Yu Zhiling sat by her young disciple's bedside, her gaze fixed intently on the black sword placed beside the sleeping Mo Zhu.
The Wuhui Sword was entirely pitch-black, forged not from dark iron but from the Reincarnation Stone of the Tai Xu Realm. Rumors claimed this stone was a relic of divine origin, and whispers suggested that Wuhui could track any person's whereabouts—even if they were dead, as long as their soul remained, the sword would find them.
Moreover, the Reincarnation Stone was said to glimpse into the memories within a soul. Yet, Yu Zhiling wasn’t sure if the tales were true. Still, a sword with awakened spiritual intelligence could, once someone entered its blade realm, read their memories and conjure their most painful recollections as a trial of the heart, testing their resolve.
Yu Zhiling picked up her own sword, Zhuqing, and tapped it lightly against Wuhui by the bedside.
"Hey, what did you put my little disciple through? Scaring him like this—don’t think I won’t beat you just because you’re a celestial-grade sword."
Zhuqing chimed in, "Yeah, yeah! I’ll beat you up!"
Wuhui whimpered, "Wuwu…"
Terrified, Wuhui inched closer to Mo Zhu, seeking refuge near its master.
Yu Zhiling rapped the sword sharply again. "Get away from him! You’re freezing my disciple!"
Wuhui protested, "You’re being unreasonable! He’s a Teng serpent—he doesn’t get cold!!!"
Yu Zhiling couldn’t understand its buzzing, but her own Zhuqing could.
Zhuqing taunted, "Come out and fight, brat!"
Wuhui pretended to be lifeless.
Frowning, Yu Zhiling sheathed Zhuqing and crossed her arms, settling into the wooden chair beside the bed as her eyes lingered on Mo Zhu’s face.
His complexion was paler than snow, his condition visibly dire. His injuries were severe—Ning Hengwu had said that reaching the hundredth floor of the trial tower was only possible due to the Teng serpent’s resilient flesh. A human cultivator, wounded like this, would either be dead or comatose.
A gaping hole pierced through his abdomen, likely inflicted by the guardian spirit ram on the seventy-third floor. Just tending to Mo Zhu’s wounds had taken most of the day.
Yu Zhiling sighed, leaning over to tuck the blankets around him. Just as she was about to leave, a hand seized her wrist.
"Shizun."
Mo Zhu looked at her, silent and still, his lips colorless, yet his grip firm.
Yu Zhiling sat back down. "You’re awake? Are you in pain? Does it hurt anywhere?"
"It’s nothing, Shizun."
Mo Zhu stared at her as if he hadn’t seen her in years, his gaze so intense it made her heart skip. Instinctively, she wanted to avert her face.
"Mo Zhu, focus on recovering first."
"Shizun."
His palm pressed against her wrist, feeling the pulse of her veins—so alive, so vibrant.
"Mo Zhu, what’s wrong?" Yu Zhiling frowned, sensing his turmoil. "Did you see something terrible in the sword realm? Those were just heart demons—they’re in the past."
Mo Zhu remained silent, his grip unyielding, his eyes fixed on her.
If those had truly been memories of the past, he wouldn’t have been trapped. During his Nascent Soul tribulation, he had faced heart demons before, but he had always recognized them as remnants of what had already happened.
Yet what Wuhui had shown him… wasn’t his memory at all.
And yet, Wuhui insisted it was.
The unknown terrified him. Mo Zhu didn’t understand why he would have such ghastly fragments in his mind.
With a sudden tug, he pulled her into his arms, his hands locking around her waist, his cheek pressing against hers.
Yu Zhiling stiffened in shock. "Mo Zhu!"
He nuzzled against her, voice muffled. "Shizun… let me hold you, just for a while?"
Her face burned. She wanted to push him away, but her hands froze against his chest—his wounds were everywhere.
Hastily retracting her hands, she braced herself to keep her weight from pressing onto him.
"Mo Zhu, what’s gotten into you?"
He was clearly not himself, but he offered no explanation.
"Mo Zhu?"
He didn’t know what to say. How could he explain memories that weren’t his? Telling her would only burden her further.
"Just a little longer."
Just a little longer—to reassure himself she was real, that she was still here.
Yu Zhiling didn’t struggle, afraid of hurting him. "You’re injured… what if I press on your wounds?"
Seeming to relent, his grip loosened, and she quickly straightened up.
Flustered, she tucked a loose strand of hair behind her ear, exhaling shakily.
"Mo Zhu, why—"
Before she could finish, he sat up abruptly and pulled her back into his embrace.
