This was Yu Xiaowu's memory.
The Frostwind Slash annihilated this nest of demonic fiends and also shattered Yu Zhiling's soul.
That figure collapsed in a pool of blood.
She was utterly gone.
Yu Zhiling had feared she wouldn't die properly, so she used the Frostwind Slash—for her, death was harder than living.
She had clung to life for three years on sheer will alone, never understanding how she endured so long. But now, she no longer wanted to. She longed for death, to perish and drag these damned fiends down with her.
So she wielded the Frostwind Slash, a sacred technique of the Mingxin Dao cultivators meant to protect the Central Continent, to shatter her own soul.
Yet she forgot—her mother was Rong, a woman of the Jinghong Village, whose people possessed the most formidable soul power, and the Heavenward Lotus would forever protect them.
The teardrop-shaped mark between her brows shimmered with cyan light, from which flecks of luminescence emerged, swirling around her like fluttering butterfly wings, stirring rippling waves.
Beneath her, from the tainted soil, a lotus broke through the earth. Its petals enveloped her lifeless body, cleansing the bloodstains from her form.
Her broken legs mended, exposed bones restored, the demonic sigils creeping up her neck receded.
The Heavenward Lotus, towering and majestic, woven from soul energy, folded its petals inward, cradling the last descendant of Jinghong Village in its embrace.
The people of Jinghong were blessed by the Heavenward Lotus, born with life-saving soul power. The energy Rong left her daughter had saved Yu Zhiling twice.
Over a century ago, Rong’s soul power had sustained the seven-month-old Yu Zhiling.
Now, it rescued her suicidal daughter, while the Heavenward Lotus preserved her corpse from decay and kept her shattered soul from dispersing.
That pure, radiant, mighty Heavenward Lotus bloomed in the most blood-soaked depths of the demonic abyss, purging all corruption, shielding its last kin.
It guarded Yu Zhiling’s body, remaining there day after day, year after year.
Seven years after her death, ten years after Yu Xiaowu entered the Slaughter Realm, the spirit of Chengfeng awakened.
Yan Shanqing was handling sect affairs when, abruptly, he sensed an aura enveloping all of Mount Ying—not just Chengfeng, but also… Zhu Qing.
What did Zhu Qing’s awakening signify?
Yan Shanqing stood, his throat tight. He took a step forward, then collapsed to his knees.
Disciples outside rushed in at the noise. "Sect Leader!"
Yan Shanqing scrambled up, staggering toward the ancestral hall, where Yu Zhiling’s soul lamp was enshrined—a place untouched for a decade.
Before he even entered, a heart-wrenching scream tore through the air.
"Xiaowu!!!"
Yan Shanqing fell to his knees again, trembling violently, as if his legs had forgotten how to move. He crawled, stumbling repeatedly, until he reached the hall’s entrance.
Inside, Ning Hengwu knelt, clutching a soul lamp, her cries frenzied. Tears matted her hair to her face as she desperately stroked the lamp, willing it to relight—but it lay dust-covered, extinguished long ago.
"Xiaowu, Xiaowu! My Xiaowu!"
Behind him, another thud—Xiang Wuxue’s voice, raw with despair.
"Xiaowu… Oh, Xiaowu…"
The moment Zhu Qing awakened, they understood.
Their suspicions had been right all along.
Yan Shanqing stared at the extinguished lamp, tears falling numbly. Suddenly, he raised a hand and began slapping himself, over and over.
For failing to see the truth—he deserved it.
For mistaking a traitor as kin—he deserved it.
For failing to protect her—he deserved it.
For forgetting her—he deserved it.
How many years had she been dead?
Where had she died?
In the end, their hearts perished that day too.
The senior disciples looked down at the young man below the platform. Yan Shanqing’s expression was icy.
"Mo Zhu, I command you—spare no effort in hunting her down."
This vengeance would only end when every last one of them was dead.
