Chapter 64

The flame flickered like a bean-sized star. Luo Han stood in the middle of the room holding the lamp, looking at the serene, focused Ling Qingxiao on the bed, and felt her scalp start to prickle.
They had shared space before—during travel, in caves—but those times were survival scenarios. Sharing a cave while on the road was very different from sharing a room in a home.
The wavering candlelight cast half of Ling Qingxiao’s face in brightness and the other in deep shadow. His nose created a graceful arc of darkness across his cheek. He sensed Luo Han's hesitation and slowly opened his eyes. “What’s wrong?”
Luo Han braced herself. “There’s only one bed in here...What do we do tonight?”
Ling Qingxiao clearly froze. Only now did he realize the issue.
In the Immortal Realm, privacy was paramount—even between close relatives, there was a strong sense of personal space. Rooms were assumed to be single-occupancy by default. But this era was different. It was the age of clans and tribes—families lived closely together, and collective identity outweighed individual preference. It was normal for whole households to share a space.
Even though this courtyard had three rooms, none of them were sectioned off. The bedding and furniture were wide and old-fashioned—clearly designed for communal family living. Ling Qingxiao had never shared a space with anyone, so it hadn’t even occurred to him that come nightfall, the two of them would be in one room.
Where to sleep—now that was a serious question.
The bed itself was plenty wide, big enough for four or five people to sleep side by side. Two people would have no problem. But the issue wasn’t space. The issue was…
They were an unmarried man and woman, sharing a room in the dead of night. What would people think?
Luo Han stood in the center of the room with the lamp in hand. Ling Qingxiao was seated on the bed, meditating. The two fell silent. No one said a word.
After a while, Ling Qingxiao stood up from the bed and said, “I need to cultivate tonight. I won’t be sleeping.”
Immortals didn’t need food or rest. But they still had emotions, and they still got tired. Few immortals lived like perpetual motion machines. Most lived much like mortals—working during the day, resting at night, and finding hobbies in between.
Only Ling Qingxiao was the exception. He was the perpetual motion machine. Luo Han had spent a full year in the Immortal Realm and met all kinds of cultivators, but none of them were as obsessively self-disciplined as him.
Smart, focused, and unbelievably hardworking—no wonder his performance always left others in the dust. His stats were so high, second place didn’t even come close. Ling Qingxiao was known to cultivate through the night...but that was back when he wasn’t injured, when his strength wasn’t so drained.
Luo Han gently reminded him, “Did you forget? You still have to take your medicine tonight. The chief said it must be taken twice a day, no exceptions. You had the first dose late this afternoon, but the second dose can’t be skipped.”
She said it tactfully, but the meaning was clear: he had to drink the medicine. And that medicine had a sleep-inducing effect.
In other words, going to bed wasn’t up for debate tonight—his own body would demand it. Ling Qingxiao fell silent.
Luo Han added helpfully, “Also, there’s the external ointment. It has to be applied after the second dose. The chief said it works best when the body’s resting.”
That pushed him over the edge. Hearing that the ointment was meant to be applied while he slept, Ling Qingxiao immediately objected: “No.”
“No what?” Luo Han asked.
Everything. Just—no. Ling Qingxiao took a deep breath and said, “Thank you for preparing the medicine today. I can handle the rest. May I trouble you for the recipe?”
Luo Han frowned. “But you’re still injured…”
“I’m much better now,” he replied, voice calm but unwavering. “Thank you.”
Since he was determined, Luo Han didn’t argue further. She handed over the recipe and headed out to prepare the second dose. Ling Qingxiao had wanted to make it himself, but she immediately shut that idea down.
He’d been unconscious just this morning—what was he trying to prove?
The medicine took a long time to simmer. By the time Luo Han came back with it, Ling Qingxiao had already prepared the external balm—and changed clothes.
This new outfit had a high collar, a cinched waist, and narrow sleeves. It was a white combat suit—not as flowing or elegant as his previous robes, but it gave him a sharper, more battle-ready air.
