Chapter 142

Even with her gaze turned away, Luo Han could feel his stare burning hot against her cheek. She had expected this confrontation for a long time. But this was the first time they’d laid everything bare.
He had hinted at it back in the mortal realm, Luo Han had understood, but pretended not to. As soon as she could, she kept bringing up going back. She thought that once she clearly expressed her intent, Ling Qingxiao would let go.
But clearly, if he were the kind of man who could let go, he wouldn’t be Ling Qingxiao. He had hidden it for a long time. Now the truth was out. Luo Han no longer cared whether it violated temporal laws. She sighed and said plainly,
“I think I understand your reasoning. But every event has its path. My return to this time was an accident. Tianqi Era is where I truly belong.”
The immortal realm counted eras by ten thousand-year spans. This was the Year 2000 of the Chuyuan Era. Luo Han had fallen into this world by accident, and the moment she left her timeline, it was the Year 5000 of the Tianqi Era.
“Why do you call it an accident?” Ling Qingxiao said. “If it happened, then it must be fate. You fell into this place, lived through these stories, and returned again, it means this is where you’re meant to be. Everything else was just a memory.”
“But I promised him I’d wait for him to wake up. I can’t break that promise.”
“And what about me?” Ling Qingxiao fixed his gaze on her. “You won’t break your promise to him but you’ll break my heart without hesitation?”
That struck a nerve. Luo Han looked toward the falling leaves, unsure whether she was trying to convince Ling Qingxiao or herself.
“Time is unified. If we’re meant to be, then once I return to the past, another version of me will appear beside you.”
“That won’t happen,” Ling Qingxiao said calmly, with certainty. “You’ve been to the Middle Era, right? You must’ve met Su Zongshi and the others. After you said goodbye to them, did you ever meet them again?”
“That’s only because too much time has passed”
Ling Qingxiao let out a soft laugh. He watched the side of her face, thinking even her self-deceit was adorable. He looked at the Star River Tree rustling in the distance and said quietly,
“It’s not about time. It’s about causal barriers. Once you leave, I will never see you again. Is your heart truly that ruthless?”
Luo Han suddenly recalled the moment before the Demon God died. His face had twisted with pain and triumph.
“You can’t kill me,” he said. “Not unless you kill him.”
By “him,” the Demon God meant Ling Qingxiao. More precisely, the Ling Qingxiao of the Tianqi timeline.
Only gods could cross the barriers of space and time. During the ancient war, a fragment of the Demon God had embedded itself in Ling Qingxiao’s body, eventually merging with his inner demon. That fragment shared the same origin as the Demon God. Their memories were connected.
What Luo Han feared most was that, before he died, the Demon God had managed to reverse his memories across time, sending them into the fragment buried in the other timeline. Once the inner demon erupted, Luo Han didn’t even dare imagine what her once-familiar, deeply beloved lover would become.
She was silent for a long time, and in the end, she said softly, “I’m sorry.”
The Celestial Emperor Ling Qingxiao closed his eyes, a familiar sense of abandonment washing over him. He had been abandoned by his father at birth, abandoned by his family during his tribulation. Ling Qingxiao despised this feeling so he had climbed upward with everything he had, to become the most powerful being in the Six Realms, so no one would ever again place him in a dispensable position.
But now, he was still the one being left behind. When forced to choose, he was always the one cast aside. Ling Qingxiao laughed softly,
“You really are so deeply devoted...yet so naively cruel. The Heavenly Dao is merciless indeed.”
This conversation was unpleasant for both of them. Neither had the heart to keep walking. Ling Qingxiao escorted Luo Han back to the Chongguang Hall, his demeanor still calm and collected.
He seemed like the same rational emperor. Yet once back inside, Luo Han realized her freedom had been even further curtailed. She sighed. This version of Ling Qingxiao was so much harder to deal with than the one she once knew. She clearly noticed that the palace attendants were watching her every move, and if she even hinted at wanting to leave, they would react as if facing a national emergency. She was being confined.
Worse still, Ling Qingxiao came to see her every day as if nothing had happened. He sat with her for meals, watched her take her medicine, chatted as usual. If Luo Han didn’t respond, he didn’t mind. He just kept coming, day after day.
Luo Han quietly endured this for several days, pretending to be resigned. The attendants of Chongguang Hall gradually let down their guard, no longer keeping a constant, twelve-hour watch over her.
