The people of Jinghong Village often wondered: Did the Heavenward Lotus appear first, leading to the birth of Jinghong Village, or did the village come into existence before the lotus emerged in the Spirit Path, destined to protect its people?
Jiang Yingchen had heard Rong speak of the Heavenward Lotus many times. As the sacred guardian of Jinghong Village, it was revered by all who lived there. But he was not one of them, and thus forbidden from entering its holy grounds. He thought he might never lay eyes on the legendary flower. On the night of their wedding, he had even asked Rong, "Can the Heavenward Lotus truly protect the villagers? Will its barrier never break?"
Rong, nestled in his arms, had laughed and playfully scratched his chin. "Never. The Heavenward Lotus is powerful—no one can breach the sacred barrier."
At the time, Jiang Yingchen had dismissed it as mere whimsy.
But later, when he dragged his wounded body into the demon-infested Unforgotten River, the raging currents tore at his flesh. Only the jade token of the Jiang family, tied at his waist, spared his life. He crawled ashore, stumbling, falling, crawling on hands and knees until he reached Jinghong Village.
He begged—prayed—that the Heavenward Lotus was as mighty as they claimed, that it could save the villagers, save Rong.
Instead, he found only corpses.
The howling wind seemed to wail as he limped through the ruins of the once-vibrant village, leaning on a broken branch. The thousand steps to the sacred grounds felt endless.
The courtyard he had shared with Rong had been abandoned for over a month. Dead leaves blanketed the ground, and tiny garments still hung on the clothesline. In the corner sat an unfinished cradle—Rong’s handiwork.
Jiang Yingchen picked up a fallen baby robe and sobbed until his voice cracked.
"Rong… Rong… Rong!"
He staggered onward, past Ying’s home, where only a pool of dried blood remained.
At the foot of the mountain, he found traces of life in the small wooden house he had built for Rong.
Following the path, he discovered Ying’s lifeless body, a woven basket—one he had made for Rong—scattered beside her, its threads spilled across the ground.
In that moment, a terrible thought struck him. He stumbled down the slope, branches tearing his clothes, rocks bruising his battered body, leaving a trail of blood in his wake.
The distance from the mountain to the Heavenward Lotus’s sanctuary was only twenty li, but his legs were broken. He crawled the rest of the way.
The once-proud young master, born into privilege, was now a bloodied, mud-caked wreck—more beggar than man.
For three days, under the scorching sun, he dragged himself forward. His lips cracked, his vision blurred, but he refused to faint. After thirty-six hours, he finally reached the sacred lotus.
A small grave stood just outside the sanctuary. Inside, a single Heavenward Lotus bud waited to bloom.
Jiang Yingchen had always been stubborn. Others might have accepted the grave’s silent answer, but he had to see for himself—was Rong truly buried there?
Kneeling in the sand, his legs bloodied and bones exposed, his hands—once Rong’s favorite—now twisted and broken, he dug.
The pit was deep, perhaps to keep the shifting sands from exposing the body.
He clawed at the earth for hours, tears mixing with the dirt. A man who seldom wept, Jiang Yingchen had only cried twice in his life: once when he left Rong, and now, as he searched for her.
At last, he knelt at the bottom of the grave, staring blankly at the shroud.
Not a shroud, really—a woman’s outer robe, embroidered with delicate patterns. Not Rong’s style. Someone else had wrapped her in it.
He pulled the cloth aside.
Though the Spirit Path was barren, free of scavengers, Rong’s body, lying near the Heavenward Lotus, had been spared decay. She looked almost peaceful—as if asleep—save for the pallor of death, the bloodless wound in her chest, her stained skirt, and closed eyes. She was still his Rong.
Beside her cheek lay fragments of jade—the hairpin he had given her, shattered, then carefully gathered and buried with her by whoever laid her to rest.
He broke.
