Chapter 12: Her Past

Dusk deepened. 

The last sliver of sunlight was swallowed by heavy clouds, and the winter chill suddenly turned sharp, like countless fine ice needles piercing through soaked clothes straight into the marrow.

Even circulating the bit of inner force within him to ward off the cold, Nanxi could not stop his teeth from chattering. 

The skin exposed to the air had gone numb from freezing.

He glanced at the dragon girl in the pool—who seemed utterly unaffected by the cold—hesitated a moment, then spoke.

“Miss Ao, can dragons breathe fire?”

Ao Xian had been gazing absently at the darkening sky. 

At his words, she turned her face. 

Her golden-brown vertical pupils stood out clearly in the twilight.

“Of course we can. The dragon race is born mastering water, fire, wind, and lightning. Breathing fire is merely the crudest trick.” 

She raised a brow. 

“What, can’t stand the cold anymore? Want to borrow a flame?”

Nanxi nodded awkwardly, then shook his head. “No need to borrow one. 

I just thought—if you can, it proves there’s no taboo against fire around here.”

As he spoke, he stood, loosening his stiff, frozen limbs. 

He walked to the edge of the peach grove and selected several dead old trees.

Clang—

The Daoist sword he had picked up slid from its sheath. 

Sword light flashed in the dim grove, followed by several crisp cracking sounds. 

Soon he returned hugging armfuls of dry branches of varying thickness.

He chose a sheltered, dry spot by the pool, skillfully crumbling fine dry moss and leaves into tinder, building a loose conical pile with thinner branches, then framing coarser ones around the outside.

Finished, he looked at Ao Xian. 

The dragon girl understood. 

Without visible effort, she parted her cherry lips and gently exhaled.

A thin strand of flame—crimson-gold threaded with cyan-blue—landed precisely on the tinder.

The fire sprang up abruptly, swiftly devouring the dry kindling and greedily climbing the branches with cheerful crackles.

Warmth arrived with the crackling.

Nanxi let out a long breath, nearly moaning in relief.

He quickly drew closer to the fire, stretching out his frost-reddened hands to feel the tangible heat gradually driving away the bone-piercing cold. 

He removed all his soaked outer garments except his underclothes and propped them near the flames. 

Steam began rising in white wisps, lingering in the firelight.

The glow also illuminated Ao Xian. 

She remained half-submerged but had moved closer to the shore. 

The firelight coated her pale skin in a warm hue.

Her jet-black scales and crystalline dragon horns reflected the dancing golden-red light. 

Those inhuman traits seemed somehow softened in the warm glow.

She gazed quietly at the burning flames, two tiny fires mirrored in her vertical pupils. 

She too appeared lost in thought.

The crackle of burning wood became the only melody in the silent peach grove, occasionally punctuated by the sharp pop of splitting timber.

After a long while—perhaps the quiet and firelight settled the mind, or perhaps the sight of Nanxi focused on warming himself, his profile alternating between light and shadow, reminded her of something—Ao Xian suddenly spoke. 

Her voice no longer carried its earlier thorns.

“Hey, kid.”

Nanxi raised his eyes and looked at her through the flames.

Ao Xian’s gaze shifted from the fire to the boy’s face, then back to the flames.

“It’s only just dark. Sitting here doing nothing is boring. Do you want to hear how I ended up in this sorry state—trapped in this stifling pool for two whole centuries?”

Nanxi paused. 

The chill was fading from his body, but the confusion in his heart, along with his curiosity about this mysterious dragon girl, had not.

Here by this remote, lonely pool, facing a campfire with a non-human who seemed willing to confide, listening to a story that might far exceed his imagination felt like the natural thing to do.

He poked the fire to make it burn brighter and nodded.

“Go ahead.”

Ao Xian’s lips twitched almost imperceptibly. 

She adjusted her position, leaning back against a rock warmed slightly by the firelight, her gaze fixed deep into the leaping flames.

“I come from the deep sea in the far north. There are palaces built of crystal, endless cold currents, and magnificent plays of light and shadow. My mother rules that vast domain.”

She paused, as if choosing her words.

“In the family, I rank third. Thus the aquatic folk all called me the Third Princess.”

Nanxi held his breath. Though he had guessed something of the sort, hearing this mythical background firsthand still sent a jolt through him. 

Dragon King, princess, underwater dragon palace—the weight of those words far surpassed the narrow world he had known in his twelve years.

“That was long ago—three generations of your human lifespan.”

Ao Xian continued, her tone calm yet carrying an innate sense of vicissitude. 

“I remember it was roughly the end of your histories’ Great Sheng dynasty. I was young then. In your human years, perhaps not much older than you are now. Proud and arrogant, unable to bear the slightest restraint.”

Her gaze drifted slightly, as if seeing her younger self through the flames.

“Over a small matter, I had a fierce argument with my mother. I felt she controlled everything, rigid and strict. She thought me willful and reckless, ignorant of the world’s height and depth. In a fit of anger, I secretly left the dragon palace, following ocean currents and waterways southward all the way to these Central Plains.”

“Everything here was utterly different from the northern seas.”

A trace of faint nostalgia entered her voice.

“No near-eternal darkness or bitter cold, no towering icebergs or treacherous abysses. 

What met the eye were rolling green mountains, rushing great rivers, fertile plains, and densely clustered human towns like anthills. I found it novel—and amusing.”

Nanxi’s heart lifted slightly.

“I swam along several famous rivers, seeing orderly homes on both banks, boats coming and going, prosperous daily life. Somehow, the violent nature of dragons surged within me.”

Ao Xian’s pace remained steady, but dark currents seemed to stir deep in her golden-brown pupils.

“Suddenly I wanted to test how great a storm my power could raise in this densely populated land. At first it was mere play—stirring waves to rock boats, urging currents to erode embankments, watching mortals panic and flee. I found it quite entertaining.”

Her narration paused briefly here, only the firewood crackling.

“But I underestimated human fragility—and overestimated my own control.”

Her voice lowered.

“Or rather, caught up in the excitement, I stopped caring. A flood—unleashed in a moment of full, carefree exertion—breached carefully built river defenses, overflowed low fields, swallowed villages whose people could not flee in time, and even surged toward greater cities.”

“By the time I came slightly to my senses from that wanton thrill, before me was a vast expanse of turbid water. Cries and pleas for help were drowned by roaring waves. Countless lives struggled and vanished in the muddy flood.”

In the peach grove, only the wind and fire remained, along with some complex emotion hidden beneath her calm.

A chill climbed Nanxi’s spine. 

He hoped it was from the weather.

“And then?” Nanxi heard his own voice, very dry.

“Then,” Ao Xian continued, her tone returning to detached indifference, “a sword immortal passing through noticed the abnormality of the flood—and discovered me.”