Chapter 7

Song Qingshi spent the night searching the storeroom and finally found an old robe made of red ice silk. He removed its decorative enchantments and gave it to the apothecary servants, instructing them to modify it into an undergarment overnight. Then, along with a new cotton gown, he quietly placed it by Yue Wuhuan's bedside.

The next day, Yue Wuhuan paused, surprised, upon seeing the ice silk undergarment.

Song Qingshi was already urging him from outside the door: "Hurry up, it's time for your new treatment."

"Yes, Master," Yue Wuhuan replied, knowing he had a new master and daring not to dwell on it. He quickly dressed and stepped out, feeling much more comfortable with each movement.

Song Qingshi led him through the corridor to the adjacent elixir chamber. This had once been a forbidden area in the Medicine Monarch Valley, where the previous owner conducted unethical experiments on animals and humans, a place the apothecary servants dreaded. Song Qingshi, adhering to the *Helsinki Declaration*, rejected any unethical human trials. Fortunately, when he took over the Medicine Monarch Valley, few experimental subjects remained. He released those who could be freed and helped those beyond saving find merciful ends. He then converted the space into a treatment room. The remaining specimens and cadavers were moved to other rooms—these were invaluable treasures for medical study, to be examined in due time.

On the way to the elixir chamber, Yue Wuhuan noticed more than one apothecary servant casting sympathetic glances his way, making him uneasy. Upon entering, he saw Song Qingshi take out a medicinal vat large enough to fit a person, and his entire body tensed.

Unaware of his distress, Song Qingshi tossed pre-measured herbs into the vat, added water, and used his Inner Fire to control the temperature. When the water turned crimson, he turned and instructed, "Take off your clothes and get in."

Yue Wuhuan stood frozen, his gaze stiff.

"Don’t be afraid," Song Qingshi finally remembered to explain. "This is the *Red Herb Purification Bath*, a medicinal soak. It won’t hurt."

After a moment’s hesitation, Yue Wuhuan reached for his belt and slowly undid it.

Song Qingshi turned away and sat with his back to him, not peeking as he entered the bath.

Yue Wuhuan exhaled in relief, quickly shed his clothes, and stepped into the blood-hued infusion. The searing medicinal brew seeped into his skin, bringing a faint sting yet an ineffable solace. He took a deep breath and fully relaxed, suddenly submerging himself completely—only to realize the water overflowed from the vat, splashing onto Song Qingshi’s neck, ears, and hair, staining his white robe with faint, peony-like splashes.

For most cultivators, robes were precious, and even minor damage would distress them.

Realizing his mistake, Yue Wuhuan quietly emerged from the water and hid by the vat’s edge, fearing he had angered the Immortal Master.

But Song Qingshi didn’t seem to notice. He remained motionless, staring blankly at the bluestone floor. After a long while, he subtly shook the water droplets from his hair.

Yue Wuhuan hesitated, then cautiously asked, "Master, if you turn around, this servant can wipe it for you?"

Song Qingshi lowered his head, focusing even more intently on the bluestone. "You’re bathing. I can’t peek." In his worldview, examining a patient’s condition during treatment was reasonable, but peeking at them bathing was morally corrupt and despicable.

Yue Wuhuan pondered this for a long while before tentatively guessing, "Does Master find this servant’s body too filthy?"

Song Qingshi shook his head and whispered, "You don’t like being looked at."

"Master jokes," Yue Wuhuan’s eyes turned cold. After a pause, he rose from the water, his long hair clinging wetly to his shoulders like a mermaid freshly emerged from the sea. His figure was perfection itself—balanced muscles, not an ounce of excess fat, a slender waist that could be encircled with one hand yet hinted at hidden strength. Leaning against the vat’s edge, he brought his lips close to Song Qingshi’s ear, exhaling softly. His phoenix eyes brimmed with allure, the crimson tear mole beneath them dazzling enough to steal hearts, his voice like a siren’s whisper: "What’s there about this worthless flesh that can’t be seen? Those who’ve seen it… are beyond counting. They all say this body is beautiful, lewd, unable to walk without a man’s touch—born to be put on display..."

Song Qingshi swiftly cut him off, repeating, "You don’t like being looked at."

After a long silence, Yue Wuhuan rasped, "This servant no longer cares."

Song Qingshi didn’t know how to explain but insisted firmly, "You don’t like it."

*Could one refuse what they disliked?*

Yue Wuhuan found the notion laughable. In his early years of being forced to entertain, he had once been coaxed into saying he disliked or didn’t want something. The result? His weaknesses were exploited for others’ amusement.

