Chapter 59: The Tribulations of Love (Part 1)

 

Ying Yuanjun was completely blind.

She remembered his eyes — clear and dark, the kind that were actually pleasant to look at when he wasn't being insufferable. Now he kept them closed when he could, and when he opened them they were faintly gray and unfocused, directed at nothing. His face was scarred on the left side. His immortal powers were sealed. On bad days the fire poison seized him completely — she had watched it happen once, his jaw clenched, silent and rigid, weathering something she could not see — and when he came back he turned toward her and said, quietly, "Why are you still here? You shouldn't come back."

She lingered. "There's hardly anyone else at the Edge of the Earth. If I don't come to talk to you, I'll suffocate."

He seemed to find this helpless. "Fine. Just be careful when the poison flares."

She had many questions about the poison, starting with the most basic: "What is fire poison?"

"From the Blood Eagles of the Demon Realm. They form from the blood of evil gods. When they attack, they release fire of a particular kind." He opened his eyes and looked at nothing. His voice was even. "That's why I can't see. The light went slowly — I watched it go, over days, and tried to pretend nothing was happening. By the time anyone noticed, the poison had already gone deep."

He had nearly killed several celestial maidens and immortal lords during the episodes since. He had come here to prevent that from happening again.

"Can it be treated?"

"Perhaps. But even Linghua Yuanjun can't find a way." A pause. "I'm not in such a bad state."

She did not think that was accurate.

Back at the Edge of the Earth, she went through the ancient texts. Nothing on Blood Eagles. She tried different categories — demonic beasts, heavenly fire, unusual poisons. Nothing.

---

The bamboo curtain moved in the breeze. Wind chimes somewhere in the courtyard. She turned and saw the sandalwood incense burner by the window — mythical beast pattern, pale smoke rising from it — and stood there for a moment.

Her master had been inexplicably short-tempered after returning from the Demon Realm. She had assumed it was grief. But she was thinking now about how a sandalwood burner had helped him, and whether the same fragrance might—

She stopped herself. Her master she understood. She had plucked her own petals for her master without hesitation because that was the natural order of things — he had raised and taught her, and what she had to give was small compared to that. But Ying Yuanjun was an irrelevant person. She owed him nothing. It would be strange to harm herself for an irrelevant person.

She could not follow this reasoning to a satisfying conclusion, so she went to Suspended Heart Cliff instead.

The Antarctic Immortal was standing by the lotus pond muttering. As she got closer she could hear him: Alas, it's almost time for him to transform. This nine-finned fish shouldn't cause trouble; it's better if it stays a fish its whole life—

Are there actually fish in the world that cause trouble?

"Immortal, how much longer before the Nine-Finned Fish transforms?"

He turned, pleased to have an audience. "About six more months. Do you know how much effort I put into getting the last one from the Jade Emperor? I've raised it all these years and it hasn't laid a single egg. I arranged a whole pond of female fish for company and not one of them has achieved enlightenment—" He gestured broadly at the water. "Look at this pond! Long, flat, short, slender — every kind of female fish imaginable. Nothing."

"It takes time," Yan Dan offered carefully. "And perhaps this fish has different preferences from others."

"I thought of that. I put a male fish in. Nothing changed, except the male fish started flirting with it."

The Antarctic Immortal left, feeling better.

Yan Dan crouched by the pond. After a while, the small dark fish with red eyes emerged from the water and looked at her.

"I didn't bring books today," she said.

The fish flicked its tail and went back under.

"I've read you dozens of books. Dozens. At least acknowledge the effort." The pond stayed calm except for the tiger-whiskered fish making its usual rounds. She stood up, slightly annoyed. She had grown accustomed to some response from the little fish — even disdain was a response, a kind of acknowledgment. Lately even the disdain had stopped. Clearly and specifically: not likable.

She turned away, and found herself thinking: what she chose to do was no one else's business. Why should she require permission?

---

The next day, she brought Ying Yuanjun a sandalwood incense burner.

The calming lotus fragrance spread through the clearing. He went still when he smelled it.

"Have the lotus flowers bloomed recently? At the Jade Pool?"

The blooming season was long past. He had been here long enough to lose track of time.

"Yes," she said, without detail.

He was quiet for a moment. "Would you describe them?"

She considered this. "You can still smell them. Hear the wind in them. Touch them, if you came close enough. You've seen them before — you'll still remember the color."

He smiled slightly. "The best lotus I ever saw was two hundred years ago."

He didn't say more. She didn't ask.

He was thinking, in fact, of the Jade Pool Festival — a small lotus that had transformed completely unexpectedly, emerging as an uncoordinated infant in the middle of a grand gathering, crawling through the lily pads. He had assumed he'd forgotten it. It seemed he hadn't.

The same creature, a hundred years later, had been standing under a lamp in the Yanxu Palace in a snow-white ice-silk robe, reading. He had assumed from the attire that she was the fairy Zhi Xi. When he approached, she hid the book behind her back with the reflexive guilt of someone who knew they weren't supposed to have it.

"The Four Dreams of Linjiang," he'd said. "Emperor Zixu brought it from the mortal realm. It's a unique copy. Don't damage it."

She'd accepted this without arguing.

He'd paused on his way out. Turned back. "Do you think the romantic entanglements in mortal plays are real?"

Zhi Xi had thought about it carefully. "I believe they are, Your Majesty. Many things don't go as planned. That's why there are so many bitter mistakes in those stories."

He had smiled and said nothing.

He believed it too — that whatever the play depicted had its source in something true. But discussing mortal emotions in the Heavenly Court was contrary to the path of cultivation, and Zhi Xi was young. He had lived long enough that he no longer knew what permanent felt like. Mortal feelings didn't survive unchanged through everything life did to them. Nothing did.

---

Several days later, her true form was noticeably balder than it had been.

She finally said what she'd been thinking: "Have you really not considered leaving here?"

"Why would I leave?" He seemed genuinely uncertain about the question.

"I've been thinking. This is the edge of the Nine Heavens, and almost no one comes here. There's an empty house behind the Earthly Palace — that's better than being chained to a tree, isn't it? And I checked the ancient texts: the Kunlun Divine Tree grows by absorbing spiritual energy. Eventually it drains whoever is bound to it completely. You'd give everything you have to an ugly tree that doesn't need it."

He was quiet.

She knew she had found the right argument — not the sentimental one, but the logical one. This was also partly thanks to the agarwood she'd been bringing; he had been having fewer episodes, was more lucid than before. She would find it a genuine waste if he died out here.

"Then let's try," he said finally. "If it doesn't work, we can come back."

"It will work. The episodes have been getting less frequent—"

He raised one wrist with what seemed like minimal effort, and the branches and vines binding his hands and feet simply loosened.

She stared.

He could have done this at any time.

He just hadn't wanted to.

He bent down, felt along the ground, and picked up a long iron lock. "The Immortal Binding Lock stays on. Don't forget."

She said she wouldn't forget, stepped forward, and took his arm.

He must have been in considerable pain wearing the lock. He didn't mention it.

She thought, walking beside him: she had been enjoying talking to him. She hoped he would recover. If this was only pity, why was she so willing?

She felt something was off about herself. She had become, without noticing it, uncommonly patient and gentle with this specific person.

And the conclusion, she thought, wouldn't be what she wanted.