After hearing the story, Zhang Yiwei had returned to her own wing due to the late hour, leaving only Shuang Feixue at the bedside tending to her drunken disciple.
Since escaping death in the Qilian Mountains that day, Shuang Feixue seemed to have lost all her spirit and pride.
The one once known as the strongest under heaven had died completely.
What remained was merely a mortal who had lost all arrogance and courage.
The woman named Shuang Feixue began to fear martial arts.
Whenever she thought of drawing her hand, that sense of powerlessness surged forth.
Having nearly died, she no longer saw herself as the great peng soaring vast distances.
She viewed herself as a sparrow—one of those weak, ordinary, everywhere-present sparrows.
Was she a sparrow?
Those who had witnessed her skills would not think so.
In their eyes, she remained the peng, for they had experienced the gap between themselves and the strongest under heaven—they would only see themselves as sparrows.
Shuang Feixue was the same.
Before ancient, powerful existences, she was no peng—she too was merely a sparrow.
Moreover, she would age, growing ever weaker, while those undying monsters would not.
A century was but the blink of an eye to them.
Returning to her sect, Shuang Feixue faced no blame or scorn, for her supposed faults were not faults at all—merely a small pit in the path of life.
Friends and elders who knew her thought this way.
After all, a survivor of catastrophe could hardly be said to have erred.
But Shuang Feixue did not see it that way.
The moment she fled back to the sect, what she most craved was not comfort from her fellow disciples—she needed accountability.
If someone blamed her, her cowardice would become easy, justified.
But they did not.
They understood.
And so she suffered.
Shuang Feixue chose to pour her heart entirely into a strange child, telling herself it was to repay a debt.
In truth, it was pure escapism—neglecting martial arts and studies, abandoning fame and sect, simply to avoid facing the pity in her fellow disciples’ eyes.
To confront those things would make the mortal named Shuang Feixue vanish like frost under warm light, perfectly melting into the earth.
“How disgusting—all this hypocrisy.”
Gazing at the sleeping boy on the bed, at his adorably flushed face from the wine, the elegant woman at the bedside breathed heavily.
She leaned down, bringing her lips toward the boy’s.
For her, this child was no longer merely a vessel for her escape.
That escape had transformed into heavy love.
Every breath, every laugh from the boy was honeyed poison to the woman named Shuang Feixue.
As long as she had him, even the deepest pain could be masked by the sweetness of this toxin—drawing her ever deeper.
Just as their lips were about to meet, the boy’s dark, pearl-like eyes snapped open.
He seized Shuang Feixue’s right wrist, rolled, and pulled the woman onto the bed.
Before she could think to resist, his left hand captured her other wrist.
Nanxi straddled her waist, silver hair tangling with her white strands.
His warm breath brushed his master’s face, while her disordered panting washed over him.
The boy pinned down his master—whose martial prowess and inner force far surpassed his own.
It should have been impossible, but he knew she would not resist, for she could not bear to hurt him.
They gazed into each other’s eyes, neither disturbing the atmosphere, until Shuang Feixue could no longer endure her disciple’s clear, cold stare.
If it continued, she might truly do something irredeemably unethical.
“I…”
Before the word fully escaped, the boy’s lips sealed his master’s words.
He kissed her madly yet calmly—the woman who was like a mother to him.
Smack—
With a soft sound, the boy’s lips released her aching vermilion ones.
Nanxi stripped away his clothes completely, like peeling an orange, revealing his flawless, jade-like form.
After a while, the elegant woman—unable to hold back—yanked the boy beneath her.
Pulled roughly under her, the boy winced in pain, yet his eyes remained bright, captivating.
He did not reproach his master’s roughness.
The room filled with tangled breaths and quiet murmurs.
When Shuang Feixue finally emerged from the haze of passion, it was already the hour of the tiger.
Outside, the insects had just ended their night song—this was spring.
The nocturnal beasts and birds were only beginning their delightful time, much like the entwined pair in the room.
Shuang Feixue clearly remembered what she had done.
“Little Xi, how do you feel? Does it hurt?”
Shuang Feixue asked with concern for her disciple.
The boy, nestled in her arms, shook his head slightly, a faint flush still on his cheeks.
“It doesn’t hurt… Master.”
His voice was soft, carrying a trace of lingering warmth.
She gently stroked his hair, her heart a mix of guilt and satisfaction.
As for whether Miss Zhang might discover this scene that shattered all propriety—Shuang Feixue could not be bothered to care.
Now, she only cherished the peaceful sleep of the disciple who had given himself to her.
Yet the eldest miss of the Zhang family had long been waiting outside the door.
In fact, she had been there since the moment the boy and his master began.
Now, her face was streaked with tears, eyes red and swollen, filled with shock, jealousy, and unspeakable pain.
She pressed a hand over her mouth, suppressing sobs, as complex emotions churned within—love turned to hatred, possessiveness shattered.
In the end, she turned silently and left, disappearing into the night, leaving only quiet tears behind.