Chapter 92

The piercing light from above was blinding. Only then did the boy realize—they were underground.
He hadn't noticed before. His attention had been consumed by the iron cage. Now, looking around, he saw torches lining the walls and felt the heavy, stagnant air of a sealed space.
After being in the dark for so long, the sunlight overwhelmed him. Through slitted fingers, he caught a glimpse of a white figure, descending like a falling star.
The guards surrounding the prisoners immediately sprang to action, drawing weapons. They were huge men wielding brutish, heavy blades. In contrast, the white-clad immortal was slender, his sword narrow and light.
One guard swung a massive saber with a roar, its momentum tearing through the air. The captives held their breath in terror.
The two weapons clashed, unleashing a blinding burst of force.
Compared to the thick, hulking saber, Ling Qingxiao’s sword looked like a delicate sliver of silver.
And yet, it sliced cleanly through the opponent’s blade.
The burly guard stared in disbelief at the smooth break in his weapon. “Who...who are you?”
What kind of sword was this? It cut through steel like tofu—hard beyond comprehension, yet pliant like flowing water. Was it some ancient divine artifact?
But he never got an answer.
Before the words left his mouth, Ling Qingxiao’s blade had already slit his throat. He moved through the battlefield like a phantom, closing in on the masked demon in mere moments.
Behind him, the guards froze. Then one by one, they collapsed.
Their throats had been silently severed. The cuts were so clean, not a drop of blood spilled.
The boy stared in a daze.
The guard who had tried to beat him lay on the ground, his eyes wide in deathly disbelief. It was the same look the boy had seen in his parents' eyes, that unforgettable day long ago.
Locked in a nightmare, the boy sat frozen—until a soft, cool sensation fell over his eyes.
The gore vanished. In its place were gentle blossoms and birdsong.
He gasped and blinked. A white-robed immortal woman now stood beside him, smiling gently.
“Such scenes aren’t meant for children,” she said. “If you don’t want to see them, then don’t.”
The others in the cage trembled. They didn't know if this new arrival was friend or foe.
Seeing their fear, Luo Han sighed inwardly. With a wave of her hand, the iron bars crumbled into fine dust, and the chains around the captives dissolved into powder.
“You’re safe now,” she said gently. “The way is clear. You can go home.”
At first, no one moved, too stunned to believe her. Then, someone finally bolted—and the rest followed, surging out in a chaotic rush.
The boy was jostled back against the wall, hugging his knees to keep from being trampled.
The thunder of fleeing footsteps faded. But on the other side of the chamber, the battle was far from over.
The masked man’s cultivation wasn’t low, but against Ling Qingxiao—who had once survived five centuries in Zhonggu—it meant nothing. Within moments, he was subdued.
Luo Han approached calmly. “Who are you?” she asked. “Why have you infiltrated the celestial realm?”
The masked man snorted but said nothing.
Luo Han frowned. “Still not talking? You’ll regret that. I’m the polite one.”
He sneered in contempt, expression unmoved.
Luo Han stepped back. “Fine. You had your chance.”
She gave the space to Ling Qingxiao, who didn’t bother with questions. He placed a hand over the demon’s crown and began drawing out his thoughts through spiritual extraction.
The man’s eyes went wide in alarm.
“I warned you,” Luo Han murmured. “But you insisted on testing him.”
Ling Qingxiao had interrogated countless war prisoners during his five hundred years in Zhonggu. With practiced ease, he found the memories he needed and projected them into the air.
In the masked man’s vision, the desert stretched endlessly. After crossing the barren sands, a vast black city loomed ahead. At its gates, three ancient characters glowed faintly: Lei Lie City.
“Lei Lie City…” Luo Han murmured. “So he was working for the Lord of Lei Lie?”
But that wasn’t all. In the memory, after passing through the gates of the black city, the masked man arrived at a dark, foreboding courtyard. Every decoration within was pitch-black. After a short wait, another masked figure entered.
The man rose immediately and bowed. “Milord, the goods have been secured.”
The other extended a hand. “Where are they?”
The masked man quickly offered up a black gourd—identical to the one from earlier. Its entire body was inky and dull, the spout streaked with faint red markings like dried blood. The figure weighed it in his palm, then nodded. “Understood. The next batch is urgent. Get it ready fast. No need to focus on those with high cultivation or talent. As long as they have a spiritual root, that’s enough. If the quality is lacking, then compensate with quantity.”