Mount Ying mobilized most of its forces to pursue Ni'e and You Zhou under Mo Zhu’s lead, joined by the Wu and Yun Families.
Yan Shanqing remained at the sect, often seated high in the teaching hall, watching the disciples train below. Their youthful vigor reminded him of Yu Xiaowu—bright, pure, brimming with spirit.
Ning Hengwu lost herself to madness, scouring the Slaughter Realm repeatedly, turning it inside out, yet never finding Yu Zhiling’s body.
Xiang Wuxue secluded himself, crafting swings and wooden horses—toys Yu Xiaowu once loved. He made them, then burned them, as if she could receive them in the afterlife.
Mei Qiongge rallied the royal family’s power, searching every corner of the Central Continent.
With Yu Xiaowu gone, Mount Ying was as good as finished.
Mo Zhu rarely returned. When Yan Shanqing next saw him, it was on the boy’s twenty-second birthday.
He had grown taller, his skin darkened from years of relentless pursuit. His killing intent was palpable as they faced each other on the stone steps.
With a sigh, Yan Shanqing said, "Rest for a few days, child."
Mo Zhu, battered and wounded, slept at Listening Spring Cliff for two days.
On the third, he descended the mountain again, sword in hand. His next return came five years later, summoned by Yan Shanqing’s missive.
Bodies littered the ground, blood flowing from peak to base under torrential rain. As Mo Zhu climbed, he recognized every corpse.
Ning Hengwu’s final wish was for him to find Yu Xiaowu’s remains—her obsession. Even the dead deserved burial. But where had Yu Xiaowu fallen?
Mo Zhu didn’t know.
He spent three years hunting You Zhou, then seven more chasing Ni'e.
Finally, he cornered her in the Slaughter Realm.
"I told you I’d kill you."
Under storm-lashed skies, lightning splitting the clouds, Mo Zhu trudged through bloodied water to the Slaughter Stele. Above, Ni'e hung impaled by soul-rending spikes.
Her hair hung loose, robes once lotus-pink now drenched crimson. She lifted her head weakly, gaze icy.
"Wretched… brat."
Mo Zhu’s voice was flat. "You should’ve died long ago."
The spikes flared, tearing her soul apart.
Turning, he murmured to the abyss behind him, "Master… your vengeance is done."
At the edge of the demonic chasm, he smiled at his sword.
"You’ve worked hard too, Wuhui."
He had worked hard as well.
So very, very tired.
With a sigh carrying thirty-seven years of bitterness, Mo Zhu closed his eyes and let himself fall backward into the abyss.
Years of slaughter had infested him with inner demons. He expected the abyss’s killing arrays to destroy him—yet instead, they recognized him as one of their own.
He had killed too many people. After hunting down You Zhou for so many years, his bloodlust had birthed a demon in his heart—obsession coiled around him, leaving him neither human nor ghost.
Mo Zhu fell to the bottom of the demon abyss, where the demonic fiends rushed forward, eager to tear into him. Yet he remained motionless, waiting for them to shred him apart.
A sacred spirit butterfly flew from afar, pausing before him. Its delicate wings fluttered gracefully, and the tiny creature nodded at him. A faint glow enveloped Mo Zhu, shielding him from the fiends, rendering them unable to approach.
At that moment, his long-stilled heart quickened slightly.
He watched as the butterfly flew away. Though the path ahead was swarming with fiends, an inexplicable voice within urged him—if he didn’t follow this spirit butterfly, he would regret it.
Mo Zhu rose and chased after it. The butterfly was peculiar—so small, merely an illusion of spiritual energy, yet it shielded him effortlessly. The fiends remained barred outside its radiant barrier.
Unhindered, he arrived at the edge of a cliff.
The butterfly glanced back at him before turning and diving into the abyss.
Mo Zhu looked down into the unfathomable depths below. Fearless—he had no desire to live—he leaped after the butterfly.
