Mist swirled gently, dust particles floating in the air. Warm steam wove into delicate threads, forming dissipating clouds that created an ethereal haze. A faint immortal silhouette glided through the layered fog of the hot spring, stepping onto a platform carved from white jade.
Qing, radiant as a celestial maiden, embodied stillness like a breathtaking landscape and moved with the grace of a floating spirit. Her raven hair cascaded like a waterfall, her white robes purer than snow. Her flawless face epitomized earthly beauty, exuding an elegant chill, lofty as the moon, cold as frost. Yet, a subtle melancholy in her brow lent her a touch of mortal warmth, grounding her ethereal presence into a living, breathtaking beauty.
Blood stained her chest, vivid crimson, yet it did not diminish her allure. Instead, it added a somber, resolute edge to her presence. In her arms, however, she cradled a frail, emaciated figure, an old eunuch named Elder Mu, withered as dry wood, teetering on the brink of death. His presence slightly marred her ethereal beauty.
Qing gently laid Elder Mu on the jade platform. Her jade hand hovered over his bloodied, shattered chest, where a gaping wound revealed the devastating strike of a demon's indestructible claw. It had nearly torn through the powerless old man, exposing pulverized lung fragments and broken, hunched ribs.
Cold as the moon, her usual icy detachment wavered. Her eyes flickered with emotion as she extended a delicate finger to touch the blackened wound, corrupted by demonic energy and entwined with lingering dark tendrils.
"Why did you do this?" she murmured, her trembling finger betraying the turmoil within.
Her fingertip brushed Elder Mu's gaunt, muscleless skin, yellowed and speckled with age spots, rough as sandpaper. Slowly, it slid upward, the contrast stark between her pale, slender finger and his mottled, filthy skin. Yet, she felt no disgust.
Instead, an unfamiliar sorrow welled within her, mingled with an indescribable emotion she couldn't name, a feeling she had never known.
In that fleeting moment, her mind went blank, her heart pounding with unprecedented panic and pain.
"I love you… my fairy… my princess… even if it costs my life…" Elder Mu's words echoed in her mind, his gaze always laced with desire and possession.
Qing had seen such looks countless times within the Xian Sect, during her travels, even from Feng, whose eyes occasionally betrayed infatuation. But Elder Mu's sincerity set him apart.
His lust for her beauty was genuine; his yearning for her body, undeniable. Yet, his burning, devoted love was equally true.
When he threw himself in front of her without hesitation, Qing admitted her heart stirred.
"Cough!" Her thoughts were interrupted as Elder Mu coughed, spitting out a clot of blood mixed with organ fragments. Qing swiftly channeled her spiritual energy to stabilize his heart meridian.
Her priority was saving him, but she felt at a loss. Unlike Suya Jun, a skilled healer of the Onyx Elixir Clan, Qing had never faced such a grievous injury, nor had she been trained to mend one. She didn't know where to begin.
She poured her energy into sustaining his faint lifeline, drawing on the vibrant spiritual essence of the lingering spring to infuse into his body.
Astonishingly, despite the severity of his wounds, a wellspring of vitality surged from deep within Elder Mu's depleted frame, keeping him on the edge of life. During the demon's assault, his body had unleashed a radiant, sun-like spiritual force, injuring the terrifying black-skinned monster and driving it away.
Following this thread of vitality, Qing probed into Elder Mu's sea of consciousness, finally touching the source.
The moment she connected, the vitality erupted like a breached dam, bursting from Elder Mu's core with volcanic ferocity. On his ravaged chest, flesh began to regenerate at a visible pace, bones knitting together as if guided by will. A torrent of life force surged from his consciousness, enveloping the wound.
Tendrils of blood writhed, flesh and organs reconstructing at an astonishing speed.
Qing's spirit reached the source: the Yang Yin-Yang Fish, born from immortal spirit energy, pulsing with boundless yang power.
Yet, her face showed no joy, her brows furrowing instead.
As expected, the rampant vitality became uncontrollable, like a wild stallion. The newly healed wound tore open under the relentless surge.
Repair, rupture. Repair, rupture.
