Chapter 78: Jinsheng (1)

He Tingtong hadn’t dreamed in a long time.

He rarely reminisced about the past. Mainly, there were too many old matters, and too many grudges and grievances. Always immersing oneself in the past easily allowed negative emotions to crush a person.

Except for major events recorded in the registers, he actually rarely held grudges, especially grudges from his past lives. After all, he had died too many times; an opponent from the previous life might become an ally of interest in this life. Life and death, right and wrong had lost their meaning in his repeated reincarnations.

But there was only one place where, if he remembered even a little bit, a physiological sensation of disgust would crawl up his spine, causing him to have messy, chaotic nightmares in the night.

Opening his eyes abruptly, He Tingtong’s heart pounded wildly. He panted somewhat unbearably, a layer of cold sweat on his forehead.

The room was filled with cold air; the wind talismans were still floating mid-air blowing air, and even the quilt covering his body carried a chill. He realized he was shivering, right until a palm landed on the center of his back. It patted gently, sliding down along his shoulder blades to his lumbar spine, stroke after stroke, smoothing his breath like petting a cat.

“What’s wrong?” A slightly deep voice, carrying a bit of slurred, dry hoarseness.

He Tingtong looked up and met Fu Fengyan’s half-squinted eyes—a rich purple, gleaming in the faint morning light.

His body temperature was still hotter than an ordinary person’s, but not as scorchingly hot as yesterday; he looked like he had returned to normal.

“Nothing, just had a nightmare.” He Tingtong rolled off him and put on his robes. “I’m going to take advantage of the cool morning air to go out for a walk and scout the paths.”

“You’re afraid of the heat, stay in the room.”

Resting his head on his hand and lying sideways, Fu Fengyan watched He Tingtong hurriedly leave without even tying up his hair.

He sighed, looked at his own hands, and collapsed back onto the bed. It was just that his embrace was empty, and even his heart inexplicably felt hollow along with it. The wind in the room was very cold, but when it blew against his body it felt burning hot, sweeping over him like a scorching wind, quickly blowing his entire body burning hot once again.

Feeling restless and anxious inside, he sat up with a wooden face and scratched his hair. Among the strands pulled out were several silver-white ones. His spiritual energy was gradually losing control, and his disguise was beginning to fail.

With a flick of his fingertip, those few strands of hair spontaneously burned to ashes. Fu Fengyan paced back and forth in the room, rummaging left and right, until he finally found the clothes He Tingtong had changed out of last night. He hugged them, feeling slightly comforted by the scent belonging to He Tingtong lingering on them.

But it still wasn’t enough.

Burying his head into the clothes, Fu Fengyan closed his eyes in unbearable agony. Not enough, not enough, not enough. No matter what, it’s not enough.

What should he do next?

He didn’t know.

He only felt his heart was like a raging prairie fire, an inextinguishable scorching wind, burning his soul and charring his bones.

When He Tingtong went downstairs, he ran straight into Yuan Xiaoqing moving things. He wasn’t big in size, but he had quite a lot of strength. With his two skinny arms, he was carrying a large cloth sack on each side. The sacks were bulging, stuffed full of things, and were thicker than his own body.

The youth wobbled as he walked through the house, looking exactly like an ant moving its home before the rain.

“Morning, are you moving?” He Tingtong greeted him friendlily.

His voice was crisp and clear, echoing in the empty hall, giving the person a shock. His hands loosened, and all those odds and ends inside the bundles instantly spilled all over the floor.

Yuan Xiaoqing’s face turned ashen green, as if he had seen some evil ghost. He dove headfirst to gather those things and stuff them back into the bundles. But there were too many things—clothes, books, daggers, a rattle-drum, a needle-and-thread box… a whole messy pile smashed onto the ground like a heavenly maiden scattering flowers. Among them, a compass rolled right to He Tingtong’s feet. He picked it up with one hand and raised an eyebrow. “What’s this? It’s just copying the Immortal Alliance disciplinary rules three times a day, is it worth you fleeing for your life like this? It’s not like I’m some evil ghost Asura, what are you afraid of?”

