Chapter 33

Song Qingshi, clad in a T-shirt and jeans, stood on the boundless sea of clouds, gazing around. He knew he was searching for something, yet its form eluded him; only a memory of the most brilliant glow between heaven and earth remained.

He pressed onward, an endless quest. Though the cloud path stretched infinitely, though exhaustion sent him sprawling countless times, his body so weary he could barely stir, reduced to crawling—he refused to halt his search…

On the sea of clouds, another self appeared. Draped in layers of snow-white robes, his soft, long hair cascaded to the ground. The same face, the same cold detachment. His eyes could unravel the most profound texts, yet understood nothing of human emotion.

For his heart was an empty void.

Suddenly, Song Qingshi understood. Slowly, he stepped forward, reached into his chest, and gently placed his own heart within the other.

The instant heart and body merged, the two souls shattered into countless points of light, reweaving themselves, mending each other’s incompleteness. At last, the heart found its resting place, the body regained its missing emotions, the scattered puzzle pieces reassembled, transforming into a blank canvas, awaiting a riot of colors.

From the depths of the cloud sea, a strange phrase emerged, repeating endlessly, echoing like a drumbeat deep within his soul:

“One thousand three hundred forty-nine…”

“One thousand three hundred forty-nine…”

“…”

Song Qingshi snapped awake to find himself submerged in water. Struggling to rise, his left side refused to obey, and in his thrashing, he choked on a mouthful. Someone beside him swiftly rose, steadying his waist and back with firm hands, lifting him from the water, and cradling his dripping form close.

Those hands were warmer than most, slightly rough with calluses, brushing against his sensitive skin and sending shivers through him.

The person’s breathing was heavy, like the sea before an impending storm, seabirds flapping their wings, bringing a suffocating tension.

In the darkness, those eyes—fixed on their long-lost prey—smoldered with greedy desire, growing ever more perilous.

Yet Song Qingshi, groggy and disoriented, nestled deeper into that dangerous embrace, unaware of time or place. Only after a long while did he regain his senses, realizing something was amiss.

Then, in an instant, the sense of danger vanished. Night pearls flickered to life one by one, piercing the darkness to reveal Yue Wuhuan’s beautiful face. His dark golden phoenix eyes, under the pearl’s glow, had turned an inscrutable black, the alluring crimson tear mole beneath his left eye still present. His features remained as gentle as ever, yet there was an indescribable, subtle change—he had become even more breathtaking.

Was it the lighting? Why did Wuhuan seem like a different person?

Song Qingshi realized he was naked, and had gotten Yue Wuhuan wet. Embarrassed, he lifted his head to dress, only to discover something even more horrifying. His voice came out hoarse: “Wu—Wuhuan, why—why am I shorter?!”

He had always been self-conscious about his youthful physique, often hiding it beneath loose robes, barely maintaining dignity through sheer height. He remembered being roughly the same height as Yue Wuhuan before the heavenly tribulation struck. Now, waking up, Yue Wuhuan stood a good half-head taller… Could failing the tribulation have the side effect of shrinking him?

Song Qingshi’s heart shattered. He felt too ashamed to face anyone.

Seeing his devastated expression, Yue Wuhuan wanted to laugh but couldn’t. Instead, he managed a weak, resigned smile. “Master, you’ve been asleep for ten years…”

Song Qingshi was stunned, stammering, “Ten years? Then—my—my…”

Yue Wuhuan affirmed, “Your little white mice are fine. They’ve been well cared for and multiplied greatly.”

Finally shaking off his confusion, Song Qingshi took in his surroundings. The place wasn’t unfamiliar—it was the underground chamber beneath his palace, though now rearranged. A few clothing chests stood nearby, along with a simple desk strewn with half-finished notes, flanked by seven or eight towering stacks of books.

Shifting slightly, his toes brushed against a damp bamboo pillow—likely Yue Wuhuan’s makeshift sleeping spot over the years.

How could such a place be suitable for sleeping, let alone studying?

Song Qingshi couldn’t help but ask, “Have you been resting properly these years?”

Yue Wuhuan smiled. “Don’t worry. I haven’t slept much here.”

Because, in truth, he had hardly slept at all—his only rest came when he passed out from exhaustion.

Song Qingshi scrutinized his face but found no trace of deceit. The bedding nearby also seemed untouched. Something felt off, but he couldn’t pinpoint it, so he let it go for now.

