A sliver of moonlight hung tenderly from the night sky.
The room was momentarily silent—so quiet that the only sound was the soft thud-thud of the sword puppet’s body knocking against the wooden window frame, like the flutter of a sparrow struggling in the palm of a hand.
Ye Zhuxu loosened the hand pressing on his right shoulder and tossed the blood-stained handkerchief into a bronze basin, walking directly toward the sword puppet.
They were close, both by the window, only three to five steps apart.
Now, even that distance disappeared as the sword puppet’s comical eyeballs, pulled taut by control threads, stared straight into his downward, sweeping gaze.
He said, “Say it again.”
The sword puppet dared not act out again.
It obediently straightened up and explained with both speech and gestures:
“I checked each one. We of the Wu clan are most sensitive to our master’s aura. If they were by your side, we couldn’t possibly be wrong. There’s only one. Truly.”
After speaking, the sword puppet quickly covered its mouth.
Wu Whale had been personally crafted by Su Lingxi and had inherited some of her habits.
Back when it played among the fish with its companions, it often said “truly” or “I mean it.”
But ever since it became a sword puppet and followed Ye Zhuxu, these phrases were a death sentence.
Say it once, die once.
It had mostly broken the habit, but during rare moments of lowered guard, it still blurted them out unconsciously.
The sword puppet pressed the one reddened sword thread atop its head toward Ye Zhuxu’s hand, swallowing exaggeratedly like a human:
“Just this one—it carries your spiritual aura.”
Afraid Ye Zhuxu might suspect it of foul play, it added in a pitiful tone, testing the waters:
“Do you want to check in the Puppet Sea?”
The sword puppet’s body was shaped by its sword master.
Even if it retained some remnants of its former self, once the master gave a command, there was no way it could defy it.
Especially when the master was a sword cultivator of Ye Zhuxu’s level.
Ye Zhuxu moved his fingers slightly, then finally reached out, placing his hand over the puppet’s head and carefully examined its memories one by one.
These past few days, the little fish (the sword puppet) had endured hellish torment.
Even though it wanted to resist, it lacked the strength and had to rely on its poor senses—sniffing, using that feeble spiritual core to perceive.
No matter how it sniffed or sensed—whether it was someone it had held, kissed, or slept beside—there was only this one.
Thank goodness there was only one!
Ye Zhuxu remained silent for a long time, then reached out to retrieve the sword thread the little fish had brought back.
Among the ten threads, only this one had turned crimson—an omen of death.
The spiritual aura attached to it required no confirmation. It was his.
But it was different from now.
It lacked the heavy killing intent, the stench of death.
Its aggression was faint, almost non-existent.
Like branches bathed in warm sunlight, like a school of fish drifting leisurely in the deep sea—relaxed, loose, and very… clingy.
He stood by the wall holding the thread for a long while.
The sword puppet, seeing no end to his contemplative silence, quietly retreated into a jewelry box and buried its head in a half-basin of water.
Ye Zhuxu didn’t stop it.
The sword thread softened, like a strand of hair, nestling tenderly into his palm.
It carried no weight but was impossible to ignore.
Ye Zhuxu swept aside the books and papers on the table by the window and laid the sword thread on it.
Under the moonlight, its color appeared even more vivid than the blood he had just spilled.
He hadn’t not tried to find excuses for Su Lingxi.
He had—every kind imaginable.
That she was forced to flee, that she had no choice but to abandon him—all to comfort himself.
But what did he get in return?
And now, what did this mean?
Fourteen years.
What were you thinking, Su Lingxi?
Su Lingxi returned to the Imperial Tutor’s residence from the palace.
After washing up, she lay down in her clothes but couldn’t sleep soundly.
She kept dreaming of scattered fragments—blood, fire, shadows—and finally woke up at the sight of a massive formation.
She touched her throat—parched. She got up to pour herself some water, still drowsy, and began rummaging through her incense box.
Hearing the noise, Xiliu pushed open the door.
Seeing this, she pulled open a drawer from the other side of the eight-treasure cabinet and helped Su Lingxi search, asking:
“My lady, what kind of scent are you looking for?”
Su Lingxi loved fragrances and was a master of incense, making her extremely particular.
In the end, she usually crafted her own.
The twelve drawers of this eight-treasure cabinet contained nothing else—only incense balls, oils, powders, and threads.