Yu Zhiling: "???"
Yu Zhiling: "Why did you sit up?! You’re hurt!"
Mo Zhu rested his chin on her shoulder, arms tightening around her. "Shizun, it’s not serious."
His wounds didn’t hurt. But his heart did. The memories Wuhui had forced upon him left him suffocating—rage and fear coiled in his chest, an urge to slaughter whoever had dared to harm her in those visions.
Bare-chested, his bandages stark against his skin, Yu Zhiling shrank back, careful not to touch his sculpted torso.
She didn’t push him. When Mo Zhu fell silent, so did she.
He held her like an anchor, his grip gradually easing as he slumped against her shoulder. Thankfully, as a cultivator, she could bear his weight without strain.
But the heat of his body, the way his broad shoulders and lean waist—deceptively slender when clothed—now pressed against her, made her pulse race. His face buried in the crook of her neck, his Adam’s apple brushing her collarbone, his scent a mix of herbs and warmth.
She squirmed slightly. "…Have you held me long enough?"
Mo Zhu mumbled, "No. Not yet."
He could never hold her enough. A lifetime wouldn’t suffice.
Yu Zhiling waited obediently, unsure where to put her hands, finally letting them hang at her sides.
She stayed still, letting him cling as he pleased, so tense she didn’t even notice when he nuzzled her ear.
Adorable. The chaos in Mo Zhu’s heart settled slightly, affection swelling as he watched her.
His little shizun spoke again, hesitant. "How about now? It’s been a quarter-hour… have you held enough?"
Her disciple whined, "Not enough. Just a little longer?"
Two quarters later, Yu Zhiling: "Now?"
"Not yet."
Half an hour in, Yu Zhiling: "My neck hurts."
Reluctantly, he released her.
Yu Zhiling bolted upright. "I’ll go brew your medicine!"
Mo Zhu had no time to stop her before she slipped out of the room, closing the door behind her and leaving him alone.
No—not entirely alone. There was still a sword.
Mo Zhu leaned against the headboard, his gaze dropping to the blade resting beside the bed. To others, this was the treasured sword of their sect, something worth fighting tooth and nail to possess. But to him, it was no different from any ordinary sword.
Wu Hui trembled, baffled. Even though it had become his lifebound sword, this young master still treated it with such indifference.
Just look at Yu Zhiling—how well she treated Zhu Qing!
Same sword, different fate. Wu Hui abandoned its pride and tried to nudge closer to its master.
Mo Zhu pulled the quilt over himself, silently rejecting his sword’s attempt at affection.
Wu Hui: "???"
Mo Zhu stared coldly at it, his eyes devoid of warmth. "Can you still pull me into your sword realm?"
Wu Hui swayed its hilt frantically—no.
A sword realm was only opened by sentient blades when selecting a master. Once bound, the realm would seal itself completely, allowing no entry.
"Can you still see my memories?"
Wu Hui hesitated, then nodded—yes.
Forged from the Stone of Reincarnation, it could peer into the memories imprinted on a soul and track a person’s spirit, living or dead—so long as it remained within the Central Continent.
Mo Zhu’s voice turned icy. "When can you see them?"
Wu Hui sighed and flopped flat, signaling that it couldn’t access them yet.
Mo Zhu’s memories seemed locked away by something. A lifebound sword’s power matched its master’s cultivation. Perhaps if Mo Zhu grew stronger, Wu Hui would too—strong enough to break the seal.
Mo Zhu could interpret its gestures. He didn’t press further.
He simply wasn’t strong enough.
Now, he realized—strength might be the only solution to everything. If he grew powerful enough, he could protect Yu Zhiling from harm, shield the Yingshan Sect, and earn the right to stand by her side.
In the end, it all came down to his own weakness.
Mo Zhu lowered his eyes, silent as if in meditation. But Wu Hui, as his lifebound sword, could feel the chilling pressure radiating from him, his fingers tightening imperceptibly over the embroidered quilt.
Wu Hui sighed and inched away from its master.
Ugh, what kind of fate was this? Stuck with such a cold-hearted owner.
Days passed uneventfully.
Before, it had been her disciple caring for her for a month. Now, it was Yu Zhiling’s turn to look after him.
Though "care" was a stretch—meals were still delivered by the Yingshan Sect, and Ning Hengwu prepared the medicinal brews. Why? Because Yu Zhiling couldn’t brew medicine. The first time she tried, she nearly charred Mo Zhu’s prescription.
All her duties as a master boiled down to delivering the medicine to his bedside. Her disciple would take it himself.
