Chapter 3: Yuheng (Part 1)

He Tingtong fainted.

Unclear whether from pain or anger.

Wind and snow raged.

The purple-robed young man hadn’t been able to wait for his beloved’s overjoyed answer, only witnessing He Tingtong’s rolled-back eyes before he fainted.

He stood dazed for quite a while, thinking it might be an illusion, then bent down to lift the unconscious person from the snow into a horizontal embrace.

Very light, very soft. He could feel the protruding bones beneath skin and flesh, and body temperature much lower than his own, pressing against his palm—very comfortable, very reassuring.

Though this wasn’t a particularly good sign.

His hands tightened, pulling the person a bit closer to his chest, yet restraining himself from completely enveloping them. Holding the person, he walked aimlessly through the snow.

The jade token at his waist grew hot, pale gold characters rapidly scrolling across it, dozens appearing in succession, showing the sender’s anxiety.

“Young Lord, where are you?”

“Young Lord, the danger in Hanshan Realm has been resolved.”

“Young Lord, the world inspection is imminent, return quickly.”

“Young Lord, the outside is dangerous. Don’t move around randomly. I’ll come find you immediately.”

“Young Lord…”

…

Spiritual power flowed like a blade, severing the cord. The jade token fell to the ground, then at the moment of landing was ignited by nameless fire, turning to ash in an instant, vanishing into nothing.

---

He Tingtong’s body was too weak.

Perhaps because he was too exhausted before dying in the previous life, even after restarting once, his spirit was still severely fatigued, constantly having nightmares on repeat.

In dreams, sometimes there were corpses covering mountains and fields, countless familiar faces soaking in blood, vacant eyeballs like dust-covered black jade. Sometimes there were the dry, hollow eyes of old friends, scattered paper pages all depicting scenes from another world, desperately saying they wanted to go home. Then suddenly Tuomi Province with flowers blooming everywhere, stacked wine jars nearly obscuring people’s faces, someone sitting across from him, speaking softly: “Let it be like this. It’s already very good.”

…

…

Gloomy, angry, and stifled in dreams. Upon waking, his heart raced wildly, face cold. He Tingtong reached up to wipe, finding his hand full of tears.

A clear breeze came. He turned his head somewhat sluggishly to see the half-open window. After snow came clear skies, brilliant sunlight penetrating through the decaying window lattice, lightly falling on him, also illuminating this cramped disciple’s room.

Blue bricks, black tiles, wooden plank bed. After cramming a bed into the small room, little space remained, only a corner-missing table barely squeezed by the windowsill. On the table sat brush, ink, paper, and inkstone, plus a large-bellied ceramic jar with a pine branch inserted at an angle, a pinecone hanging from the branch—quite interesting.

Memories from the past gradually revived in his mind. He Tingtong got up from bed, nostalgically touching the table’s missing corner.

The table was one his junior martial brother didn’t want. When learning calligraphy together as children, junior martial brother cracked his head while running and cried endlessly, so senior martial brother chopped off the table corner with one sword to coax him. Originally discarded, he found it a pity, so he moved it for his own use. It instead became the most valuable item among his shabby possessions.

This missing corner—when he had idle time as a child, he would rub it. Over a dozen years, he’d worn it smooth and round.

This was his room. He’d returned to Yuheng Sect.

He Tingtong breathed a long sigh of relief. After calming for a moment, he vigilantly rose, pulling open his robes to first check his body’s wounds. They were treated very well—heart meridians and dantian fully restored, not affecting cultivation. Superficial wounds had also mostly healed, recovering faster than previous times. Moreover, his cultivation showed faint signs of improvement.

He Tingtong frowned, thinking of the person encountered at the cliff bottom, feeling vaguely uneasy.

He walked to the corner, skillfully pulling open the cabinet, planning to change clothes and go out for a walk. But as soon as the cabinet door opened, a roll of bedding tumbled down from above, covering him entirely.

Fumbling to move things aside, he looked closely—the cabinet’s arrangement had also changed. Originally there were only two sets of disciple robes; now only one lonely set remained.

Who took his clothes?

“Brother Xiao He!”

A delighted voice suddenly rang out from the window. A round, childish face flashed past the window, accompanied by a loud “You’re finally awake!” The door was crashed open as a dusty little disciple boy rushed in like a plump little sparrow, circling He Tingtong while chirping away.

“Wuwuwu, Brother Xiao He, you really scared people to death—you’ve been unconscious for seven days!”

“Are you okay? Does your stomach hurt?”

“I heard from the young sect leader that you encountered a fifth-realm demon beast and even an avalanche. Being able to return alive is truly great fortune and fate.”

“You have so many wounds on your body. Does it hurt? Are you dizzy? I’ll go call master over…”

Dense questions bombarded him. He Tingtong’s head spun listening.

“I’m already much better, no need to worry.” He Tingtong was quick-eyed and deft-handed, grabbing back the bouncing little disciple boy. “Even less need to trouble Elder Song.”

This was Bai Shu, the medicine-pounding disciple boy of the sect’s physician, young and talkative.

He Tingtong had ordinary spiritual roots and mediocre talent. To achieve results in cultivation required effort a thousand, a hundred times greater than fellow disciples. Thus he was often injured from cultivation, frequented the medicine hall, and became somewhat more familiar with the elders and disciples there.

“Little Bai Shu, how did I get back?” He Tingtong patted his head, asking gently.

The boy’s excited expression immediately stiffened, then he said softly: “Brother Xiao He, you didn’t forget everything, did you?”

