The sun rose, the capital still frigid despite the warmth. Elder Mu scooped the porridge into an insulated jade box, added the fried fish and meat, and carried it to Lunar Tower.
No matter the season, Qing remained ethereal in her white gown, untouched by cold or heat. Morning frost coated the hall where she meditated, serene and otherworldly, without sorrow, joy, or desire, yet kind to the world.
Each time Elder Mu saw her, he felt an inexplicable awe and longing, tinged with fear she'd ascend to the heavens, leaving him forever, a fate worse than death.
Guilt gnawed at him as he set out her breakfast, avoiding her gaze lest she see through him.
The steaming porridge and dishes sat before Qing. She picked up her chopsticks, her delicate nose twitching as if catching a scent. Her eyes flicked to Elder Mu, but she said nothing.
He fidgeted, missing her glance.
Her fairy-like lips parted, scooping up a spoonful of the suspect porridge, tasting it slowly.
Her brow furrowed. The usual sweet porridge had an odd, indescribable tang, faintly rank and thicker than normal. Her body instinctively recoiled.
Yet a dry heat rose in her throat, a strange craving stirring.
Conflicted, she glanced at Elder Mu again, her swan-like neck shifting as she swallowed fully.
In an instant, a fiery surge coursed through her, spreading from within, then fading like a ripple.
It felt both alien and familiar, like the lust Elder Mu had once sparked in her flesh.
The nausea vanished, replaced by hunger. She ate several more bites.
Elder Mu peeked as she consumed his "seasoned" porridge, his heart pounding with excitement. His cock hardened, tenting his pants.
Emboldened by her past leniency, he yanked them down, his massive, red shaft springing free. Ignoring that she was eating, he began jerking off beside her, gripping his cock and stroking furiously.
Qing ate on, her gaze fixed forward, unruffled, chewing slowly.
In the hall, just the two of them: a celestial beauty dining calmly, and a shriveled old man frantically masturbating, working his monstrous cock.
With a grunt, his swollen head erupted, spewing countless sperm in arcs through the air, splattering the floor. The thick semen's stench began to permeate the hall.
"Leave."
Her voice remained steady, her eyes clear as a mirror, as if the mess didn't exist. Only her dainty ears flushed faintly.
"Yes."
Elder Mu, spent, bowed respectfully, gathered the dishes, and shuffled out.
Once he was gone, Qing's face reddened, her tense body easing as she panted softly, touching her lips.
They'd maintained their silent pact, neither breaking the calm.
She closed her eyes, feeling the "foreign substance" flow and absorb within her.
The Mysterious Heaven Scripture hummed faintly, her unbreakable bottleneck showing a crack.
"Is this... the only way?"
"Feng... can you give me an answer?"
A stubborn, handsome boy flickered in her mind, but his once-sharp image grew hazy
….
At that moment, in Vermilion Pavilion, Rui Zheng, Mei's trusted maid, received a gift. She nearly discarded it but hesitated, then brought it to the empress's chambers.
Facing Mei, who sat sleepless and haggard on the bed, Rui knelt deeply, presenting the box. "My lady, this is a gift from Yu Fei."
"A gift?!"
Mei, eyes dull from a night without rest, let out a bitter laugh, unsure if she mocked Yu Fei or herself.
She opened the box, revealing two pairs of silk stockings.
One black, one white.
Finely woven, exquisite beyond compare.
Yet no rage or defiance crossed her face, only a heartbroken sorrow.
"Your Majesty, if you mean to shame me... why use her hands?"
After a long silence, faint sobs and cries echoed from the depths of Vermilion Pavilion.
….
As the year-end approached, the twelfth lunar month brought increasing liveliness to the capital. Even with swirling winter snow and goose-feather flakes blanketing the earth, snow and ice adorning rooftops and thresholds, nothing could dampen the capital's enthusiasm for the New Year. The people brimmed with hope, joyfully bidding farewell to the old and welcoming the new.