Yu Zhiling sat in the courtyard, melancholy. She had thought that once her merit points surpassed three thousand, she’d unlock the third phase of her memories. But lately, she’d been sleeping soundly, dreamless—the system hadn’t shown her anything.
Could it be…
The system wanted her to rest?
It made sense. In just over ten days, she had wept multiple times. Those memories and emotions were overwhelming. Yu Zhiling sensed that this system wasn’t entirely mechanical—sometimes, it showed a touch of humanity.
She sighed and took another sip of wine. The full moon hung in the sky, the courtyard bathed in lantern light.
At some point—whether from the wine or exhaustion—her mind began to blur.
[I’m Little Fish! What’s your name?]
Outside the window, stars filled the night. The room was warm, heated against the cold, the steady beep of medical equipment a constant backdrop. The sharp scent of disinfectant clung to the air.
Yu Zhiling sat cross-legged on the hospital bed, her frail frame drowning in the oversized patient gown, swaying slightly.
She clutched her phone, waiting eagerly for a reply.
Nervous. Hopeful. This was the first friend who had ever reached out to her.
The response came minutes later: [Gui. My name is… Gui.]
Yu Zhiling grinned, typing excitedly: [Why that name?]
[Because I’m waiting for someone to return.]
Little Fish: [A friend?]
Gui: [No. Family.]
Yu Zhiling coughed weakly, her body still aching from a recent episode that had landed her back in the hospital.
She adjusted the pillow behind her and typed: [Did they go somewhere far?]
[Yes. I’m waiting for her.]
[She’s important to you?]
[Very.]
That night, Yu Zhiling chattered endlessly with Gui—her first real conversation in so long.
When the nurse came to insist she sleep, Yu Zhiling reluctantly sent one last message.
[Sorry, I have to rest. My health isn’t great—I can’t stay up late.]
Gui replied: [Take care. I’ll wait for you.]
Yu Zhiling stared at those three words for a long time.
—I’ll wait for you.
No one had ever said that to her before.
But that same night, chest pain seized her in her sleep. She was rushed back to the ICU, cut off from her phone, tethered to machines.
Certain she was dying, she gasped for breath, her gaze fixed on the sunset outside. The evening glow was breathtaking.
She wanted—so desperately—to live.
When she finally reclaimed her phone half a month later, dozens of messages from Gui greeted her. No anger at her silence, just gentle greetings: good morning, good night.
The last one, sent that very day, read:
[Little Fish, there’s a fiery sunset today. I hope you see it. Life is beautiful. Someone is waiting for you in the future.]
She was sixteen then.
For eight years, Gui stayed by her side. They remained online friends, never meeting, yet to Yu Zhiling, Gui felt like family.
After her final hospital discharge, she hesitated for weeks before sending a message.
[Gui… can we meet?]
The reply came thirty minutes later.
Gui said: [Yes.]
Yu Zhiling paced her room in excitement, counting down the days on her calendar.
New Year’s Eve—the date they set.
Gui would spend the holiday with her.
But Gui never got the chance.
Yu Zhiling opened her eyes to a sky full of stars.
Separated by worlds now—how could they ever meet?
That brief dream had spanned eight years of her life. For the first time since arriving in this world, she had dreamed of Gui.
Yu Zhiling lifted the wine bottle. Soon, it would be the Lantern Festival—a time for reunion in this world.
Her head ached slightly as she took sip after sip of alcohol. In her previous world, she had never touched a drop, but after arriving here, thanks to Yu Zhiling’s naturally robust constitution, she had indulged recklessly—laughing loudly, running freely, picking fruits in the mountains, catching fish in the rivers, demanding spicy food at every meal, and drinking the strongest liquor available.
Everything she hadn’t done before, she was determined to experience now.
Yu Zhiling sniffled and had just reached for another bottle when someone clasped her wrist.
Blinking in confusion, her disciple’s handsome face loomed before her.
"Master, stop drinking. You’ve already had thirteen bottles. You’re drunk."
Yu Zhiling: "..."
Yu Zhiling, stunned: "I told you to rest! How did you get up?"
Mo Zhu straightened, his complexion not quite as healthy as before, but his posture remained tall and unwavering.
"It’s fine, Master. My injuries are mostly healed."
Yu Zhiling sat up, gripping his arm and turning him in a circle. She scrutinized his wounds, confirming he wasn’t pushing himself.
She couldn’t help but marvel—being a Teng Snake, his regenerative abilities were formidable. His injuries had been superficial, healing quickly. Back then, she had suffered internal damage and needed a full month to recover.
