Two years.
Seven hundred and thirty days of silence.
In the mortal world, two years was enough for a wound to scar, for a field to be harvested twice, and for a memory to begin its slow, inevitable fade into the fog of the past.
But for those trapped in the echoes of that fateful night at the abyss, time had not moved at all. It had simply curdled.
"Senior Brother Mo, if I look at one more medicinal root, I think my soul will actually leave my body."
Nan Si—now known to the sect as Shen Xi—pouted, her chin resting heavily on her palms.
She sat behind a low wooden table piled high with dried herbs.
The bitter, earthy scent of Reishi and the sharp tang of crushed mountain roots, once comforting, now felt like the walls of a very fragrant prison.
She looked at Mo Yun.
Two years had refined him. His black hair was held by a simple silver clasp, and his white robes were as spotless as the snow on the peaks above.
He was the picture of immortal grace, his hands moving with surgical precision as he sorted through a tray of needles.
"Junior Sister," Mo Yun said, his voice like a calm stream. "Patience is the first ingredient in any cure. Your meridians are still recovering."
"My meridians are fine! I can run, I can jump, and I can definitely survive a trip to the local town," Shen Xi countered.
She leaned forward, her eyes turning large and watery. She focused every ounce of her pitiful energy on him.
"Senior Brother... the world is so big. I've been in this valley for two years. I don't even know what a candied hawthorn tastes like anymore."
Mo Yun's hand faltered. He looked at her—her face, once pale as jade, now had a healthy, rosy glow.
She was hauntingly beautiful, a delicate wildflower blooming in the shadows of the valley.
He opened his mouth to refuse, but the sight of her trembling lower lip made his heart waver.
"I..."
"Oh! Do I hear the sound of a little bird begging for its freedom?"
A boisterous, melodic laugh shattered the quiet of the infirmary.
The door swung open, and a man walked in as if he were stepping onto a stage.
This was the Second Senior Brother, Feng Li.
If Mo Yun was a calm lake, Feng Li was a wildfire in a silk shop.
He wore robes of vibrant peacock blue, embroidered with shimmering gold threads that caught the sunlight.
A folding fan was tucked into his belt, and his amber eyes sparkled with mischief.
"Second Brother!" Shen Xi jumped up, her eyes lighting up.
Feng Li laughed unscrupulously, snapping his fan open.
"I was just with Master. I heard someone has been complaining so loudly the mountain goats are getting headaches.
I even managed to swipe a travel token from the old man's belt while he was napping, but I wonder... where is the person brave enough to use it?"
Before he could even finish his sentence, Shen Xi was a blur of motion.
She moved like a gust of wind, appearing directly in front of Feng Li. She didn't grab the token;
Instead, she folded her hands and looked up at him with such devastatingly sorrowful eyes that Feng Li's triumphant grin immediately stumbled.
"Second Brother," she whispered, her voice small and trembling. "You wouldn't tease a poor, memory-less girl, would you?"
Feng Li's unscrupulous resolve crumbled in record time. He coughed, looking away from her intense gaze.
"Okay... okay! Stop that! You look like a drowned kitten," Feng Li grumbled, though his expression softened into something protective.
"I'll give you the token. But! There is a condition."
He looked over at Mo Yun, who had finally stood up.
"You can go, but Senior Brother Mo Yun goes with you. No arguments. The world outside isn't like our valley, Little Xi. It's... sharp."
Shen Xi's face split into a dazzling smile, the pitiful mask vanishing instantly. "Sure! Sure! Senior Brother Mo is the best! You're both the best!"
She twirled around and dashed toward her living quarters to pack, her laughter echoing behind her.
Inside her room, Shen Xi was frantically stuffing a travel bag with spare robes and herb pouches.
the corner of the room, a tiny, glowing infant-like form floated restlessly.
Baby sighed, his translucent glow flickering with anxiety. He looked at his system interface.
[Current Energy: 20%]
"Still 20%..." Baby murmured.
