The World of Mortals is Poison

Today, the ever-burning candles gifted as tribute from the Western Regions were lit in Fengtian Hall, a rare sight indeed.

As the place where the imperial family held private banquets, it had not been used for nearly three years, ever since the late emperor fell gravely ill.

But with the new emperor’s ascension today, the long-sealed palace had been swept clean and made anew.

Everyone knew that the new emperor intended to thank her mysterious mentor here. It was he who had helped the once-overlooked commandery princess ascend to the dragon throne.

However, no one had ever seen the Imperial Preceptor’s true face. When the empress first began her regency, she was decisive yet lacked strategic depth, a stark contrast to the grand ambition and brilliant strategy she had previously displayed.

Thus, rumors had long circulated that a master was guiding her from behind the scenes.

Whispers in the court and beyond claimed that the new emperor’s mysterious mentor was an immortal descended to the mortal realm—wise to the point of being almost demonic, a master of esoteric arts who could divine the world’s fate, a kingmaker of unparalleled talent.

For today’s banquet, the empress had strictly commanded all maids and eunuchs to withdraw immediately after setting the table. Outside the hall, imperial guards stood in heavy layers; aside from her, no one was permitted to enter. This arrangement was a silent declaration: the Imperial Preceptor was no mere mortal.

‘But such immense favor is not necessarily a blessing for a subject.’

This thought crossed the minds of all the high ministers as they conversed in private.

This Imperial Preceptor might be willing to play the part of Zhuge Liang, but Her Majesty today was not necessarily willing to be the docile Liu Shan who heeded all counsel.

In the annals of history, an emperor’s exceptional favor toward a subject often conceals a tide of blood.

At the center of these rumors, Mo Tingbei was currently savoring the fine drink in his cup, utterly oblivious to the speculation about him.

Of course, even if he knew, he wouldn’t care. It was all just idle gossip from worldly mortals.

As the drink entered his mouth, a subtle bitterness of apricot neutralized the cloying sweetness of honey, and for the first time in a long while in this world, his tongue tasted a hint of his former world. This world always bore strange, inexplicable resemblances to Blue Star in the most peculiar places.

A slight discomfort tickled his throat. ‘Is this sweet concoction still trying to get me?’ Mo Tingbei couldn’t help but jest inwardly.

However, this unique pang of homesickness unexpectedly dispelled the sorrow of parting in Mo Tingbei’s heart.

He had fulfilled his promise to his senior sister to help Little Phoenix ascend the throne. It was time for him to return to the sect and continue his cultivation.

Although he had never guided Little Phoenix onto the path of cultivation, the process of assisting a commandery princess in her ascent to the throne had greatly satisfied his innate love for teaching. Compared to his several rebellious disciples, Mo Tingbei felt that this Little Phoenix, who had never formally become his apprentice, was more like his student.

‘Perhaps I should leave a Qi Guiding Art for Little Phoenix before I go. Her innate potential is quite good. If fate allows, perhaps I’ll see her at one of the sect’s recruitment ceremonies in the future?’

‘Speaking of which, I’ve been away from the mountain for so long. I wonder how everyone is doing.’

Mo Tingbei swirled the cup in his hand, not noticing the faint glimmer of a curse, something not of this mortal world, that quietly appeared along its rim.

“What is Teacher Mo thinking about?”

A woman’s voice suddenly sounded from behind, interrupting Mo Tingbei’s thoughts.

Mo Tingbei turned to see Ye Jinghuang, not in her imperial regalia, but in the everyday attire she used to wear as a commandery princess.

Yet, compared to her youthful innocence back then, Ye Jinghuang now carried an indescribable aura, and the gaze she directed at him, her mentor, seemed to hold a darker, more obscure emotion than before.

With parting imminent, Mo Tingbei was suddenly struck by a playful mood, wanting to tease this disciple who always wore such a stern expression: “Little Phoenix, how does it feel to be the emperor?”

“And how does Teacher Mo think I should feel?”

Not a trace of emotion could be heard in Ye Jinghuang’s words, leaving Mo Tingbei awkwardly unsure of how to respond. He could only manage a couple of dry, hollow laughs to brush it off.

“If you do not wish to say, then I shall not ask.”

A faint curve appeared at the corner of Ye Jinghuang’s lips, a look of either mockery or amusement. “Teacher Mo, do you find this banquet prepared by Jinghuang to your liking?”

Though her words were of concern and her tone carried an unconcealed affection, his intuition screamed that a deep-seated hatred was hidden in Ye Jinghuang’s heart.

Mo Tingbei found it strange. Just as he was about to answer, he felt an inexplicable heaviness in his once-light body.

The ever-burning candles in the hall extinguished without a breeze, yet the entire hall remained brightly lit. The source of the light was the carved dragons and painted phoenixes on the beams and pillars.

Mo Tingbei focused his gaze and saw that those patterns were no vulgar paintings, but the sinister array markings of a forbidden technique in the cultivation world, designed to steal another’s cultivation!

The spiritual power he had accumulated over many years of practice was draining from his body. The helplessness of a mortal, a feeling he had not experienced in nearly a century, came back to him.

The spiritual power that once filled his limbs and meridians faded from his senses, bit by bit. The poison of the mortal world, long suppressed within his dantian, seized the chance to backlash, and a coppery sweetness rose in his throat. Mo Tingbei knew this was the sign of his dantian shattering after the abrupt loss of all his power.

