Amidst his turbulent thoughts, he moved with deliberate steps, carrying Yu Xiao through the shadowed corridors to his private bed chamber. His arms tightened around her—just slightly—as if the weight of her unconscious form anchored something unsteady within him.
Gently, without hesitation, he lowered her onto the silk coverlet, adjusting her position so she could rest undisturbed. His fingers lingered a moment too long at her shoulder before he withdrew, his jaw tightening.
Over the course of three centuries, he had transformed this place into a sanctuary for his self-recovery—a fortress of solitude hidden even from the eyes of his sect.
No one knew of its existence except his most trusted guard, a man whose loyalty had been tested by blood and time.
He had spent those long years alone here, practicing every form of cultivation to enhance his inner force, channeling his rage and pain into preparation for his inevitable return.
Each meditation was a battle.
Each breakthrough, a scar.
This place existed in isolation from his own authority. He could barely visit his own people, including the disciples of his sect who still whispered his name with reverence and fear.
Distance was his shield.
Silence, his armor.
His powerful position demanded duty, yet he had neglected it for reasons he could never fully explain—not to his people, not even to himself.
Beyond that, he had grown cautious, guarded in every gesture and word.
He had learned the hard way that trust was a blade that cut deepest when wielded by those closest to you. No one could be trusted.
Not entirely.
And yet, at this moment, as his gaze settled on the woman lying motionless before him, his mind churned with questions he couldn't silence.
She should have affected him.
His energy should have reacted to hers—repelled her, burned her, or worse.
But nothing had happened.
Why?
His eyes narrowed, his expression darkening as he studied her pale face, the soft rise and fall of her breath. His hands curled into fists at his sides.
Why was she different?
He released a deep breath, the tension in his shoulders easing only fractionally.
Then, unexpectedly, his gaze caught on something—a darkened patch on the fabric of her black robes near her shoulder. His brow furrowed.
It wasn't part of the design.
He leaned closer, his fingers reaching out to brush the stained cloth aside.
Dried blood.
His expression hardened.
Carefully, he parted the fabric at the collar, revealing pale skin marred by a clean, deliberate gash.
The wound was narrow and precise—made by something sharp, something wielded with intent.
The first thought that surfaced in his mind was immediate: a sword.
His jaw clenched as he studied the injury more closely, his fingertips hovering just above the broken skin.
The edges were still fresh, barely beginning to clot.
Recent, then.
Very recent.
But her robes showed no tear.
No cut.
No sign of entry.
His eyes darkened, suspicion coiling tight in his chest.
A wound? How did she get this?
He straightened slightly, his gaze shifting from the wound to her face, searching for answers in her unconscious features.
Her expression remained serene, untroubled—too serene for someone who had been injured.
Who is she?
The question gnawed at him, sharper now than before. His mind raced through possibilities, each one more troubling than the last.
Did she find trouble elsewhere before arriving here? Was she fleeing something—or someone?
His fingers curled into his palm as he stepped back, his eyes never leaving her still form.
The mystery of her immunity to his energy was one thing.
But this—this wound that shouldn't exist beneath untorn fabric—added another layer he couldn't ignore.
Something wasn't right.
Perhaps he was overthinking this.
The questions could wait.
He exhaled slowly, forcing the tension from his frame, and settled his resolve.
There was no point in spiraling into suspicion when action was required.
He was alone in this place—no servants, no attendants, no one to summon.
Who could he ask for help?
Nothing.
No one.
The choices were only his.
His expression softened, just barely, as clarity replaced doubt.
It doesn't matter who she is.
Not right now.
It's just taking care of someone who needs help in a crucial situation.
He had saved countless lives in his earlier years, before bitterness and betrayal had hardened him.
This was no different.
Or so he told himself.
As long as he can save her, that's what matters.
The thought settled over him like an old, familiar cloak—one he hadn't worn in a long time.
With renewed focus, he moved to the side of the bed and seated himself beside her.
His palm hovered over her wounded shoulder, and he closed his eyes, drawing in a slow, controlled breath.
The air around him began to hum faintly as his inner energy stirred, responding to his will.
Warmth radiated from his hand, a soft azure blue light seeping through his fingers and flowing into her body.
He guided the energy carefully, precisely, letting it weave through her meridians and coax her disrupted qi back into balance.
The wound on her shoulder began to knit itself together under the gentle pulse of his power, the torn flesh mending thread by thread.
His other hand moved to her wrist, checking her pulse.
Weak, but steady.
Good.
He retrieved a vial of medicinal salve from a nearby cabinet—one of his own concoctions, refined over decades—and applied it to the now-closed wound with practiced efficiency.