The first thought that popped into Luo Han’s head when she saw it was: This outfit looks tight. And it has way too many buttons. It’s gonna be a pain to take off.
…Oh no. Her brain had officially been corrupted.
She shook off the intrusive thoughts and casually asked, “What made you change?”
“Long sleeves get in the way when fighting.”
“But you haven’t applied the ointment yet. Won’t this outfit make it harder?”
Ling Qingxiao coughed lightly and looked away. “I already did it.”
Luo Han blinked. She rushed to check the medicine jar—and sure enough, it was empty. The pestle and bowl had even been cleaned.
She didn’t know what to say. After a pause, she muttered, “But the chief said to apply it after taking the internal medicine.”
“It makes no real difference,” Ling Qingxiao said with utmost seriousness. “The two are administered close together. Switching the order shouldn’t affect the efficacy.”
Luo Han stared at him, a new expression creeping across her face.
Ling Qingxiao shifted uncomfortably under her gaze. He coughed again and asked, “What is it?”
“Nothing,” Luo Han said, though she kept staring at him like she’d just discovered a brand new species. “I’m just...surprised. I didn’t think I’d hear you say something like that.”
This was Ling Qingxiao, the detail-obsessed perfectionist who probably analyzed which foot to step forward with first. He was now saying things like “It doesn’t really matter”?
Was this still the same person?
Ling Qingxiao felt a bit awkward, but compared to the alternative—letting Luo Han apply the balm while he was drugged asleep—this tiny bit of imprecision didn’t seem so bad.
Luo Han “tsk”-ed under her breath but said nothing more. She brought the bowl over and set it in front of him.
This time, she didn’t feed him. Even though he’d only had one dose earlier, the effect was obvious—he already looked much more energetic. He was still pale, but it was the kind of pale that came from a normal recovery, not the terrifying near-death look he had that morning.
As Ling Qingxiao stirred the medicine with a spoon, Luo Han said casually, “After you finish, you can rest. I’ll be cultivating tonight. Not just tonight—every night, from now on.”
Ling Qingxiao had just picked up the spoon when he froze. He set it back in the bowl and looked at her in surprise. “Why?”
“No reason,” Luo Han said quietly. “I just want to grow stronger, as quickly as I can.”
Ling Qingxiao’s expression turned serious. Even his gaze sharpened. “What happened?”
Did something happen outside?
“Nothing,” Luo Han quickly said, fearing he’d worry. “Don’t overthink it. I just...I don’t want you to get hurt anymore.”
No one could deny that Ling Qingxiao was powerful. His combat abilities had almost no weaknesses. And yet, strangely enough, he always seemed to be the one getting hurt—even though, between the two of them, it was clearly Luo Han who was weaker in every way.
When Luo Han said this, Ling Qingxiao’s expression froze for a moment. She noticed his silence and asked, “What’s wrong? Don’t you believe I can do it?”
Ling Qingxiao returned to himself and shook his head. “No.”
He didn’t know why, but there was a sudden, subtle sense of loss in his heart—like something was quietly slipping away from him. With a sigh, he said, “The cub’s grown up.”
Cub? The word immediately grated on Luo Han’s ears. She huffed, making no effort to hide her displeasure. “Fine, you can think I’m young, but don’t dismiss my mind just because of it. I’m already an adult.”
“You’re right. That was my fault.” Ling Qingxiao’s apology came quickly and politely. But inwardly, he still couldn’t truly wrap his head around it. After all, when you’ve lived for a thousand years, whether someone is eighteen or nineteen really doesn’t make much difference.
But he couldn’t shake the feeling of loss. Luo Han used to be the kind of person who’d find every way imaginable to slack off. It wasn’t that she was lazy—she just wouldn’t push herself unless someone else pushed her first. Now, in the blink of an eye, she had changed. She had become proactive, thoughtful...like she didn’t need him to urge her forward anymore.