Cradling her body, he noticed the slight swell of her abdomen. Having died just after childbirth, her skin had yet to regain its firmness, leaving her looking as though she still carried their child.
Laughing and weeping, he touched her face with his mangled hands, pressed his cracked lips to her forehead, and called her name like a madman.
"Rong… Rong… my Rong."
He begged her to wake, clutched her to his chest, desperate to hear her say his name just once more. He apologized, pleaded, raged—but the grave held its silence.
"I was wrong, I was wrong, I shouldn’t have left. I failed you, I was wrong, I was wrong!"
"I beg you, Rong, please don’t treat me like this. Don’t do this to me—I’ll go mad, I truly will!"
"Rong, Rong!"
He cried out in agony, desperate to rouse her, but she would not wake. His mind was in chaos—one moment kissing her lips, the next gripping her hand to strike himself, alternating between apologies and declarations of love.
Yet no one could hear his words, and no one was there to wipe away his tears.
He had to face reality.
When his tears ran dry, he realized she was truly gone.
At last, he thought of how to end his own life.
Rong’s heart meridian had been pierced, so he took her hand and drove a sharpened branch into his own chest, suffering the same torment she had endured.
Rong had clung to life despite her shattered heart meridian, enduring unbearable agony with every breath, every push to bring their child into the world.
Jiang Yingchen shattered his own heart as well, severing the intricate threads of his heart meridian one by one. He lay in the pit, holding Rong close, their bodies entwined face to face.
He kissed her forehead, straightened his robes, and intertwined his twisted fingers with hers. Rong’s cheek rested against his chest, just as they had embraced night after night in the past.
Jiang Yingchen issued one final command to his lifebound sword.
Bury him and Rong.
The sword pushed the surrounding earth into the pit, grains of sand trickling down. He had no spiritual energy left—no different from an ordinary mortal.
As the soil piled over them, he first felt suffocation. Each labored breath sent searing pain through his shattered heart meridian, yet he embraced the torment, holding his beloved wife tighter. When the sand finally buried his face, he closed his eyes.
"Rong, my Rong."
Jiang Yingchen had entered the Path of Heartlessness at the age of five. Though not the eldest son of the Jiang family, his unwavering resolve secured his position as the clan’s heir.
Yet for Rong, he shattered his heart of stone. From their first meeting, their tragedy was sealed.
Death was inevitable. To die with her was the only answer he could give.
A fleeting life, gone in an instant—but from now on, he and Rong would be together for eternity.
At that moment, the Skyward Lotus in the sacred land bloomed.
But the people of Jinghong Village, whom it was meant to protect, were all gone.
Yu Zhiling opened her eyes and gazed up at the Skyward Lotus before her. Its bud trembled slightly, bending to brush against her forehead—the last trace of Jinghong Village’s bloodline it could sense.
The memories the lotus revealed were what she had guessed from the start.
In Rong’s memories, Jiang Yingchen’s love overflowed, just as Rong had endured excruciating pain to bring their child into the world. He, too, had been willing to shatter his Path of Heartlessness for a chance to return to her.
If they could not live together, then dying together was their best ending.
Yu Zhiling turned her gaze beyond the barrier, where a lone grave stood in the vast desert. Mo Zhu sat cross-legged nearby, sensing her gaze. His eyes were calm, as if he had already guessed the outcome.
She stood and stroked the Skyward Lotus, which had waited a century for this moment. It broke itself willingly and placed itself in her hands.
This lotus would fully restore the soul energy Rong had left behind.
Stepping out of the lotus’s barrier, Yu Zhiling approached the grave. Mo Zhu rose and pulled paper offerings from his qiankun pouch.
She smiled faintly. "When did you buy these?"
He crouched to ignite a flame with a spell. "Last night. I stopped by an incense shop in the city. Don’t worry, Master, I left spirit stones in payment."
Whether cultivator or mortal, the dead were honored with paper money and incense.
He knew why Yu Zhiling had returned, knew Jiang Yingchen was likely dead. All he could do was this small act for her.