"It has to fill at least 80% more, but at this rate, it will take at least three years for the application to be approved in the Time Bureau. The fragment....oh!!Host... you're playing with fire."
Inside her room, Shen Xi was frantically stuffing a travel bag with spare robes and herb pouches.
Suddenly, her movements slowed as her mind felt a sharp pain.
She stood still, her hand gripping a silk robe, as a blurred image flashed through her mind.
It was a man. She couldn't see his face—bit she has dreamed of him countless times—it was a kaleidoscope of obsidian shadows and sharp lines—but she could feel his touch.
He was holding her, his presence suffocatingly indulgent, as if he would tear the world apart just to see her smile.
The memory was warm, heavy, and terrifying.
Then, just like countless time as she tried to see his face, it vanished like a mirage in the desert.
Shen Xi walked to the window, her hand pressed against her heart.
The void there, which she had tried to fill with herbs and studies, suddenly throbbed with a nameless grief.
"I don't know who you are," she murmured to the sun, a small, determined smile touching her lips. "But I think... I'm coming to find you."
For the first time in two years, the hollow ache in her chest felt like it was finally starting to fill.
Miles away, The Imperial Capital
The air here didn't smell of herbs. It smelled of rusted iron, stale bile, and the copper tang of fresh blood.
"Please... I confess! I'll tell you everything! Just make it stop!"
The man chained to the wall was Minister Han, a man who had once been known for his luxurious silks and arrogant stride. Now, his robes were tatters of grey linen soaked in crimson. His face was a mask of purple bruises and weeping cuts.
"Heh."
A sarcastic laugh rang through the stone chamber. It was a cold, dry sound—devoid of any warmth, sounding more like bone scraping against bone.
From the deep shadows, a figure stepped into the flickering torchlight.
Shen Jue.
He looked like a deity of death. He wore robes of heavy, midnight-black brocade, fastened with a belt of cold silver.
His face, once defined by a "scholar-like" gentleness, had been carved into something sharp and lethal.
His eyes were no longer obsidian; they were two dead voids that seemed to swallow the light around him.
His hands were stained with blood up to the wrists.
With a bored expression, he handed a heavy, blood-slicked whip to the guard standing beside him.
"He's all yours, Zhao Kun," Shen Jue said. "Make sure the confession is written in his own blood. I want the Emperor to see it before breakfast."
"Yes, Master," the guard, Zhao Kun, replied, stepping forward with a clinical bow and handing Shen Jue a clean silk handkerchief.
Shen Jue took the cloth and began to wipe his fingers with terrifying precision, walking out of the dungeon without a backward glance at the screaming man behind him.
Waiting in the corridor was his Shadow Captain, Long Wei.
Long Wei looked at his master and felt a familiar, creeping chill.
Two years ago, Shen Jue had worn a mask of composure. Now, that mask was shattered.
Since their mistress had vanished from the valley, the man before him had become a monster of efficiency and ruthlessness. He was a blade that never stopped cutting.
Long Wei hesitated, wanting to report on the state of the borders, but he saw the tension in Shen Jue's shoulders and remained silent. He simply bowed as Shen Jue passed.
Shen Jue entered his bedroom and locked the door.
To any outsider, the room would seem jarring. The rest of the estate was a display of power and wealth, but this room was... simple.
It was a perfect, haunting recreation of a cottage room in a nameless village. A plain wooden bed, a simple desk, and the scent of faint, old pine.
Shen Jue walked to a heavy sandalwood drawer. His movements, previously sharp and violent, suddenly became agonizingly gentle.
He opened the drawer and pulled out a dress.
It was made of simple red cotton—nothing compared to the silks of the Capital—but it was clean and folded with obsessive care.
He brought the fabric to his face. He inhaled deeply, searching for a trace of her.
But time is a cruel thief. The scent of her—the smell of wild peaches and sun-warmed skin—had long since faded.
He buried his face in the rough cloth, his shoulders shaking with a silent, violent tremor.
"Sisi... Sisi..."
His voice was hoarse, a broken whisper that filled the empty room.