“Yes, understood,” the masked man said respectfully, escorting the other out. Only after the man disappeared did he finally pull on his cloak and leave by a separate route.
What followed in the memory was a blur of irrelevant scenes—Ling Qingxiao fast-forwarded through them. The man had smuggled himself into the Celestial Realm, issuing orders to subordinates, hopping from city to city, overseeing “collection efforts.”
Clearly, the corruption wasn’t limited to Jiuren City—several others had fallen prey as well.
The memory ended with the scene in the dungeon—right before Luo Han and Ling Qingxiao had arrived. They already knew this part. Ling Qingxiao dismissed the image with a wave and, without hesitation, ran his sword through the masked man.
From beginning to end, he hadn’t asked a single question.
In wartime, every second cost lives. There was no time to waste on words. If a captured demon didn’t speak the first time, he wouldn’t get a second chance—just a swift extraction of memory. No one had the patience to play psychological games with demonic prisoners.
The masked man died like the others, with a thin red line across his neck. There was barely any blood.
Ling Qingxiao made a hand seal, and a blue flame sparked from his fingertip, landing on the corpse. Within moments, the body was engulfed in spiritual fire.
The flames devoured not only flesh but the very demonic essence, leaving no trace—no corpse, no blood, no lingering miasma. If not for the damaged walls and signs of battle, it would be as if nothing had ever happened.
He moved with such smooth precision that Luo Han didn’t even realize it was over.
She stared, stunned. “You’re...really used to this?”
“Do it enough, and it becomes routine,” he replied calmly.
He spoke lightly, but only those who had lived through it knew how many lives that sentence carried.
Luo Han felt a pang of guilt. She hadn’t been there during those five hundred years in Zhonggu. He had borne it all alone.
Ling Qingxiao dismissed the spiritual fire and said, “So it was Lei Lie’s doing after all. The dungeon’s destroyed, but we can’t let our guard down. They still have bases in other cities. They’ll be back.”
Luo Han nodded. “This is beyond what the two of us can handle alone. We’ll need the Celestial Court’s help. Let’s clear the remaining strongholds first. Once we return to Zhongshan, we’ll submit a formal report.”
Ling Qingxiao agreed. They sheathed their swords and turned to leave, but as they passed a corner, Luo Han spotted someone still hiding in the shadows.
It was the flower-selling boy.
She recalled his name—Xiao Tong, perhaps?
Luo Han lowered her voice. “Why haven’t you left yet?”
Xiao Tong shook his head, then looked between her and Ling Qingxiao. After a pause, he nodded, expression sincere.
He was thanking them.
Luo Han remembered the child’s background—traumatized in childhood, unable to speak, with only a sickly grandmother left at home. Life was harsh, and his future bleak.
She sighed softly. “You don’t need to thank us. It was our duty. Go home now—your grandmother is waiting.”
The boy nodded and took a few steps...then suddenly stopped.
He turned back, eyes fixed on Ling Qingxiao with longing. Summoning courage, he pointed at the sword at Ling Qingxiao’s waist, gaze filled with admiration.
Ling Qingxiao understood instantly.
Even in peacetime, not all places were bathed in light. There were still children like this—abandoned, forgotten, powerless.
A memory stirred. He thought of someone from long ago.
He reached into his robe and drew out a token, floating it to the boy with a pulse of spiritual energy. “Zhongshan holds an open disciple selection once a year. Time and place are written on the token. If you can get there and pass the trials, you’ll earn the right to ascend to the Sixteenth Heaven and study swordsmanship among the elite. Only by growing strong can you shape your own fate...and find a cure for your grandmother.”
The boy stared, stunned. He couldn’t believe this was real.
After a long moment, he reached out and carefully took the white-wood token.
Ling Qingxiao’s expression softened slightly. It reminded him of the day he found Xiao Ze, who had been about the same age.
But those days were gone. Xiao Ze...would never return.
The boy stirred something in him—but even so, he wouldn’t just take him in. Ling Qingxiao was now the head of Zhongshan. If he wanted to accept a disciple, all it took was a word.
But he would not.
Even fate must be earned.
