Blue Sky Over Chu Palace, Part 1

Six months later.

Northern Border, Yao City.

Inside a teahouse bustling with merchants and travelers, the clamor surged like waves—
startling the black-robed figure entering, whose sleepy eyes flicked up, peering through the veil of their bamboo hat at the crowd.

“…Bravo!!”
“Wonderful!”
“Reward him!”

Listening closely, it was merely a wave of enthusiastic cheers.

The eyes beneath the hat drooped back, bored.

“Guest, tea? This way!” A server, cloth towel over his shoulder, half-bowed, led the guest to a corner table, wiping it down while rattling off a list of teas and snacks.

The veil before the hat stirred slightly.
Though others heard nothing, the server caught it clearly, tossing his towel as he headed to the kitchen. “Got it! One pot of Dongting Junshan tea, one plate of Furong tofu, one bowl of water-powder dumplings!”

The teahouse crowd, engrossed in discussing the storyteller’s latest tale, paid no mind. Even the three at the nearby table, sipping tea and chatting animatedly, noticed nothing odd.

“Who is this ‘Gentleman of Salvation’ who wrote the Qianmen Incident? It feels like they were there!”
“Stories are often embellished. If the Qianmen Incident is true, then Fuyu Palace’s so-called ‘Slaughter of the Demon’ wasn’t for justice but pure self-interest? And the demon who died at the Absolute Peak became a saint, repaying Qianmen’s blood debt and taking all blame?”
“That could be the truth.” @Infinite Good Reads, Only at Jinjiang Literature City
“Tch, even if it’s true, he fell to demonhood and burned a city with demonic flames—that’s no lie, right?”
“But didn’t the story say? A month later, aside from Fuyu Palace’s cultivators and collapsed buildings, no civilians died—a miracle!”
“…”

“Guest, your Dongting Junshan and water-powder dumplings!” @Infinite Good Reads, Only at Jinjiang Literature City
The server, towel draped, hurried past the debating trio, setting tea and dumplings before the black-robed guest.

Steam rose from the teapot.
Amid the tea’s fragrance, the trio glanced at the odd veiled hat, paused, then resumed their talk.

“If he truly wasn’t evil, he died unjustly.”
“He’s dead, lying in the Heavenly Chasm under Two Realms Mountain for half a year—probably just bones now. What’s the point of debating his morality?”
“Exactly. The world demanded his death.”

“Enjoy, guest.”

As the server left, the veil lifted, tucked behind an ear, revealing a snow-white jaw and vermilion lips.
One of the trio stared, stunned and enchanted, not expecting the heavily veiled, dust-covered sword-bearing traveler to be a graceful woman.

But the veil only showed half her face, revealing no more.

The woman picked up a porcelain spoon, casually scooping a slippery dumpling, about to lift it.

“But whether he was a demon or saint, his master, True Person Yun Yao, was ruthless—her only disciple! How could she, for Qianmen’s reputation, expel him and pierce his heart with a sword, abandoning his body in the eternal snow of the Absolute Peak’s chasm?”

*Plop.*
The dumpling slipped from her trembling spoon, splashing back into the bowl.

Soup splattered.

Beneath the hat, Yun Yao snapped back. As she reached to wipe the table, a hand entered her view, wiping it cleanly with a cloth from nowhere.
The cloth flicked to the table’s edge as a green-robed figure sat beside her.

Yun Yao lifted her hat, meeting a face—striking yet irritating—long unseen.

Her gaze oddly fell to the corner of his eye.

…There really was a mole.
How had she never noticed in her past life?

“What?” Mu Jiutian waved a hand before her eyes. “Three hundred years, and you don’t recognize your senior brother?”

Yun Yao swatted his hand. “Six months without a trace—I thought you’d married into the Phoenix Clan and settled in the East Sea.”
Before he could reply, she sized him up. “Cultivation restored?”

Mu Jiutian leaned back lazily, smirking. “Guess.”

Yun Yao: “…”
His smug demeanor confirmed it—full restoration, likely surpassing his strength three hundred years ago, given she hadn’t sensed his approach.

She sipped her tea. “The Phoenix Clan’s rebirth by fire is impressive.”

“Not just that. Feng Qinglian used half the spiritual sea meant for his ninth True Phoenix body on me. The old feather-duster was furious. You owe him big.”