Yu Zhiling knelt, hugging her knees as she accepted the stack of paper offerings from him. Together, they burned them in silence.
Mo Zhu asked, "What of their bodies? Should we move them?"
She bowed her head. "Yes. Take them back to Jinghong Village for burial. They wouldn’t like this place—nothing but sand."
"Not to the Central Continent?"
"No. Bury them in Jinghong Village, near Aunt Yu."
Unlike Ying, Rong had poured all her soul energy into her premature child, leaving no chance to become a ghost cultivator.
As for Jiang Yingchen—he was no native of Jinghong Village. Like all cultivators of the Central Continent, he lacked soul energy. Death was final for him; there was no saving grace.
Mo Zhu burned the offerings in silence. When Yu Zhiling stood and began digging by the grave, a sword materialized—its hilt carved with the Jiang family’s insignia. Beneath the blade lay a torn scrap of cloth.
Jiang Yingchen had cut a piece of his robe and written three names in blood:
Yu Xiangrong.
Jiang Yingchen.
At the very bottom lay a cherished name—Yu Nian.
In A'rong's memories, Yu Zhiling had once seen them discussing names for their future child. Since they didn’t know whether it would be a boy or a girl, A'rong had chosen a neutral name: Yu Nian.
Though this name had ultimately been marked as provisional by A'rong—she wanted to take her time, to select the very best one.
Jiang Yingchen had never forgotten it. He remembered even the name she had casually mentioned.
They never got the chance to consider more names. This one, once spoken, became the only thing he could leave for their child.
He didn’t know who had saved the child, whether it was a boy or a girl, whether they would return here one day, or whether the person who raised them would ever tell them these things.
All he could leave behind was this scrap of cloth.
If the child grew up in the Central Continent, they would surely know Jiang Yingchen’s name. This was what he left for them.
The child of the Jiang family’s young master, carrying this cloth to seek out the Jiangs—one of the four great families of the Central Continent—would have their backing.
The sword seemed to be waiting for someone. When the strip of cloth fell into Yu Zhiling’s hands, rust suddenly crawled over the blade, spreading until it consumed the entire weapon.
After its master’s death, a sword spirit would fall into deep slumber, vanishing completely after centuries, millennia.
This sword’s spirit was already dead.
Yu Zhiling was eerily quiet. Mo Zhu watched her for a while, his heart aching, before speaking softly, "Master?"
She finally reacted, blinking slowly before folding the scrap of cloth neatly and saying in a calm voice, "I’d like to sit alone for a while."
Mo Zhu pressed his lips together and nodded gently. "Alright. I’ll be nearby—call if you need me."
He moved some distance away, sitting with his back to her.
Yu Zhiling knelt before the grave, lighting two incense sticks and burning paper offerings one by one.
Mo Zhu sat about a hundred feet away, staring at the golden glint of the sand beneath him. Then, from behind, he heard the sound of muffled sobs.
Her crying was almost inaudible, little more than stifled whimpers. An ordinary cultivator might not have heard it from this distance, but Mo Zhu was a teng snake—his hearing far surpassed that of a human.
Even with his back turned, he could picture her: hands pressed to her mouth, shoulders hunched, forcing her cries into silence. Even in grief, she held back.
It struck him then—since her return, she had cried so many times.
Never from pain, never from injury. Even when the backlash of Fengshuangzhan left her too wounded to move, she would still smile and say it didn’t hurt. She had never feared pain.
Every time she wept, it was because of memories resurfacing—Fuchun’s death, Zhuo Yu’s past, the loss of her parents, one after another.
Like everyone around Yu Xiaowu, Mo Zhu believed some things were better left forgotten. Forever.
Because the living mattered more. They had to keep going.
He tilted his head back, the sun blinding, his vision swimming. Yet the sound of her crying only grew clearer behind him.
But it seemed someone wanted her to remember everything. Her memories were returning, uncontrollably.