“Zhongshan’s entrance trials are not easy,” Ling Qingxiao said flatly. “And...Zhongshan does not accept the mute.”
The boy’s eyes widened.
“It’s harsh, but it’s the truth,” Ling Qingxiao continued. “If you want to enter Zhongshan, you’ll have to face your fears. You can’t go your whole life in silence—unless you want your whole life to be controlled by others.”
He turned away. “I hope...I’ll see you again in the Sixteenth Heaven.”
With that, he left.
He didn’t hand over pills. No techniques. No shortcuts.
Just a token.
Luo Han sighed and murmured, “Good luck,” before hurrying to catch up.
Ling Qingxiao—beneath that cold, untouchable exterior—had one of the kindest hearts in the world. But that kindness was shielded by steel.
And when he was cruel to others...it was only because he was even crueler to himself.
Luo Han caught up to Ling Qingxiao, and together they returned to the surface, once again standing beneath the sun’s warm light. The surrounding streets were now empty. Luo Han asked, “If you really couldn’t bear it, why didn’t you say a little more to him? He’s never touched cultivation or traveled far. Setting out so suddenly...it’s bound to be dangerous. And those kinds of shadows—psychological wounds—are called shadows precisely because they’re not something you can fight off with force.”
Ling Qingxiao shook his head, his tone resolute. “That’s a knot in his heart. No one can untie it for him. If he doesn’t pull himself out from beneath the shadow of his parents’ death, then no one—not even immortals—can save him.”
He said it lightly, as if stating a fact. But Luo Han knew: he was speaking about himself.
Like Xiao Tong, Ling Qingxiao had been deeply scarred by the shadows of his childhood. Xiao Tong had sealed away his voice—Ling Qingxiao had severed all joy from his life.
He no longer sought pleasure or leisure. Every moment was devoted to cultivation, study, and the sword. For a long time, he had even forgotten how to smile.
They walked in silence for a while before Luo Han asked softly, “And now? Has he made it out?”
Ling Qingxiao glanced sideways at her, the corner of his lips curling in faint amusement. “That...is something only he can answer. But I believe he can. The day he no longer lives by others’ opinions—the day he has the strength to confront his own light and shadow, his desires and his flaws—that day, he’ll be free.”
A smile tugged at Luo Han’s mouth. If Ling Qingxiao could say such things, then perhaps...he had truly let go.
Once, his relationship with his family had been fraught with tension. He kept a deliberate distance from Ling Xianhong and Su Yifang, feigning indifference. But that coldness had always masked a quiet yearning.
Back in Zhonggu, though, things had changed. He’d encountered true elders, powerful mentors who had guided him. Slowly, he had stopped seeking his parents’ approval.
When he first returned to the Celestial Court, he still harbored a sliver of hope—he’d even compromised, giving his parents one last chance to accept him.
But in the end...he had been disappointed.
He’d finally understood: some people simply don’t love you. No matter how perfect he became, he would never be Ling Zhongyu in their eyes.
And so, he had carved out the rot from his soul. With his own hands, he severed the final path to reconciliation.
For the rest of this life, Ling Xianhong, Su Yifang, and Bai Lingluan would never forgive him.
Good. That way, he would never again feel tempted to bend.
Luo Han sighed.
In the original timeline, Ling Qingxiao had never experienced the Western Sea, never fought in the ancient wars, never cut ties with his family. The extremes in his nature—his vulnerability, his obsession, his madness—had remained unchecked, festering even as he became the Celestial Emperor, the apex of all six realms.
The more starved a person is of love, the more desperately they cling to the warmth they do find. That was why, in the original plot, he’d tolerated Yun Menghan for so long. Because once she was gone, he had no one left.
Even when she trampled his boundaries again and again, he still forgave her—again and again.
But now...now, Ling Qingxiao had become stronger. He had warmth. He had safety.
He had earned the respect of elders like Su Zongshi, Rong Cheng, and Xi Heng. He had comrades like Ye Zinan and Zou Jibai. If he were placed in the same scenario now, Ling Qingxiao would not hesitate.
He’d throw Yun Menghan out the moment she overstepped.
And that was a good thing.
Luo Han reminded herself: this wasn’t failure. She had made a difference. She had changed how the great devil saw the world. He still carried hidden schemes, his heart unreadable and ever-shifting, his dark tendencies rising and falling unpredictably—but he was no longer that cold, lifeless figure carved from stone.
