Later, he found himself bundled in a prison of the Méi Rén—or, more technically, in her cage.
Around him were only cold, dark walls, a single narrow bed, a barely-alive low table, and a broken washroom, its door hanging open. A dirty smell hit him directly, so potent he held back a gag and wished he could tear his own nose from his face. He couldn't even cover it—his hands were bound.
He blinked exhaustedly at the environment.
How will I live here, even for a few days, when I've been spoiled by a life of luxury? he thought hopelessly.
He missed the cozy golden-green marble floors of his room, the gifted library he'd received only a year ago. His ruined Zhèng Shì clan robe was a terrible reminder of all he'd lost.
But he wouldn't stop just yet. The Earth God had made him charming—beauty with a brain, mysterious royal blue eyes that spoke louder than any mouth, and even a Nightingale's voice, skilled in song and speech, which he'd honed into his own demonic-style art. It was both a curse and a blessing of his current state.
So of course, he had to use it fully.
Méi Yè tilted his face up with the edge of her handfan under his chin. "Should I kill you, or really use you?" she purred, tilting her head thoughtfully. That woman was the badness type.
He looked up at her, blinking slowly, his white eyelashes fluttering like thin flower petals. His eyes were sometimes called pools of royal blue ocean, filled with a mystery not everyone possessed.
She silently swallowed hard. He noticed her fingers tighten around the handle of the fan, knuckles turning pale—he took it as a sign his charm was working.
"Oh please, Miss Méi Yè…" he exhaled, his voice a soft, weary instrument. "Do think about it quickly. If you want to kill me… then kill me. If not… then do treat me like a former Zhèng Shì cultivator. Simple. And I'm not really liking this place—"
She blinked at his audacity and raised his face higher with the fan, her own ego prickling. But he didn't break eye contact. "I haven't asked for your likes or dislikes," she said coolly.
He stayed composed, continuing as if she hadn't spoken. "An interesting fact is—if you kill me, this new invention dies with me too. I haven't taught anyone. Besides… it's in me only. Half birth-gifted, half my own building."
He paused, letting the weight of his words sink in.
She made a look, trying to hide it, but it signaled her conflict clearly: Then what should I do with you? You're both a tool for us and a threat. If you by chance expose anything about the Méi Rén to them, we'll be ruined.
"So?" she asked, her tone lower, more dangerous.
He cleared his throat softly. "So… as you see, I'm half-broken. With a ticking time of a month, I can't perform my arts actively again unless the demonic reverse-curse technique of the youth's bath fixes me. I'm half-useless like this."
"What if you go back there to ruin us, once you regain your abilities?" she said, suspicion sharp in her voice. The matter was sensitive. Letting an angelic cultivator stay in the demonic realm was a risk.
"I won't betray you. How can I go back to the same place that made me a villain faster than writing names on scrolls?" he reasoned. He just needed his qì and his healed body back—and if the clan came with it, even better. He'd be one of those rare men who gained a new place in demonic cultivation without the bloodline.
"How are you still alive? Why haven't they killed you fully?" she asked, listening more attentively now.
"I escaped."
"How?"
"Shadow clones."
"And they got fooled that easily?"
"It's a long story. I'm just giving you the short version."
"What about the common people?"
"They already fear to cross my path."
"What is the story behind the whole incident?"
"I won't tell that right now, either."
"And why?"
"Not until I also… believe in you enough to share." He offered a faint, knowing smile.
"Don't make me impatient, Jiǎng Língxi," she warned faintly, her lips pressing into a thin line.
"You're the one in control. So, as fast as you believe in me, heal me… I'll be able to twist this clan's history, too—"
"Who told you to change our history?!" The clan's cult was precious to all its people.
"I meant by making it stand over the Hàngwō and Lán Shāng clans. With my invention, and my lores."
"Y-you wood bug!" she hissed. The term was for those who didn't belong to one place but still dug their own holes to stay—exactly what Língxi was trying to do. Her cheeks flushed with stubborn embarrassment; having a man join the clan properly often meant marriage. "What is your purpose, huh? Why are your thoughts always heading toward my clan? Why would my Zhùfù ever grant you this?" she asked, leaning closer, her voice a little louder near his face. They were almost nose-to-nose.
"Time will tell. But you have fifteen days. Because I'll start aging soon… and then die." He said it simply, as if he didn't care. All the headaches would be the clan's—he was the weapon everyone needed.
She stayed silent, his logic hitting its marks. But she was still a young daughter, and her father was alive; she couldn't decide alone. "Will this curse break by the youth's bath?"
"It was officially from Shén Yùe Kùmsūn. The curse isn't easily breakable, so maybe I'll need the bath more than once. I'm not sure."
"Then—" she began.
The heaviness of their conversation cracked like ice when careless music floated up from downstairs.
And the lyrics… oh, the lyrics made his mind scream. Whoever this man was, he was characterless.
"I do love ~ my meaningless love in the bed ~ oh~ darling, come into my arms~ pour me a glass of wine~ pour it 'there' so I can taste the sweetness more tonight~ so that the rosy scent fills the room with your moans~"
The voice was drunk, careless as sin wrapped in velvet silk.
What the—? Did he just… say what I think he said? Língxi thought, almost disappointedly. Whoever he is, he's the image-breaker of demonic cultivators. He glanced silently at the door. So did Méi Yè.
He blinked, and they both turned to look at each other.
"May I—?" he whispered, a question mark on his face. He couldn't quite recognize the voice, though it tickled a memory—maybe from a local bar.
"It's my Zhùfù's friend's son, Kage Ou…" she said with a sigh, as if equally disappointed. She shook her head as if to say, He'll never change.
It didn't take long to understand: downstairs was the young Dàozǔ of Lànxìe.
Língxi paused before asking again, "Age? His… age?"
"Twenty," she answered.
Língxi blinked tightly, counting in his head. Twenty-one, twenty-two, twenty-three…
That guy was three years younger than him, yet his condition was… this? He could almost picture the mess in the back of his mind.
He looked sharply at Méi Yè this time, his royal blue eyes deadly serious.
"What?" she asked, seeing the judgment in his gaze.
"So… you're also this way? Like him? Because friends are mostly the same?" He genuinely didn't like that type of cheap companionship. He was already crying mentally. How in hell will I impress a characterless girl? He'd been a gentleman his whole life—never touched another woman, flirting was a distant concept, bed scenes were forbidden before marriage. He couldn't believe his luck.
Is this what I get after being a good guy, dear Earth God? he thought hopelessly, and exhaled.
She glared at him, her hand twitching as if to slap his face—but she didn't. Instead, she groaned, balled her fist, and hit the cold wall beside them. Her qì flared, and the stone cracked slightly. She glared again, her voice now loud enough to carry downstairs. "How dare you call me a whore?! Of course not!"
He noticed it—the way she was almost being careful with him. He just smiled faintly. "Good to hear… That sort of thing doesn't suit you, Miss." He glanced meaningfully at her injured hand.
She panted faintly, cheeks flushed with either anger or embarrassment, and looked at her reddened, slightly injured knuckles.
Before Língxi could say anything more, a voice rang up like careless bells.
"Méi Méi~ Why are you crying upstairs?! Who made you cry? Let me see!" Kage Ou called in a mocking tone from below. His footsteps began climbing closer and closer.