How do you even tell when you've lost control of your own limbs?
That's what I'd been asking myself for the past ten minutes while staring at my reflection like it might blink first.
I leaned in closer, face barely a breath from the mirror. Same nose. Same eyes. Same expression I always wore when spiraling internally at two in the morning. Nothing looked different.
But something felt off. Was it me who reached out to grab Shen Kexian's sleeve?
Or was it… her?
I didn't mean to. I didn't even think. My body just moved—hands flying forward like I'd been pulled by something invisible.
I stared harder, searching for something in the mirror. A flicker. A change. A crack in the illusion.
Nothing. Just me. Just her face. Lianshui's face.
I touched the glass. Lightly. Like maybe if I pressed hard enough, it would reveal the truth beneath my skin. Is she trying to claw out? Or am I the one slipping in?
Perhaps I've been spending too much time with Shen Kexian.
Too many hours tangled in training. Too many conversations that linger long after they should have ended. Too many moments where the boundaries blur—between memory and reality, between what once was and what still belongs to me.
Maybe it's time I put some distance between us.
Because if I'm losing control—if I'm really losing control of my body—things will get very, very ugly. Not just for me. But for everyone.
I looked into the mirror again, slower this time. Softer. My reflection stared back, calm and still. I pressed my hand flat against the glass.
"Lianshui," I whispered, "you can't."
The words felt heavier than I expected.
"You'll get me killed," I said. "Or get both of us killed. If you're still in there… you have to stop."
The mirror didn't respond. Of course it didn't. But my hand stayed there a moment longer than it should have. Just in case she was listening.
The next morning, I woke up with one very specific conclusion.
If being around Shen Kexian made me lose control—of my thoughts, of my body, of my limbs—then obviously, the cure was Ming Yu.
That was the only thing that made sense.
He was stable. Gentle. Grounded. Not emotionally confusing. Not spiritually entangled with a ghost of a girl I might or might not be sharing a body with.
Just Ming Yu.
The only man in this entire palace who made me feel like I was me.
So I went to him.
No grand plan. No royal escort. Just marched myself out of the temple with a half-muttered excuse to Xiaohua, threw on my outer robe, and headed straight for the only place he'd be this early: the training ground.
I found him there—sleeves tied up, hair half-loose, mid-swing with his sword. A group of younger cultivators watched him with equal parts awe and fear, while Lan Wangji stood off to the side like a serene judge deciding who deserved to breathe.
Ming Yu moved like wind over stone—precise, quiet, devastatingly calm. And for a moment, just watching him, I felt something tighten and then loosen in my chest.
He didn't see me right away.
So I stood there on the edge of the courtyard, trying to figure out how to casually approach the man I might be emotionally using to anchor myself to reality.
Which was fine. Totally fine. This was self-care. Strategic. A mental recalibration. Definitely not spiritual dependency wrapped in unresolved longing. Nope. Not at all.
Just as Ming Yu moved into another clean strike, he paused—subtle, but enough to catch. The cultivators in front of him had started to shift, posture slacking, eyes wandering toward the edge of the courtyard.
Toward me.
I hadn't said anything. I hadn't done anything. I was just standing there.
Apparently, that was enough to derail half a dozen teenage cultivators with underdeveloped impulse control.
Ming Yu turned, followed their gaze, and found me.
He sighed.
The kind of sigh that said, Not again. His expression was somewhere between resigned and why are they gawking at you like you descended on a cloud.
Without saying a word, he glanced at Lan Wangji, who hadn't moved from his silent post across the yard.
Lan Wangji returned the look, then turned to me with the subtlest nod. It barely counted as movement, but it felt like a formal greeting, or possibly divine acknowledgment.
Then, without hesitation, Lan Wangji stepped forward.
And like magic—terrifying, absolute magic—the young cultivators all snapped back into formation. Heads straight. Eyes forward. Spines aligned like someone had lit incense behind them and declared judgment imminent.
Ming Yu gave them one last look before walking toward me, the faintest glint of irritation still in his eyes.
"They stare at you like they've never seen silk before," he muttered under his breath.
I shrugged. "To be fair, I'm very blessed today."
He didn't smile, but his eyes softened anyway.
"Are you not training today?" he asked, stopping just in front of me.
I lifted my chin a little. "I have a day off."
Technically true. Emotionally fabricated. Spiritually panicked.
He gave a small smile—rare, quiet, but it always hit harder because of that. "Want to go somewhere?"