Various scents, various uses, all handmade during her spare time.
In the past, Su Lingxi used incense to calm the mind and temper the spirit. In recent years, her health declined, her duties increased, so she used stimulants and sleep aids.
She casually picked out a familiar one, turned it in her fingers, and a spark lit the tip.
A light, cool fragrance spread in the air.
She sniffed it, placed it into the incense holder, and asked Xiliu,
“Why aren’t you asleep yet?”
Xiliu answered truthfully:
“My lady, I’m not tired.”
She didn’t need much sleep.
Su Lingxi realized something and nodded.
She stretched and yawned, heading toward the bed.
Pulling aside the bed curtains casually, she leaned against the bed frame with her arms crossed and closed her eyes, trying to drift off.
But her mind only grew clearer.
She sighed inwardly, rubbed her neck, opened the door to let the breeze in, and stood by her desk for a while before reaching for paper and brush.
Everything that happened tonight had been unpleasant.
What she thought would be a reasonable threat turned into a deadly confrontation.
With such a fallout, future peaceful relations were almost impossible.
Even the look in Xue Hui’s eyes tonight made Su Lingxi uncomfortable.
Those who remembered looked at the ones who had forgotten with regret and sorrow, almost as if in pity.
Even Su Lingxi felt the urge to dig deeper.
But what was there to ask?
She had always known she came from Fuyu and was banished.
She now knew of her past with Ye Zhuxu.
Further inquiry would only uncover meaningless details that could cloud her judgment.
And she’d already made one mistake tonight.
This year marked the fifteenth year.
When the new year arrived, it would be complete.
Su Lingxi absentmindedly sketched with her brush, squinting as she recalled events from fourteen years ago.
Her memories of Fuyu were erased, but she clearly remembered what happened in the mortal world.
According to people like Zhang Jin, she had replaced one of the Twelve Witches at the time.
This wasn’t unprecedented—she was destined to become one anyway, so it wasn’t against the rules.
As soon as she stepped outside, her disguise was seen through.
To the elders—those over a hundred—eighteen-year-old Su Lingxi was a child.
But because she was terrifyingly powerful, her status rose until she became their de facto leader.
It was unprecedented for all twelve witches to act at once, casting a heavy mood on the journey.
The older ones insisted Su Lingxi enjoy the scenery and not overuse her brain—“it could affect her growth.”
They would handle the planning and worrying.
Su Lingxi knew what this mission was about.
Other than the “Heavenly Execution,” nothing else warranted such a grand mobilization.
Per the orders of the Gate (a divine entity or organization), the Twelve were to pass through Chang’an, bypass Fuhua Sect, Tianchan Temple, and Liuyun Sect, to reach seven frontier cities in the Great Wilderness.
By the time they arrived, they already had bad premonitions.
They said the Gate was the embodiment of heavenly law—omniscient, protector of all.
But six months earlier, it had made a prophecy:
The “Heavenly Execution” had appeared and would, in fifteen years, bring calamity to the world—countless deaths, corpses by the millions.
There were many theories about the “Heavenly Execution.”
At Fuyu Academy, people analyzed it daily.
Who could possess such power—to trample over Fuyu, the three major sects, and even the Human Emperor as if they were nothing?
At such a critical time, none of the three factions would stand idly by.
When they arrived at the Great Wilderness, both Su Lingxi and the Twelve Shamans already had a sense of what was going on.
Beyond the seven border towns lay the Heaven Pillar, and behind it was a giant demon cabinet sealed away.
Inside were thousands of monsters born from the filth of heaven and earth.
If they were to be released, the consequences would be unimaginable—a thousand years ago, a Gate descended from the heavens to suppress them, but this time, the Gate had already issued a prophecy, clearly indicating it could not act again.
This, then, was the major event that required the full mobilization of the Twelve Shamans.
Su Lingxi, after all, was not a true member of the Twelve Shamans.
In such a grave matter, the others dared not let her get involved and bear the karmic burden.
All the danger was borne by them first.
She knew they went to great lengths, searching the land, eventually finding a divination chart that could glimpse parts of the future.
With Yuan Yin, a master of spirit-writing, assisting, it was almost like opening a third eye.
Zhang Jinzhī and Tian Shuang each looked at the chart.
When they emerged, their faces had changed.
