The Unseen Chains

Ye Jinghuang had, in truth, always harbored a subtle awareness.

Ever since the night she first encountered that black-clad woman, a certain calculation had taken root in her heart.

The world knew the Princess of the Wu Yin Dynasty to be meticulous in thought and decisive in action even from a young age, yet no one was privy to a habit she guarded with utmost secrecy.

Each night, when drowsiness crept in but she resisted sleep, she would secretly pluck a single strand of hair before her mirror, then swallow it the following morning, as though ingesting the bitter fruit of a vow.

This was a self-imposed cage, a barrier she erected against the unforeseen circumstances of the world, those that even self-destruction could not resolve.

Even after becoming a disciple of Master Mo, and no longer needing to fear assassins appearing from unknown quarters, she had never abandoned this custom.

However, on the night the black-clad woman descended, silence reigned before the mirror, and her fingers found nothing to grasp.

She had not plucked a single strand of hair.

How could she not know that the woman must have planted some immortal technique within her?

Yet, the efficacy of that spell was subtly intriguing.

It wasn’t potent enough to manipulate her every action like a puppet on strings, but it was just precise enough to subtly pry open her mental defenses, amplifying the delusive desires that had long lurked in the shadows of her mind.

Crucially, it skillfully maintained a delicate balance—a threshold where Ye Jinghuang could clearly perceive the existence of her own will, yet simultaneously find a justifiable excuse to unleash the inner beast that had been fiercely suppressed by propriety, reason, and the expectant gaze of that particular person.

Even Mo Tingbei, who frequently instructed her face-to-face, had never detected this spell, which would likely prove useless on individuals of firm resolve.

She had not confided this matter to Mo Tingbei.

She craved an excuse, a grand and proper reason that would allow her to temporarily shed the weight of her imperial robes, break free from the constraints of a disciple’s etiquette, and finally touch the forbidden territory within her heart.

She told herself, ‘Look, this is not my true intention; it is the demonic art at work.’

Yet, behind that curtain of self-deception, she was more lucid than anyone.

At that feast, she had merely seized the excuse with greedy desperation, unleashing with fervent intensity the obsession and possessiveness that had accumulated for eight years, threatening to burn her to ashes.

Using this pretext, she finally dared to reach for that luminous moon, which appeared within reach yet was, in truth, impossibly distant.

How she longed to scream at him, to lay everything bare: ‘Look, this is me! Not seduction, not dark magic, but merely an unsightly heart, yet one that boils for you!’

But this surge of impulse retreated, defeated by his gaze.

Those eyes, just as they had been at their first meeting, held a tenderness like a lake brimming with melting snow in early spring; a single glance was enough to quell the flames in her heart.

“After paying respects to the Ancestral Master in a few days, you will go to the Sword Cleansing Pond and meditate in solitary confinement. Until you achieve Foundation Establishment, you are forbidden to emerge.”

Mo Tingbei had, after all, pronounced her punishment.

Ye Jinghuang found it utterly preposterous.

After reading the bamboo slips left by Jiang Jinyue in Shuyu Valley, she had already realized the severe consequences of her momentary impulse, and had mentally rehearsed a thousand forms of brutal punishment.

Yet, what awaited her in the end was merely… solitary meditation?

Mo Tingbei naturally perceived Ye Jinghuang’s astonishment, but he offered no explanation.

Had she truly understood that the phrase “solitary meditation at the Sword Cleansing Pond” represented an absolute solitude capable of eroding even the most resilient divine soul, an eternal exile where the passage of time itself lost meaning, she would likely have preferred to prostrate herself now, begging him to grant her a swift death with a single sword stroke.

Even Mo Tingbei himself, recalling the void of the Sword Cleansing Pond—a realm that devoured all sound, light, and sensation, where even one’s own existence gradually blurred—still felt a faint, imperceptible chill ripple through the depths of his heart.

“You find it too lenient?”

Mo Tingbei cast a sidelong glance at her, said nothing further, and silently produced his disciplinary ruler.

Ye Jinghuang instinctively flinched, yet in the very instant that thought of evasion arose, a twisted anticipation, one she had never truly examined within herself, abruptly seized her.

She halted her steps abruptly.

With her gaze fixed on the disciplinary ruler, Ye Jinghuang slowly closed her eyes, and, with a blend of fear and desperately buried anticipation, extended her hand towards Mo Tingbei.

Mo Tingbei looked at her, a hint of helplessness in his expression.

‘Little Phoenix is still that timid little one.’

‘No matter how arrogant she pretends to be, deep down she remains a well-behaved child.’

‘That spell, it truly is malicious.’

