Her fingers pinched the fabric of his sleeve.
It wasn’t a grab, it was a pinch—thumb and forefinger holding a small piece of cloth, giving it a gentle tug.
This had been Chao’er’s habit since she was little.
Every time she wanted something but was too shy to ask, she would tug at his sleeve like this.
Wanting an extra piece of candy, one tug.
Wanting him to accompany her to the Spirit Field to watch the fireflies, one tug.
Wanting him to rub her hands when they were sore from practicing calligraphy, two tugs.
At this moment, she tugged three times.
“Not tonight,” he said.
“…Why?”
Her voice was still soft, but soft like a silk thread pulled to its limit, ready to snap at any moment.
Shen Mo didn’t look away. “Your Honored Teacher hasn’t woken up yet.”
Chao’er’s fingers slipped from his sleeve.
“What does Honored Teacher being awake or not have to do with Master’s Husband accompanying his disciple?”
Something sharp and suppressed was pushing up from beneath her soft, sweet tone, like a needle hidden in cotton.
“She’s unconscious. I’m in the room next to hers, doing something like this.” Shen Mo’s voice was very calm. “I can’t do it.”
Chao’er’s lips moved.
She wanted to say, it’s because Honored Teacher tried to stop me first.
She absolutely would not allow Master’s Husband to leave with anyone else.
She didn’t say it out loud.
No matter what reason she gave, it couldn’t change the fact that her hand had pierced through the chest of the person who had pulled her out of a pile of corpses.
The corridor was silent for a long time.
The eerie green lamplight cast two shadows on the blue brick floor.
Chao’er’s shadow squirmed slightly, its edges constantly shifting shape.
Sometimes it was a young girl with her head lowered and hands hanging at her sides, sometimes it was a tall, mature woman standing at full height.
Two shadows were having a silent argument.
“One day.”
Chao’er finally spoke.
The voice was Nan Gong Jin’s.
Not that coquettish young girl, but the thousand-year-old Old Ancestor of the Demon Path.
Her gaze changed too.
“I’ll give you one day,” she said flatly, like a businesswoman negotiating a deal. “At this time tomorrow, whether she’s awake or in a coma, or even—” She paused. “—dead, you will fulfill your promise.”
She stepped forward.
Close enough that Shen Mo could smell the cold fragrance that had been smoked into her wedding dress.
“This isn’t a negotiation. It’s a notice.”
Her fingers lifted, not touching him, just hovering before his chest, half an inch away from the spot where his heartbeat was strongest. “From tomorrow nightfall, you sleep with me.”
When she finished speaking, she stepped back and became Chao’er again.
The calm faded from her eyes, replaced by that peculiar light of a young girl, mixed with shyness and anticipation.
She tugged at Shen Mo’s sleeve.
“Master’s Husband must not deceive his disciple,” she said softly. “His disciple will take it seriously.”
Then she turned and walked along the corridor toward the main house.
Her dark red skirt trailed across the blue brick floor, making a faint rustling sound.
Shen Mo didn’t sleep all night.
The Demonic Qi inside Su Wan’er was acting up, sending her into cycles of high fever every three or four hours.
He used a wet cloth to wipe her forehead and neck, gave her water, and when she clenched her teeth, he slipped his fingers between them.
Before, he had taken care of Chao’er the same way.
But back then, he had medicinal herbs at hand, disciples he could command, and warm porridge waiting on the stove.
Here, he had nothing.
The Western Wing Room was sparsely furnished, almost shabbily so.
A wooden bed, a square table, two chairs, a book, and an oil lamp.
The bedding on the bed was clean, but the fabric was coarse, leaving faint marks on the skin.
On the table sat a pot of tea that had gone cold. Shen Mo had tried a sip—it was brewed from tree leaves, bitter and astringent.
He needed hot water, clean cloths, and herbs to replenish qi and nourish blood.
Even the lowest grade of angelica or astragalus would do.
Though the wound on Su Wan’er’s chest had been suppressed by Nan Gong Jin, the ring of gray around the wound’s edge remained, like a hibernating snake, coiled quietly on her skin, ready to wake at any moment.
Morning light filtered through the ginkgo leaves, scattering a layer of crushed gold across the ground.
Shen Mo’s gaze fell on the book. The cover read , chronicling the rise and fall of the Southern Wasteland’s demonic sects over a thousand years.
When he flipped to the entry on Nan Gong Jin, his fingers paused on the page for a long time.
The record was brief.
Nan Gong Jin. Loose cultivator origins. No known master.
Formed her core at three hundred, Deity Transformation at five hundred, peak Deity Transformation at eight hundred.
By nature solitary. No alliances. No attendants. Lived alone at Fallen Immortal Ridge.
Besieged by the Seven Righteous Sects, fell at Fallen Immortal Ridge. No remains found.
A few dozen characters summarized the life of the number one figure of the Demon Path in a thousand years.
Shen Mo looked away.
In the distance, a few low beast roars drifted over.
Demonic Beasts raised by Demonic Cultivators, being fed.
He walked along the covered corridor toward the front courtyard.
He needed to find anyone who could make things happen.
A medicine stove, some basic herbs, a thicker quilt. Ideally, someone to lend a hand—to help turn Su Wan’er over and wipe her back.
The front courtyard was far livelier than the inner one.