I blinked. Then glanced past him at the line of young cultivators, now standing straighter than flagpoles under Lan Wangji's silent gaze.
"Don't you have to train them?" I asked.
He didn't answer right away.
Just turned, walked back toward Lan Wangji, and leaned in to whisper something. Whatever it was, Lan Wangji nodded once without expression—no surprise there—and immediately stepped forward like a warden taking over a prison wing.
The entire training group stiffened. One even flinched. It was beautiful.
Ming Yu returned, calm as ever.
"Let's go," he said.
And just like that, it felt like something in my chest unknotted.
I nodded and followed him—quietly, steadily—telling myself I was here for fresh air, not emotional clarity.
Ming Yu didn't say where we were going.
He just led the way, quiet and confident, his hand occasionally brushing against mine as we walked through the outer gardens. I didn't ask questions. I didn't need to. For the first time in days, I wasn't surrounded by temple attendants or half-listening ministers. There was no incense, no expectations—just space and him.
We passed a crumbling stone gate near the back edge of the palace grounds, half-covered in moss and winding ivy. He glanced over his shoulder once, then ducked inside, pushing aside a curtain of vines like he'd done it a hundred times.
I followed.
The space beyond was small and hidden—an abandoned meditation hall, its roof mostly intact, its walls cracked but still standing. Ivy crawled across the windows. Soft green light filtered through the leaves overhead, quieting everything. It smelled like rain and earth and something older than the palace itself.
I stepped inside, my breath catching slightly.
"This is…" I looked around. "You come here often?"
Ming Yu nodded. "Not many know about it. I found it during night patrol once."
"And you just remembered it? Like a secret escape?"
He looked at me, eyes calm. "You needed quiet. This place always clears my head."
A beat of silence passed between us.
Then, without warning, the sky opened.
A soft pat pat pat on the roof turned into a gentle downpour. The kind of rain that wrapped around you without warning, sudden but warm, like the world was offering permission to exhale.
Ming Yu turned toward the open side of the hall, watching the rain with a faint smile.
I sat down on the raised platform near the back wall, running my fingers over the worn wood beneath me.
"You always take me to the strangest places," I murmured.
He turned. "You always follow."
Ming Yu sat beside me on the worn platform, close enough that our shoulders nearly touched, but not quite. The sound of rain tapped gently against the old roof, steady and calming, like it was trying to hush the world for just a while.
He looked over at me, gaze lingering for a moment too long. Then, softly—
"Is something wrong?"
I hesitated. Smiled a little, but it didn't reach my eyes.
"I've just been doing a lot," I said, voice light, too light. "Maybe I'm just tired."
He didn't respond right away. Just watched me quietly, the way he always did when he knew I was leaving something out.
Then, gently, "Mei Lin."
I turned to look at him.
"I know you," he said. "You don't come find me in the middle of the day just because you're tired. What's really going on?"
My chest tightened. Of course he knew. Of course he saw right through me. I looked down at my hands, clasped in my lap like they might start moving on their own again.
And I sighed.
"It's Lianshui," I said finally, the words barely more than a whisper. "Last night… something happened."
He waited. Didn't press. Didn't interrupt. So I kept going.
"I was talking to Shen Kexian. We were saying good night, and I—" I paused, fingers curling. "My hands… they just moved. Without me. I grabbed him. I didn't mean to. I wasn't even thinking about it."
The silence stretched for a beat, rain filling the space between my words.
"I don't know if it was me, or her," I whispered. "I don't know if she's still in there, or if I'm losing control. I'm a little scared."
Ming Yu didn't hesitate.
He reached for me—slow, careful—and pulled me into his arms.
I went willingly.
Wrapped both arms around him and held on like the world had started to slip sideways and he was the only solid thing left. He didn't say anything at first. Just rested his hand between my shoulder blades, steady and sure, his breath calm against my hair.
Then, with a soft chuckle, he murmured, "I'm glad you told me this."
I pulled back just enough to look up at him, eyes searching.
"Because," he continued, his tone dry but honest, "I would've absolutely lost my mind if I saw you grab onto him without a reason."
A startled laugh slipped out of me—half relief, half exhaustion.
The rain didn't let up.
It blanketed the old meditation hall in soft sound, like the world had turned down its volume just for us. I sat with him, arms still around him, his breath warm at the side of my face, and for a long time, I just stayed there—held in stillness, in safety.
But something deeper had woken in me.
Not just longing. Not just comfort.
A pull.