He should have been proud. And yet, a strange feeling of dissatisfaction stirred in him.
Ling Qingxiao stayed quiet for a while. Luo Han, seeing the medicine beginning to cool, gently reminded him, “You should drink the medicine before it loses effect.”
Ling Qingxiao snapped back to reality. He set down the spoon, raised the bowl, and drained the contents in one go. The medicine worked fast—soon, the dizzy haze began to creep over him again. Everything in front of him began to float and shimmer, and Luo Han’s face in the lamplight looked almost unreal.
What she didn’t know was that Ling Qingxiao actually hated this loss of control.
Luo Han noticed the change in his eyes and knew the medicine was kicking in. She moved to help him lie down, but just as she shifted, her wrist was suddenly caught by an icy hand.
Startled, she looked down. He wasn’t fully conscious now—he couldn’t control his thoughts well, but emotional reactions? Those were raw and unfiltered. His grip was surprisingly strong, and she couldn’t pull free. With a soft sigh, she said, “I’m not leaving. I’m just going to grab a blanket.”
But he didn’t loosen his grip.
So she gave up and sat back down beside him. In a low voice, she said, “Don’t worry. I won’t go anywhere. I’ll stay right here and watch over you.”
Only then did Ling Qingxiao finally relax. The last of his resistance faded, and he sank into sleep. Even someone made of iron had their fragile moments when sick. And in truth, Ling Qingxiao feared abandonment more than he would ever admit.
Luo Han let out a quiet sigh. A person’s childhood—their original family—left a shadow on them they could never quite shake. Ling Qingxiao’s childhood, the fact that he’d been switched at birth, the father who ignored him, and two mothers who had always favored someone else...All of it had left scars that went bone-deep.
Sometimes, she really felt that if Ling Qingxiao became the cold, distant, rigid person he would one day be remembered as...well, Su Yifang and Bai Lingluan had played no small role in that.
Originally, Luo Han had planned to slip her hand free once he fell asleep. But she’d underestimated the vigilance of a dragon. Every time she moved, his fingers instinctively tightened. In the end, she had no choice but to stay put and, with one hand restrained, open her Heavenly Dao interface with the other.
Slogans and determination meant nothing—every great journey still began with a single step.
Luo Han knew that spiritual power was only a temporary means of self-defense. Her true path was never about mana or spells. Her real power lay in the Laws. But for all their simplicity in name, Laws were nebulous and elusive things.
Time, space—these were only vague ideas to her now.
She didn’t understand the underlying principles. She didn’t know how temporal shifts worked or how space folded. All she could do was observe what had happened and try to deduce some kind of logic. But this was far from a legitimate method. It was no different than a grade-schooler trying to learn quantum mechanics from a sketchy blog post.
Actually, no. She didn’t even have a blog post. She was guessing blindly.
They said a master can show the way, but you must walk it yourself. Yet whether or not someone showed you the way—and who that person was—could determine how far you got.
Luo Han couldn’t make sense of anything herself. In the end, she could only hope that her parents had left her something useful. The Heavenly Dao interface she used was nothing more than a beginner’s manual, something her parents had created to help her ease into her role.
She opened the interface—and the first thing she noticed was that the time setting had changed.
It now showed the Middle Era.
She tried to retrieve information from the Tianqi Era, but as expected, it was completely gone.
Time, like a river, flowed only one way. The past couldn’t be changed. The future couldn’t be predicted. Not even she could peer into what lay ahead.
Which meant that whatever happened to the Tianqi Era after their disappearance...she’d never know.
But there was no point dwelling on that now. First things first: she had to grow stronger. Once she had true strength, she wouldn’t have to worry about Heaven’s Palace, the demon clan, or even what happened to the story’s “protagonists.” But if she stayed weak...she wouldn’t even have the power to go back to the Heavenly Initiation Era, let alone fix anything.