Then he adjusted her position slightly, ensuring her breathing remained unobstructed, and draped a thin blanket over her to retain warmth.
His gaze lingered on her face for a moment longer, watching the faint color return to her cheeks.
She would recover.
He would make sure of it.
"Don't worry," he murmured, his voice low and unexpectedly gentle in the silence. "You're safe now."
The words felt strange on his tongue—foreign, almost.
How long had it been since he'd offered anyone such reassurance?
But even as he spoke them, his expression shifted.
His brow furrowed, and a shadow of doubt crept back into his eyes.
He leaned back slightly, crossing his arms as he studied her with renewed scrutiny.
"But I'm always wondering..." he continued, his tone cooling, edged with caution now. "What will you do when you wake up? What will you say to me?"
His jaw tightened, and his gaze grew sharper, more guarded.
"How did you even get in here?"
The question hung in the air, heavy with suspicion.
This place was hidden, warded, impenetrable to all but him.
Yet she had appeared—unconscious, wounded, and inexplicably unaffected by the very energy that should have repelled her.
He tilted his head slightly, his eyes narrowing as if trying to read answers from her sleeping form.
"What are your intentions?"
The silence offered no reply, but the question lingered in his mind like a thorn he couldn't remove.
Trust was a luxury he could no longer afford, and coincidence was a concept he had long stopped believing in.
His fingers drummed once against his arm before stilling.
He would wait.
He would watch.
And when she woke, he would have his answers—one way or another.
Hours passed by in silence, the weight of unanswered questions settling like dust in the air.
He had retreated to his vast den hall—a cavernous chamber carved deep within the mountain's heart, where he spent most of his solitary hours.
The space was dim, lit only by the faint glow of spiritual stones embedded in the walls, casting long shadows across the cold stone floor.
Here, in this place of isolation and power, he could center himself.
He sat cross-legged in the center of the hall, his posture perfectly still, his breathing slow and measured.
His hands rested lightly on his knees, fingers forming a meditative seal.
The air around him thrummed faintly with energy—azure wisps curling and dissipating like smoke.
Then, deep in his awareness, he heard it.
Footsteps.
The sound echoed softly against the stone floor, deliberate and unhurried, traveling through the dark corridor that led to his sanctuary.
Someone was coming.
He remained unbothered, his expression unchanged, his focus unbroken.
His breathing didn't falter.
Whoever approached knew better than to disturb him without reason.
The footsteps grew closer, then stopped.
A presence entered the hall—familiar, expected.
Still, he did not move.
A moment of silence passed before the voice came, respectful and clear.
"Greetings, Dijun."
The tone was calm, composed, laced with the quiet deference of one who had earned his place at the Dijun's side.
Guess who?
Of course—Young Master Yun Qingjue.
The Dijun he had greeted slowly opened his eyes, the faint azure glow within them dimming as his meditation released its hold.
His gaze, sharp and unreadable, lifted to meet the figure standing before him.
He said nothing at first, merely studying the young man with an expression that revealed neither welcome nor displeasure—only cold, patient observation.
"Where have you been?"
The Dijun's voice was quiet, but it carried weight—an unspoken demand for answers that left no room for evasion.
Yun Qingjue straightened slightly, his expression grave.
"Beiming Sect is in chaos lately. We encountered a fight." He paused, his jaw tightening at the memory. "The Central Domain Sect has issued a decree to capture the villain responsible."
The Dijun's eyes narrowed, a flicker of interest cutting through his calm exterior.
"Villain?" His tone sharpened. "Why?"
Yun Qingjue's hands curled into fists at his sides, barely restrained anger bleeding into his words.
"Both sects made a dispute. They blocked our way—prevented us from searching for the missing person." His voice dropped, colder now. "And the outbound market… it ended up massacred. There are a lot of casualties."
The air in the hall seemed to still.
The Dijun remained motionless, but his gaze grew more intense, piercing.
Yun Qingjue continued, his expression darkening further.
"We found corpses of warriors under Zhou Xuanyuan's command scattered among the dead. But there was nothing—no evidence—found pointing to Beiming Sect's involvement." His voice turned bitter. "Only innocent lives, taken mercilessly."
A heavy silence settled between them.
The Dijun's fingers twitched slightly against his knee—the only sign of his reaction. His mind worked quickly, piecing together implications, motives, and the dangerous web of politics that had clearly ensnared both sects.
"Innocent lives," he repeated softly, almost to himself. His eyes lifted back to Yun Qingjue, cold calculation replacing any trace of emotion. "And the missing person? Any trace?"