Her goals had slowly...dwindled.
At first, she had wanted to save the world. Then, she only wanted to change the devil’s fate. Then...she just hoped he wouldn’t fall into darkness.
Now?
Now she was satisfied as long as he wasn’t the absolute worst version of himself.
Pathetic.
After leaving the dungeon, Luo Han and Ling Qingxiao didn’t return to Jiuren City. Instead, they set off for another town.
There were still other people in danger—still others being hunted.
Following the memories extracted from the masked man, they tracked and destroyed outposts one by one, razing demonic strongholds to the ground. Most were eliminated. A few, due to distance or detours, were reported directly to the Celestial Court and handed off to local cultivator governments.
Once their mission was complete, they wasted no time. They turned toward Zhongshan immediately.
Though they had cut off the roots, they still didn’t know what Lei Lie King was really after. What exactly was in that city? Who had received those black gourds filled with celestial blood? What were they being used for?
Every day lost could mean another life extinguished.
So the two of them boarded a spirit boat and headed toward Zhongshan at full speed.
The return trip was nothing like the journey out. When they first left, Luo Han had marveled at the scenery, hopping off the boat now and then to admire the view. But now the novelty had faded, and all she wanted was to land as soon as possible.
With only the two of them aboard, there wasn’t much else to do. When she grew tired of staring at clouds, she wandered over to find Ling Qingxiao.
He was seated at the writing desk, brush in hand. When he saw her, he said simply, “You’re here.”
Luo Han plopped into the seat beside him, resting her chin on one hand and watching him write.
After a while, she couldn’t help but ask, “What are you writing?”
“Documentation for the Heavenly Pivot Institute,” he said. “This incident affected multiple realms. The Institute will only act if the evidence is solid. Since we’ve nothing else to do on the road, I’m compiling a complete report. I’m also drafting Zhongshan’s task schedule for the new year.”
To have Ling Qingxiao as your superior...was that a blessing or a curse?
He’d been away from Zhongshan for over half a year, but none of the routine operations—daily, monthly, seasonal—had faltered. Every department remained perfectly in sync, as if he had never left.
Now, even before arriving home, he was already arranging next year’s entire schedule.
Terrifying.
Luo Han sighed, “Thank the heavens I’m not one of your disciples...or your subordinate.”
Ling Qingxiao lowered his head and continued writing. The light refracting through the clouds cast a soft glow upon him, making him appear almost divine—like a sacred figure carved in marble. The scene was so solemn and immaculate it could’ve been framed and used in a Heavenly Palace brochure. But just as Luo Han was about to get lost in that picturesque moment, the man in the image suddenly asked, “So what do you want to do?”
Luo Han blinked, then smiled and kicked the question right back at him. “Depends on what position you’ve still got open.”
She wasn’t wrong—when dealing with Ling Qingxiao, you had to go in headfirst. The bolder she was, the harder it was for him to respond. If she tried playing coy or beating around the bush, his patience would outlast the stars. He’d interrogate her into exhaustion.
Sure enough, Ling Qingxiao fell silent. Luo Han grinned, quite pleased with herself. She glanced at the brush beside him and suddenly recalled something. “Oh right, what’s the deal with your spiritual flame?”
She’d been meaning to ask for ages, but there’d always been someone around, or the situation hadn’t been safe. Now that they were alone on the spirit vessel, she brought it up at once.
Ling Qingxiao flicked his finger, and a wisp of blue flame appeared at his fingertip. “You mean this?”
“Yeah,” Luo Han said, eyes narrowing. “I remember your spiritual flame used to be different. It wasn’t this color...and it didn’t feel nearly this intense. What happened?”
At a certain level of cultivation, one could summon their own spiritual flame. Ling Qingxiao’s elemental affinity was ice, so his flame had always been cold—a tranquil, temperatureless blue. Luo Han had seen it before, and back then it had been calm, almost gentle. But now? Just looking at it made her feel the pressure.
Ling Qingxiao closed his fingers and extinguished the flame with casual ease. “I came across some rare terrains while marching during the Zhonggu wars. While searching for a way out, I happened to absorb a few wild heavenly flames. Twice, I think.”