He repeated her name like a prayer, or perhaps a curse, as if the sheer force of his longing could pull her back from the abyss.
Knock. Knock.
Shen Jue snapped his head up. The vulnerability vanished instantly, replaced by a wall of ice.
He carefully—as if handling a fragile glass treasure—refolded the red dress and placed it back into the drawer, covering it with a layer of fine silk linen.
He smoothed his robes and opened the door.
"What happened?" he asked, his voice indifferent.
"Master," Shadow Three (Long Yue), said respectfully. "The ministers have arrived for the report. They are awaiting your presence in the study."
Shen Jue hummed a low, dangerous note and walked toward the study.
The study was a sprawling room filled with maps of the empire, each marked with red and black ink.
Several high-ranking officials stood in a row, their heads bowed, holding scrolls with trembling hands.
Shen Jue sat at the main seat—the seat of power—and tapped his fingers on the dark wood table.
Tap. Tap. Tap.
The sound was like a heartbeat.
"Report," he said,his voice devoid of any warmth.
Minister Xie of the Rites stepped forward, sweat beading on his forehead. "Master Shen... the preparations for the Autumn Festival are... are proceeding. The budget has been cleared, and the invitations to the vassal states have been sent..."
Another minister stepped up, reporting on the grain tax, his voice quivering as Shen Jue's dead eyes bored into him.
When the reports finally ended, Shen Jue dismissed them with a flick of his wrist.
He stayed in the silence, leaning back lost in his thoughts, until the heavy doors opened again.
A woman walked in. She was dressed in regal violet silks, her expression gentle, but her eyes sharp.
This was Madam Shen, Shen Jue's mother.
She sat on the couch beside his desk, sighing as she looked at her son.
"Son, you have already secured the court. The Emperor is but a puppet in your hand. Why spend your nights in this cold study? You should think about the future of the Shen line."
"Mother," Shen Jue interrupted.
He looked at her, his gaze so cold but with slight restrained.
"You should focus on your rest. My politics are not your concern."
This was Madam Shen (Qiu Rong), Shen Jue's mother.
She sat on a couch beside him, sighing as she looked at her son who was silently dealing with national affairs ignoring her as if she was air.
After hesitating for a moment, she said, her voice persuasive and gentle.
"Son, you have already controlled the court. The Emperor is but a puppet. Why bother with these nightly reports? You should think about yourself."
"Mother..." Shen Jue looked at her. His voice was so devoid of emotion it felt like a winter wind. "You should focus on your rest. Do not interfere in my work."
Madam Shen winced at his tone.
The distance between them had become an unbridgeable canyon. She changed the subject, her voice softening.
"Fine. I won't speak of politics. But you are twenty-three this year. I have arranged a Hundred-Flower Banquet—a gathering of the finest families.
I have even invited the daughter of the Nan family... she is the most beautiful woman in the Capital. Surely, a man of your standing..."
The temperature in the room plummeted.
Shen Jue's expression didn't change, but the air around him seemed to vibrate with a suppressed violence.
"Mother... I have told you. I am married. My wife is Sisi. If you bring up another woman again, I will consider it an act of treason against this house."
Madam Shen finally exploded, her face turning pale with anger and frustration. "But son! She is dead! You saw her fall! Even if she were alive, she was a village girl—at most, she could be a concubine! You cannot throw your life away for a ghost!"
"Shadow Two." Shen Jue's voice was a whisper of death.
Long Wei appeared instantly. "Yes, Master."
"See my mother out. She is not allowed to step into this study or my courtyard again. If she tries, bar the doors."
"You...!" Madam Shen gasped, looking at her son in horror.
"Please, Madam," Long Wei said, gesturing toward the door.
Madam Lu snorted, sweeping out of the room in a flurry of silk, leaving the study in a heavy, suffocating silence.
Shen Jue leaned his head back, closing his eyes. The image of the red dress burned in his mind.
"How much more wait, Sisi?" he murmured to the empty room. His voice filled with suppressed pain and longing.