Ninth walked forward slowly, "Don't drag me down."
Fang Songhe replied, "I'll do my utmost."
Without another word, Ninth vanished like a ghost once more.
Fang Songhe's figure darted to the edge where the vines were densest. His sword, "Freeheart," hummed with a clear, resonant chime as its blade sliced through the thicket, carving a path deeper into the darkness.
A cold wind rose, and a flash of crimson streaked past.
A wall of swordlight fended off the vines closing in from both sides, pushing the path further inward.
One from Miaojiang, the other from the Central Plains—one moved in shadows, the other in the open—yet their actions were flawlessly synchronized.
Fang Songhe cleared the obstacles ahead, leaving only a clear path to the center for Ninth. But his heart was uneasy. Chongyang was encased in that grotesque, slimy membrane, with only his head exposed. How would Ninth deal with it?
The next moment, Ninth reappeared without a sound. Without hesitation, he yanked the entire membrane-wrapped Chongyang from the vines.
The crude, almost casual motion—as if plucking a fruit—left Fang Songhe momentarily stunned.
Ninth swiftly flew back, clutching the membrane. Mid-flight, his foot accidentally kicked Lan Yingying, sending her tumbling into a crevice.
"Yingying!"
Song Chunming lunged after her, but Fang Songhe seized him firmly.
"Stop struggling. You were meant to die long ago."
Voices echoed chaotically in his ears:
"You're nothing but a curse. You made your mother sick, killed your father. Your mother abandoned you. Everyone abandoned you."
"Chongyang, no one will ever love you."
...
A small child curled up in the dark, unable to see his hands or feel his own body.
He didn’t know when it began—a year ago, two, or decades—but he had long fused with the monsters.
Yes, the plants that devoured the village overnight were surely monsters.
"What a pity. I thought this vessel might be useful, but it’s too fragile. Useless."
A young man’s voice, dripping with boredom, sighed insincerely before his silhouette vanished from the village.
The child only remembered one thing: the man’s tall frame, his silver hair gleaming like moonlight—unlike his own, dull and lifeless.
In the blink of an eye, the entire village became fertilizer for the flowers.
The child thought, perhaps they were right. He was a curse. Their deaths were his fault.
So merging with the monsters, waiting for decay, was his rightful fate.
Chongyang lost track of how many silent years passed until footsteps jolted him from the dark. He opened his eyes slowly, blurrily making out the figure of a young man.
The man was gravely injured, barely standing. Yet when he saw the child trapped in black vines, he limped forward without hesitation.
"Who could be so cruel, imprisoning an innocent child here?"
Innocent?
Chongyang opened his mouth but had forgotten how to speak.
"Don’t be afraid. I’ll get you out."
The man’s sword sliced through the vines, but purple venom splashed onto his hand, seeping into his wound. His face paled further.
With a final grip on his sword, he collapsed, unconscious.
Chongyang crawled free, losing a shoe but not caring. He crouched beside the man, staring for a long time before forcing a single word from his throat:
"Dad."
Meanwhile, Lan Yingying searched frantically for Fang Songhe when a child suddenly dragged him into view. She tensed, dagger materializing in her hand—until the child looked up.
Pale eyes, snow-white skin, hair like bleached bone.
Lan Yingying’s expression hardened. "I know what you are. Let’s make a deal. Craft an illusion for me—help me keep someone here. What do you want?"
Chongyang lowered his head. After a long pause, he rasped, "Bring... the village... back."
Lan Yingying had studied puppetry. Creating so many puppets would be difficult, but she gritted her teeth. "Fine."
Her gaze flicked to the unconscious man. Guilt twisted her heart, but she tightened her grip on the dagger.
"I want... him... as my dad."
Lan Yingying froze. Meeting the child’s eerie gaze, she found her excuse to spare a life. After a hesitation, she sheathed the dagger.
Years of symbiosis had granted Chongyang control over the Youluo Flowers’ power. He wove an exquisite illusion.
The village was alive again. No one had died. He wasn’t the cursed child who doomed them all. Here, only the loved could survive.
This time, he’d find someone to love him. He had a dad now.
Later, he even got a mom.
He seemed like any other child. But he knew—it was all fake.
When the illusion shattered, no one would love him.
"Chongyang."
"Chongyang."
"Chongyang!"
The calls grew louder, rippling through his mind like a stone breaking still water.
Chongyang stirred, blinking against the light. A familiar face came into focus—he was lying on a girl’s lap.
Chu'he exhaled in relief. "Thank goodness you’re awake!"
Beside her, Fang Songhe smiled softly. "Are you hurt anywhere?"
Ninth, pressed close to Chu'he’s other side, glared, clearly displeased about the lap arrangement.
Chongyang studied the three adults. They were battered, but their eyes held concern.
"Mom..." he croaked, looking at Chu'he.
She stroked his cheek. "We’re safe now."
After Ninth pulled Chongyang free, the Youluo Flowers withered instantly, collapsing lifelessly.
Chongyang turned to Fang Songhe. "Dad."
Fang Songhe almost responded, but Ninth’s murderous glare stopped him. Flustered, he glanced at Chu'he, recalling Song Tieniu’s matter, and awkwardly looked away.
Finally, Chongyang peered at Ninth. "Little Dad."
Ninth’s eye twitched.
Lying on the ground nearby was Song Chunming, who had been knocked unconscious by Fang Songhe. Otherwise, he certainly wouldn’t be this quiet—though no one had any attention to spare for him at the moment.
Chu’he, worried that Ninth might throw a tantrum, quickly spoke up, "I still feel like this place isn’t safe. Let’s get out of here as soon as possible."
Fang Songhe nodded in agreement. As he moved to lift Chongyang into his arms, a series of crackling sounds echoed—Chongyang’s arm crumbled like dry wood, its ashes scattering in the wind.
It wasn’t just his arm. His entire body was rapidly turning brittle, as though his flesh had weathered away over centuries.
And so, his dissolution became inevitable.