Luo Han clicked her tongue. He made it sound so light, so effortless. But anyone who knew would understand the danger buried in that sentence.
Not all flames were equal. Spiritual fire was common in the celestial realm. Heavenly flames—true heavenly flames—were another matter entirely. Born in hidden realms and blessed lands, some of them developed their own sentience.
To absorb one was already miraculous. To absorb two? From the Zhonggu era no less? That bordered on legend.
Where there was hierarchy, there was devouring. Fire was no exception. The strong consumed the weak. For Ling Qingxiao to subdue such flames and fuse them into his own...the luck alone was staggering.
But all fortune came at a price.
The process couldn’t have been smooth. Luo Han hadn’t been with him back then. Just imagining the dangers he must’ve faced made her heart twist. She asked quietly, “Was it...very dangerous?”
Ling Qingxiao hadn’t expected that. Of all the things she could’ve asked—about technique, about power—she’d asked if he’d been safe.
He looked away, voice light. “Not particularly. It’s over now.”
“Which means it was dangerous,” Luo Han murmured, sighing. “If only I’d been with you then.”
He froze, then let out a low chuckle. “You’re here now. That’s enough.”
She shook her head slightly, clearly unconvinced. But there was no use lingering on things long gone. She tossed the topic aside and said, “There won’t be a next time. If danger comes again—no matter where I am—be it over mountains or under stars, I’ll find my way back to you.”
The promise was too absolute, too idealistic. Ling Qingxiao’s rational mind warned him not to believe it. But emotionally? He couldn’t look away.
After all, poison and candy both tasted sweet. Once you took the first bite, you were doomed to crave more. Was Luo Han’s vow the sweetness of truth—or the venom of illusion?
He didn’t want to know.
They had departed quietly in the seventh month. By the time they returned, it was already early spring of the next year. Light rain had just fallen, and the stone steps of Zhongshan gleamed from the wash.
It should’ve been a scene of renewal and peace.
But in front of the mountain gate, two opposing groups stood with swords at the ready, and the tension between them shattered the tranquility.
The group outside the gates grew impatient. One of them shouted, “What’s taking so long? Get out of the way—we’re here to see Ling Qingxiao!”
“Insolence!” barked one of Zhongshan’s sword-bearing disciples. “How dare you call our family head by name? Zhongshan stands as a pillar of the righteous path—we do not welcome demonic scum!”
The messenger from the opposing side narrowed his eyes. “We came to deliver an invitation out of courtesy. Don’t be so quick to spit in our faces. The Patriarch of Zhongshan has quite the reputation, yet he hides from us like a coward?”
The disciples bristled with rage. The leader was about to draw his sword when an invisible force pressed it back into its sheath.
Startled, he looked up.
From the path behind them, a lone figure approached—step by steady step.
“What business do you have with me?” the man asked.
“Patriarch!” the disciples cried out in relief.
The demonic envoys stiffened in alarm as they recognized the man’s face. “Ling Qingxiao?”
“That’s me,” he said, stepping through the early spring mist. Even the cold rain couldn’t touch his aura—his presence was cleaner than the air itself. He didn’t even glance at the envoys. His gaze remained on the woman beside him. “Careful.”
Luo Han nodded and lifted her skirts, following him up the steps.
The demons barred their path, forcing Ling Qingxiao to stop. “I am Ling Qingxiao. Speak.”
They exchanged glances. The leader stepped forward and pulled out a red-gilded scroll from his sleeve. “Our sovereign sent us to deliver this invitation to the Patriarch of Zhongshan. In three months, Lei Lie City will host a grand wedding celebration. You are cordially invited to attend.”
Ling Qingxiao caught a glimpse of the names written on the scroll—and his expression turned frigid.
With a flick of his sleeve, he walked past the envoy as if he were air, not sparing a single glance. “Our paths are different. Zhongshan and the demonic tribes walk separate roads. We’ve never had dealings with one another. Thank Lei Lie King for his kind offer—but I won’t be going.”
His refusal was immediate. Sharp and decisive.
The envoy hesitated, then forced a louder tone: “But Patriarch, are you truly not going to your own brother’s wedding? To your junior sister’s wedding?”
Luo Han already knew the plot, so she wasn’t surprised. But Ling Qingxiao clearly froze, his expression stilling as he suddenly turned around. “He’s marrying who?”