Chu'he slowly sat up, her pitch-black pupils like two bottomless wells, reflecting nothing—not even his figure.
Ninth cautiously pressed her cold hand against his cheek. Those eyes, which she had once adored and likened to rubies, were now shrouded in a blood-like haze, devoid of any light.
"Chu'he, it's me, Ninth. You promised me—swore to stay with me for eternity. You said you'd take me to countless places. We… we're husband and wife. You can't… you can't forget…"
The young man's words were agonizingly slow, each syllable dripping with anguish.
His body bore the wounds of his deadly battle with Chi Yan, his chest drenched in blood that had soaked through his robes.
The hair ribbon adorned with rubies had been severed by a blade, split in two, lying silently in the dust. His silver-white hair cascaded like moonlight over his shoulders, strands of it matted with blood and clinging to his pale face, making his ruby-like eyes appear even more shattered.
Yet he stubbornly clung to Chu'he's icy hand, as though refusing to let go would keep her the same lover who had once gazed at him with eyes full of devotion.
"Chu'he… scold me, hit me—anything. Just… look at me. Please, look at me."
The wind atop the altar grew colder, tousling his disheveled hair and scattering his desperate pleas.
Chi Yan leaned against the wall, struggling to keep himself from collapsing. His gaze was fixed on the scene before him, and for a fleeting moment, the past a century ago blurred into the present.
Back then, he too had knelt on the ground, begging her not to step into that cursed pool.
If anyone had to be sacrificed, it shouldn’t have been her.
She didn’t have to force herself into such despair—because he could have been her husband, the father of her children.
But when she turned to look at him, her eyes held reluctance, resolve, and a determination he couldn’t decipher.
In the end, he couldn’t stop her.
Just like Ninth now.
A laugh escaped Chi Yan’s lips, one of bitter amusement, as though he had forgotten the searing pain that surged through him with every breath.
How similar he was to Chi Yan.
They had both found someone they loved, been pulled from hell back into the world of the living, and after tasting the beauty of life, could never return to the darkness as rotting vermin.
So wasn’t it only natural that they would eventually descend into madness, becoming neither human nor ghost?
Yet fate had been kind to him. After years of relentless pursuit, he had finally achieved his deepest desire—bringing the soul from his memories back into this world.
Blood dripped steadily as Chi Yan stepped forward, his gaze fixated on the girl seated atop the altar. Through her, he could already see that familiar spirit.
He opened his mouth, but no sound came out. He still couldn’t remember her name—but it didn’t matter. She had returned. They had all the time in the world to reminisce.
Their first meeting in Yangcheng.
Their wedding feast in Wutong Village.
The sights they had seen in Canghaizhou and Xiaocheng.
If she wished, he would gladly walk those paths with her again.
Chi Yan stretched out a trembling hand—broken fingers twitching—and upon seeing the blood staining his skin, hastily wiped it on his black robes. Only when it was clean did he carefully reach for her.
Chu'he’s lashes fluttered faintly, as though roused from a deep dream.
A flicker of light passed through her hollow, dark eyes—like the first drop of dew falling into an endless well.
Then, without hesitation, she leaned forward and threw herself into the young man’s arms, burying her face in the scent of blood that somehow still brought her comfort.
"Ninth! Ninth!" she sobbed uncontrollably. "I ran for so long… but I couldn’t find the way out. I thought—I thought I’d never come back. I thought I’d never see you again!"
Her cries shattered the suffocating silence like a stone hurled into still water, sending ripples of overwhelming emotion crashing forth.
The lifelessness in the young man’s eyes was swiftly drowned by a tidal wave of feeling.
He bent down, pulling her tightly against him, his arms shaking violently but refusing to loosen their grip—as though she might vanish the moment he let go. His breath was scorching against her cheek.
"Chu'he… I’m sorry. I came too late… Chu'he…"
His voice was hoarse and broken, as though dragged from the depths of his chest. Forehead pressed to hers, he whispered her name over and over, convincing himself this wasn’t a dream.
Chi Yan’s mangled hand hung frozen in the air, grasping nothing. A stiff smile twisted his lips as he rasped, "Don’t you remember me? I’m Chi Yan. The first time you heard my name, you said it was beautiful. You—"
Chu'he lifted her gaze and asked coldly, "Are you really Chi Yan?"
The question acted like a trigger. "Chi Yan" froze, forgotten memories crashing over him in an instant.
On the road from the Central Plains back to Miaojiang, a tiny version of himself had perched on her shoulders, clutching the tanghulu she had given him, watching as his master walked beside her. They had laughed softly, their eyes tender whenever they glanced at each other, as though the world itself had stilled in their presence.
Back then, he hadn’t understood what "love" was. He only knew the scene felt warm—so warm that a strange thought had taken root in his mind:
If he could be like his master, maybe someone would love him too.