The Twelve Shamans discussed again and had Yuan Yin perform three divinations—each result was “great misfortune.”
Under such conditions, the Twelve Shamans brought out a formation diagram given by the Gate.
The formation was called the “Linked Star Array.”
Jiang Yuan, a master of formation techniques, studied it for three days and nights without rest.
On the fourth morning, as the first ray of sunlight broke the horizon, his bloodshot eyes stared at the sky.
The Twelve Shamans gathered once more for deliberation.
Su Lingxi sensed something was wrong. Rubbing her nose, she tried to join the meeting, but Jiang Yuan ruffled her hair and sent her away:
“Children shouldn’t meddle in serious matters.”
Su Lingxi protested, sitting in a crooked tree swaying her legs:
“But I’ve already mastered Incense Arts!”
Zhang Jinzhī, disheveled and worn, coughed while clutching his chest, and muttered to a companion:
“Listen to her… How can anyone bear such a blow to the ego?”
One of them chuckled:
“With all of us here, there’s no need for you to take any risk. Aren’t you heading back in a few days? I heard from the academy that someone your age is already settling lifelong matters. Quite the event—we’ll all be there to cheer you on.”
“Don’t worry. It’s not your turn to act yet.”
In the days that followed, the Twelve Shamans traveled across the seven border towns.
They met many people and witnessed the wonders of the desert.
Perched on a low earthen mound, Su Lingxi asked them, frustrated, what they were really doing—why not just follow the Gate’s instructions and set up the formation?
Why did they keep staring at the divination chart?
Why did they keep struggling with the Linked Star Array?
Why did they question the Gate’s judgment?
Why did they argue with the Gate?
Su Lingxi grew increasingly anxious, but she had no authority to interfere.
One night, she overheard Tian Shuang and Yuan Yin talking:
“…Too many will die.”
“Making the decision now… is too early—”
Ultimately, the Twelve Shamans did lay down a formation, based on the Linked Star Array, but with major modifications.
The day the formation was completed, powerful totems spread for a thousand miles, penetrating deep into the earth.
A halo shattered the clouds and extended into the heavens.
After half an hour, it vanished as if it had never existed.
Two of the eleven standing at the center of the formation collapsed on the spot.
Su Lingxi, though advanced in Incense Arts, was still flung hundreds of meters away, coughing blood, barely managing to steady herself.
This was a deployment made by the most powerful eleven people of their era, giving it their all.
The Twelve Shamans was not just a title.
With the appointment came a seal from the Gate, and a sliver of Heaven’s power embedded in their essence.
This formation—no one below the Gate itself could handle it.
Su Lingxi was utterly dazed. Her mind blank, she had no idea what had happened.
When she returned to the center of the array, the Gate’s furious will had just descended.
She was expelled, stripped of her title and record, without explanation or mercy.
She too was deemed guilty without knowing why—though she was granted a half-hour grace period to return.
Tian Shuang had shoved her hard then, breath shallow, hands cold and trembling, no different from a corpse.
This formidable shaman, once forged in the depths of the Cangwu, had never been so weak and broken.
She told her not to worry about them—just go, and if she had the chance, deliver a message to their families.
Zhang Jinzhī also reached out from the side like a ghost, barely whispering for her to tell something to Yu Chu.
Su Lingxi must have made it back, because there’s a clear gap in her memory.
She doesn’t remember what changed—but she did return.
It was two years before Zhang Jinzhī woke up.
In these years, Su Lingxi entered the Gate three times.
According to her own journals, twice she completed her missions and tried to argue with the Gate—both times in vain.
This fifteen-year term was a massive gamble. So many hardships had been endured; now only six months remained.
As her thoughts drifted, Su Lingxi sniffed the fragrance in the room.
Feeling restless, she rolled up her sleeves, exhaled deeply, and returned to the treasure cabinet to rummage.
Xiliu quickly followed and asked again, “Would you like a different scent, my lady?”
“Yes.”
Su Lingxi frowned, thought for a moment, and subconsciously said, “Something stickier…”
She corrected herself:
“Sweet.”
Once the words left her lips, both Xiliu and Su Lingxi were momentarily stunned.
There were many sweet fragrances in the cabinet, but those were from her younger years.
In the two years Xiliu had served her, she had never seen Su Lingxi use them—not even once.
This was the first time.