A chill unique to late autumn swept toward him from the empty hall, making him shiver involuntarily. The memory of his early days after transmigrating to this world, when he was barely clothed, became vividly fresh once more.

After years of cultivation, Mo Tingbei’s Dao heart had long been forged stronger than tempered steel. Even in the face of this sudden calamity and grievous injury, his gaze toward Ye Jinghuang remained calm.

He watched as Ye Jinghuang’s aura surged, shattering the limits of a mortal martial artist and stepping straight through the gates of immortality!

The answer was self-evident.

Mo Tingbei was at a loss, unsure whether to laugh or cry. It seemed the drama of repaying kindness with enmity was fated to be a constant encore in his life. The curse of being continually backstabbed by his disciples seemed to haunt him. He wondered what her reason was this time.

“Little Phoenix, why?” he asked, his back ramrod straight, ignoring the uncontrollably immense immortal pressure. His voice was as calm as still water.

Ye Jinghuang’s face was contorted in agony, her pretty features completely drained of color. Beads of sweat trickled down her temples. Having suddenly acquired a power far beyond her current realm, her fragile meridians were on the verge of bursting.

Looking at the two of them now, one would think it was Ye Jinghuang, not Mo Tingbei, who was the victim of some dark art.

Ye Jinghuang felt as if she were walking a tightrope at the gates of hell. Fortunately, the martial arts that Mo Tingbei had taught her were, in essence, an introductory immortal technique mixed with the principles of the Qi Guiding Art. Otherwise, she would likely be in mortal peril at this moment.

Only now did she understand the meaning behind the mysterious woman’s profound gaze when she had handed over the technique.

And yet, this pain brought with it a perverse pleasure she had never before tasted.

Before she could savor it, Mo Tingbei’s spiritual power, as if it knew she was the cherished pearl he had painstakingly taught and protected for eight years, actively dissipated from her acupoints in a matter of breaths, leaving behind just enough to perfectly match her limit—the power of a cultivator at the peak of Foundation Establishment.

An unprecedented sense of euphoria washed over her, so intense that Ye Jinghuang almost moaned aloud. But Mo Tingbei’s gaze, as tranquil as a placid lake, made her stifle the urge.

Guilt suddenly washed away her joy, only to be swiftly consumed by long-suppressed resentment.

“Why? When you snatched my sister away from me and forced me into the vortex of the succession struggle, you should have known this day would come!” Ye Jinghuang’s voice suddenly rose, sharp enough to pierce the thick dome of Fengtian Hall.

Each word was like an ice pick laced with poison, hurled at Mo Tingbei with eight years of pent-up venom.

An immense pressure uncontrollably emanated from her newly formed meridians, crushing the air in the hall and every inch of Mo Tingbei’s now-mortal flesh.

The invisible force slammed into his chest. Mo Tingbei let out a muffled grunt, his body swaying almost imperceptibly. He could no longer suppress the coppery sweetness that he had forced down his throat.

“Cough… cough, cough…”

The violent coughing tore at his shattered dantian. Finally, crimson foam spilled from his tightly pressed lips. He subconsciously raised a hand to cover his mouth, but the blood flowed through his fingers, splattering onto the cold golden bricks before him.

Ye Jinghuang clenched her fists hidden beneath her sleeves so tightly that her nails dug into her palms, nearly drawing blood, as she forcibly restrained the impulse to rush forward and help him.

Mo Tingbei’s wretchedness and powerlessness were like an invisible key, instantly unlocking something she had violently suppressed within her heart.

To witness her once lofty, god-like master, whose Daoist robes never had a single wrinkle, now disheveled under her pressure, revealing skin flushed with an unnatural red; to see those eyes, usually as gentle as a spring lake, now glaring at her as if she were trash, without wavering for an inch…

An indescribable, almost twisted pleasure suddenly swept away the trivial guilt from moments ago. It coiled around her heart like a poisonous vine, tightening, bringing a suffocating excitement that made her greedily crave more.

‘If only I could hear Teacher Mo’s weak rebukes as he struggles to stay conscious right now…’

As this delusion filled her mind, Ye Jinghuang felt blood rush to her head, her whole body burning with heat…

Ye Jinghuang hurriedly stopped her crimson fantasy and secretly activated the talisman clutched in her hand. As the mysterious woman had said, several featureless immortal puppets emerged from the shadows.

As she commanded the puppets to support Mo Tingbei, who had lost all his strength and was holding on by a thread, an unavoidable sting of pain pricked Ye Jinghuang’s heart.

Perhaps to alleviate that sting, or perhaps to pursue some unspeakable, sordid desire, the words tumbled from her lips without thought, once again becoming a dagger aimed at Mo Tingbei’s heart:

“Besides, isn’t this all your doing, Teacher Mo? The imperial art of casting aside those who have outlived their usefulness—culling the hounds after the hunt is over—was it not you who painstakingly cultivated it into Jinghuang’s very instincts? Even without the so-called sorrow of losing my sister, you would have ultimately become a pawn in my hand, one that would never be allowed to escape.”

Hearing this, Mo Tingbei could no longer hold onto his last breath. His eyes rolled back, and he fainted.

Before he lost consciousness, Mo Tingbei’s last thought was:

‘Why do I always raise such treacherous disciples who betray their own masters!’