He plunged into a lake, sinking to the bottom, only to pass through what should have been mud and silt. The lake beneath the cliff, like the butterfly, was an illusion of spiritual energy.
And the true destination the butterfly led him to lay beneath the lake’s illusion.
Mo Zhu tumbled onto solid ground, and when he lifted his head, he froze.
This was a place untouched by the demon abyss. Countless spirit butterflies danced around a single lotus, their silhouettes dazzling, breathtaking in their beauty.
The faint fragrance of lotus cleansed the foul stench of the abyss.
From seventeen to thirty-seven—twenty years had passed. His path had been shrouded in suffocating mist, fraught with peril at every turn. Yet he could not retreat; he had walked a road with no return.
Stumbling, battered and bloodied, he had lost everything along the way—avenging his clan, avenging her, avenging Ying Mountain.
Revenge, revenge, nothing but revenge.
His sword had reaped countless souls, and he had walked alone, robes stained with blood. Now, he no longer wished to live.
Yet here, he staggered to his feet, only to fall again. Over mere steps, he collapsed over a dozen times, stumbling like a child learning to walk. A man in his thirties, yet tears streamed down his face unchecked.
He had searched for her remains for so long. After exacting his vengeance, he carried his one regret and sought death. He had no desire to live—yet at the sight of that blooming lotus, hope surged anew. Step by unsteady step, he lurched toward her.
One step away from the Heavenly Lotus, he fell to his knees.
Mo Zhu lowered his head, pressing his forehead to the ground. A choked sob escaped him.
His shoulders trembled, his ponytail swaying against them. Years of suppressed emotion erupted—he broke down, weeping uncontrollably, the facade of strength he had clung to shattered without mercy.
"Shizun… Shizun…"
It was too late. Far too late.
They had parted when he was seven. Thirty years had passed since then.
Looking back, they were separated by life and death—a lifetime lost in a dream.
The person he had searched for over thirty years lay inside the lotus, eyes closed, as if merely asleep. Her robes, though tattered, were neat, her black hair spread across the lotus throne.
Mo Zhu’s hands shook as he reached for her, but in the end, he only grasped her hand.
Kneeling beside her, he poured out decades of grief and sorrow. But no one would lift him into their arms now, wipe his tears, or tell him stories to lull him to sleep.
Seven days together—yet thirty years had not erased her from his memory.
The Heavenly Lotus bent its petals, gently tapping his head.
Mo Zhu looked up. The spirit butterflies swirled around him, and the lotus, as if sentient, bowed its stem, its petals brushing his forehead. Light seeped into his consciousness.
He was the first to find Yu Zhiling. The Heavenly Lotus chose to reveal the truth to him.
In a single speck of dust lie three thousand realms; in half an instant, eighty thousand springs.
Beyond this world, there was another. Within the vast cosmos, countless realms existed.
Each had its own god—what mortals called a deity.
It might be intangible, omnipresent yet unseen.
Or it might take physical form—a person, a lake, a flower.
All things possessed spirit; all things could become divine.
At the dawn of this continent, the god of this world took the form of the Heavenly Lotus, rooted in the Spirit Path. The ancestors of Jinghong Village were refugees fleeing famine, who stumbled upon this place.
They worshipped the Heavenly Lotus, praying for its protection.
The lotus agreed. To shield them, it forged the River of Remembrance outside the Spirit Path and bestowed upon these refugees the soul energy that could save lives.
For millennia, the people of Jinghong Village thrived here, never venturing beyond the Spirit Path. They revered the lotus, and in return, it sheltered them, gifting them a lotus every century.
It loved these people, loved all things in this world. Holy and benevolent, it watched over the land from the wilderness—be it the Central Continent, the demon realm, or the domain of spirits.
All were its children, all under its protection.
It wished for peace among them, for them to live well. Yet in truth, they were locked in endless strife—humans despised demons, demons sought to conquer the Central Continent, and spirits remained aloof.
