The malevolent spirits were either slain or captured, with a few stragglers still hiding in the city, unable to escape. The Demon-Slaying Guard and the Spirit-Patrol Guard combed through the streets together.
By the time dawn broke, everything had settled.
Shangguan Huanxi paid no mind to how outsiders might judge her—she still had post-battle duties to attend to. Meanwhile, Wenren Buxiao tossed Yi Moli into a cell. Seeing the man’s battered state, he summoned a physician to tend to his wounds.
After all, they couldn’t let him die before extracting any information.
No one had time to rest. Wenren Buxiao began interrogating Yi Moli right outside the cell.
Recalling the events of Xiaocheng, Chu'he requested to observe.
Wenren Buxiao said, "The interrogation of prisoners in Canghaizhou has never allowed outsiders—"
The red-eyed, white-haired youth beside her grinned. "I’d like to listen too."
Wenren Buxiao paused, then relented. "Since both of you contributed to wiping out the malevolent spirits this time… rules are flexible. You may observe."
Yi Moli’s cell was heavily guarded, its location concealed, leaving no chance for escape or rescue.
Slumped in a corner, he looked broken, disheveled, and lifeless.
It was hard to believe that not long ago, he had been the proud and ambitious lord of Yunhuang’s Immortal City, convinced he held all the cards.
The cell door creaked open. Wenren Buxiao stepped inside and cut straight to the point.
"You are the son of Yi Zhiye and Shui Zhinan, two revered heroes. How did you fall so low as to ally with malevolent spirits—even becoming their leader?"
Yi Moli remained silent.
"Who masterminded the malevolent uprising twenty years ago?"
"Where is Yunhuang Immortal City’s true stronghold?"
"Do you have accomplices?"
No matter what Wenren Buxiao asked, Yi Moli refused to speak.
Patience wearing thin, Wenren Buxiao’s frown deepened.
Chu'he and Ninth had agreed only to observe, so they couldn’t intervene. She glanced at the paper effigy in Ninth’s hand, only for him to poke her cheek lightly.
"This won’t force him to talk," he said.
With a careless flick, Ninth tossed the effigy at Yi Moli’s feet. The man didn’t even glance at it—what had once been his lifeline now meant nothing to him.
Chu'he frowned. "He was desperate to hide that effigy earlier. Why doesn’t he care now?"
"Maybe he’s realized death isn’t so frightening after all," Ninth mused airily, as if speaking from experience.
Chu'he stared at him, silent.
Ninth tilted his head. "What’s wrong?"
Too many mysteries surrounded him. Though Chu'he had never asked, she could guess a thing or two.
Why did his wounds heal so unnaturally fast?
How could he smile so easily despite injuries deep and painful enough to cripple others?
And what of the writhing mass of insects beneath his human skin—as if they had pieced him together, or perhaps, as if he were the one being devoured by them?
Now, his familiarity with death only added to the enigma.
Ninth leaned back against the wall, instinctively spreading his arms as the girl pressed into his embrace, clinging tightly.
She buried her face against his chest, listening to his steady heartbeat, her cheek nuzzling closer unconsciously.
His fingers trembled faintly before his arms settled around her, holding her loosely at first, then tightening.
Something about the moment felt strange. The warmth of her body seeped into him, softening something stubborn in his chest.
"Ninth," she whispered, "don’t die."
He felt every tremor in her body, the brush of her cheek against his robes, the quiet, trusting breaths that resonated through him.
His throat tightened. All he could do was pull her closer, burying his nose in her hair, his entire being softened by her words.
"Don’t be afraid," he murmured, voice rougher than he intended. "As long as you’re in this world, I won’t leave."
His gaze dropped to the emerald butterfly hairpin in her locks, struck by a warmth he’d never known before.
Without her—without this tether to humanity—he might have ended up worse than Yi Moli.
Amid the grim atmosphere of the prison, the young couple’s quiet solace stood out starkly.
Wenren Buxiao shut his eyes briefly, forcing himself to focus. "Jin Yuyuan," he demanded, "what will it take for you to talk?"
The motionless man finally lifted his head. "Let Shangguan Huanxi question me."
Wenren Buxiao’s expression turned icy. "Impossible."
"Then kill me," Yi Moli retorted, flopping onto his back and shutting his eyes, utterly indifferent to life or death.
Wenren Buxiao’s grip on his blade tightened. He had personal grievances with this man—if not for Yi Moli’s schemes, he and Shangguan Huanxi wouldn’t be where they were now.
The thought of another coveting his wife made his blood boil, fury simmering in his bones.
Letting Yi Moli live this long had already tested his limits.
But then he thought of Shangguan Huanxi.
She had endured slander and hardship—all for Canghaizhou.
As its acting lord, he couldn’t undermine her efforts.
Suppressing his rage, Wenren Buxiao ordered, "Summon Shangguan Huanxi."
A guard outside rushed off.
Moments later, the man playing dead on the floor abruptly sat up. With great effort, he straightened his fractured arm, combed through his tangled hair, wiped the grime from his face, and adjusted his rumpled robes, sitting tall with a trace of his former poise.
When the woman in red entered, the dullness in his eyes brightened.
Chu'he remarked, "I think I just saw a peacock spreading its feathers."
Ninth smirked. "Looked more like a plucked chicken clucking to me."
Wenren Buxiao’s lips thinned, his aura frigid.
Shangguan Huanxi regarded Yi Moli coolly. "You wanted to see me?"
Yi Moli smiled. "I won’t speak to anyone else. But for you, I’ll tell you everything."
Without hesitation, she said, "Then start talking."