He disliked being watched, so he was made to assume the most degrading postures in squares and banquets, time and again.

He disliked lewd words, so he was tormented with drugs and instruments until he learned to moan for others’ pleasure…

Until he abandoned shame and dignity, pretending to relish it all.

He had long known that in the eyes of these lofty cultivators, he was merely an ornamental pet—no emotions needed, just molded into whatever pleased his master. Often, he wished he could go mad or stupid like most slaves, losing the ability to think, living as a beast without a care, obediently pleasing his master with his body.

Yet a sliver of clarity always remained in his heart, coldly scrutinizing his wretched self before carving it to pieces.

Perhaps… he was already mad.

Unnoticed by Song Qingshi, the alchemy flames rose slightly, heating the medicinal concoction until it scalded. Yue Wuhuan’s face burned, yet he felt nothing. He buried his head deep into the crimson liquid, submerging his mouth and nose until he could no longer breathe. He didn’t want to surface, wishing to sink forever, letting the boiling water scour away his filth—better yet, dissolve his bones entirely.

Song Qingshi, sensing the silence behind him had grown odd, turned to find Yue Wuhuan vanished beneath the water. Distracted earlier, he had failed to control his Inner Fire, raising the temperature dangerously. Without hesitation, he lunged forward, plunging his hands into the vat to drag Yue Wuhuan out.

The soaked figure collapsed into his arms, limbs limp, eyes shut, his curled hair plastered to pale skin, water pooling on the floor. The Heshuan Seal on his back blazed glaringly bright. Yet Song Qingshi felt no improper thoughts—he swiftly laid Yue Wuhuan flat, checking his pulse before performing cardiopulmonary resuscitation and rescue breaths.

Yue Wuhuan coughed up water and opened his eyes, dazedly finding Song Qingshi’s face inches from his own. He could see his own reflection in those clear, black-and-white eyes, slightly reddened from the furnace’s heat, long lashes beaded with droplets. The man looked like an innocent youth, utterly unlike a Nascent Soul Ancestor who had cultivated for nearly a millennium—a deception lethal in its innocence.

He hadn't recognized his true identity by the river. His death would’ve been well-deserved.

Yue Wuhuan’s thoughts grew increasingly disordered. Instinctively curling up, fragmented memories flashed before him—the pressure on his chest, the lingering warmth on his lips—blurring past and present, as if he were back in punishment.

Song the Overachiever, on the verge of academic failure, had acted purely on instinct. Only after Yue Wuhuan awoke did he relax, realizing the cultivation world had countless ways to treat drowning—modern methods were superfluous.

This… was hard to explain.

For a physician-in-training, drowning rescue was routine. Whether the patient was beautiful or ugly, child or elder, he would’ve acted without hesitation. Song Qingshi felt mildly flustered for not using the cultivation world’s optimal method but wouldn’t dwell on it. The problem was explaining himself.

Yue Wuhuan’s gaze had lost focus. He slowly unfolded his body, no longer hiding, like a fish gasping on land, surrendering to fate.

Song Qingshi hastily turned away, closing his eyes as he apologized honestly, "I’m sorry. I miscalculated the water temperature."

"Master isn’t wrong," Yue Wuhuan murmured, eyes open yet unseeing, ears hearing yet uncomprehending. He repeated the drilled response, "It’s my fault, my fault..."

This was a lesson beaten into him through repeated torment, a reminder of how he must live.

*"Wu Huan, you’re so beautiful—born to be played with."*

*"Wu Huan, it’s your body seducing men that led to your ruin."*

*"Wu Huan, you’re too lewd—I can’t help myself."*

*"Wu Huan, you’re a demon born for desire."*

*"Wu Huan, it’s all your fault."*

*"Wu Huan, it’s all your fault."*

...

"My fault, my fault, my fault..." Yue Wuhuan numbly chanted, "It’s all my fault."

Because his very existence was a mistake.

Song Qingshi removed his robe to drape over Yue Wuhuan, suddenly realizing the man’s mental state was dangerously unstable, trapped in a terrifying delusion. After a moment’s thought, he gritted his teeth, raised a hand to strike—then couldn’t bring himself to do it. Instead, he fetched a bucket of cold water, cast a freezing spell, and doused Yue Wuhuan head to toe. The shock of cold jolted Yue Wuhuan slightly awake, and Song Qingshi seized the chance to place a calming pill in his mouth.

"Master?" Yue Wuhuan came to, bewildered.