Yuan Xiaoqing tied a dead knot on the cloth bundle, stepped forward in two or three strides, snatched the compass back, and stuffed it into his chest.

Staring at He Tingtong with an expression that bordered on pitiful sympathy as well as gloating at his misfortune, he whispered: “You’re done for. You provoked someone you shouldn’t have provoked! If I were you, I would start running for my life right now.”

After saying that, he smugly sized up He Tingtong, attempting to see expressions like helplessness or perhaps fear on his face.

Unfortunately, there were none.

He Tingtong let out a snicker. “What, did your people return that job to the Path of No Discrimination?”

Yuan Xiaoqing turned pale with shock. “How did you know!”

“Naturally, because I know fortune-telling.” He Tingtong put on an unfathomably mysterious expression. “Not only can I read my own fortune, I can also read yours. Once you walk out of this building, you and your relatives won’t have long to live.”

“Bullsh*t!” Yuan Xiaoqing hoisted his things and dashed out the door. “People targeted by the assassins of the Path of No Discrimination never meet a good end. How long do you think you can stay arrogant?”

“There are way too many people targeted by the Path of No Discrimination,” He Tingtong followed beside him, dispensing knowledge. “Just taking those few on the Qingyun Rankings, they’re on the assassination list every single year, and they’re still alive and kicking.”

“They are them, you are you. Do you have their family backgrounds? Do you have their cultivation bases?” Yuan Xiaoqing’s head was covered in sweat. “If you have a bit of conscience, don’t stay in the building, so we don’t have to collect your corpse when the time comes.”

“Let me tell you, my Master has no way to step in and save you. If someone really comes killing to your door, you can only rely on yourself and your follower to fight alone.”

“While it’s still light out, I suggest you hurry up, take your lover, take a boat back to your Qingyun Academy, and go study!”

Yuan Xiaoqing disappeared into the alley like a wisp of smoke. He looked back at him and mocked: “Careful you don’t become a pair of dead-end lovers here!”

“You too,” He Tingtong stood at the doorway, arms crossed over his chest, and flashed him a radiant smile. “You’re going to suffer a bloody disaster today, oh.”

Yuan Xiaoqing jumped up in anger right on the spot: “Scram! You jinx, you’re not allowed to curse me!”

He Tingtong stretched his waist lazily and went to stroll around the backyard. The courtyard was still full of array patterns, melted into every brick and tile. At first glance, they looked plain and unadorned, but upon careful observation, one could sense the spiritual energy circulating within them—exquisitely wondrous.

With Yuan Xiaoqing skipping work, He Tingtong could only come out to fetch water and wash up himself. The running water in the courtyard was entirely channeled from a large lake next to it. It was chilling to the touch, and splashing it on his face was very refreshing.

He was going gurgle gurgle rinsing his mouth. When he looked up, he found that Daoist Zhuji was standing behind him at some point. As round as he was, he made virtually no sound when walking.

“Morning, Senior.” He Tingtong spat out the water and greeted him with a brilliant face. “What are we eating today? You said it yourself, you provide meals.”

Daoist Zhuji: “…I’ll go make it.”

When He Tingtong went upstairs carrying two bowls of plain congee, Fu Fengyan was still lying on the bed, motionless.

He went over to push him, only to find a certain someone with his head buried into a ball of blue cloth. Those clothes looked exceptionally familiar.

The corner of He Tingtong’s eye twitched. He took a large stride forward, yanked his own clothes out, and hugged them to his chest. Surprised, he asked: “You didn’t use to have this fetish. Did you secretly read miscellaneous books again?”

Fu Fengyan’s head moved, and a handful of ice-and-snow-like paleness immediately unfurled on the bed. His snow-white long hair fell all over the bed. With his head half-turned, his face flushed red. He exhaled a breath of turbid air, staring at He Tingtong eagerly, panting aggrievedly: “So hot, my spiritual energy has lost control just a little bit.”