He quickly examined his body. The left side, once charred beyond recognition, had fully healed. However, during his coma, he had diverted all his spiritual energy to suppress the Netherfire within, leaving his newly regenerated meridians unused—stiff, parched, and aching. His fingers were numb, requiring rehabilitation, and his throat, long unused, felt stiff. But overall, he was fine.

Recalling the heavenly tribulation, Song Qingshi voiced his disbelief: “You healed me?”

The wounds from the tribulation had been severe and complex. Survival alone was a miracle—far beyond what a novice in medicine could handle. He had hoped Yue Wuhuan could at least stabilize him with the treasures in the vault, allowing him to recover gradually upon waking. Never had he imagined Yue Wuhuan could heal him so completely…

“I failed many times,” Yue Wuhuan explained as fiery red vines extended from behind him, deftly opening a chest to retrieve fresh undergarments. “I read every book in the library, tried countless treatments. Two years ago, I finally refined the Flesh Regeneration Pill, dissolving it into spiritual liquid and combining it with Blood Blossom Powder to restore your body. But you still didn’t wake… After much research, I recently discovered your soul had fragmented. So I used Soul Fusion Elixir and golden needles to guide and reunite the scattered pieces. And now… you’re awake.”

“Thank you,” Song Qingshi murmured. As an alchemist himself, he knew the effort behind those seemingly simple names. He wanted to praise Yue Wuhuan’s brilliance but was distracted by the vines. Eyes widening in shock, he asked, “Blood King Vine?”

The Blood King Vine grew in scorching lands—a rare fire-aligned plant with partial sentience. Once matured, it could engulf entire mountains, devouring all life, draining blood, burning flesh, and consuming souls until the land within a hundred miles was barren.

Its predatory nature had driven it to extinction in ancient times. Occasionally, artifacts crafted from dead Blood King Vines surfaced, but their power was limited.

“It won’t harm you, Master,” Yue Wuhuan said, using the vine to help him into the undergarments before bending to fasten the sash. “I found it by chance in a secret realm. This vine was a seedling, its body lost millennia ago, its soul sealed in a barrier. It took a liking to me, so I attempted to refine it into my own soul, merging it with my body. Unexpectedly, it worked.”

Ancient texts recorded such methods, though few succeeded—only an unnamed Divine Lord of legend. Yue Wuhuan wasn’t reckless. Though his body had been tempered by the heavenly tribulation, making him stronger than most Foundation Establishment Cultivators, the risk was immense. Even Nascent Soul Cultivators wouldn’t dare attempt it… unless there had been no other choice.

Song Qingshi had countless questions but didn’t know how to ask—nor did he expect honest answers.

Ten years had passed. Too much had happened.

He decided to investigate slowly once he left.

The moment he took a step, his legs buckled. His left side was still weak, sending him tumbling forward—straight back into Yue Wuhuan’s arms.

Though he knew this was temporary, the helplessness cast a heavy shadow over him, reminiscent of the days when he’d slowly lost control of his body. Physical pain never frightened him, but this numbness terrified him.

He was frozen in fear but refused to voice it. Yue Wuhuan had already done so much—he couldn’t burden him with such a trivial issue. He didn’t want to worry him further. Yet his fingers clutched Yue Wuhuan’s robes tightly, his body stiffening with tension, the unexercised muscles seizing into spasms.

Noticing his distress, Yue Wuhuan immediately lifted him effortlessly and carried him out of the chamber.

The palace bedroom remained unchanged, the bedding freshly changed and scented with familiar herbs.

Yue Wuhuan laid him down gently, then had a vine fetch a jade hairpin from the dressing table. Carefully, he worked the pressure points on Song Qingshi’s feet, soothing him: “It’s alright. Breathe deeply, relax… You haven’t moved in so long—this is normal. You’ll recover soon. I’ll massage your limbs a few times daily. In half a month at most, you’ll move freely again.”

“Mm.” Song Qingshi felt utterly embarrassed, his ears burning. He wanted to bury himself in the blankets like an ostrich.

Yue Wuhuan chuckled. “Doctors make the worst patients, Master. There’s no need to… worry.”

He had meant to say “be shy,” hadn’t he? Song Qingshi’s ears turned redder. Tripping over his words, he argued, “I’ve always treated my own injuries.” In this world, he’d had almost no friends. Even when hurt, he could only rely on himself, growing accustomed to handling everything alone. “Really! Once in a secret realm, my arm was broken—I set and stitched it myself! I’m not afraid of pain!”