"It’s nothing," Song Qingshi said, fetching prepared towels and clothes. He wrapped Yue Wuhuan layer upon layer like a zongzi (sticky rice dumpling), then offered a plausible explanation: "You hallucinated from nearly drowning."

Yue Wuhuan nodded blankly.

Satisfied with his tightly wrapped zongzi, Song Qingshi finally stopped and instructed, "Bundle up from now on."

Yue Wuhuan looked at him uncertainly. "This servant… can wear more?"

Song Qingshi lectured sternly, "The autumn chill approaches. It’s getting cold—you must dress warmly to avoid catching a chill."

"Thank you for your care, Master." Yue Wuhuan softly responded after confirming he wasn't lying. He clutched the clothes tightly around him, suddenly recalling the scene when he first entered Golden Phoenix Manor—stripping off every piece of clothing, reduced to nothing but a plaything.

Now, this deceptively gentle man was helping him put on clothes one by one, as if luring him into expecting something...

The medicinal bath was interrupted before its effects could fully take hold.

Song Qingshi was busy refilling the medicinal vat, replenishing the herbs, and readjusting the temperature.

Yue Wuhuan sat quietly on the ground, watching him work diligently for his sake, lost in deep thought. Suddenly, he belatedly realized the searing heat in his body had eased considerably. He shifted slightly and was astonished to find that the drug-induced hypersensitivity had also diminished—the friction of fabric no longer felt unbearable.

After wondering about it for a long time, he finally mustered the courage to ask, "Master, what is the Red Grass Cleansing Decoction... used for?"

"Ah?" Song Qingshi paused, momentarily taken aback. He realized he had fallen back into his academic habit—jumping too quickly in his thoughts, assuming others would understand just by mentioning a name or term, without considering whether they could follow his reasoning.

Song Qingshi was a good scholar who corrected his mistakes. He reorganized his words several times in his mind, choosing the simplest explanation: "Your body has been eroded by various drugs, which is why you feel so uncomfortable. The Red Grass Cleansing Decoction can remove the residual toxins from your system. This medicinal bath needs to be done five times. For the last two sessions, we'll add Muscle-Renewing Flower and Snow Toad Paste to help heal old wounds. It will be painful and itchy then, and we can't use anesthesia. But don't worry—once you endure that phase, your body will return to its original state..."

There was much more he couldn't bear to say: those people had completely disregarded Yue Wuhuan's well-being, recklessly dosing him with various aphrodisiacs, causing severe drug interactions and excessive residue. If this had continued, he wouldn't have lived much longer.

"Overdosing... it was because they thought me boring," Yue Wuhuan tightened the clothes around him, unable to let go. After hesitating for a long time, he decided to suppress the reluctance in his heart and explain what would inevitably be discovered sooner or later. His words were chaotic, and he forgot the proper way to refer to himself again. "Master, without the drugs... my body won't respond to men. You won't find pleasure in me. I... I'm not suited for those things. Only with the drugs could I..."

Song Qingshi interrupted his stumbling words: "If you're not suited for it, then don't do it."

"You don’t have to be kind to me," Yue Wuhuan grew more fearful the more he revealed his heart. Like a frightened child, he said despairingly, "I have nothing. The only thing I can give you is this body..."

Song Qingshi, sensing his emotional turmoil, turned back. He knew he should intervene psychologically, but though words swirled endlessly in his mind, they vanished before reaching his tongue. He couldn't muster any comforting phrases, and despite his deep sorrow, all he could finally condense into were two words: "But you do."

In his heart, Yue Wuhuan was the child who practiced swordplay diligently under the peach blossoms, the youth who dreamed of becoming the Sword Master despite being mortal.

What he saw in Yue Wuhuan was a phoenix soaring across the nine heavens, the brightest star in the night sky—only with broken wings and covered in dust.

Song Qingshi walked toward him, each step firm and resolute.

Yue Wuhuan tried to steady himself, but his body trembled faintly, wanting to retreat.

Song Qingshi lowered himself to one knee, meeting his eyes with sincerity.

Yue Wuhuan felt he had nowhere left to retreat.

Song Qingshi made his promise, slowly, deliberately: "Everything you once had, I will help you reclaim. Everything you desire, I will give you."

Yue Wuhuan's breathing grew rapid. He couldn't yet comprehend the full weight of this promise, but he recognized the determination in Song Qingshi's gaze. Carefully, he asked, "What do you need me to do?"

Song Qingshi pleaded: "Stop hurting yourself, alright?"

After a long silence, Yue Wuhuan finally nodded.