Later, when chaos engulfed Miaojiang and sacrifices had to be made, she had gone alone to the cursed pool. He had clung to her, begging her to turn back. At the time, he had naively believed that even if his master died, he could stay by her side—he would never let her feel lonely.
"In times of war, everyone has their duty." She had knelt, gently setting him down, her eyes curved into crescents as she smiled.
"I left him a letter. I told him I didn’t like Miaojiang, didn’t like the bloodshed—that I was returning to the Central Plains."
"If he asks you, that’s what you must say."
"Little Yan, I want you all to live well."
The tiny puppet hadn’t understood. He only knew he didn’t want her to die.
In the end, he hadn’t even managed to keep a scrap of her clothing.
Later, the young man who had searched for her in vain teetered on the edge of madness. He had seized the puppet who returned alone, his voice icy as he demanded, "Where did she go?"
She had told him not to say.
The puppet lifted its face, crimson eyes glinting with something dark, and made its choice.
"She went to the cursed pool."
The young man’s expression had shattered. In the next instant, he stood before the pool.
The once-churning waters had calmed, a silent testament to what had transpired.
The tiny puppet lay discarded on the ground. As he watched his master’s face drain of color, those once-brilliant eyes dimming into desolation, a twisted sense of balance had settled over him.
At least he wasn’t the only one suffering the pain of losing her.
His master, hailed as a once-in-a-century genius of the Witchcraft and Gu Sorcery Sect—no matter how powerful he was, what did it matter?
In the end, he couldn’t even protect the person he loved.
Compared to this small puppet, its master wasn’t much better off.
This was how it should be—he ought to suffer alongside it, enduring the indescribable agony until their flesh rotted and their wooden bodies decayed. Only then would the torment finally cease.
He simply hadn’t expected… hadn’t expected that his master would choose death as well.
The puppet lunged forward, grasping at the corner of a purple robe, but in the end, nothing changed. In the chaos, it tumbled into the Gu Pool, listening as its master’s body dissolved, surrounded by the eerie rustling of countless creatures.
That was the sound of its own body—carved from a century-old heartwood—being devoured by the gu insects.
Then, the Crimson-Eyed Golden Silkworm was exposed among them.
They were all gu insects, but how could those lowly, mindless creatures compare to it?
It fought and consumed them, one after another. Perhaps the insects that had feasted on the young master’s flesh were now merging into its own body—power, memories, and essence all assimilated into its being.
Its form swelled, its exoskeleton hardened, and its aura grew increasingly terrifying.
The swarm in the Gu Pool thinned until no insect dared approach. As the bloodied waters churned, it emerged like a monster baptized in gore, lifting its head with eyes that glowed a cold, frenzied crimson in the dim light.
And so, with human hands and human feet, it crawled out of the Gu Pool.
Naked and unsteady, it stumbled out of the forbidden grounds, collapsing beside a stream. Gazing into the clear water, it saw its reflection—the same white hair, the same face, save for those dark red eyes, bloody as sin.
Who was it?
Bewildered, it touched its face, the unfamiliar sensation offering no answers.
Until members of the sect found it. They shouted, "Young Master! The Gu Sect is trampling over us, and you’re just standing here?"
Young Master?
Ah, yes. It was the heir of the Witchcraft and Gu Sorcery Sect.
The youth by the water finally remembered his identity.
He was Chi Yan, a once-in-a-century prodigy of Miaojiang, a figure feared by all.
And—the husband of the woman in his memories.
Under the hopes of his people, he unified the Witchcraft and Gu Sorcery Sects, becoming the first leader of the combined sect. No one dared ask what had become of the Central Plains woman he’d brought back.
Only when stability was secured did an elder muster the courage to say, "Shouldn’t the sect leader consider marriage and heirs? The Witchcraft and Gu Sorcery Sect cannot be left without a successor."
Miaojiang had only just found peace; another power struggle would be disastrous. Only his bloodline could quell the lingering divisions between the two factions.
The elder had prepared for death in making this suggestion. Yet, to his surprise, he survived.
By then, Chi Yan—now a grown man—sat in his chair, tracing the wrinkles at the corners of his eyes with a bronze mirror, feeling the dryness of his skin. He smiled. "Yes, it’s time I took a wife and fathered children."
His body, though forged from devouring countless gu insects, was laughably human in its frailty—aging, dying.
But he hadn’t yet reclaimed the woman he loved. He couldn’t age. He couldn’t die.
So he needed children—offspring of his own blood, strong enough to withstand the gnashing of thousands of gu insects.
And when each descendant lost their emotions, becoming hollow puppets, he would consume them like a feast, invading their flesh, seizing their shells as his new vessels.
Thus, every heir of the Witchcraft and Gu Sorcery Sect was named "Chi Yan," and upon ascending to leadership, each would reclaim the title of "Chi Yan."
No one knew that, for centuries, the sect’s leader had always been him.
