Chapter 2: Eighteen

A wind suddenly rose on the mountain, very cold.

He Tingtong smelled the bloody scent on the Demon Lord’s sleeves. The killing intent drew near, yet he waited a long time without feeling pain.

Heaven and earth suddenly fell silent. All the clamorous sounds receded like tide. He Tingtong’s ears rang. The next moment, something soft and ice-cold brushed past his face. Amid the sharp buzzing sound, he seemed to hear an extremely faint breath, then the shackles on his neck disappeared.

A sensation of weightlessness came. He Tingtong stepped back twice and fell sitting on the ground, sluggishly opening his eyes. The demon army that had blocked out the sky above was gone. He saw snow flying everywhere, falling on skin—scalding hot.

He Tingtong twisted some between his fingers.

No, this wasn’t snow. It was ash.

Pale ash.

The fire atop the Thirty-Three Heavenly Palaces still burned, jade towers and magnificent buildings collapsing piece by piece. Yet in the dim sky, a sun appeared out of nowhere—snow-white, blazing fire burning wantonly in the heavens. The Demon Lord and his subordinates were forced back, gradually distancing from the crowd.

Reinforcements had arrived.

A phoenix-headed spirit boat rode the wind, hovering in mid-air. Cultivators from the other four provinces flew down from the spirit boat, landing one after another. Though not numerous, they were reliable, carrying away the panicked mortals on the long stairs one by one.

So the cultivation world still had big shots.

He Tingtong sat on the glazed stairs, unable to muster a bit of strength.

Hilarious—he’d thought he was the only one left alive.

Someone came over to pull him to safety.

Several sword lights broke through realms, leveling heaven and earth. All the mountain ranges near Jiuyao Mountain vanished. The verdant mountains of Shangxuan Realm turned to flat ground.

The Demon Lord died. Heaven and earth cleared.

Saved—cheers rang out across the wilderness. People behind He Tingtong embraced and wept bitterly, celebrating survival after disaster.

But He Tingtong had an unreal feeling.

So strong—why had he never heard of them? On the Azure Cloud Rankings, this person’s name should rightfully appear.

This feeling… very wrong.

The sky suddenly darkened.

He Tingtong couldn’t stand steadily. He staggered two steps, head dizzy. Amid spinning heaven and earth, he fell to the ground, then on the Immortal Alliance’s specially-made glazed long stairs saw dense cracks.

The Immortal Ascension Stairs were breaking?

No—heaven and earth were both shattering!

He Tingtong’s eyes widened.

The four poles collapsed, celestial stars fell. The Thirty-Three Heavenly Palaces collapsed from top to bottom, layer by layer. The earth began trembling as if giant beasts rolled beneath. With a thunderous boom, heaven and earth split.

The world was like rice paper torn by several large hands—time and space thrown into chaos.

“I have no choice.”

“The protagonists cannot die. If they die, the world will disappear too.”

…

Damn it! He knew it—both the Demon Lord and Xuan Xiao were protagonists!

He Tingtong instinctively sought that ball of light, seeing pale fire burning to its utmost, as if resisting something.

The spiritual energy between heaven and earth was nearly drained, forming terrifying fire tornadoes in the wilderness, reaching heaven and earth.

He Tingtong felt all his life force also surging toward that place. He suddenly realized something.

“Who is that?”

He Tingtong grabbed the sword cultivator’s robe beside him, pointing at that ball of fire and urgently asking: “Who is he!”

“Don’t worry, the Young Lord will save us all.” The sword cultivator answered irrelevantly, grabbing He Tingtong’s arm, planning to drag him away.

But that eerie feeling drew near again—cold, dying despair licking at his soul bit by bit.

He Tingtong couldn’t catch his breath. Watching that prairie fire seeming to burn everything, he pushed aside the person beside him.

He jumped off the long sword, formed hand seals, and rode the wind upward. Fierce winds rolled his sleeves. Countless people fled, yet he alone went against the current, resolutely rushing toward that “sun” in the wilderness.

Only the fierce fire remained. Pale flames licked at his body—robes and flesh burning. He Tingtong like a moth to flame, covered in sparks, ran across the cracked earth, shouting toward that figure also being burned: “Is it you?”

No one answered.

He Tingtong had many things to say, many questions to ask. Only the fire was too great. His strength exhausted, burning as he fell to the ground, yet still unable to approach that figure.

Inside the firelight, everything collapsed. Outside the firelight, an invisible will seemed to envelop the entire world. Time was manipulated—everything reversing.

Re. Start. A. Gain!

Damn!

No one heeded him. He Tingtong’s full chest of grief and indignation had nowhere to vent. Finally, he only managed to throw his sword sheath at that lofty figure not far away, shouting with a shattered throat: “Fuck your grandfather!”

“Good lad, I’m remembering your shadow! You’re the world restart button, right?!”

Next time! Next time! He would definitely catch this bastard!

He Tingtong was swallowed by flames, only smoke and dust remaining.

---

The nineteenth time.

He Tingtong’s eyes snapped open, deeply inhaling a breath of ice-cold air. Cold wind like knife cuts poured into his lungs—a needle-stabbing cold pain, yet dispersing the scorching heat seemingly attached to his soul.