Thump.

The disciplinary ruler descended, but the anticipated ecstasy, mingled with intense pain, did not arrive.

Ye Jinghuang cautiously opened her eyes.

She saw the disciplinary ruler, the very one that had often landed lightly on her palm during her early lessons, now resting neither heavily nor gently on the stone table.

“You are an adult now; it is no longer appropriate for your master to employ such methods of disciplining a child.”

“I only hope you remember this reverence, and do not allow the delusive desires in your heart to seize your reason again.”

Ye Jinghuang, unsure whether to feel disappointment or relief, slowly withdrew her hand.

For a moment, only the faint rustle of the mountain wind sweeping through the herb garden remained in the courtyard, where the low-lying spiritual plants emitted a soft, shimmering glow in the night.

“This patch of Dew-Gathering Grass,” Ye Jinghuang suddenly pointed to the best-growing section of the herb garden, attempting to change the subject, a hint of imperceptible lightness in her voice, “is thriving beautifully.”

“I tried to cultivate it in the palace once, but it always withered, half-dead.”

Mo Tingbei followed her gaze, and the corner of his lips seemed to curve ever so slightly.

“I am not skilled at tending to these little ones; I only plant common things that require no care.”

“This particular grass was planted by Xiaoxiao. She is very fond of it.”

“Though it was first discovered near Nine Nether, it can condense the purest spiritual energy into dew. This grass is much like her.”

A gentle quality imbued his words, causing Ye Jinghuang to pause slightly in surprise.

She found it hard to imagine Senior Sister Lin—the cold-faced, sword-wielding figure radiating an intimidating aura, even facing death with equanimity—saying such things, much less Mo Tingbei speaking of her in such a tone.

A subtle, astringent sensation quietly crept into her heart, not heavy, yet distinctly clear.

She suddenly recalled Lin Xiaoxiao’s brow, still unconsciously furrowed in her coma, and the way her hand remained loosely clasped even in unconsciousness, as if perpetually ready to summon the sword named Tianya Sword.

That sword had vanished abruptly when Ye Jinghuang had unconsciously placed it beside Lin Xiaoxiao’s brow.

It was only after Ye Jinghuang had perused the bamboo slips left by Jiang Jinyue in Shuyu Valley that she learned the Three-Unity Sword Sect derived its title from this unique art of nurturing the sword with one’s heart.

That sword had now returned to Lin Xiaoxiao’s soul, a faint, cold gleam hinting that it might flash forth at any moment for some purpose.

Mo Tingbei, seemingly oblivious, poured another cup of tea, his tone still placid: “When she was little, if she had a nightmare or hurt her hand practicing swordplay, she wouldn’t dare tell me.”

“Instead, she’d run into this herb garden and mumble to these silent grasses.”

The wind grew cooler, stirring his snow-white temples, a few strands falling loosely by his cheek.

The moonlight, for some reason, was so brilliant it rivaled daylight.

Ye Jinghuang gazed at him, suddenly recalling a long-past time when he was still her “Master Mo,” not yet revealing his immortal powers, but merely a gentle teacher who always enjoyed accompanying her in her studies during the afternoons.

Back then, his hair had been black as a raven’s wing, and when he smiled, faint lines would appear at the corners of his eyes.

Now those lines were deeper, yet no longer etched by laughter.

As if possessed, she reached out, her fingertips almost grazing that dazzling silver strand, only to abruptly startle awake at the last moment, hastily retracting her hand.

Her fingertips curled into her palm, burning intensely.

Mo Tingbei happened to look up at that very instant.

Their gazes met, and Ye Jinghuang felt her heart skip a beat, hastily lowering her lashes to stare at the natural wood grain of the stone table, as if some earth-shattering secret lay hidden within.

He only saw her suddenly crimson earlobes and faintly trembling eyelashes.

After a moment of silence, he asked nothing, simply pushing another freshly brewed cup of tea an inch closer to her.

“Night has fallen, and the mountain wind is cool. Finish this cup, then go back and rest.”

His voice remained steady, like a deep mountain pool, unruffled by ripples.

“As for Xiaoxiao, she might be a little startled tonight, so pay close attention to her.”

“The wardrobe in the side room can be opened; there’s a bed inside. You two are close in age and both women, so it will be easier for you to look after each other.”

“Yes, Master Mo.”

Ye Jinghuang replied softly, picking up the warm cup of tea, the rising steam finally granting her a sliver of courage to conceal herself.

For a moment, only the subtle rustle of the mountain wind sweeping through the herb garden, and the occasional soft ripple of tea within the cup, remained in the small courtyard.