Pushing the distractions away, Luo Han opened the search bar and solemnly typed: How to cultivate the Laws.
The results were...pitifully few.
She clicked on the most promising one, only to find it full of vague, ambiguous nonsense. The so-called guide couldn’t even explain what Laws actually were—just repeated “you’ll understand over time” like a mantra.
Is this a joke?
To be fair, it wasn’t really her parents’ fault—her parents were the Heavenly Dao, after all. And “Heaven” didn’t exactly age. It had simply existed so long, it had come to grasp the fundamental forces of the world on its own. But if you asked it to explain what Laws were...it would probably shrug.
Luo Han clicked through every entry she could find, and sure enough—none of it was useful.
Apparently, if she wanted to learn how to use divine power properly, she needed a teacher. Someone who could teach her step by step, from the very beginning.
In the Heavenly Initiation Era, that would’ve been impossible. The last of the ancient gods had long since perished, and Luo Han was the only one left in the Divine Realm. Even if she wanted to ask, there was no one to answer.
But now...she was in the Middle Era.
Maybe—just maybe—here, she had a chance.
Luo Han suddenly remembered what she’d seen that morning in the forest—the moment when she watched Nuwa fly across the sky. If even Nuwa was still active in the world, then surely other gods were as well.
The thought of seeking out those gods bubbled up in her heart. But as her gaze landed on the still-sleeping figure beside her, she pushed that thought down. Ling Qingxiao was still recovering. Everything else would have to wait until he was well again.
Luo Han sat there for a little while longer, until drowsiness slowly crept in. After all, she wasn’t a born-and-raised cultivator like Ling Qingxiao, nor did she possess a will of steel. Her habits were much closer to those of ordinary mortals.
For nineteen years, Luo Han had been used to getting eight hours of sleep a night. Now, with the night well past the second night watch, how could she not be sleepy?
Her head began to nod, again and again—until finally, thunk, she collapsed sideways and fell fast asleep right there beside the bed. Her head just happened to land next to Ling Qingxiao’s hand.
From a fog of dreams, Ling Qingxiao slowly came to. His fingers twitched and brushed against something soft and warm.
He propped himself up and looked down, only to find Luo Han fast asleep, curled up beside him. It was only then that he realized—he had been holding her wrist the entire time.
No wonder she’d fallen asleep right there. It was his fault.
Carefully, Ling Qingxiao loosened his grip and drew his hand away. Once free, he flexed his stiff fingers and slipped quietly to the ground—so lightly not even the dust was disturbed.
Luo Han seemed to be sleeping deeply, but her posture was uncomfortable. Even in her dreams, her brows were faintly furrowed. Ling Qingxiao gently picked her up and laid her on the bed. He pulled a thin blanket over her and tucked her in.
As he leaned down to cover her, her face was revealed to him in the soft light, completely defenseless in sleep. Her skin was pale and clear, her neck slender, her entire figure delicate and vulnerable. She lay there without a trace of wariness.
Ling Qingxiao sighed silently. She was far too trusting. Could she really sleep like this—without a care—next to another man?
He’d often wondered, what exactly did she take him for? A mentor, a friend, a brother?
As he pulled the blanket gently over her, she finally seemed to settle into a more comfortable position. Her brows relaxed, and she sank deeper into her dreams.
A faint smile appeared on Ling Qingxiao’s lips.
After tucking her in, he left the room and went outside to cultivate. No one in the village was watching them. Even if they had no choice but to temporarily share living quarters, once they left, no one would know. But he would know.
And that was enough.
Men and women were different. One should not act improperly.
Ling Qingxiao meditated in the courtyard. The moonlight poured over him, casting a gentle, pale glow. His elemental affinity was ice; cold environments helped him cultivate. Moonlit nights, bodies of water, glaciers—these were his ideal settings. Moonlight held essence of lunar energy, a natural and powerful force. For him, it was especially beneficial.