Yu Zhiling scooted aside, making room for him. "Then sit down and rest for a while."
Mo Zhu settled beside her, glancing at her sideways. He caught the heavy scent of alcohol on her, the flush on her cheeks, and sensed the weight of her emotions tonight.
Yu Zhiling had a high tolerance, but even she couldn’t drink endlessly. From inside, he had watched her down over a dozen bottles.
"Master, did something happen today?"
Yu Zhiling rubbed her temples, her mind foggy. "Hmm?"
Mo Zhu leaned closer, brushing aside a loose strand of her hair. "You’re upset. Why?"
She lay sprawled on the couch while he sat beside her.
Gazing up at the young man hovering over her, she saw the affection in his clear, handsome eyes.
Yu Zhiling’s lashes lowered slightly as she murmured, "I dreamed of Gui."
Mo Zhu’s expression didn’t change, but his fingers, resting against her cheek, stilled, curling slightly at the tips.
He studied her. "What did you dream about?"
Yu Zhiling, unusually honest in her drunken state, replied, "We had promised to meet, but I never saw him. And now… I never will."
Mo Zhu nodded, understanding.
Yu Zhiling had intended to reunite with Gui, but before they could, he had died.
He noticed the glimmer at the corners of her eyes. Though she wasn’t crying, the urge was there.
Gently wiping it away, he said softly, "Forget him. Look at someone else."
Yu Zhiling whispered, "I can’t. Gui was so good to me."
And what about him? Hadn’t he been good to her?
Mo Zhu’s breath grew heavier as he suppressed his emotions, coaxing her further. "It’s alright, Master. You’ll meet many people better than Gui. We’re all here for you."
Yu Zhiling wanted to say that they were all wonderful, but none of them were Gui.
Just as Mo Zhu and Yan Shanqing were irreplaceable, so was Gui.
Her head throbbed, and she turned away from Mo Zhu’s touch, murmuring, "Mm."
Her cold response made it clear she didn’t want to discuss it further.
Mo Zhu knew how important Gui was to her.
It filled him with unbearable jealousy.
"Master."
"Hmm?"
"Right now, who matters more—Gui or me?"
He knew the question was pointless, but he couldn’t let it go. He couldn’t stand the thought of someone he’d never met occupying her heart. Yu Zhiling’s reliance on Gui was something he had witnessed firsthand.
Yu Zhiling lifted her hazy eyes to him. Mo Zhu loomed over her, close enough that she seemed enveloped in his shadow. Yet there was no hint of impropriety in his demeanor—only anger.
His eyes were tinged with red.
Yu Zhiling reached up, cupping his cheek. Her breath carried the scent of alcohol as she spoke.
"Mo Zhu, does it really matter?"
"It does."
She hesitated, then stroked the corner of his eye, her voice slurred with drunken sweetness. "But I don’t want to answer. I don’t want to compare you two."
Because both Gui and Mo Zhu were irreplaceable to her. Why should they be weighed against each other?
But her words only deepened the misunderstanding. Mo Zhu fell silent.
Did she refuse to compare because he wasn’t worthy of being measured against Gui?
Of course. He had only been with her for a few months, while Gui had stayed by her side for years.
He simply watched her, his silence thick and suffocating. His hands, braced on either side of her, clenched until his knuckles turned white, veins stark against his skin.
His wounds ached—he knew they had reopened.
But it was nothing compared to the pain in his chest.
Yu Zhiling’s fingers traced his brow. In her world, Mo Zhu’s features would be considered classically striking—sharp, defined, his high cheekbones and strong jawline giving him an aloof air when unsmiling. But when he laughed, it was like spring thawing winter’s frost.
She mumbled, "You’re so handsome."
Mo Zhu said nothing, afraid that if he spoke, her words might wound him deeply enough to draw blood.
Yu Zhiling giggled. "But not as pretty as me. I’m the most beautiful in the Central Continent."
Of course she was. Mo Zhu had always believed she was the most beautiful.
Her fingers drifted to the outer corners of his eyes, which tilted slightly upward.
"Oh, you have double eyelids too! A soft inner fold, just like mine."
Mo Zhu nearly laughed in exasperation. He had been by her side for two months, and she was only noticing this now?
Yu Zhiling had never paid much attention before—Mo Zhu’s face was flawless in every way, so she had only ever taken in the whole picture.
Now, her fingers explored his lashes, tugging him closer. Mo Zhu didn’t resist, letting her pull him down.
He watched her intently as she mapped his features, inch by inch—this face she seemed to adore.