A need to prove something—not to him, but to myself.
That I still owned this body. That I could choose when to move, when to reach, when to want. That what happened last night didn't define me—that I wasn't just a vessel or a memory or a half-lived echo.
Here, with him, I was real.
And I wanted to feel it.
Slowly, deliberately, I shifted—one leg swinging over his lap as I straddled him. Ming Yu's hands went still where they rested at my back. His breath caught, subtle but audible, as his eyes met mine with careful surprise.
I held his gaze.
I didn't want him to guide me.
I wanted this to be mine.
Chapter 82.5: Losing Control (continued)
I leaned in and kissed him—slow and purposeful. There was no hesitation, no waiting to be swept up in him. I claimed his mouth, tasted the warmth of his lips, and pressed closer until he responded—soft groan, fingers tightening at my hips like he needed grounding too.
He leaned back just enough to give me room, his eyes fixed on mine with that steady calm that somehow made everything inside me feel louder. I moved into his lap with quiet purpose, straddling him, my robe still drawn tight around me. His hands rested at my hips, patient and warm, making no move to rush me. Just there. Just ready.
I reached for the ties at my waist, fingers fumbling slightly—not from hesitation, but from the weight of the moment. I loosened the knot, layer by layer, letting the robe slip off my shoulders in a slow reveal. The cool air met my skin, raising goosebumps as fabric slid down my arms.
When I reached for him, I mirrored the same care. My fingers found the fastenings of his robe, working them open one by one, brushing against the warm skin beneath. I peeled the layers away, slow and deliberate, revealing the long lines of his chest, the tense stillness in his body held taut by restraint. His breath deepened, but still, he didn't move. He let me undress him like it meant something. Like it was a ritual.
I shifted my weight, settling more firmly into his lap, and let my hand slide between us, finding him. His breath caught, I curled my fingers around him. He twitched in my palm, not fully hard yet, but close. I stroked him slowly, rhythmically, watching the way his jaw tightened, the way his gaze stayed locked on mine even as his lashes fluttered once, twice.
His hands gripped my hips a little tighter, but he didn't guide or move. He let me take my time. I leaned in and kissed him—deep, unhurried—while my hand coaxed him into readiness, each stroke a silent promise that I knew exactly what I was doing.
Only when I was sure—when I could feel the ache blooming in both of us—did I guide him to me. I rose onto my knees, steadying myself with one hand on his shoulder, and with the other, aligned our bodies. Then, slowly, I sank down onto him, inch by inch, drawing him into me with deliberate control. His hands tightened at my hips, grounding me, but he still didn't move. He let me decide everything.
I set the rhythm. My pace. My need. And he followed like it was the only thing in the world worth doing.
I moved slowly at first, testing what felt right—not for him, but for me. Each motion is deliberate. I wrapped my arms around his shoulders, grounding myself in the tension, in the burn, in the way my pulse seemed to echo in every part of me.
I rocked against him, faster now, my thighs trembling, head tilting back as heat surged upward—tight and overwhelming. I felt his mouth at my neck, his breath unsteady, hands clenching at my waist as he tried to keep still beneath me.
But I didn't want stillness.
I wanted to burn through it.
The pressure coiled tighter with every rise and fall of my hips, every drawn-out kiss, every moan I didn't mean to give him. My body trembled, that perfect edge rushing closer, until it broke—sharp and complete. I cried out softly as the pleasure overtook me, full and overwhelming, grounding and weightless all at once.
And when I collapsed forward against him, still pulsing around him, he finally moved—his hips rising once, twice, and then he let go with a low groan against my shoulder. I felt him shudder, felt his release deep and aching, as if he'd been holding back everything he couldn't say.
We stayed like that, his arms wrapped around me, the rain softening into mist outside. His breath was still warm against my skin, steady and calm, like he could hold the world still just by being near. My heartbeat was finally slowing, not from exhaustion, but from something else—something deeper. Relief. Release.
I pressed my forehead to his shoulder, eyes half-closed, still catching my breath. My body hummed, not just from what we'd done, but from the weight I'd let go of—the panic, the fear, the question that had haunted me all night.
And now?
Now I felt whole.
Not possessed. Not splintered. Not like I was unraveling from the inside out.
Just… me.
I moved my fingers along his chest, tracing the path of his heartbeat. It matched mine now. Or maybe I had matched his.
And in the quiet, I whispered to myself—not loud, not for him, just to remember the feeling:
"I still own this body."