Shops along the roads hung festive red couplets, bustling with energy. Shouts filled the air, children played in the snow, firecrackers and fireworks danced together, and streams of people flowed in and out, buying New Year goods and new clothes. Even the stingiest miser would reluctantly part with a coin or two in this celebratory season.
Yet beneath this calm and festive surface, dark currents stirred. Countless schemers, harboring ulterior motives or sinister plots, quietly slipped into the capital amid the massive population movement.
Whether righteous disciples of renowned sects or sinister fiends of the Demon Sect, they bypassed the capital's checkpoints, entering this city of global renown, the sole pearl of Bright Hua, the eternal capital of a grand empire.
Prominent sects naturally had their own bases. The founding emperor of Bright Hua, Ming, had allocated several low hills and scenic riverside lands for their residences, though they were forbidden from using magic or flying within the capital.
The closer one got to the empire's heart, the stronger Bright Hua's dragon aura became. This aura, born from the collective will of the people, suppressed all evil and supernatural forces. Even elusive terrestrial immortals, so-called land gods, faced immense restriction here. For rogue cultivators without power or backing, their cultivation could be reduced to that of an ordinary person. A skilled physical cultivator might still leap across rooftops like a martial artist, but a spiritual cultivator neglecting physical training would be as weak as a powerless scholar.
If they harbored ill intent and were caught by a constable, they'd end up in jail awaiting judgment, a humiliating fate. Even physical cultivators would bow before a magistrate shielded by official aura.
Not everyone could be like Qing, who carried the emperor's bloodline, naturally attuned to Bright Hua's dragon aura, free to wield magic in the capital without restraint.
But where light shone, shadows followed. In such a vast capital, it wasn't just the righteous who thrived; the Demon Sect lurked as well.
Unlike the upright disciples who entered openly, the Demon Sect's members were rats in the gutters, hiding in darkness, leaving no trace.
….
In a quiet courtyard, two men sat in a pavilion, playing chess. One moved with leisurely grace, placing pieces lightly; the other scratched his head, growing restless and nearly flipping the board, but restrained himself after glancing at his opponent.
The gambling prince had poor luck at betting but decent chess manners, no wonder he's offended so many righteous folk and still survived, thought the man playing effortlessly. He was a handsome, refined man in his thirties, Prince Tao, long coveted by Emperor Ming.
Watching his opponent's shifting expressions and suppressed frustration, Tao mused further.
"I lose."
After a while, unable to find a winning move, the gambling prince conceded, glancing at Tao's expression. Knowing what Tao was thinking, he said calmly, "Wondering why I don't flip the board despite my bad gambling habits? Because I know some games can be flipped, and some can't."
"Interesting."
Tao smiled. He understood this logic well, but his relationship with Emperor Ren had reached a point of life-or-death with no room for compromise.
Otherwise, he wouldn't have chosen to flip the board.
"You two sure are in high spirits." Before they could react, a carriage rolled in from the alley.
The carriage looked plain, draped in thick black cloth that hid its interior. The two horses pulling it had hollow, lifeless eyes. The driver, a striking man with a shadowy demeanor, guided it to the courtyard entrance. With a flick of his finger, a dusting of powder fell silently, and the horses collapsed, limbs weak and frothing at the mouth, as if their vitality had been drained.
"Third brother!"
The gambling prince looked at the driver, startled, then quickly stood and bowed respectfully toward the shrouded carriage. "Greetings, Master."
Few in the world could make the third prince of the Demon Sect, the poison prince, serve as a mere driver. In his memory, only their master, who had trained all three brothers, could tame their wild spirits.
The carriage door opened, and a man stepped out. Ordinary in appearance, his eyes glinted with lechery, his face pale. This was the eldest of the Demon Sect's three princes, the lust prince.
The three princes of the Wicked Heart Sect: the eldest, lust prince; the second, gambling prince; the third, poison prince.
"Master is gone," the lust prince said, his voice grim.
The other two brothers fell silent.
They didn't dare ask where the Master had gone or when he'd disappeared.