Yu Zhiling would remember it all eventually. And with it, the past that had once shattered her spirit, the pain that had driven her to take her own life—
Would return too.
Mo Zhu’s breath hitched, his throat working. He had never feared anything before. But now, he recognized the dread coiling inside him.
He was afraid—terrified—of her remembering everything.
A'rong and Jiang Yingchen’s bodies had been moved to the hills behind Jinghong Village.
Yu Zhiling knelt before the grave, kowtowing several times, while Ying stood behind her.
"Are you leaving now?"
Yu Zhiling nodded. "Yes. I must go back."
Ying stared at the burial mound, her eyes reddening.
"I thought he hadn’t come." Before Yu Zhiling could respond, she continued, voice low, "But I was naive. Of course he would come."
They had bound themselves in marriage. The moment A'rong died, Jiang Yingchen—lying grievously wounded in the Jiang household—had known. He had dragged himself here, crawling to reach his A'rong.
Ying murmured, "I shouldn’t have driven him away. No—I should have let A'rong leave with him back then."
But who could have known what would happen?
Yu Zhiling and Mo Zhu remained silent. Ying lifted her head, wiping away her tears with a sigh.
"Child, do you know why Jinghong Village suffered this fate?"
Yu Zhiling bowed her head, tucking a loose strand of hair behind her ear. "I do."
For the Wangwang River. And for the Skyward Lotus.
Beyond the Spirit Veil Path, feared by all in the Central Continent, lay a river hundreds of miles wide. No one came here—it was the perfect place to nurture tens of thousands of demonic wraiths.
And within the Spirit Veil Path, the Skyward Lotus could stabilize soul energy. For someone like You Zhou, who had split his soul into three to create three avatars, dividing his power left his true form severely weakened. He needed the Skyward Lotus desperately.
Ying sneered coldly: "There was only one Skyward Lotus in Jinghong Village, which I hid away. He questioned everyone in the village, but none of us spoke a word, and he couldn’t find it. As for the nearly matured Skyward Lotus in the sacred grounds, he had no way to pluck it—he couldn’t even enter."
So You Zhou killed them all. Since these people refused to help him obtain the Skyward Lotus, they had no reason to live.
Yu Zhiling asked, "What about the barrier outside?"
Ying looked bewildered, pausing in thought before shaking her head. "I don’t know. We only woke up a few decades ago, and everything was already like this. No one knows who left that formation outside."
Yu Zhiling pressed her lips together. So someone else had come to Lingyou Path—someone capable of crossing the Unforgettable River, gathering the souls of the dead, reviving them, and leaving behind a barrier so strong that even an early-stage Great Ascension cultivator couldn’t break it.
A few decades ago… it couldn’t have been Fuchun. Fuchun might not even have known Jinghong Village existed.
Then the only possibility…
Yu Zhiling could only think of Zhuo Yu.
It had to be Zhuo Yu herself.
High cultivation, experience in Lingyou Path, and the ability to find Jinghong Village—no one else fit.
Perhaps, back then, she had regained some memories due to the soul power Rong had transferred to her, which led her here.
Ying crouched down, brushing her fingers over a tombstone, her voice low. "Someone helped us. If I ever get the chance, I’d like to thank them."
Yu Zhiling said nothing and didn’t linger in Jinghong Village.
She followed Ying down the mountain, bid her farewell, and descended the stone steps. When she passed the courtyard, she paused.
Mo Zhu asked from behind, "Shall we go in and look?"
Yu Zhiling remained silent, as if hesitating.
Mo Zhu sighed softly, stepping forward first to push open the gate. He turned back and took Yu Zhiling’s hand, leading her inside.
"We should see it. This was Shizun’s home."
This was where Rong had fallen in love with Jiang Yingchen, where they had built a family and awaited the birth of their child. The love of a mother had made Rong give up her only chance to survive—that immense soul power. Even with just a fragment of her soul left, she could have lived.
