Chapter 125: News of Qin Shuying

That was just her illusion.

Shen Mo remained unmoved.

“Master’s Husband.”

No response.

“Master’s Husband.”

Still no response.

Chao’er turned around, the distance between the two of them so close there was almost no gap.

From this angle looking up, she could see the line of Shen Mo’s jaw and the rolling movement of his Adam’s apple.

“Master’s Husband is angry.” she said.

Shen Mo didn’t look at her.

His gaze fell into the thick darkness in the depths of the corner, his pupils seeming to be separated by an invisible membrane that reflected nothing.

Chao’er’s voice grew stubborn, carrying a childlike persistence, “This is what Master’s Husband looks like when angry. Not talking, not looking at anyone, nothing you ask does any good. When this disciple made a mistake and was punished to copy books, Master’s Husband was exactly like this.”

“Not talking, not looking at the disciple, and when asked if angry, saying no. But this disciple knows Master’s Husband is angry, because when Master’s Husband is angry, the left eyebrow is a little higher than the right one.”

Shen Mo’s left eyebrow was a little higher than his right.

Chao’er understood him better than he thought. For seven years she had followed behind him like a little tail.

He thought she just lacked a sense of security, never realizing that in every moment he was unaware of, she was watching him.

Remembering the line patterns at the corners of his eyes when he laughed, remembering the way he rubbed his brow when tired, remembering that his left eyebrow rose a little higher than his right when angry.

Things even Su Wan’er didn’t know, she knew.

Shen Mo had nothing to say.

Of course he should be angry.

He wished he could kill her with a single sword strike.

Chao’er waited for a while, but nothing more came.

“This disciple knows Master’s Husband hates her.” her voice grew very soft, so soft it was like she was talking to herself, “This disciple also knows that what she did, Master’s Husband will never forgive. But this disciple had no other choice.”

“I know I was wrong,” her voice shattered into pieces, “but I can’t control it. When I see her holding Master’s Husband’s hand, when I see the way you look at her, disciple’s here——”

She pulled out her other hand and pounded her chest hard, producing a dull thud, “It hurts so much here, hurts like someone is carving it out with a knife. This disciple doesn’t want to hurt, but she can’t stop.”

She lifted her tear-streaked face.

“Master’s Husband, am I broken?”

Shen Mo didn’t answer.

The bed in the western wing room was very wide. Su Wan’er lay at the innermost side, Shen Mo in the middle, and Chao’er at the outermost edge.

The three lay side by side. Pale green light spilled from the copper lamps in the four corners, casting the ginkgo leaf embroidery on the bed canopy top onto all three faces.

The two women slept soundly.

Su Wan’er’s respiration was steady and slow; Chao’er’s breath was light and shallow.

Only Shen Mo’s breathing was disordered, because Chao’er’s hand was resting on his lower abdomen, her small foot dependently pressing against a certain part.

Over the following days, Shen Mo passed through a strange kind of calm.

Calling it calm wasn’t quite accurate.

It was more like the suffocating stillness before a storm, when the air pressure drops and all sounds fall silent.

You know thunder is brewing behind the clouds, but before the crack of lightning, the air is frozen, the leaves don’t move, and even your own breathing is pressed down very, very light.

Chao’er’s mood was obviously good.

The demonic cultivators in the front courtyard whispered among themselves, saying the Old Ancestor seemed like a different person these days.

She no longer furrowed her brow when reviewing documents, no longer slammed people into desks during sect reports, and even during the routine morning patrol, her steps carried a light rhythm, as if she was stepping to a beat only she could hear.

Only Blood Orchid knew the reason.

Every morning when she brought tea into the inner courtyard, she would see Shen Mo sitting at the stone table under the ginkgo tree.

Chao’er sat on a stool beside his leg—not a chair, a stool.

A head shorter than a chair. Once seated, the top of her head just reached Shen Mo’s knee.

This height difference was not arranged casually.

Blood Orchid had lived a long time and seen many things.

She could tell at a glance that Chao’er had chosen it herself, as if to facilitate certain private games.

Of course, sometimes the two would also play Go properly.

The Go board was an old item Chao’er had dug out of the treasury, made of fragrant wood, the pieces in the containers polished smooth as jade.

Shen Mo played white, Chao’er played black.

Her play style was like her personality—on the surface, scattered here and there like a child fooling around, but as the game went on, those scattered black stones would suddenly connect into a formation, strangling the white dragon into nothing.

Shen Mo lost more than he won.

Every time she won, Chao’er would tilt her head up to look at him, eyes sparkling, corners of her mouth curved, saying nothing.

As if waiting for something.

Shen Mo would then reach out and gently press her crown.

Just one press.

She would lower her head in satisfaction and gather the pieces one by one back into the container, her fingertips lifting the stones with a little bounce of joy.

Sometimes it was writing.

Chao’er ground the ink; Shen Mo wrote.

What he wrote wasn’t scriptures or classics, but medicine prescriptions—Su Wan’er’s injuries were improving slowly every day, unusually quickly, and correspondingly Shen Mo was unusually drained. Many people assumed the Old Ancestor was responsible.

Shen Mo adjusted the prescription according to her daily pulse changes, adding one ingredient, removing another, recording each dosage adjustment in neat small regular script.

Chao’er lay on the table edge watching him write, her gaze moving from the brush tip to his fingers, from his fingers to his wrist bone, from his wrist bone to his profile, then stopping there, like a little cat crouching on a windowsill watching raindrops drip from the eaves, focused and quiet.