This was just an exception. Normally, he was strong, plenty tough! Sure, he might cry if it hurt too much, but only after handling everything like a proper adult…

Yue Wuhuan paused his massage. Lifting his gaze, he said solemnly, “Now that I’m here, you won’t have to do that anymore.”

Song Qingshi thought for a long moment before nodding sheepishly. “Okay.”

Yue Wuhuan said nothing more, focusing on working the tension from his muscles. A gentle breeze stirred through the window, carrying the faint scent of flowers. The world seemed to fall silent, leaving only the sound of their breathing. Studying the man before him, Song Qingshi suddenly realized what had changed—his aura.

The old Yue Wuhuan had been like a lavish, enchanting flower, albeit with thorns. Now, he was a honed blade, his gaze sharp enough to cut through storms.

As his tension eased, the spasms faded. Song Qingshi wiggled his fingers, confirming they still worked, and resolved to practice later.

Then, hit by a sudden realization, he asked, “How have you been going out in public all these years? Disguises? Not that I mind! It’s just… the cultivation world has many villains. Even I, looking like an easy target, was nearly abducted by fools…”

It had happened often. Every time he stepped outside, someone tried to drug or kidnap him.

Only after mercilessly dealing with those scoundrels and building his fearsome reputation had the harassment lessened.

“The Master possesses a Water-Aligned Single Spiritual Root, which is why these things happened to you.” Yue Wuhuan discovered during the diagnosis that although Song Qingshi harbored two types of fire within his body, his spiritual root was actually the opposite—water-based. By using cold energy to suppress the flames and combining it with poison techniques, he had developed a unique cultivation system.

However, in the eyes of ordinary cultivators, a Water-Aligned Single Spiritual Root is considered a type with poor combat ability, rarely producing strong fighters. Its greatest utility lies in dual cultivation or being refined into the finest cultivation furnace.

Had Song Qingshi not been strong enough, with his unique cultivation system preventing him from being controlled by others, he would have faced the same living hell Yue Wuhuan had endured.

The mere thought of depraved cultivators harboring filthy intentions toward Song Qingshi made Yue Wuhuan sick to the point of wanting to kill. He warned, “Master, you must never let anyone know about your spiritual root in the future. Do not believe sweet words from others, and never lightly agree to form a Dao companion or engage in dual cultivation…”

Song Qingshi nodded seriously, though he didn’t understand the connection between spiritual roots and Dao companions. But in his thousand years of life, he had never encountered any suitors, so it probably wasn’t a big issue.

Back in his student days, his senior brothers had mocked him, saying a medicine-obsessed bookworm who only knew how to study, solve problems, and conduct experiments would never find a girlfriend—even if he weren’t sick.

At the time, he had felt a little disheartened. If… if he ever found someone he liked, he would definitely dote on them more than his seniors! Carrying hot water, buying breakfast, handing over his entire earnings—would be no trouble at all!

Yue Wuhuan knew he rarely went out and was unaware of such malice. Not wanting to taint his heart, he decided to teach him slowly in the future. He began answering the earlier question: “I practiced the Cold Jade Art and poison control techniques you gave me, using spiritual energy to seal toxins within my body.”

He circulated the toxins inside him, and countless horrifying, multicolored patterns emerged across the upper half of his face—chaotically covering his forehead, around his eyes, the bridge of his nose, and his cheeks, even obscuring that striking tear mole, utterly destroying his beauty. Only the lower half of his face retained its original color, making the contrast all the more stark and hideous…

Song Qingshi gasped, “Ghostface Snake Poison?”

“Yes. I took inspiration from how you suppressed the flames,” Yue Wuhuan smiled cheerfully. “I refined the Ghostface Snake Poison and added some other drugs to manifest it on my face. This way, when I go out to handle matters, though it’s a bit frightening, it eliminates all trouble. Once the reputation of Young Master Wuhuan’s disfigurement spreads, I’ll be even safer.”

Song Qingshi couldn’t help but reach out and touch it. The skin was still smooth, no different in texture from before.

Yue Wuhuan let the toxins spread further, chuckling, “If anyone suspects me and tries to plot against me, I just need to release the spiritual restraints on the poison. The Ghostface Snake Poison will spread across my entire body, leaving them with no interest whatsoever.”

Song Qingshi looked at the patterns on his body, heart aching, but he had to admit this was a better method than disguise.