He Tingtong: “?”

The little disciple boy helped him to the table, had He Tingtong sit steadily, poured him a cup of water to hold, then spoke very seriously: “Seven days ago, you were covered in blood, breath like gossamer, carried up from the mountain base by a blind mortal on his back.”

A trace of confusion appeared in He Tingtong’s eyes: “…What?” Where did a blind mortal come from?

“The sect leader, grateful for his life-saving grace toward you, originally wanted to give some money to send him away. Unexpectedly, that mortal harbored covetous thoughts toward you, Brother Xiao He. He insisted you two had already made private vows for life, saying he escaped from home and eloped here with you!”

“No matter what, he’s clinging here refusing to leave!”

Bai Shu stared nervously at He Tingtong, swallowing before continuing: “Immortals and mortals are different. Originally the sect leader wanted to directly drive him down the mountain. But the young sect leader, considering this mortal’s devoted heart, let him stay here to care for you, thinking to wait until you woke to ask how to handle it.”

“If… if you’re willing, just have the wedding ceremony. It would also be a joyous occasion.”

He Tingtong: “…”

Such a familiar plot. His lips trembled as he grabbed Bai Shu’s hand: “Where is that mortal? Where is he?”

“It’s currently the wei hour. He should be at the medicine hall brewing medicine for you.” Bai Shu obediently answered. Then his vision blurred as he saw the seriously ill He Tingtong grab his robes and run out.

Flustered and extremely anxious.

He secretly gasped inside—never expected that Brother Xiao He, who seemed most likely to be alone his whole life, would actually be such a devoted romantic.

Truly, going down the mountain changes fate.

He Tingtong didn’t care about devoted romance or not. He only knew that in his previous eighteen times, there absolutely wouldn’t be some blind mortal carrying him up the mountain, much less a marriage agreement or other messy things appearing.

The only variable was Fu Fengyan encountered at the cliff bottom!

Rushing to the medicine hall, sure enough, he saw that awesome big shot who could kill a demon lord with a few sword strikes, wearing his faded-white disciple robe, eyes closed, fumbling to brew medicine.

He’d used some disguise—hair turned black, skin color no longer snow-white like before. Sleeves rolled up, crouching before the medicine stove fanning wind. The medicine hall elder beside him frowned, holding a medicine bowl saying something.

From the lip movements, He Tingtong could make out something like: people should have self-awareness, why must you pester endlessly, Xiao He has his future, you’re a mortal who cannot cultivate, doing this will delay him, etc.

He Tingtong: “…Delay nothing—his cultivation is higher than everyone on this entire mountain combined.”

He sucked in a cold breath, afraid the elder would annoy the person to impatience and get stabbed to death with one sword. He quickly rushed forward, blocking between the two, separating them.

“Elder Song! Long time no see!” He Tingtong raised his voice, interrupting the other’s speech. “I’m awake! One look at the wound and I know you stitched it, sir. Such good craftsmanship!”

The wizened little old man before him was thin and dried, white beard hanging to his chest, wooden hairpin in his topknot, corners of mouth white. He glared at He Tingtong, wanting to push him aside: “You’re still injured—who let you run out? Look at your flustered appearance, messy and chaotic, not an ounce of immortal bearing!”

He Tingtong came out in such a rush his shoes were loose, clothes barely tied at the belt, hanging loosely on his body, flapping in the mountain wind.

“Isn’t it because I’m so happy to survive the disaster that I rushed over to see you?” He Tingtong grasped the little old man’s arm, smiling at Elder Song, looking utterly guileless.

“Bullshit! I think you’re afraid this old man bullied your person!”

Behind He Tingtong, Fu Fengyan had stood up at some unknown time, grasping the youth’s clothes corner, timidly pressed together with him, a fearful, worried delicate white flower appearance.

“Immortal Master, is that you?” Voice pitifully aggrieved.

He Tingtong: “…What are you pretending!”

“I waited for you so long. You’re finally awake.”

A dejected, clingy voice sounded. Slender pale fingers reached from behind, grasping his waist. High body temperature burned through clothes against him. He Tingtong couldn’t help shuddering. Turning his head, he saw a magnified face, eyes closed, expression aggrieved, yet the head nearly pressing against his face, temples grinding together.

“They all say you and I don’t match. I’m a mortal who cannot cultivate. You’re a cultivator destined for immortality. Between us—clouds and mud differ.”

He Tingtong: “…No, ancestor, I’m just a second-realm minor cultivator.”

“But at the cliff bottom, you said it yourself—life-saving grace, unable to repay, can only pledge oneself.”

“Immortal Master He, I’m not someone who holds grace for reward. If you were unwilling, you shouldn’t have provoked me initially.” A tear fell. The gentle, stubborn delicate white flower tremblingly voiced an accusation: “But now my parents are both dead, nowhere to go. Can you please not drive me away?”

He Tingtong: “…Provoke what!”

Wait, these lines are so familiar—like those melodramatic story books he confiscated from disciples’ hands when inspecting the study hall?

Save! Me!

He Tingtong trembled all over, quickly raising his hand to firmly cover the person’s mouth.

Sure enough, melodrama is an art to watch others perform. When it’s your turn, He Tingtong was so embarrassed his toes curled, wishing he could immediately burrow underground.

He smiled awkwardly at the already-stunned Elder Song, then turned to pull Fu Fengyan, hurriedly dragging the person away.

—

Author’s Note:

Brother Xiao He emphasized: Men cannot give birth to children!!

Fu Fengyan: Taking notes.