraded?
The whole situation felt off—like they were being dragged straight into the transmigrator-must-fall-in-love trope. Liao Tingyan steadied herself. No. Romance needs two people. As long as I don’t move, nothing happens.
Unfortunately, that was exactly when Sima Jiao tugged her closer and kissed her.
His lips brushed hers lightly, drawing on her upper lip, their noses brushing together. The kiss was slow, lingering—intimate.
Liao Tingyan: “…Stay steady. I can hold on for another second.”
His breath mingled with hers. The sharpness in his eyes softened, his lips curving in a faint smile.
One cold hand cupped her chin and ear, the other pressed the back of her head, holding her in place. His grip didn’t allow retreat. Her scalp tingled—whether from instinctive tension or the way he kept nibbling her lips like a determined kissing fish, she wasn’t sure.
What unsettled her most was how natural he looked—like being this close, this intimate, was inevitable.
His scent carried traces of dew and flowers from the courtyard, threaded faintly with blood. This was a man who had likely killed someone not long ago, yet here he was, kissing her as if nothing mattered. She should have felt fear. Instead, her heart trembled with a dangerous thrill.
And something else. Something she didn’t want to name.
Am I a pervert now? she wondered. Have I shifted alignment from chaotic neutral to chaotic evil?
What followed was inevitable. They engaged in soul communion once more.
If last time had been a confused accident, this time it was deliberate—Sima Jiao dragging her under like a water ghost, impossible to escape.
The experience was intoxicating. Not just physically, but soul-deep—an exhilaration that felt like soaring through endless blue skies without worry. Even afterward, the lingering calm and security remained.
For someone who had treated transmigration as a “vacation,” there was always a shadow of loneliness. But during these moments, that loneliness faded, replaced by the presence of someone more irritable, more solitary than herself.
She felt safe. Safe enough to sleep without worrying about tomorrow, safe enough to forget she was alone.
Soul communion was oddly fair. Unlike the imbalance of physical intimacy, this exchange was mutual—equal. She could feel Sima Jiao’s moods washing over her, overwhelming in their intensity.
Even in his softness, he was sharp enough to wound. His soul carried too much power. When she faltered, his cold fingers massaged the back of her head, as if soothing her. For him, it was probably nothing. For her, it felt dangerously close to… doting.
The next morning, she woke refreshed—then immediately covered her face. Did he use some kind of lust-inducing spell last night? Why did I completely lose control?
She replayed fragments she wished she could forget. Halfway through, she had clung to his neck, making noises she didn’t even recognize as her own. His lips had been red, his eyes darker than night, whispering sounds meant to soothe.
Stop. Don’t think about it. Thinking about it is like remembering your first date.
Beside her, Sima Jiao stole her pillow, curling around her like a cat in the sun. Relaxed, harmless—almost cute. Almost.
Liao Tingyan: “…What am I thinking? Rub his belly? He doesn’t even have fur!”
Her chaotic thoughts must’ve been too loud, because Sima Jiao finally opened his eyes, reaching for her. She dodged—only to smack her head against something hard.
The mirror.
Forgotten all night, it now resurfaced.
“If it’s useless, throw it away,” Sima Jiao muttered, utterly oblivious to the concept of poverty.
“It’s a pity one’s broken,” she said. “If there were more pieces, it could’ve been useful.”
She imagined it aloud: mirrors placed everywhere, their images funneled into one—like live-streaming. One in the sect’s square to watch disciples spar, one in the bustling marketplace, one in the mountains among wildlife… instant entertainment.
Sima Jiao actually paused, considering her words. Then, after a moment, he said, “Not bad.”
He took the mirror, tracing its complex patterns.
Half a month later, after some mysterious absence, he handed it back.
“Look.”
Liao Tingyan took it. He tapped the surface. Ripples spread, and suddenly she was seeing Three Saints Mountain. The towers rebuilt, the palaces alive with activity, masters deep in discussion.
Tap. The view shifted to White Deer Cliff. Misty palaces, tense cultivators on patrol.
Intrigued, she experimented—rotating the view, scanning in all directions. Each scene changed with spiritual energy input.
Charred mountains. Bustling markets. A lake with white, fluffy spirit beasts and birds skimming the surface. A performance hall full of dancers. Even a kitchen alive with twenty chefs preparing dishes.
Channel after channel. A whole lineup of live streams.
Liao Tingyan was moved. The ancestor actually understands me!
“This is what you wanted?” he asked.
“That’s right. It’s perfect. Watching this kind of thing passes the time—and it’s hypnotic.”
Sima Jiao only grunted, unimpressed, watching chefs pull dishes from steamers.
“What else do you want?” he asked casually.
Liao Tingyan froze. Oh no. He’s got that domineering-ancestor-gives-you-anything look. We’re about to enter the “Domineering Tyrant and His Little Consort” script…
NEXT
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