Luo Shuiqian conjured a luminous sphere as tall as a person, its glow diffusing outward. Within the transparent barrier, the image of a village gradually materialized.
She reached up and ruffled Ming Xuan's long hair. "Come, let's take a look."
With that, she took his hand, and the two stepped into the barrier one after the other.
Bailing Village was exactly as she had described—the warm sun rising, dewdrops glistening on grass and leaves. In the distance, houses stood in staggered layers, their inhabitants peaceful and unhurried as they moved between fields and markets, like figures from an ancient peach-blossom utopia.
As they drew closer, villagers waved eagerly at Shuiqian from afar. A few little girls with braided hair, barely reaching his waist, bounded up to her, calling out "Sister!" with the sweet, untainted joy only children possess. A boy ran over and pressed a grasshopper into Ming Xuan's hand, asking proudly if it was impressive.
Outside a wooden house, an elderly woman in deep red robes beckoned to Shuiqian, her smile brimming with the fond indulgence of an elder. "It's good to see you back safe, A-Shui! Demon hunting is dangerous—you must be careful!"
"I'm perfectly fine. I'll come by later for mushroom soup," Shuiqian called back with a wave.
As they walked on, more villagers approached—some asking how to treat demon bites, others inquiring about herbs for scorpion venom, or whether they should hang talismans to ward off evil. Shuiqian answered each patiently. Strangely, no one seemed to find Ming Xuan's presence unusual.
"Miss A-Shui, my son was bitten by a spider a few days ago. It's just a scratch, but should we still draw out the poison or apply herbs?" A villager pulled forward a boy of seven or eight, revealing a slightly swollen shoulder.
Just as Shuiqian opened her mouth to reply, Ming Xuan spoke coldly from the side: "A minor bite. No real harm. Take three liang of mint and fangshu grass, crush them, and apply the paste to the wound. Dress it morning and night—it'll heal in five days."
The villager and the child stiffened, nodding mutely before leaving without another word.
"I didn't expect you to know herbs."
"Only a little." Casually, he plucked a blade of foxtail grass and tucked it into his sleeve.
Guided by Shuiqian, they wandered Bailing Village's winding lanes, shaded by greenery and dotted with blooming flowers, children laughing as they played.
This must be the Bailing Village she once saw,Ming Xuan thought.
"Is what's before us… how Bailing Village is now?"
Shuiqian smiled without answering. "It's just a dream."
"You don't seem to like people very much. It's getting late—let's go back."
Once outside the barrier, Shuiqian lowered her head, her expression unreadable. Her right hand still held Ming Xuan's, as if she hadn't yet emerged from the old dream.
Meanwhile, the foxtail grass in Ming Xuan's sleeve crumbled to dust.
"I… won't be staying here much longer. I'll continue toward Mount Ailuo. This place may be secluded, but it's still within Liuzhou's borders—hardly a paradise. If you wish to stay, I'll leave the house and furniture to you."
Ming Xuan shook his head. "My business in Liuzhou isn't finished. Shuiqian, you saved me. Our minds are alike. I'll find a way to leave this world of sorcery—we'll meet again." His gaze met her lake-deep eyes, which now seemed to shimmer with unshed tears. Words failed him; emotions churned. He closed his eyes and pressed a light kiss to her lips.
So much went unspoken—their fortnight of mutual understanding, the divide between the dead and the demonic, the fury buried in his heart…
To find a kindred spirit at the end of the road, only to part in the blink of an eye.
He had a premonition: he and Shuiqian would walk utterly different paths.
Yet their tangled fate, the resonance of their souls—perhaps one day, it would transcend time itself.
Where the heart truly dwells, an instant becomes eternity.
In the days that followed, he emptied his mind, savoring every moment with Shuiqian. He forgot pain, forgot doubt, forgot the ugliness of mortals, forgot parting and fate.
On the seventh night, his dreams filled with a blinding white fog, obscuring all paths. Before him echoed the voice of the sorcerer—the same incantation from the day he'd been cast into this world, arrogant as a puppeteer of destiny. As usual, Ming Xuan couldn't make out a word.
Thorns coiled around his feet. Fury, long suppressed, seethed in his chest.
His magic fully restored, his expression turned icy. Twin blades materialized in his hands, slashing through the brambles even as blood welled from his flesh. The white fog darkened to crimson, but at last, a narrow path became visible.
He didn't hesitate. Step by step, he advanced, blades cleaving the mist. He would drag that sorcerer to the altar of vengeance!
As he drew closer, he saw five or six living humans blocking the way, bound by thorns, each with a slip of paper stuck to their chests—likely their birth horoscopes. A few steps more, and he realized they resembled the villagers from Shuiqian's barrier. He paused.
If it were Luo Shuiqian, she'd probably save them.
After a heartbeat of hesitation, his blades flashed out. Blood bloomed across the six chests, the papers dissolving as they soaked in the victims' blood.
A thick red mist spread. He faced the sorcerer at last.
Reborn in the fires of wrath, his blades multiplied in size. The first strike shattered the sorcerer's prayer beads; the second aimed for his throat. A demonic bloodlust, wild and primal, burned in Ming Xuan's eyes—a sight to terrify.
The sorcerer intoned, "Amitabha," then vanished. The attack met empty air.
The fog dissipated at once. Ming Xuan jolted awake.
Shuiqian would have saved them. He had slaughtered them all.
He rose to seek her. Daylight streamed in; the longbow by the door was gone. He rushed outside—a pot of soup sat covered on the stove, the kitchen still bearing traces of a morning meal. But the scent on the air told him: Shuiqian was already far away.