One night, Luo Han extinguished the lamps and lay down to sleep as usual. The attendants, thinking she had turned in, gently drew the curtains and waited outside for the night watch.
Even though she had been very quiet, no one dared neglect their duties, the emperor’s orders were not to be taken lightly. But a few young immortal maidens sitting together inevitably began to chat and joke. They sat on the jade steps, cooling off and gazing at the stars in the Milky Way.
As time passed, drowsiness crept in, and they slowly nodded off. The girl sitting farthest back drooped her head...just as the palace doors silently opened behind her. Luo Han stepped out in a cloak, moving lightly, and with a glance over her shoulder, restored the doors to their original appearance. She was no helpless maiden, when she truly meant to leave, no one could stop her.
—
Ling Qingxiao worked late into the night on state matters. When he finally finished the most urgent scrolls, he looked up to find the sky had gone completely dark.
Unknowingly, it was already midnight.
He set down his brush, thinking that Luo Han was probably asleep by now. It was late, not ideal for disturbing her, but in the lulls between his work, he only wanted to go to one place, Chongguang Hall.
In just a few days, Luo Han had completely upended his four thousand years of habit. Now, if he didn’t see her, he felt unsettled. Forget it. Just one glance wouldn’t hurt.
He convinced himself he wouldn’t wake her or let anyone know. He’d simply stand outside for a moment. It wouldn’t be improper.
Ling Qingxiao walked the familiar path to Chongguang Hall. But as soon as he passed the gates his heart sank. The protective wards had been tampered with.
He strode toward the main hall. As expected, the attendants were asleep and scattered across the steps. The palace doors were tightly shut, but he knew what waited inside: An empty, desolate silence, she was gone.
—
After leaving the Heavenly Palace, Luo Han followed the direction on the Bodhi Tree’s token, flying swiftly toward their rendezvous.
The last time she’d met the Bodhi Tree, Ling Qingxiao had been by her side. Neither she nor the tree had dared to speak much. Thankfully, they had agreed on a secret signal, which now came in handy. The meeting spot was a cliffside. Under the cold crescent moon, the place seemed still and desolate. Luo Han pulled down her cloak hood and said softly,
“Bodhi Tree, it’s me.”
Her voice drifted in the wind. The surrounding scenery slowly shifted, a green barrier rose, sealing off the area in a concealed domain. From the outside, it still looked like a moonlit cliff, completely empty.
But in truth, a massive tree coiled up the rock face, and before it stood a white-robed woman.
“Heavenly Dao, you’ve finally come. I heard you were injured in the war, how have you been?”
“Hard to explain in a few words,” Luo Han sighed. “But that’s not the point. I came to ask about the whole transmigration-into-a-book matter.”
The Bodhi Tree had expected this. It rustled its leaves and replied:
“You want to know where the book came from? You guessed right—it wasn’t a book at all. We only used that form to help you assimilate quickly. From the perspective of your original timeline, what you experienced would indeed seem like ‘entering a novel.’”
Luo Han was speechless. She’d known something was off. She rubbed her temple and muttered,
“So...the so-called male lead, female lead, supporting cast, and even Ling Qingxiao as the second male lead, all fake?”
“The world is vast. Every moment brings new joy and sorrow. How could everything revolve around just one person?” the Bodhi Tree said.
“There are no real protagonists in the world, or rather, everyone is their own protagonist.”
“Then the original plotline, all those dramatic events—how were they even determined?”
The Bodhi Tree answered “The events were real, but perspectives differ. Since we had no time to explain everything while Ling Qingxiao was watching, we compiled memories from people closest to the major events and condensed them into a ‘book’ for you to read. But because they were memories, the details, morality, and tone were all skewed by personal bias. Emotions may vary, but the events themselves are accurate. So the influence...should be minimal.”
Luo Han’s face went blank. Minimal, seriously? She was at a loss for words.
“So it was a composite memory...I really thought it was all true. There were parts from Yun Menghan’s memories, weren’t there?”
The Bodhi Tree nodded “That’s right.”
If that was the case, then many things now made sense.
No wonder the novel had such vivid descriptions of kisses and bedroom scenes, yet skimmed over wars and political intrigue, it was because Yun Menghan didn’t understand those things. No wonder the characters’ actions were full of contradictions, and the entire book obsessed over how deeply Ye Zhongyu loved Yun Menghan, when in reality, his actions had nothing to do with love.