But in that moment, seeing the barely breathing infant in Fuchun’s arms—a child born two months too soon, too frail to survive—she hadn’t hesitated. This was her and Jiang Yingchen’s child. She gave her soul power to Yu Zhiling.
The courtyard had long been tidied by Ying. Even the half-finished cradle had been completed by her. What had Ying been thinking as she cleaned her younger sister’s home?
On the table in the main room lay bundles of finely extracted Suonan wood fibers, painstakingly gathered by Rong. So many leaves, enough to fill a basket—thread for a child’s winter clothes. For an adult, it might barely make one outer robe.
Yu Zhiling also visited Jiang Yingchen’s study. She pointed at the small bed. "My father used to sleep curled up here. It must’ve been so uncomfortable—he was tall, and this space couldn’t even fit him properly. He might as well have slept on the floor."
Her fingers trailed over the sandalwood desk as she murmured, "My father read a lot. He taught my mother to read. She didn’t know the characters of the Central Continent, couldn’t understand its stories."
She touched a sachet hanging on the wall. "This is an artemisia pouch—to repel mosquitoes. My mother made it. The summers were full of them, biting so painfully. Have you ever been bitten?"
Yu Zhiling turned to Mo Zhu. "I actually attract them. In summer, I always wore anti-mosquito bracelets—probably similar to these sachets."
Mo Zhu shook his head. "No, I’ve never been bitten."
No insect dared drink the blood of a Tengshe.
Yu Zhiling pouted. "Lucky you. When we go out together, I’ll attract swarms for you."
The house was so small that they could see everything in less than half an hour.
At the gate, Yu Zhiling glanced back one last time before turning away decisively. "Mo Zhu, let’s go. Back to Yingshan."
"Alright."
Mo Zhu locked the gate and caught up to her.
At the edge of Jinghong Village, Yu Zhiling looked back. The steps were lined with people, Ying standing at the highest point, watching her leave.
Yu Zhiling lowered her head and raised her hand to form a barrier.
She was even more certain now—this formation had been left by Zhuo Yu.
With just a gesture, she knew exactly how to weave it, how it had been constructed. The barrier spread, slowly enveloping Jinghong Village, obscuring the view between her and its inhabitants until it sealed completely. Before her stood only a tree, as if Jinghong Village had never existed.
Now, at the Tribulation Transcendence stage, her barrier was far stronger than the one Zhuo Yu had left at the Great Ascension’s peak. It would protect Jinghong Village from discovery, allowing these departed souls to continue their ghostly existence undisturbed.
"Let's go, Mo Zhu."
They left Jinghong Village, crossed the Unforgettable River, and emerged from the Lingyou Path.
As they stepped out, the Central Continent was drenched in rain. The sky was dark and oppressive, the heavy clouds so thick it felt suffocating.
Mo Zhu walked beside her, holding an umbrella tilted in her direction. His right shoulder was soaked, but he paid no mind, his gaze fixed on her as if gauging her emotions.
They returned to the city, where Yu Zhiling bought a bag of tangy pickled plums from a street vendor. Munching as they walked, she murmured, "Now I know why I love sour and spicy flavors so much. My mother adored spicy food, and my father had a taste for sour things."
Mo Zhu chuckled. "I take after my parents too. Both preferred mild flavors, so I’ve never been fond of anything too strong."
Yu Zhiling held a plum to his lips. "What about sour?"
Mo Zhu took a bite, his eyes crinkling with amusement. "It’s sweet."
She frowned. "Your taste buds must be broken."
Skeptical, she popped a few more into her mouth, then glanced at him. "Definitely sour."
Mo Zhu bent down to meet her gaze, shaking his head. "No, it’s sweet. Try it again, Master."
His lips were dusted with sugar crystals. Yu Zhiling met his eyes—bright with laughter and something far warmer.