War raged unchecked. Even Jinghong Village, sheltered for over six thousand years, was not spared. The Heavenly Lotus witnessed its destruction, yet as a god, it could not intervene in mortal fate.
It wept in silence, its grief unknown to all.
Only one bloodline remained—Yu Zhiling.
The lotus watched her grow, until she stood unrivaled.
It hoped she would live long, believed she would ascend within a century. Until—
Until Fuchun died.
The girl became someone else. She tortured herself, sinking into despair until she succumbed to demonic energy and took her own life with the Frostblade Strike.
After Yu Zhiling’s death, the demonic fiends lurking in the Central Continent struck. Ying Mountain was annihilated; the Yun and Wu Families were crippled. Half the Central Continent perished—a tragedy too grievous to recount.
Mo Zhu slew You Zhou and Ni'e, but the spirit king Chou Xiao still lived, plotting to seize the weakened Central Continent, just as You Zhou had.
How long would this war last? How many more would die?
The Heavenly Lotus wept, its petals cradling Yu Zhiling—its last descendant.
Mo Zhu’s voice was hoarse. "What would you have me do?"
The lotus tapped his wrist.
On Mo Zhu's wrist hung the Flying Serpent clan's treasured artifact—the Huiqing Serpent Bangle, a divine tool capable of tearing through space.
He seemed to understand what the Skyward Lotus meant.
But how could the Huiqing Serpent Bangle recognize Yu Zhiling as its master?
Mo Zhu dug out his own reverse scale.
The Huiqing Serpent Bangle would only acknowledge a Flying Serpent as its master, and now, he was the last of his kind. In the past, he had refused to bind it to himself, resenting this artifact that had indirectly led to his clan's destruction.
But now, it might serve a purpose.
Mo Zhu fused his reverse scale into Yu Zhiling’s heart meridian, placed the bangle on her wrist, and activated the incantation to awaken it.
The reverse scale was the only way for the Huiqing Serpent Bangle to identify a Flying Serpent.
Sensing the presence of Flying Serpent bloodline—and realizing that he was the last one left—the bangle had no choice but to acknowledge Yu Zhiling, who now carried his scale, as its master.
The power of the Huiqing Serpent Bangle could tear open two worlds.
The Skyward Lotus chose to purify this world, cleansing the lingering afflictions of the mortal realm. Once the reversal was complete, everything would reset, and all souls would enter the cycle of reincarnation.
But Yu Zhiling, missing a soul fragment, was incomplete. She couldn’t enter the reversal channel—the force of the world would tear her apart.
Thus, before the reversal finished, she couldn’t remain in this world.
The Skyward Lotus wanted her to live again. The best way was to send her to another world, to re-enter the cycle and mend her fractured soul.
Mo Zhu sat in the Demon Abyss, watching as the Skyward Lotus gently touched Yu Zhiling’s forehead, as if kissing her.
A misty white orb drifted from the lifeless body and was handed to Mo Zhu.
He knew what to do. Stepping through the rift between worlds, he arrived in an entirely unfamiliar realm and placed Yu Zhiling’s soul into its cycle of reincarnation.
At first, he knew nothing of this world. The gold and silver from his qiankun pouch could be exchanged for money, and the luminous pearls from his world were worth millions here—crystal-clear diamonds. But even with wealth, he didn’t know how to spend it. He simply secluded himself in a place, waiting.
Waiting for her arrival.
Until the Skyward Lotus in his consciousness told him: She had been born again, with life, with a heartbeat.
But her birth parents couldn’t care for her. She was abandoned.
In the snow-covered park, Mo Zhu stepped forward and picked up the child left behind. He gazed at her small, reddened face, poking it lightly, but tears fell instead.
At last, there was a glimmer of hope.
She was everyone’s hope.
Yu Zhiling had been dead for many years. Missing the "sleepless" soul fragment and with her spirit torn apart—decades of exhausting her vitality to forge the Boundless Realm had left the soul fragment tied to her willpower weak. Her heart condition was severe.