No wonder Yun Menghan was supposedly loved by every man and envied by every woman, with even married men madly devoted to her. That was all Yun Menghan’s own perspective.
Yun Menghan truly believed that all men in the world loved her, and all women were jealous of her. Because of this, Luo Han had nearly misunderstood Ling Qingxiao.
She had thought Ling Qingxiao liked Yun Menghan, and that he loved her only because she was the one who showed up at the bottom of the abyss that day. Before disappearing, Luo Han had even argued with him about it. But in the end, it was all just a girl’s delusion.
Luo Han was speechless for a while before asking, “Why choose Yun Menghan’s memories? Wouldn’t using Ling Qingxiao’s or Ye Zhongyu’s have been more accurate?”
The Bodhi Tree hesitated. “Do you think it’s possible to copy Ling Qingxiao’s memories, summon you back under his nose, and then safely send you away without him suspecting anything?”
Well, Luo Han was convinced. The Bodhi Tree noted how all of Luo Han’s questions revolved around Ling Qingxiao and said knowingly,
“Heavenly Dao, your feelings toward this Celestial Emperor...seem rather special.”
For the Heavenly Dao to grow selfish emotions was a major taboo. But in front of the Bodhi Tree, Luo Han didn’t deny it, she admitted it plainly “I’ve been trying to avoid it. But in the end, I couldn’t fight my heart. When you sent me back, you gave me many life-saving medicines. But I never needed them, not once. He protected me well.”
The Bodhi Tree’s original intention had been to send Luo Han to the past, to stop Ling Qingxiao’s descent into extremism, to prevent war, and save the world. According to its initial plan, whether it was the Celestial Emperor or the Demon Lord, both were meant to be her enemies.
There could only be one person atop the mountain. Gods and immortals had always had a fragile relationship, especially between Heavenly Dao and the Heavenly Palace, whose responsibilities largely overlapped. Luo Han and Ling Qingxiao were supposed to be wary, tactical allies at best.
Never had the Bodhi Tree expected Luo Han to turn a powerful enemy into her lover. The Bodhi Tree gently comforted her
“It’s alright. Though the path was different, the goal was achieved. The world is at peace, and Ling Qingxiao is already sending people to repair the damage from the war. That alone fulfills our mission.”
Luo Han didn’t know how to explain the current mess she was in. She could only grit her teeth and bear it. Instead of justifying herself, she asked,
“Is the Ling Qingxiao now the same one I went back to save?”
The Bodhi Tree looked surprised. “Of course.”
“Then why don’t they share memories? Why do they treat each other like two separate people?”
“Heavenly Dao, only gods can travel across time and space.”
The Bodhi Tree spoke slowly.
“The world is constantly changing, with infinite possibilities. Until something happens, the outcome remains uncertain. Every tiny variation causes people to make different choices. That is change. But destiny is fixed. No matter how the details shift, the overall trajectory stays the same. That is consistency.”
“For example?”
“Take a certain immortal dozing off in the Immortal Realm. He might wake instantly or a moment later. That moment’s difference causes rain to fall half an hour later in the Mortal Realm. To the world, the timing of the rain means little. But to a young woman traveling during that delay, she ends up caught in the downpour. As she shelters under a roof, she meets a man. Now she has a new possibility, she may confess her feelings or not. Each path leads to a different marriage, and we can’t predict which it will be until it happens. But overall, she’ll still marry a commoner, not leap social classes, she won’t end up with the emperor. In that sense, her marriage is fated.”
Luo Han understood. She said quietly,
“So this woman won’t have the memories of her other life, but both versions are her true self?”
“Exactly.”
Luo Han paused again, then asked: “If I return to the other timeline, will this version of Ling Qingxiao meet another me?”
The Bodhi Tree answered without hesitation “No.”
Luo Han’s heart sank. Seeing her crestfallen, the Bodhi Tree consoled her:
“Heavenly Dao, you are the anomaly. Loneliness and lovelessness are Ling Qingxiao’s destined path. You cannot change everyone’s fate. It’s not your fault. The sooner you accept it, the better.”
How could Luo Han not know that? She had been clinging to hope this entire time, but now, the Bodhi Tree had shattered all her illusions.
Go back...or stay. She could only choose one man. Luo Han sat in silence for a long time before asking,
“How do I go back?”
“The token you came with—that’s your link to the other world, isn’t it?”