He turned slightly on the bed, raised a hand, and beckoned toward He Tingtong. “Come here, let me hug you. Your body is cool, just for a little while.”

He Tingtong subconsciously took half a step back, then paused. Frowning, he walked to the edge of the bed and let Fu Fengyan pull him into a full embrace. The scalding, almost burning body temperature pressed against his body, making him stiffen from head to toe. Then he cupped Fu Fengyan’s head and looked at that immortal face that had shed its disguise. A layer of vast mist had risen in those dark purple eyes—innocent and confused, like a child who had lost his way.

He Tingtong: “Did you eat something you shouldn’t have?”

Fu Fengyan shook his head. “I ate whatever you ate.”

He Tingtong pressed his fingers against his wrist to check his pulse. He wasn’t highly skilled in medicine, barely having learned a smattering, but doing a basic consultation wasn’t a problem. Fu Fengyan’s body might be hot, but his spiritual meridians were completely normal, and even his spiritual energy circulation was the same as usual. He couldn’t detect any abnormalities whatsoever.

But this expression of his, like a begonia blooming in spring slumber, looked wrong no matter how you looked at it.

He Tingtong remained silent for a moment, then asked in a low voice: “Divine Lord, what Daoist method did you practice in the past?”

Pressed against his body, Fu Fengyan greedily absorbed that tiny thread of calming coolness. His hollow heart was gradually filled, and his parched soul grew tranquil.

He pressed his face against the crook of He Tingtong’s neck. Even this small area of skin-to-skin contact made him feel exceptionally comfortable. Hearing He Tingtong’s question, he thought for a moment and answered frankly: “I don’t know.”

He Tingtong: “…”

He took a deep breath and peeled Fu Fengyan a little bit off his body. “You cultivated since childhood, what mental incantation did you memorize?”

Fu Fengyan’s eyes were filled with blankness. He tilted his head, puzzled. “Mental incantation? I’ve never memorized one.”

He Tingtong frowned and asked quietly: “How old were you when you entered the Dao? How old when you took up the sword? How did the elders who led you into the Dao communicate with you?”

“I don’t know, no one taught me.” Fu Fengyan’s fingers moved up, secretly supporting He Tingtong’s elbow. Staring at the eyebrows, eyes, nose bridge, and lips of the person in front of him, he slowly drew closer, murmuring: “Ever since I gained consciousness, it was all already in my head.”

“Didn’t you have masters or elders?” He Tingtong’s frown deepened. “What about your parents, brothers, sisters, friends, or the immortal officials who served you?”

Fu Fengyan pondered for a moment, then let out a low laugh. “None of them. I live alone. No one teaches me, no one speaks to me, no one is close to me.”

He gradually pressed closer, staring at those rosy lips, and spoke extremely, extremely softly: “He Tingtong, you are the first ‘person’ I have ever seen.”

He Tingtong stiffened all over. Something soft brushed across his lips, which he dodged a moment later by turning his head. A scorching breath imprinted on his earlobe.

Of course, there were other places even hotter than the breath.

He Tingtong narrowed his eyes. He gave Fu Fengyan a weird look. “I know what’s going on with you.”

“Then what illness have I contracted? Or what curse have I been hit by?” Fu Fengyan looked pitiful.

He Tingtong glanced at him and said flatly, “Open your storage spiritual artifact.”

Fu Fengyan felt around in his chest and handed the jade buckle to him. He Tingtong reached out to take it. He shook it, and shook out a pile of books. Under Fu Fengyan’s extremely reluctant gaze, he confiscated all of them.

“Recite the Heart-Clearing Incantation more.” He Tingtong handed him a jade slip carved with Daoist methods, as well as a perfectly round-bellied bottle, poured out a handful of pills, and stuffed them into Fu Fengyan’s mouth. “Eat more Heart-Clearing Pills.”

“From now on, you and I are sleeping in separate rooms. In one shichen (two hours), you’ll be fully cured.”

He Tingtong pulled away and left. He flicked his sleeve, not taking away a single cloud. Fu Fengyan looked thoughtful.

One shichen later, he was indeed self-cured.