The Skyward Lotus forbade him from getting too close to Yu Zhiling. In this world, he was an anomaly, and if the world’s consciousness detected him, heavenly lightning would strike down everything around him.
All he could do was find someone to care for her. The wealth he once disregarded had become the thing that could save her life here.
Mo Zhu lived on a mountain, occasionally watching her from afar—watching her grow up, watching her shuffle between the hospital and the orphanage. The little girl was obedient, always smiling despite her frail body.
He guarded her for years. When Dean Xu passed away, Yu Zhiling, at thirteen, began living alone.
At sixteen, she made a foolish decision—standing atop a high rooftop.
Mo Zhu stood below, frozen in terror, his legs numb with fear.
Only when Yu Zhiling was scolded back to her senses by an elderly neighbor and climbed down did relief flood through him. That day, it wasn’t just Yu Zhiling who was spared—Mo Zhu was too.
Returning to his dwelling, he took out the phone he rarely used.
He knew everything about her. With money, information was easy to obtain. He knew she loved gaming and reading web novels.
Mo Zhu thought money alone could give her a good life, but loneliness nearly killed her instead.
That night, he created a new gaming account and searched for Yu Zhiling’s ID.
Her avatar was a chubby little fish, her username: Little Fish.
Mo Zhu chuckled, changing his own string of numbers to a serpent avatar and a new name…
After some deliberation, he settled on two characters:
Gui.
Longing for her return, praying for her soul’s homecoming.
They were all waiting for her.
Gui was Little Fish’s first—and only—friend.
For eight years, from sixteen to twenty-four, Gui stayed by her side.
Until Little Fish asked: "Gui, can I meet you?"
Mo Zhu hesitated, consulting the Skyward Lotus.
The Skyward Lotus said the reversal would begin in three months—meaning she would soon return.
This pain-ridden body was to be discarded. She would go back to her world, back to the body preserved within the Skyward Lotus, where she would never suffer loneliness again. This time, those who loved her would be by her side.
Gui replied: "Yes."
They never met in this world. The Skyward Lotus informed him: the reversal channel had opened.
Mo Zhu had to return to the other world before the reversal began, enter the channel, and wait. Once the reversal was complete, Yu Zhiling’s soul would be summoned back into the body lying in the Demon Abyss.
The Skyward Lotus’s remaining power could only reverse time to the 580th year of Xiqing—ten years after Yu Zhiling entered the Four Slaughter Realms, when Mo Zhu was seventeen.
The Huiqing Serpent Bangle was the key to bringing her back.
But was reversal alone enough?
No. They couldn’t repeat the same mistakes.
During the reversal, memories had to be erased—like crossing the Naihe Bridge, forgetting the past to enter the cycle.
Their memories of the previous life would be sealed by the world’s power. But without those painful recollections, what if they repeated history?
The Skyward Lotus didn’t erase their memories—it hid them deep within their souls, deceiving the reversal channel.
As they grew stronger, the seal would loosen, and the past would gradually return.
But this only applied to Mo Zhu.
Yu Zhiling’s soul had been reborn in another world. Having undergone reincarnation there, her memories had been cleansed. She was now entirely a modern person—Yu Xiaowu’s memories were completely gone. Even when her soul was summoned back to the 580th year of Xiqing, she would remember nothing.
Mo Zhu asked the Skyward Lotus: "You hold all her memories, don’t you?"
The Skyward Lotus possessed the memories of everyone from Jinghong Village—including Yu Zhiling’s.
Mo Zhu asked, "Can you return them to her? Not all at once, but little by little."
Give her some time to adjust.
After all, those past memories were far too heavy to bear.
Mo Zhu thought of the web novels Yu Zhiling loved to read. During the years he lived as Gui, she often discussed them with him.
YH
That book was written by Chaotian Lotus. For a deity of a world, nothing was too strange—it had learned quite quickly.
Mo Zhu had never read the book and didn’t know what Chaotian Lotus had concocted.