The cycle repeated, Elder Mu's wrinkled face contorting in agony, his expression increasingly grotesque.
Qing recalled a teaching: "The Emperor's Eight Trigrams state: the infinite divides into yin and yang, yin and yang birth all things… thus, the infinite becomes the supreme ultimate, the supreme ultimate splits into two forms, two forms birth four images, four images birth eight trigrams, constructing the cosmos…"
All things stemmed from yin and yang, inseparable. Yang was life, fierce and unyielding, like thunder dynamic yet orderly, the motion of creation. Yin was death, serene and still, like gentle water adaptable yet tranquil, the stillness of existence.
Yin and yang in harmony, balancing motion and stillness, were the key to true creation and Elder Mu's only chance at survival.
His body, stirred by demonic energy, had awakened the Yang Yin-Yang Fish, instinctively countering the attack and restoring his vitality. But the imbalance yang without yin's tempering meant he would burn out in this agonizing cycle, his consciousness fading until death.
Realizing this, Qing closed her eyes, summoning the dormant Yin-Yang Fish in her own sea of consciousness, the embodiment of cosmic stillness. Yet, the yin force, heavy as the waters of the nine heavens, remained immobile, unyielding.
A flicker of anxiety crossed her divine face.
Without Yang's spark, the yin force was like a stagnant pool, impossible to stir.
How could she merge Elder Mu's rampant yang with her inert yin?
Her gaze drifted to his groin. Even in his loose pants, the outline of his manhood was unmistakable: a massive bulge between his skeletal legs, hinting at a colossal member, soft yet dwarfing any ordinary man's. Like a slumbering dragon, it was already seventeen or eighteen centimeters long, a third limb in repose, far surpassing Feng's erect size from that day in the grove.
The most yang part of a man… joined with the most yin part of a woman?
A blush crept across Qing's face as she shook her head, dispelling the intrusive thought.
Yin-yang union didn't require that method.
But her usually composed eyes trembled, betraying her unease. The alternative wasn't much better.
A flush spread across her perfect features. Her teeth grazed her pale pink lips, her wavering gaze revealing her inner conflict.
Yet, she leaned forward.
A strand of silken hair slipped from her cheek, falling onto Elder Mu's wrinkled, spotted face. Like a tender caress, it smoothed his pained expression, his eyelids twitching as his face softened.
A soft breath, fragrant as orchids, escaped her lips, warm as a spring breeze carrying the faint scent of early blooms. It brushed Elder Mu's face, easing his torment, as if lulling him into a pleasant dream.
Her flawless face drew closer to his aged, mottled one, their distance shrinking with her subtle tension. Despite his ugliness, she felt no revulsion. Instead, a fleeting memory surfaced of another face, in moonlit towers, deep valleys, rainy pavilions, royal cities, and secret realms.
With that demon saintess, that healer, that northern noblewoman… even her sister, Li.
That stubborn youth who once stirred her heart, haunted her thoughts, and left her restless had become a bumbling philanderer, entangled with countless women.
Like any common man, a fickle heartbreaker.
Her face hovered inches from Elder Mu's, his faint breath and scent vivid. Her hair draped like a cascade, their noses nearly touching, their breaths mingling.
"Do you love me?" she whispered, her voice barely audible, like a fleeting breeze.
Was she asking him or herself?
Her words drifted to Elder Mu, piercing his pained, chaotic mind.
"…Love…" he mumbled, as if in a dream.
It didn't matter.
Her lips, cool yet soft as clouds, warm as winter's first sun or rain-cleared skies, pressed against his. Like a spring breeze, a tranquil night after rain, or the comforting embrace of home, they carried the scent of blooming grasses and peach blossoms.
Their lips met, her eyes half-closed.
She kissed his dry, bark-like lips, tasting their roughness and the stale, aged odor mixed with fresh blood. The metallic tang seeped between her teeth.
His breath grazed her mirror-smooth skin, their faces inches apart.
Her cheeks flushed. This was her first kiss, her first time kissing a man.
No romantic prelude, no passionate crescendo, just this.
Yet, she didn't hate it.