Seven or eight Demonic Cultivators sat scattered under the corridor. Some were polishing weapons, some resting with their eyes closed, some gathered in a circle throwing dice.
There were both men and women, but far more women than men.
Most of the male cultivators were handsome, dressed in bright colors, sitting quietly beside the female cultivators, pouring their wine, shelling their nuts, massaging their shoulders.
One very young male cultivator knelt at a female cultivator’s feet, carefully wiping the surface of her boot with a cloth.
The female cultivator didn’t even glance at him.
She was talking to the man across from her, occasionally lifting her foot to press it down on the back of his hand.
He would tremble, lower his head, and wipe harder.
Blood Orchid sat by the pillar at the deepest part of the corridor, one leg bent with her foot on the step, the other stretched out casually.
She was sharpening a short blade with a whetstone, the rhythmic scrape of steel against stone filling the air.
Behind her stood a youth with a delicate face, around sixteen or seventeen, massaging her shoulders.
His technique was practiced, his force just right, but his face was completely blank—the emptiness of someone trained out of all expression.
Shen Mo stopped three steps away from Blood Orchid.
Blood Orchid didn’t look up. The sound of sharpening didn’t stop.
“I need a medicine stove,” Shen Mo said. “Some herbs to replenish qi and nourish blood—angelica, astragalus, codonopsis. Spirit herbs if you have them. Also a thicker quilt, some clean fine cotton cloth, and a pot of drinkable hot water.”
He paused. “And if it’s convenient, assign me a servant.”
Blood Orchid ignored him.
She finished sharpening one side of the blade and flipped it over to sharpen the other.
The youth behind her continued massaging her shoulders, fingers mechanically squeezing and releasing.
The Demonic Cultivators throwing dice noticed the commotion. Their movements slowed, eyes sweeping over Shen Mo.
A female cultivator in a dark red short jacket whistled, just loud enough for everyone in earshot to hear.
“So this is the one the Old Ancestor brought back? Tsk, he’s not bad looking. Just too skinny.”
The female cultivator beside her laughed, her gaze roaming around Shen Mo’s waistline. “Skinny has its advantages. Look at that waist…”
They didn’t lower their voices.
Shen Mo turned around, facing the whistling female cultivator.
“Medicine stove, herbs, quilt, hot tea.” He spoke slowly, deliberately. “Which one can you provide?”
The female cultivator blinked, then burst out laughing.
She tossed her dice into the bowl with a few sharp clatters, leaned back into her chair, crossed her legs, and tilted her head to appraise Shen Mo.
“This young master, I think you haven’t quite figured out where you are. This is a stronghold of the Southern Wasteland’s Demon Path, not Cloud Hidden Mountain where those righteous gentlemen play at being virtuous. Here, the way a man speaks… is not like that.”
Her male pet conveniently handed her a cup of wine.
She took a sip, gaze sliding over the rim to look at him, amusement deepening in her eyes.
“If you want to order people around, you need the capital to do it. Cultivation Level? You can’t even beat the one who sweeps my courtyard. Status? Sure, the Old Ancestor brought you here, but she hasn’t said she’s protecting you.” She drew out her words. “You understand the rules, don’t you? You know how a man should speak here.”
Low laughter rippled through the corridor.
“Heh. You want spirit herbs for free? What are you offering in exchange?”
“I—”
“Your Pure Yin Constitution is rare here, sure, but the Old Ancestor has ordered no one may touch you. So you can’t trade your body for anything.”
Shen Mo’s ears burned.
Again with this—being appraised like goods.
“I can write, keep accounts, manage Spirit Fields, tend medicine gardens. I handled all the affairs of Jiaoyue Peak for seven years.”
“There are no Spirit Fields here. No medicine gardens. No affairs for you to manage. There’s only killing and surviving. Can you kill?”
Shen Mo was silent.
Here, strength reigned supreme. The law of the jungle was pushed to its extreme.
Men with low Cultivation Levels and handsome faces were nothing but playthings, furnaces, clothes to be exchanged and discarded at will.
No one cared about their wishes, let alone respected them.
The female cultivator set down her wine cup, leaned forward with her elbows on her knees, and curled the corner of her mouth into a suggestive arc.
“Tell you what. You add the word ‘please’ in front of every sentence. Kneel down and beg. Beg properly, until this older sister’s heart softens. Then it’s not just a medicine stove and a quilt—I’d turn this entire estate upside down and build you a new courtyard. This older sister would—”
“Thud.”
A dull sound.
A hand with defined knuckles and light calluses, fingers spread wide, pressed the female cultivator’s head down onto the square table in front of her.
The dice bowl tipped over. Dice scattered across the floor.
The wine cup shattered, spilling liquor onto her lapel.
Her face was pressed against the tabletop, cheekbone grinding against the wood with faint creaking sounds.
One eye was squeezed out of shape; the other bulged wide, its pupil reflecting the figure standing beside her.
Chao’er.
She wore a moon-white set of sleepwear. Her hair was loose and disheveled.
Her feet were bare on the blue brick floor of the corridor.
As if she’d just crawled out of bed, not even stopping to put on shoes.
Her right hand pressed down on the female cultivator’s head, not with enough force to crush her skull, but just enough to grind her face into the wood until it bled.
The entire corridor fell dead silent.