The Immortal Lovers’ Torment and Tender Solace

Cool, clear moonlight filtered through the bamboo gaps, streaming into the secluded bamboo dwelling like scattered mercury or flowing silver.

A beautiful woman, clad in simple white robes, sat cross-legged on the floor, her palm gently pressed against the chest of the handsome man before her.

Her lowered gaze seemed to hold an unyielding tenderness, tinged with a hint of infatuation, as the spiritual energy gathered in her palm flowed like a warm, trickling stream, silently entering the man’s depleted meridians.

Light and shadow danced around them, outlining their serene and intimate forms, as if time itself had frozen in that moment.

This scene of their robes overlapping, healing beneath the moonlight, would undoubtedly draw a sigh from any onlooker, prompting them to exclaim, ‘What a pair of immortal lovers!’

However, Mo Tingbei, one of the participants, was experiencing immense torment.

Even as Jiang Jinyue strove to suppress it, her aura during the transmission of power still swelled uncontrollably, like a primeval beast unleashed from its cage, growing ever more colossal.

The life of a cultivator who had transcended a certain boundary had ascended to a realm incomprehensible to those below that threshold.

This life essence, which for most cultivators was far more terrifying than even ancient celestial foes, unceasingly agitated Mo Tingbei’s fragile nerves, already plummeted to the level of a mortal.

Simultaneously, Jiang Jinyue’s Dharma Body, almost an embodiment of the ‘Dao’ itself, ignited a gluttonous, ravenous craving within the depths of his cultivator’s soul for that supreme Dao rhythm (TL Note: Dao rhythm refers to the profound resonance or essence of the Dao, often associated with powerful cultivators or natural phenomena).

Had his soul been intact, this level of impact would have been but a minor affliction, troublesome perhaps, but not difficult to resolve.

However, his soul, already weakened to a state barely stronger than a mortal’s due to the lack of cultivation nourishment, had just been shaken further by his rash challenge to a high-level cultivator’s divine sense, rendering it even more fragile.

Now, confronting this onslaught, it faced the very real danger of tearing apart!

Even Jiang Jinyue, for all her single-minded dedication to ‘healing,’ now sensed Mo Tingbei’s inexplicably weakening aura.

Her hand, hovering over Mo Tingbei’s chest, paused with a hint of hesitation, poised to withdraw.

Mo Tingbei, who had almost lost consciousness, suddenly reached out a hand and clasped her wrist.

That slender hand, though slightly cool to the touch, held an unexpectedly resolute strength.

Jiang Jinyue’s entire body trembled, the pure spiritual energy still gathering at her fingertips almost dispersing.

She lowered her gaze in astonishment, and found herself staring into Mo Tingbei’s unfocused eyes.

Those eyes, which had once reflected starlight but were now dull as dusty glass, now pierced through the haze of weakness with a focus she knew intimately, yet had been absent for countless cycles of rebirth, and locked onto her.

He, whose consciousness drifted on the edge of chaos, simply followed his instincts, just as he had countless ages ago, in every moment she had hesitated out of worry, mustering his last shred of clarity to reassure the person before him.

“Yue’er,” he murmured, “don’t worry, just give it your all.

Your Senior Brother here can still endure this small hardship.”

His words were like a stone dropped into Jiang Jinyue’s memories, stirring a continuous ripple.

He had spoken these very words to her amidst the desperation of a mountain of corpses and a sea of blood, in dire straits where survival was impossible and death unbearable, and through the torment of a soul on the verge of tearing apart… He had said them countless times!

Those memories, like a deep, cold abyss, threatened to burst forth and completely engulf her.

However, only a fleeting shimmer of moisture crossed Jiang Jinyue’s eyes before they returned to an unfathomable tranquility.

She would no longer drown in them.

Her fingertips stirred, and though her heart ached, her resolve was absolute.

With an ease that belied its unwavering determination, she gently, yet firmly, brushed Mo Tingbei’s tightly clasped hand from her wrist.