Raindrops pattered against the umbrella, the sound mingling with the rhythm of her heartbeat.
Mo Zhu brushed a finger over the tip of her nose. "I heard you crying, Master."
Yu Zhiling didn’t know why, but her nose suddenly stung. "Why do you always hear me?"
"What’s wrong with that? You’re allowed to cry. I’ve heard it many times now."
"...Don’t slander me. I rarely cry."
"I know, I know." Mo Zhu’s touch was featherlight as he traced the lingering dampness at the corner of her eye, his voice gentle. "Master is the strongest person I’ve ever met. If I’d gone through what you have, I doubt I’d have held up half as well."
"It’s okay to cry. No one’s made of stone—how could anyone live without emotions? You don’t have to hide from me anymore. Cry if you need to. Cry in front of me, and I’ll have an excuse to comfort you."
What he feared most was her slipping away to some lonely corner where he couldn’t reach her, where he’d never know she was hurting.
Yu Zhiling lifted a hand, her fingertips grazing his cheek. "Mo Zhu, you’re nothing like the Mo Zhu I thought I knew."
He tilted his head. "What did you think I’d be like?"
She didn’t answer.
In her mind, he should have been cold, silent, devoid of warmth—a young man who spent over a decade hunting down villains, a disciple who would one day kill his own master.
When she first read about him, she’d imagined him as unfeeling as stone, incapable of love.
"But now I see you’re actually kind. Gentle." Her fingers brushed his eyelid. "You’re just quiet, but you’re good."
Mo Zhu caught her wrist, the oil-paper umbrella shielding her completely. His clothes were half-drenched, yet he still smiled. "That’s how Master sees me?"
Yu Zhiling nodded. "That’s how everyone in Yingshan Sect sees you. You’re a good person."
The answer caught him off guard, his smile faltering for a heartbeat.
She stepped closer, her gaze unwavering. "There’s so much I haven’t told you, Mo Zhu. Few people stay by each other’s side forever. No matter how far apart we are in the future, promise me you’ll stay this way—stay good, stay with Yingshan Sect."
Mo Zhu’s brow furrowed. "Master?"
Cupping his face, she rose onto her toes and pressed her lips to his, her tongue sweeping away the sugar on his mouth.
When she pulled back, their noses still touched. His eyes had darkened, the warmth in them simmering into something deeper.
"You were right," she whispered. "It is sweet."
"Everything you said is right. I’ve fallen for you. This is the first time I’ve ever felt this way about anyone."
"Mo Zhu, you’ve been too good to me. How could I not fall for you?"
She knocked the umbrella from his hand and wrapped her arms around his neck.
"Mo Zhu, this time, I’m the one making the first move."
Her lips found his again as she melted into his embrace.
Mo Zhu reacted instantly, guiding her into a deserted alleyway. His arms locked around her waist as he kissed her back, his mouth claiming hers with a hunger that left no inch unexplored. The taste of sugar and sour plums bloomed between them—sweet on the tongue, bittersweet in the heart.
He didn’t know why she’d kissed him so suddenly, but he’d never refuse her. His pulse raced, his blood burning as their lips moved together, as she kissed him back with equal fervor.
In the heat of their tangled breaths, Yu Zhiling felt his love—solid, undeniable. The panic that had gripped her earlier began to fade, soothed by the certainty of his touch.
Back in the Chaotian Lotus Sanctuary, she’d glimpsed Jiang Yingchen’s memories, and now, at last, she understood.
Certain things—facts she had deliberately ignored before—now surfaced in her mind.
Why had the system chosen her to enter this world? Why did Zhu Qing recognize her? And why did she care so deeply about the people around Yu Xiaowu?
Those feelings of affection, dependence, heartbreak, and sorrow—none of them should have belonged to Yu Zhiling. Yet they were overwhelming her, driving her to the brink of madness.
She possessed emotions so intense, so consuming.
Were she and Yu Xiaowu truly two separate people?