Yu Zhiling murmured, "Such long lashes… And your nose is so tall. Do you know how good your profile is? You’re the kind of handsome that comes from perfect bone structure."
Mo Zhu parted his lips. "Do you like it?"
"Of course. Only a blind person wouldn’t."
Satisfied, she patted his cheek and made to withdraw her hand, ready to sleep.
Mo Zhu caught her wrist, his voice gentle. "Why stop there?"
She had only reached his nose. What about below?
Yu Zhiling’s throat tightened as her gaze dropped to his lips—finely shaped, the curve elegant. This close, his breath fanned over her face, carrying the faint scent of sandalwood and a hint of citrus.
Her thoughts derailed. "Did you eat my oranges?"
Mo Zhu held her gaze. "No. I only drank the tea you made with dried orange peels. Didn’t you leave it on my desk?"
Every day, she prepared a pot of tea for him. Today, she had used sun-dried citrus peels to brew it.
Mo Zhu held her hand, guiding it to his nose bridge, and asked, "Does Shizun like this face? It’s not bad, is it?"
"Not bad."
Not just "not bad"—it was downright exceptional.
Yu Zhiling had drunk too much, and whether it was the alcohol or his overwhelming beauty, her mind was hazy, her body feverish, her heartbeat racing wildly.
Mo Zhu leaned closer, bringing her fingers to the corner of his lips.
"Want to touch?"
She did. They were soft, and she could feel the warmth of his breath as he spoke.
Mo Zhu coaxed her gently, "You can touch as much as you like. You can do anything to me."
Her fingertips brushed over his thin lips, and she felt even dizzier.
Her heart pounded so fiercely it nearly burst from her chest. The alcohol’s effects seemed to surge all at once. His face was so close—close enough that if she just tilted her head up, she could kiss him.
The young man’s dark eyes burned with fervent emotion, every glance telling her:
I love you, Shizun.
Yu Zhiling asked in a daze, "Mo Zhu, do you really love me?"
Without hesitation, he replied, "I do. Shizun, you know how much."
Of course she knew. His love was practically overflowing.
Mo Zhu took care of her, attentive to her every need.
He adored her, had always stayed by her side.
"Mo Zhu, I think I’m drunk. My head hurts."
"Then sleep. I’ll stay with you."
Her nose stung as she met his gaze—a storm swirling there, shattering her reason, draining her strength, threatening to drown her.
"But I don’t want to sleep."
Suddenly, she lifted her head and lightly pecked his lower lip.
Their eyes locked in silence.
Yu Zhiling’s mind was blank. When he didn’t react, emboldened by the alcohol, she kissed him again.
Still, he remained motionless, watching her silently.
Yu Zhiling: "???"
Why wasn’t he reacting? Couldn’t he give her something? He was the one who started this!
Defiance flared in her. She grabbed his collar, yanked him down, and planted another loud kiss—this time even nipping his lip.
The sound was unmistakable.
Mo Zhu abruptly stood and walked out.
Yu Zhiling blinked, throat tight. A breeze swept through, sobering her slightly. As she stared at the empty courtyard, the reality of what she’d just done crashed over her.
Had she… lost her mind? How had she fallen for it so easily?
Was her little disciple angry now?
Panic swelled. Spotting the wine by the bed, she shoved it to the floor in frustration. Damn this stuff—Shizun really can’t resist beauty when she’s drunk!
She scrambled to put on her shoes, ready to chase after Mo Zhu. She hadn’t even processed her own actions—one kiss wasn’t enough? She’d gone for three, even daring to bite him in her drunken boldness.
Then the courtyard gate swung open. A shadow flickered—in the blink of an eye, someone was before her.
A hand cradled the back of her head, another cupping her face as the young man knelt on the bed, leaning down to press his lips to hers.
Yu Zhiling didn’t close her eyes. Neither did Mo Zhu. Their gazes collided.
He kissed her once, softly sucking her lower lip before retreating, watching her reaction with cautious intensity.
Mo Zhu was nervous, his pulse frantic, his Adam’s apple bobbing. He studied her face—the blush spreading from her ears like sunset, staining her cheeks and neck.
He heard it too: her heartbeat, just as thunderous as his. She was just as flustered.
Yu Zhiling sat frozen, face tilted up in his hands, as he leaned in again. Another light kiss, another retreat.
Tentative. Testing.
It was his first time doing this. He didn’t know how to proceed, didn’t know what was normal—but her expression held no disgust.
She didn’t reject him. Didn’t hate it. Only shyness.
She…
Felt something for him too.
Yu Zhiling murmured in confusion, "You… kissed me?"
