Master, Your Salted Fish Has Arrived - Chapter 49
Sima Jiao still didn’t feel there was anything wrong with making Liao Tingyan kill someone—but for the first time, a faint unease tugged at him. This was regret. A strange, novel torment, unlike wounds or fire. It gnawed at him quietly.
Liao Tingyan hadn’t eaten for days. Normally, she’d have two meals without fail—sometimes simple, sometimes extravagant. Now and then, when the mood struck, she would cook herself. He still remembered when she once made something called “hot pot,” filling the room with a rich, lingering aroma. He hadn’t understood what was so special about it, but watching her eat happily had given him an unfamiliar sense of contentment.
Now, seeing her listless, unable to eat or rest, made him far more uncomfortable than she was.
Worse, he had also glimpsed what she called nightmares. Within her spirit mansion, the usual bright skies and drifting clouds had warped into something grotesque. A group of indistinct figures crowded together, slaughtering a pig bound and squealing in agony.
Sima Jiao: “...”
In all his years, he had never seen anything like it. His own spirit mansion, at its darkest, had held mountains of corpses and seas of blood. Yet here was this… surreal, absurd horror. A pig butchered in endless loops. The sound lingered in his mind like an echo.
Of course, this wasn’t her fault. Long before, when she was still a child, she had once witnessed such a scene at her grandmother’s countryside home. That single memory had carved itself so deeply that it now rivaled the trauma of watching him kill. Her subconscious resisted bloodshed, so in her nightmares, the slaughter twisted into that old childhood terror.
When she woke, the first thing she did was put on a face mask. Cultivators didn’t get dark circles, but she still felt fatigued, her face dull and dry.
Sima Jiao reached over and pulled her against him.
Liao Tingyan, hands covering her mask: “???”
Sima Jiao, expression unreadable: “Slaughtering pigs… is frightening?”
She rolled her eyes at the canopy above and kept silent. She knew nothing. Don’t ask.
And he understood—killing pigs wasn’t the real terror, nor killing people. But Liao Tingyan unable to eat or sleep? That was truly frightening.
His sharp features, pale against the shadows, seemed carved from obsidian. When his brows knit in thought, he carried the air of someone pondering life and death.
Liao Tingyan sighed first, trying to soothe him. “I’ll be fine in a few days.”
But waiting wasn’t his way. He was as skilled at making problems as he was at solving them.
Soon, he brought her a jade pillow.
“Use this. Whatever you dream, they’ll be pleasant.”
She turned it over in her hands, remembering a childhood drama with a similar object, though its name escaped her. That night, she tried it. To her surprise, it wasn’t hard at all, but cool and comfortable—and, as promised, effective.
That night, no pig squeals haunted her. Instead, the fragrance of flowers sweetened into something rich, almost like dessert. The sweetness soaked into her spirit until she felt drowsily content.
She dreamed of her birthday: friends and family reunited, laughter filling the room, and a towering cream cake with thick layers. Everyone urged her to cut it, all harmony, all warmth. An impossible perfection. Her mother would never buy such a large cake. Her father’s smile would never be that kind. Her sister was never so obedient. Her friends, scattered far and wide, could never all gather together.
But in the dream, everything was whole.
When she awoke, she whispered, “It’s been so long since I’ve had cream cake. So long since I’ve seen them all.”
“Did you enjoy your dream?” Sima Jiao asked.
She nodded. “Quite happy.” Though in her heart, she recalled the verse: At the time, I thought it was ordinary.
“This pillow works so well. Why don’t you use it yourself?” She traced the carved patterns on its surface. They looked oddly like a long-nosed wild boar.
“It doesn’t work for me,” he said, snorting lightly. Many treasures and medicines had no effect on him.
Liao Tingyan frowned. “Why carve a wild boar on it, then?”
“It’s a dream tapir.”
“That’s the legendary dream tapir?”
“Legends,” Sima Jiao scoffed, “are for those too weak to know the truth.”
They locked eyes in silence before he suddenly rose. “Come. I’ll take you to see dream tapirs.”
Before she could react, he seized her hand and flew off.
“Wait, wait—” Liao Tingyan flailed, clutching her hair. “I haven’t combed my hair! I haven’t changed clothes!”
He stopped, baffled. “Isn’t this how you usually are?”
At home, sure. Out in public? Never. At home, I don’t even wear proper underclothes, she thought bitterly.
After hurriedly throwing on an outer robe and taming her hair, she followed him.
Dream tapirs weren’t common. The few left in the Gengchen Immortal Mansion were kept on Taiwei Mountain, in Sect Leader Shi Qianlü’s private territory.
Hearing this, she asked nervously, “Are we just going like this?”
“We don’t need to bring anything. Not even your little grill,” he said dryly. “Dream tapirs aren’t tasty.”
She gave him a blank look. With him, every question felt pointless.
The closer they drew to the inner court, the more lively it became.
“Is there some big event?” she asked, seeing the bustling crowds.
“Every hundred years, the Gengchen Immortal Mansion holds a grand ceremonial sacrifice,” he replied with a faint smirk. “This year, it coincides with my return from seclusion. Naturally, it will be celebrated—though the palace masters will keep my appearance concealed. For now.”
He didn’t elaborate further, but she sensed what he intended: chaos.
The two slipped easily into Taiwei Mountain. Guards were sparse and lax, this being nothing more than a leisure menagerie. The mountain brimmed with spiritual energy, its grounds divided for various spirit beasts.
At the marsh’s edge, she saw them—short, black-furred, pig-like creatures gulping water.
“They can eat dreams?” she asked.
“I’ve heard so,” he said with arms crossed. “Want to catch one to try?”
“…No.”
He chuckled. “There are prettier beasts deeper in. Pick one.”
It felt like shopping at a mall with someone who insisted you couldn’t leave empty-handed. Still, she admitted she’d like something fluffy to ease her nerves.
So she followed.
When they passed a golden-winged bird, she paused. “That’s the Kong Phoenix, isn’t it?”
He barely glanced at it. “A descendant of the phoenix clan. Most are gone. This may be the last.”
“Then it must be the most precious one here.”
“Anything rare becomes precious,” he said flatly.
They moved on until reaching a cliff veiled with vines and yellow flowers. She plucked one absentmindedly, and the breeze carried it into a deep ravine.
His gaze sharpened instantly.
“What’s—” she began, but he silenced her with a gesture.
He moved forward slowly, reaching into the void. His fingertips convulsed, and the air around them stilled. Birdsong vanished. The silence was crushing.
He returned, face grim.
“Go back,” he said quietly. “In the coming days, no matter what, don’t step into the inner court’s center. Wait for me.”
She simply nodded. “Alright.”
His expression eased slightly. He lifted her wrist, pressed a kiss to it, and let go. “Go.”
After she left, his eyes grew cold again. The ravine hid a barrier—powerful, nearly as strong as the one that sealed the Three Saints Mountain. Shi Qianlü was concealing something, and Sima Jiao meant to uncover it.
He stepped forward, releasing his power. The air cracked, revealing a bridge spanning the ravine to a smaller peak. Mist surged, alive, clawing at his body.
Crimson flames wrapped him. The mist shrieked as it recoiled, revealing swarms of insects—demonic things that devoured flesh and spirit alike. Creatures not of the cultivation world, but of the Demon Realm.