This time, she would not be deceived by this deliberately feigned composure.

She carefully leaned down, lifted Mo Tingbei’s now powerless body, and carried him to the small, sole bed in the bamboo dwelling, gently laying him down, her movements as tender as if handling rare colored glaze (TL Note: colored glaze, liúlí, refers to ancient Chinese colored glaze, often likened to crystal or precious glass).

Then, she walked with light, lotus-like steps to the bedside, removed her shoes and socks, revealing a pair of dainty, adorable jade feet, like miniature lotus roots, and stepped onto the white jade bed, which emanated faint wisps of spiritual energy.

Jiang Jinyue carefully moved around Mo Tingbei to the inner side of the small bed, knelt down, gently lifted his head, and rested it on her soft lap.

Her fingertips, filled with tenderness, gently brushed aside the damp strands of hair clinging to his forehead, wet with cold sweat, revealing his handsome face, which, despite enduring pain that most mortals could not withstand, merely showed a tightly furrowed brow.

Unlike her previous impatient fervor, her voice now was soft and low, yet carried an unmistakable understanding and a hint of imperceptible chiding:

“Senior Brother,” she said, “you’re being stubborn again.”

Jiang Jinyue leaned against the carved headboard of the jade couch, her posture as elegant as a white lotus floating on still water.

Moonlight danced on her lowered eyelashes and flowed across her plain white robes.

Time, in this moment, seemed infinitely stretched and solidified.

Perhaps to observe Mo Tingbei more closely, she unconsciously shifted his head a little closer to her lower abdomen.

“Senior Brother,” she murmured, “you’re always frowning.

Is it that you fear the blade of time isn’t sharp enough, so you must carve a few lines yourself?”

Jiang Jinyue spoke these words very softly, as if speaking to him, yet also to the pervasive emptiness of the room.

“I don’t know what charm your old man-like demeanor holds,” she continued, “but all these ‘flowers and blossoms’ keep throwing themselves at you, one after another.”

She paused, a harsh retort forming on her tongue—likely something along the lines of ‘If you keep flirting like this, I’ll ignore you forever’—Yet, as her gaze settled on the ‘mountains and rivers’ (TL Note: A poetic metaphor referring to the lines and contours of a person’s brow, suggesting worry or deep thought) etched between his brows, she seemed to be captivated, unable to even let out a heavier breath.

The harsh words hung in the air, only to dissipate lightly, without finding a home.

A shadow of the past flickered into existence, the self from long ago, hiding behind the facade of single-minded cultivation and evading her own inner feelings, danced before Jiang Jinyue’s eyes for a fleeting moment.

A sigh drifted from her lips, laced with self-reproach.

“Alas,” she murmured, “it was Yue’er who ultimately failed Senior Brother.”

Mo Tingbei’s sleeping face seemed to unlock a certain switch within Jiang Jinyue, and tenderness flowed forth, murmuring from her eyes, her fingertips, and her words.

She did not employ spiritual energy, but simply extended a slender, jade-like index finger, with a tenderness almost reverent.

Using her warm fingertip, with extreme slowness, little by little, she smoothed away the painful furrow between his brows.

Her other hand remained gently cradled in his hair.

Without needing instruction, she was like the most patient mother soothing a restless infant to sleep, and with a constant, reassuring rhythm, she repeatedly combed through Mo Tingbei’s slightly disheveled dark hair.

With a soft glow in her eyes that seemed to embrace all the suffering of the world, Jiang Jinyue gently massaged Mo Tingbei’s seemingly perpetually furrowed brow, while softly humming a gentle melody.

Gradually, these notes began to connect, carrying a tender invitation, urging the listener into the realm of dreams.

Mo Tingbei’s consciousness drifted on the boundary between dream and wakefulness, as if, in a trance, he had returned to infancy, nestled in his mother’s warm embrace.

That perpetually furrowed brow, which had once held so many worries and sorrows, was now, little by little, smoothed out by those tender fingertips.

And so, he sank deeply into the bottomless realm of dreams.