This layer of toxins could eradicate all wicked desires. Moreover, the complete destruction of something once beautiful would evoke pity in others—at the very least, they wouldn’t dare recall unspeakable scenes in his presence or humiliate him with past events. Yet, such a face would have to endure fearful, disgusted, and contemptuous gazes… This was malice no ordinary person could bear.

“I don’t care about this face. Without it, people might finally see my other strengths. The only reason I didn’t destroy it completely was because I feared it would sadden you,” Yue Wuhuan understood his thoughts and withdrew the toxins, revealing his beautiful face once more. His phoenix eyes overflowed with tender devotion. “If the Master likes this face, I’ll only show it to you from now on, alright?”

Red vines coiled around Song Qingshi’s feet, swaying gently as if playfully beseeching.

“Alright,” Song Qingshi caught on immediately and praised, “Wuhuan is the most beautiful!”

Yue Wuhuan laughed, radiant with joy.

He stood up, removed his water-dampened robes, and changed into a form-fitting crimson brocade robe. A delicate golden sash cinched his waist, and his tall, straight posture—honed from years of sword practice—no longer carried any trace of his former fragility.

A vine brought over an embroidered box containing a golden mask. The mask was exquisitely crafted, resembling asymmetrical wings spread outward, with a braided red silk ribbon hanging from the left side, adorned with three small, luminescent gemstones.

He casually gathered his long hair at the back of his head, leaving only a few loose strands on his forehead, then donned the mask, concealing all areas tainted by the Ghostface toxins. Paired with his crimson lips and lightly honeyed chin, the effect was a commanding, striking beauty—so striking it was impossible to look away.

Song Qingshi couldn’t help but praise sincerely again, “This mask is truly beautiful.”

Yue Wuhuan’s lips curled slightly, immensely pleased. “Now that the Master has awakened, I can’t afford to embarrass you when I go out.”

He had deliberately controlled the toxins to cover only half his face, considering how to handle things once Song Qingshi woke up. Just as male birds flaunt their splendid plumage to win over their mates, he too refused to let the one he loved see his ugliness—only his beauty.

Seeing that he had considered every detail, Song Qingshi finally relaxed and turned to other concerns. “Has anything happened in the Medicine Monarch Valley?”

“Nothing major, except for this troublesome matter.” Yue Wuhuan waved his hand, and the red vines brought over a thick stack of letters, presenting them to Song Qingshi. “From An Long. Take a look.”

Song Qingshi flipped through the letters. At first, An Long’s correspondence arrived every two or three months—ordinary greetings, gifts, and anecdotes about his own life. After five years, the letters shifted to questioning the lack of replies, increasing in frequency. He seemed to have guessed something had happened to Song Qingshi, relentlessly questioning Yue Wuhuan. By the last half-year, the letters had devolved into outright threats against Yue Wuhuan, vowing to kill him.

Yue Wuhuan sighed helplessly. “At first, he thought you were angry or secluded in alchemy, so he didn’t suspect anything. Later, when I began collecting medicines and reorganizing the Medicine Monarch Valley on a larger scale, he grew suspicious and bombarded me with questions. I was forced to reply, stalling and evading. Eventually… he traced clues from the types of medicines I procured, heard about the tribulation in the valley, and concluded that you had been gravely injured or killed, leading to my seizure of authority… This can’t be delayed any longer. Fortunately, the Master has awakened and can personally write back to explain.”

The more Song Qingshi read, the more speechless he became. “This fool actually tried to force his way in?”

Yue Wuhuan nodded. “He broke through twice. The western poison and illusion arrays are mostly destroyed. Even though I’ve repaired and reinforced them, the Poison King’s cultivation is formidable, and his methods are unpredictable. One more attempt, and the arrays likely won’t hold…”

Setting up arrays required vast amounts of Spirit Stones, all torn apart by that Alaskan…

Song Qingshi’s mouth twisted in dismay. Yet, his injury had to remain concealed—he couldn’t blame Yue Wuhuan for refusing to reveal the truth. And because the truth was hidden, An Long assumed the worst and resorted to such destructive foolishness, so he couldn’t blame An Long either… Who was left to blame? Only himself for falling unconscious so abruptly, leaving no time to explain anything.

At least his right hand could move. He needed to write that letter of explanation quickly…

The Medicine Monarch Valley’s resources were limited—it couldn’t afford another instance of destruction.