Chaotian Lotus spun a wild tale, casting Mo Zhu as the so-called male lead. When it came time to name the story, it hesitated for a long time before settling on a title:
"Long Autumn."
The root of all this was her fate’s calamity—the Long Autumn Lotus symbolized Yu Xiaowu’s destined tragedy.
Once she died, there was no turning back.
Their method of returning Yu Zhiling’s memories was to make her believe she had transmigrated into a novel, assigning her tasks where the so-called "merit points" were rewards meant to gradually restore her memories.
At the same time, the seventeen-year-old Mo Zhu was filled with hatred for Yu Zhiling. To mend their relationship, Chaotian Lotus devised the "tasks" as a way to bring them together.
By urging Mo Zhu to cultivate, Yu Zhiling, as his master, would inevitably summon him back. The more time they spent together, the less hostile their relationship would become, and Mo Zhu might even recognize her.
As Mo Zhu grew stronger through cultivation, the memories sealed by Chaotian Lotus in his soul would slowly return. Meanwhile, Chaotian Lotus would reward Yu Zhiling, feeding her memories bit by bit through merit points.
This gave her time to accept them, a chance to soften the blow—better than remembering everything at once. Even if she didn’t go mad, she likely wouldn’t believe it.
It was a plan that killed two birds with one stone. Mo Zhu silently agreed.
When the time came, Mo Zhu sent Yu Xiaowu one last message:
"Xiaoyu, I look forward to meeting you."
He stepped into the time-reversal passage, sealing a wisp of his divine sense within the Huiquing Serpent Bracelet.
He mailed the bracelet to Yu Zhiling, who, unaware of the truth, opened the package thinking it was a birthday gift from Gui. When she tried it on, the Huiquing Serpent Bracelet sensed its master’s aura and tore open the boundary between worlds once more.
By then, the other world had already finished reversing time—it was now the 580th year of Xiqing.
Seventeen-year-old Mo Zhu was out slaying evil spirits, while one-hundred-eighty-year-old Yu Zhiling lay in the Demon Abyss.
The Huiquing Serpent Bracelet carried its master’s soul back to her world, returning her to her body.
The Demon Abyss was torn open, and at the same time, a rift slowly appeared in the cave behind Ying Mountain Sect’s Listening Spring Cliff.
The bracelet brought Yu Zhiling from the Demon Abyss back to Ying Mountain.
When the body that had slept for decades finally opened its eyes, Chaotian Lotus in her consciousness transformed into a system.
"Host, welcome to the world of the novel 'Long Autumn.'"
Xiqing Year 400:
Fuchun rescued an infant from the Lingyou Path, naming her Yu Zhiling—the fifth disciple of Ying Mountain.
Xiqing Year 403:
Three-year-old Yu Xiaowu followed her master into the Path of Clarity.
Xiqing Year 510:
Her master, Fuchun, was implanted with a demon seed. Yu Xiaowu shattered her master’s soul with her own hands, succeeding her as Immortal Lord Zhuoyu and guarding the Central Continent in her stead.
Xiqing Year 570:
Yu Xiaowu saved Mo Zhu, took him as her disciple, and brought him to Ying Mountain before leaving for the Four Slaughter Realms.
Alone, she entered the Demon Abyss to face her death calamity, seeking vengeance for her master. Her heart shattered, and she used the Path of Clarity’s ultimate technique—Frostwind Slash—to end her life in the Demon Abyss.
Xiqing Year 590:
Ying Mountain fell. Mo Zhu, upholding his sect’s final wish, hunted down You Zhou and Ni'e, searching for his master’s remains.
Xiqing Year 600:
After exacting his revenge, Mo Zhu descended into the Demon Abyss.
Then came another Xiqing Year 580—time reversed twenty years. Yu Xiaowu returned, and the past began anew.
Yu Zhiling thought she had transmigrated into a novel.
In truth, she had come home.