“He made a mistake, but calling him an old feather-duster? Master would be mad.”
Yun Yao frowned. “Besides, he healed you—”

“He healed me, but it was to curry favor with his would-be brother-in-law. Shouldn’t you, his sister-in-law-to-be, settle the debt?”

Yun Yao glared. “Go sell yourself to pay it.”

“Guest, your Furong tofu!”
The server set down the dish, paused at Mu Jiutian’s presence. “What’ll this guest have—”

“He drinks air,” Yun Yao cut in coldly.

“?”
The server retreated, bewildered.

Mu Jiutian chuckled, changing topics. “Found them?”

“Who?” Yun Yao didn’t look up.

“Li Wuhuan, who took your disciple’s daughter. For three months since you left the mountain, you’ve roamed 仙域 for them, no?”

“…”
Too tired to ask how he knew, Yun Yao glanced north toward Two Realms Mountain. “True dragons excel at soul techniques and hiding. He escaped to the Demon Realm.”

Mu Jiutian nodded. “No wonder you didn’t pursue.”

Her hand stiffened on the spoon.
She didn’t deny it—Mu Jiutian was right.

Sensing True Dragon Yu Yan’s presence in Yao City, the northernmost city, a step from Two Realms Mountain, she hesitated.

That was a place she shouldn’t return to, with someone she shouldn’t see.

Seeing her dazed, lost look, spoon idle, Mu Jiutian sighed, his gaze circling the table, landing on the untouched Furong tofu.
He raised a brow. “I thought your tastes changed in three hundred years. Still hate tofu—why order it?”

“…”

Yun Yao glanced at a table by the street.

In a haze, she saw a red-robed woman and white-robed youth from three hundred years ago, returning to 仙域.

[*Look, ‘Furong tofu’—doesn’t the name suit you?*]
The red-robed woman propped her cheek, grinning at the prim youth.
He looked up, frowning slightly, puzzled.

She laughed softly.
[*You’ve got the charm of a lotus immortal, but your nature’s like flawless, bland tofu—so fitting.*]
[*…*]

*Knock, knock.*

The table’s tap snapped Yun Yao back. The vision faded; the street table held only a family of three, nothing like her memory.
She turned back. “Can’t I just look at it?”

“—Sure.”
Mu Jiutian laughed. “Looks like someone took half your soul with them.”

Yun Yao frowned. “What did Xiao Jiusi tell you?”

He didn’t answer, leaning closer, asking, “Xiao’s unsolved question—I’m curious too. Was Mu Hanyuan really just your disciple?”

Under his rare serious gaze, Yun Yao’s brow furrowed, then relaxed. She turned away.
“I don’t know,” she said after a pause. “No time to think about it.”

Mu Jiutian smiled. “No time, or afraid to?”

Yun Yao glared blankly.

“Fine, another question,” he mused. “If Qian Yuan’s heavenly curse breaks, the immortal gate reopens, and you can ascend with one person from millions—who’d you pick?”

“…”

Still expressionless.
But the moment the question landed, Yun Yao blinked, slowly turning away.

Knowing her answer, Mu Jiutian leaned back, grinning. “Yun Yaojiu, I see you now. Five hundred years as your senior brother, and I lose to a three-hundred-year disciple?”

Yun Yao turned back woodenly. “The curse has bound Qian Yuan for centuries—how dare you speak of breaking it.”
“No excuses.”
“…”

“Another question. If you can’t ascend and die in Qian Yuan, who’d you want buried beside you?”

“…”

Before her expression could betray her, Yun Yao forcibly banished the figure forming in her mind.

Facing Mu Jiutian’s smirking arms, she deadpanned, “Three hundred years ago, you ‘died’ at Two Realms Mountain, no body found. I stormed the Demon Realm, slaughtered White Tiger City’s lord manor, aiming to complete our sect’s seven heroes’ fall—fully intending to die. Why not mention that?”

“Why’d you come back?”

“For—”
Yun Yao stopped.

She’d gone to die.
But she met a youth who begged her to kill him. In his eyes, she saw her own despair, like two vines in a lightless abyss, entwining, supporting each other, climbing into a towering tree, reaching beyond the darkness.