In the Middle Era, the moon was much closer to the earth. The lunar energy in the air was even richer—far stronger than in the Heavenly Initiation Era. And this era truly lived up to its name as the golden age of life. The spiritual energy here was so dense and pure that a single day of cultivation here was equal to five back home.
In other words, his training speed had increased fivefold.
With such a heaven-sent opportunity, how could Ling Qingxiao possibly waste it? His wounds hadn’t yet fully healed, and every circulation of spiritual energy still made his insides ache faintly. But compared to the benefits of cultivation, that pain was nothing.
Luo Han was awakened by the sound of a rooster crowing.
It was cold outside that morning. She tugged the blanket up around her shoulders, barely registering the muffled caw. What kind of era still has roosters? she thought vaguely.
She rolled over, and her hand thudded against the wooden frame of the bed. The jolt finally shocked her fully awake.
And then she remembered. She wasn’t in the modern world anymore. She wasn’t even in Heaven’s Palace. She was in the midst of the Ancient War.
People here still lived in the old ways—raising chickens to mark the dawn.
Groggy, she opened her eyes. A simple, low bed greeted her gaze. The paper-covered window let in a dim gray light. Outside, she could hear the gentle patter of rain.
It was raining.
She sat up and realized—Ling Qingxiao was gone. Alarmed, she sprang upright. At that exact moment, she heard footsteps outside.
Ling Qingxiao pushed the door open. A breeze rolled in with him, cool and damp with the scent of rain. He saw her sitting up and paused in the doorway. “You’re awake.”
Luo Han stretched and rubbed the sleep from her eyes. “Why am I in bed?”
Wasn’t she supposed to stay up and watch over him? How had they switched places?
Ling Qingxiao said, “You fell asleep last night. I thought you’d be uncomfortable like that, so I moved you to the bed.”
Luo Han sighed. So she’d still ended up falling asleep. Cultivating all night...really wasn’t easy.
If she were alone, she absolutely would have lazed in bed longer. Rainy mornings were perfect for that. But with Ling Qingxiao here...she gave up the thought.
In record time, Luo Han got out of bed. Ling Qingxiao had already stepped outside. She tidied her clothes and hair, and only then pushed the door open.
Outside, rain drizzled steadily. Droplets slid from the eaves like silver beads on a string. The whole village was shrouded in mist, the distant hills blurred into the rain, like a landscape painting.
The fresh air was unreal—crisp, cool, and clean. Luo Han felt her mind grow calm just breathing it in.
Her first thought was to brew the morning dose of medicine. As soon as she moved, Ling Qingxiao stopped her. “It’s raining.”
“We still need to boil the medicine,” Luo Han insisted. “Morning and night. We can’t get lazy now.”
Ling Qingxiao glanced up at the sky, then suddenly said, “Hand me the medicine pot.”
Luo Han handed it over, curious what he was planning. He turned the pot over, examining it closely. Her heart skipped. “Is there something wrong with the pot?”
“No,” Ling Qingxiao replied mildly, eyes calm, though what he said next completely didn’t match his expression. “It’s just my first time seeing actual Kunling Jade. I couldn’t help but take a closer look.”
Luo Han looked at the unassuming, plain stone pot in her hands and asked in disbelief, “Wait...is this made of some kind of rare stone too?”
“Yes,” Ling Qingxiao nodded. “Kunling Jade. It only forms after tens of thousands of years in areas rich in spiritual energy and medicinal properties. It naturally nourishes and amplifies any herbs placed within. If you buried even a single piece of it in a medicinal field, every herb grown there would instantly increase by a whole tier in potency.” He sighed softly. “No wonder yesterday’s medicine was so effective—it wasn’t just the herbs.”
Even the pot itself had been extraordinary.
Luo Han stared at the modest little courtyard around them with newfound reverence. If even an ordinary-looking pot was a priceless treasure, then how many other hidden artifacts were they unknowingly surrounded by?
Was this what it felt like...to stumble into a treasure trove and not even realize it?