When Shen Mo finished a page, she would take it, hold it up to the light to look at the still-wet ink, then use her fingertip to trace along his strokes in the air.

Tracing very slowly, as if memorizing a text.

Not the content of the prescription, but the arc of his wrist as he wrote.

More often, they did nothing at all.

Shen Mo sat under the ginkgo tree flipping through , while Chao’er sat on the stool, back against his calf, eyes closed soaking up the sun (the sunlight was projected in by a magical tool—a luxury this far underground).

Ginkgo leaves fell on her hair; she didn’t brush them off. They fell into the folds of her sleepwear on her shoulders; she didn’t move either.

Shen Mo’s page-turning hand would occasionally pause to gently pluck a leaf from the top of her head.

When his fingers touched her hair strands, her eyelashes would tremble, and she would lean more tightly against his calf.

Once, Blood Orchid came in with tea and saw Chao’er curled up asleep on the stool.

Her head tilted, nestled into the hollow between his knee and calf, enclosed by his leg and robe hem into a small corner just big enough for her alone.

Her fingers clutched a small corner of his robe hem—the exact same posture as the year she first arrived at Jiaoyue Peak, when she had nightmares at night and ran to his room, curling up on the footrest clutching the hem of his clothes.

Shen Mo held a book in his left hand, his right hand hanging at his side, the back of it gently pressed against her hair.

Not stroking, just pressing.

As if afraid of waking her, or as if confirming she was there.

Blood Orchid set down the teapot and silently withdrew.

Stepping out past the hanging flower gate, she clicked her tongue in private amazement.

The demonic cultivators in the underground palace had increasingly nuanced attitudes toward this new favorite of the Old Ancestor—fear tinged with a hint of envy.

After all, being able to draw out such a pleasant side of the unpredictable, ruthless Nangong Old Ancestor was itself an inconceivable ability.

They only hated that they weren’t born male, unable to win the Old Ancestor’s favor.

Even Shen Mo’s occasional errands—sending Blood Orchid to fetch medicine or request some trivial items—met with far less resistance these days.

During these days, Chao’er never mentioned the matter of male yin essence.

Not because she had forgotten, but because she was waiting.

Waiting for a moment she believed would come naturally.

In her imagination, these days of accompanying each other from dawn to dusk, of close intimate contact, would slowly soften Shen Mo’s heart like the shifting light and shadow beneath the ginkgo tree.

She didn’t want him to hand it over under duress; she wanted him to give it willingly.

She had already rehearsed the scene in her mind countless times—some evening, the setting sun staining the ginkgo leaves gold and red, she kneeling before him, tilting her head up, using the tone he could never refuse, saying: Master’s Husband, won’t you give your yin essence to this disciple?

Then he would look down at her, his gaze carrying all the tenderness accumulated over these days.

He would nod.

He definitely would.

She had traced this image too many times, every detail vivid down to the smallest degree.

The angle of the light, the shadow cast by his eyelashes, the movement of his Adam’s apple when he nodded, even how many tears she would shed at that moment.

She had calculated it all.

The only thing she hadn’t calculated was Blood Orchid’s Shadow Hall hurriedly pushing open the hanging flower gate at dusk on the fifth day, carrying news that brought all her expectations to an abrupt halt.

The Shadow Hall was the department dedicated to gathering intelligence.

When they arrived, their footsteps were heavy and uniform, striking the blue brick floor of the covered corridor, each step carrying a deliberately suppressed grimness.

Shen Mo walked to the window and looked out through the gaps in the lattice.

About a dozen people, all unfamiliar faces.

What hung at their waists wasn’t ordinary magical tools, but uniform pitch-black straight swords, scabbards carved with an identical pattern—a half-blooming tanhua flower.

Exactly the same pattern as the jade pendant in Chao’er’s hand.

Blood Orchid stopped under the ginkgo tree.

The dozen or so women arrayed themselves in two rows behind her, as orderly as an unfolded fan.

Chao’er knew something major had happened.

She had changed into a different set of clothes—a sharp, dark black long robe, its surface embroidered with large tanhua patterns in dark silver thread, spreading from the hem all the way up to the collar.

Her long hair was no longer loose but tied high, fixed at the back of her head with a jade hairpin.

The head of the pin was also carved with a tanhua flower.

This was the first time Shen Mo saw Chao’er like this.

On her face was the composure of one in power.

Blood Orchid knelt on one knee.

The dozen or so women behind her knelt on one knee simultaneously.

The movements were perfectly synchronized, knees striking the blue brick floor with a single dull, resonant thud.

“How many corpse puppets has Yun Fuling refined so far?” Chao’er asked.

Her voice was still a young girl’s voice, but the tone, the rhythm, the placement of breath pauses had changed, like a sharp blade being drawn from its sheath.

Blood Orchid answered:

“Twenty-three corpse puppets have been confirmed appearing in the city. Thirteen were slain by Qin Shuying leading loose cultivators, four were shredded by Han Yi’s sword light, and the remaining six retreated with Yun Fuling into the underground channel west of the city.”

“Additionally, according to intelligence from our agents, although the Ten Thousand Soul Banner Formation’s eye outside the city was breached at one corner by the Tianheng Sect’s Great Elder, the ‘sub-array’ Yun Fuling laid in advance is still operating. Beneath the western underground channel, at least ten more corpse puppets are currently being refined.”

“And Chu Yi?”