“You forgot,” Mu Jiutian said. “Three hundred years ago, you saved him, and he saved you.”

“…”

Yun Yao was silent, then raised her cup with a faint smile. “So what.” She gazed at the reflection in the tea. “We’re done, debts cleared, parted forever. What does the past matter?”

Draining her tea, she turned toward the stairs.

Mu Jiutian’s annoying voice trailed her. “Truly parted forever?”

Yun Yao paused, fingers tightening on the railing.
“…Naturally.”

She ascended without looking back.

—

Zither notes lingered, ushering rain into the night.

White Tiger City’s new lord, recently ascended, already showed decadence and cruelty. His manor echoed with nightly revelry, and each morning, rows of white-draped dancers and musicians were carried out, discarded who-knows-where.
Tonight was no different.

Captured performers huddled in a side hall of the lord’s manor.

Dancers cowered in corners, trembling. Musicians clutched their instruments, faces pale, spirits broken, as if death loomed.
Xiao Ling, a dancer, was among them.
Yet she couldn’t help glancing at a figure by the window, seated on the floor, playing a zither.

The zither was shoddy, its strings loose, body cracked, as doomed as they were.
The zitherist was odd—uncrowned, hair unadorned, tied with a white satin ribbon. His black hair cascaded like a waterfall, shimmering faintly in candlelight, cold as jade.
His face… was hidden behind an grotesquely ugly bronze mask.

No expression was visible.

Yet Xiao Ling felt an eerie calm in him, as if life and death were irrelevant, the manor’s terrifying demonic laughter mere background noise, like insects in the night rain.

She kept watching him.
Realizing she’d drifted to his side, she started.

*Twang…*

His jade-white fingers stilled the strings.
The ugly bronze mask tilted slightly. Xiao Ling, startled, stepped back. “I didn’t mean to disturb you.”

He didn’t speak, his gaze seeming to sweep her coldly before returning to the zither.

The notes resumed, stirring the fine rain outside.

Seeing he wasn’t angry, Xiao Ling edged closer. “Zitherist, sir, this is White Tiger City’s manor—no one leaves alive. Aren’t you afraid of death?”

“…Death?”

Despite his ethereal aura, his voice was low, lazy, almost bewitching.
He seemed to laugh faintly, barely noticeable.

“I’ve already died once.”

“…!”
Xiao Ling jumped.
But she quickly realized—though he had no spiritual aura, frail as a mortal, he was undeniably alive.

The zither’s notes soared.

The rain outside quickened, masking sharp metallic clangs from the main hall.
In the dim hall, no one noticed.

Xiao Ling forced a weak smile. “You’re not afraid, joking at a time like this.”

“No jest,” his voice was languid, cold. One hand played, the other tapped his chest. “Not long ago, someone pierced my heart with a sword right here.”

Xiao Ling froze, almost believing he was a vengeful ghost from the manor’s dead, despite confirming his living aura.
Her voice shook. “Who… who killed you?”

“…”

The zither’s notes sank.
Rain splashed in, cold and sticky.

Xiao Ling shivered. As she thought no answer would come, the zitherist chuckled in the dimness.

“Of course, my most revered master… Who else in this world of ants could make ‘me’ willingly face execution?”

“Then, sir, you must want to leave, to seek revenge on your master?” Xiao Ling asked, fearful yet hopeful. “Take me with you, sir—I’ll serve you well.”

“…”

Through the grotesque mask, his gaze seemed to mock her coldly, like a god scorning mortals.

Xiao Ling despaired.

“I’ll save you, all of you,” the cold deity sneered. “After all, that’s his condition for lending me this body tonight.”

Rain roared, nearly drowning the zither.
The main hall’s noise faded into it.

Xiao Ling, relieved yet confused, dared not ask more, waiting anxiously as the zither’s tune neared its end. “You must love playing, sir?”

“No. I love only one thing—”

The final note struck like a killing blow.
Thunder roared above.

Xiao Ling froze by the window.

Lightning lit the night.
Only then did she see—the “rain” was no rain but a deluge of crimson blood. @Infinite Good Reads, Only at Jinjiang Literature City

By the window, his black hair turned snow-white.

The zitherist lowered his eyes, his low, bewitching laugh echoing.

“…Killing.”