“It doesn’t work,” Luo Han replied, taking out the token.
“For some reason, it only locates this place. It won’t lead me back.”
The Bodhi Tree stretched out a leafy branch to examine it and said,
“It might be a timing issue. No matter. I have no great powers, but I do have many old, dried branches. When wood dies, its time freezes at that moment. The past is one-way for most—but I can locate any moment in it.”
“Then...the eighth of October, Tianqi year 5705,” Luo Han said immediately,
“The exact day I disappeared, if possible. Please don’t send me too far off.”
The Bodhi Tree searched far and deep through its vast roots until at last, on a remote withered tendril, it found a dry, pale piece of wood. Counting the rings, it matched Tianqi year 5000s precisely.
The Bodhi Tree sliced off a withered root and handed it to Luo Han. “This is the only fragment I could find that resonates with the Heavenly Dao. Use it with care.”
“Understood.” Luo Han reached out to accept it, but just as her fingers brushed against the root, a chill crept up her spine. Before she could even react, the barrier around them shattered. A streak of icy air surged from behind, coiling around the withered root and whisking it away into the void.
She stood there stunned, watching as the only fragment vanished from her grasp — she had been so close. Silence fell. Even the Bodhi Tree gave a silent tremble of its leaves before fading into a phantom shadow and slipping back into the earth, retreating slowly as if trying not to draw attention.
Luo Han clenched her fist tightly, forcing her expression into calm. She turned around as if this were nothing more than a coincidental midnight stroll and bumped right into Ling Qingxiao.
“What a coincidence,” she said with forced casualness. “You're here too? When did you arrive?”
How much had he heard?
Ling Qingxiao didn’t reply. He simply toyed with the wooden fragment in his hand. Luo Han’s heart seized if he crushed it in a fit of anger, there was no way she’d find another one. She hurried forward, trying to stop him. “Please, put the root down. We can talk this through. There’s no need to take it out on the wood. Maybe...maybe we can find a compromise.”
“A compromise?” Ling Qingxiao finally spoke, voice low and dangerously calm. “You mean sneaking out of the Celestial Palace and conspiring with others to deceive me?”
The gnarled root still bore flecks of soil. In his pale, jade-like fingers, its crude form only emphasized the stark beauty of his hand. With a flick of his fingers, the root disappeared into thin air.
His expression was unreadable as he took a step toward her. His eyes, dark as obsidian, locked onto hers, his voice soft but heavy with emotion. “I stayed in the Jade Purity Palace late into the night. I suddenly wanted to see you. But when I went to your quarters, I opened the door and found...nothing. The quilt was neatly folded, the curtains untouched, everything I gave you, the robes, your belongings, all left behind, exactly where I placed them. Only you were missing.”
He stepped closer. Alarm surged in Luo Han’s chest. Something about him was dangerously off-balance. She instinctively backed away two steps, trying to calm him down. “Let’s not do this. Just...breathe. Think rationally.”
But Ling Qingxiao didn’t stop. He advanced step by step, pressing her all the way to the edge of a cliff, literally. There was nowhere else for her to go.
“If I hadn’t shown up just now,” he asked, voice tight, “what would you have done?”
Luo Han’s throat went dry. If he hadn’t interrupted...she probably would have used the Bodhi Tree’s help to tear open a space-time vortex.
“I…”
“You were going to disappear without a word.” He now stood directly before her, close enough that she could feel his breath. One wrong step and they’d both fall. Yet he didn’t seem to notice or care. His gaze never wavered. “You weren’t even going to say goodbye.”
Tears welled up in Luo Han’s eyes. “I’m sorry.”
Ling Qingxiao watched those crystalline tears rise in her beautiful eyes. So pure. So evocative. He gently reached out and wiped a tear from the corner of her eye.
“I told you,” he murmured, “you can do whatever you want. You never have to apologize. Not to me.”
Before she could respond, he seized her arm. His grip was so tight it hurt. Then, without warning, he lifted her into his arms, bridal style. Cold spiritual energy wrapped around her wrists, binding them in a ring of frost.
Startled, Luo Han struggled. “What are you doing?!”
She twisted and pulled, trying to shake off the restraints. But Ling Qingxiao’s arms were unyielding, as solid as a fortress. Her struggles meant nothing to him as he strode swiftly in the direction of the Celestial Palace.
“You don’t need to say sorry,” he said coldly. “Because there won’t be a next time.”