Being burned to death felt truly terrible.

The sky was overcast. Two-zhang high cliff walls cut the sky into a thin, narrow line. Snowflakes flying everywhere like goose feathers slowly pressed down, covering him, piling in thick layers.

Hanshan Realm, Falling Snow Cliff.

Strange rocks jutting, ancient trees twisted—familiar scenery he’d seen eighteen times.

Oh, now the nineteenth time.

He Tingtong had returned to his youth, to the bottom of the cliff where he first died.

Exhaling a faint white mist, He Tingtong struggled to raise his hand, brushing off the snow on his body, recalling the past.

He’d been killed then, sporting two large holes—one in his chest, one in his abdomen—corpse dumped at the cliff bottom, utterly miserable.

Everything restarted. From a twelfth-realm semi-immortal, he’d become a second-realm small fry with shattered dantian. But He Tingtong was always optimistic. After all, this lifetime he knew even more information, had seen more people’s endings. Just thinking about it made him feel this life truly had “prospects”!

Trembling as he propped himself up, he bounced like a fish on the ground, trying to turn over.

Only upon turning, his waist and abdomen hit something hard. Touching with his hand—a person’s calf.

He Tingtong: ?

He remembered no one was here.

Slowly turning his head, he first saw layered robes spread on the snow surface like a blooming lotus flower. Following the clothes slowly upward—hair the color of snow, pale austere face, and a pair of dark purple eyes like the golden crow sinking behind mountains, stars not yet lit at dusk’s purple twilight—deep, carrying desolate cold, staring at him unblinkingly.

Truly beautiful. Truly eerie.

But He Tingtong was very certain—in the previous eighteen rebirths, he’d never encountered this person.

Looking eighteen or nineteen years old, not a trace of expression on his handsome face. He nodded politely in greeting: “Hello.”

He Tingtong: “…Who are you?”

“I’m called Fu Fengyan.” The youth sat cross-legged in the snow, body adorned with exquisite jade, wearing extremely luxurious, elaborate clothes like a young master just descended from a banquet—only probably a Hongmen Feast, as his clothes were splattered with blood.

As if afraid He Tingtong was illiterate, he lifted a finger to summon wind and snow, forming three beautiful characters in the air: “Forgot so quickly? You and I met just half an hour ago.”

Half an hour ago?

He Tingtong rapidly searched his memory.

This year was the eighth year of Linde. Today was the thirteenth of the eleventh month. One day ago, he was stabbed twice by his junior martial brother’s lover and thrown down the mountain cliff. No matter how he thought about it, he couldn’t possibly know such a figure…

Wait…

This figure’s silhouette gradually overlapped with the silhouette in the fire… He Tingtong suddenly froze.

“The wind was too strong then. I didn’t hear clearly what you said.”

The youth continued speaking, his voice calm and indifferent. The long sword across his knees bright and sharp: “Could you trouble yourself to repeat it?”

He Tingtong: “…”

Could dying once more still get him a rebirth slot?

“Divine… Lord.”

He Tingtong sucked in a breath. Not knowing where courage emerged from, forcibly suppressing fear, he quickly grabbed onto the youth’s hand.

So warm.

“You’re the Divine Lord?!” He Tingtong’s voice was passionate and surging, yet his heart trembled with anxiety. “That move you used to resolve the demon army was truly too awesome! Turning the tide before collapse, supporting the great building about to fall!”

“This humble one respectfully calls you number one above heaven, below earth, across nine provinces and four seas, in the three realms! What Demon Lord, what Dao Lord—all empty names, can’t compare to one of your fingers!”

…

…

He Tingtong’s body was thin and gaunt, covered in disheveled snow and blood, gray and dirty like a little mouse just crawled from a hole. Holding the youth’s slender pale fingers, he praised incessantly, eyes sparkling brightly as if touching some rare treasure.

…

…

“This humble one gazes upon you with admiration!”

He Tingtong told blatant lies, wildly flattering: “What I said when rushing over isn’t important—what I thought in my heart is most important! You just need to remember I was praising you then. Those words were just subtle expressions of my admiration for you!”

He Tingtong’s rainbow farts echoed through the spacious valley.

He panted, throat dry, carefully watching the youth before him of golden features and jade quality.

“Admiration?” Fu Fengyan captured the keyword, slowly tilting his head. “Adoration?”

He Tingtong nodded like a pecking chicken.

A hand reached over, pressing against his face, brushing away snowflakes on his eyelashes.

“Very good. So you also have such intentions.”

Before He Tingtong could catch his breath, he heard the other use an extremely indifferent voice to utter the next sentence: “Mutual affection—why not marry?”

He Tingtong: “…”

That breath he hadn’t yet caught stuck at his heart, nearly choking him to death.

—

Author’s Note:

Fu Fengyan: Let’s marry!

He Tingtong: WTFWTFWTF!

The biggest romance brain has arrived ORZ. He said himself he wanted to stick together from the opening scene—I have no choice (spreads hands)

Congratulations to Little Fu for successfully meeting offline!

He’s not a cold, aloof flower gong. He has skin hunger, so sometimes he’s handsy, which can seem a bit forward. And he’s not the love-at-first-sight type—he has other means of understanding his target.