Mountains and Rivers Doubled, Seemingly No Path Forward, Part 2

Stunned by Mu Hanyuan’s words, Yun Yao took a full five breaths to recover.

Pausing briefly on his serene, detached features, she finally detected a hint of… dissatisfaction?
Yun Yao blinked.

A thought flickered through her mind.

Tentatively, she stepped back the single step she’d taken away from the couch.

As she returned to his side, a barely perceptible chill seemed to melt from Mu Hanyuan’s expression.

Confirming her guess, Yun Yao found it amusing but dared not show it.
She softened her voice. “This was truly a misunderstanding. Once that bald… uh, Master Liaowu leaves, I’ll explain. Alright?”

Mu Hanyuan adjusted his jade belt, glancing up gently. “All as Master commands.”

“…”

His seriousness made it seem as if the Mu Hanyuan who’d stirred trouble over her inattention was someone else entirely.

Three hundred years had passed, but some things remained as they were when he was young.

Yun Yao couldn’t help but curve her lips slightly. She reached out, adjusting the lotus crown atop Mu Hanyuan’s head, who sat on the couch, a foot shorter than her.

Her red robes swept down, a faint cold fragrance blooming.
Yun Yao turned gracefully, mood lifted, heading toward Master Liaowu, who had tactfully retreated behind the gauze curtains. She didn’t notice Mu Hanyuan’s brief pause, his dark eyes lifting slightly, gazing at her back with a hint of loss.

In that illusion, as “Yuyan,” she had been so close to him—intimate moments by the bedside, breaths mingling…

Stop.

In an instant, Mu Hanyuan lowered his eyes, almost flustered, unsure if he was hiding the figure in his gaze or the gaze itself. His long, dense lashes pressed down heavily.

A few paces away, Liaowu’s gaze flicked to the youth on the couch. The lifted gauze curtain draped from his fingers, still twirling prayer beads.
He lowered his head, murmuring a Buddhist chant.

Yun Yao turned at the sound. “Master?”

Her glance back was a fraction slow.
The gauze curtains had already closed before her, leaving only a glimpse of the snowy, slightly disheveled robes in the inner chamber.

Liaowu turned to face her. “Nothing, Benefactor Yun. Please.”

“…”

Lingxiao Pavilion, as the foremost of the thirteen towers, was built to the highest standards of a temporary palace. Beyond the side wings, the main pavilion housed a zither room, tea chamber, and cultivation study.

Passing two layers of curtains, Yun Yao led Liaowu to the cultivation study on the second floor.
The room faced the wild mountains, its eaves adorned with flowing red beams. Incense burned in the four corners, faint mist curling. Yun Yao deemed it a suitable place for conversation.

She gestured for Liaowu to take the seat by the slanted window, then sat herself.

As Liaowu settled, she glanced at him from the corner of her eye.

For reasons unclear, Yun Yao had felt an instinctive dislike for this monk since their “first meeting” in Hidden Dragon Mountain. Not quite hatred, but an urge to avoid him, as if his presence stirred unsettling emotional memories.

She attributed this to the monk’s unorthodox demeanor.
If not for his words in Buried Dragon Valley, piercing through the evil flame at her brow, Yun Yao would’ve sprouted ten extra legs to flee rather than linger in his presence.
But now, she needed his help…

Yun Yao forced herself to face him squarely, managing a smile barely passing as amicable. “Master…”

Before she finished, Liaowu, twirling his prayer beads, smiled with lowered brows.
“Benefactor Yun need not trouble herself. Since we met, you’ve called me ‘demon monk’ or ‘bald donkey.’ This formal address feels… uncomfortable.”

Yun Yao: “…”

Was this bald donkey asking for a scolding?

She suppressed her irritation, half-joking, half-frank. “Since Master has recognized me, I won’t hide it. My recent seclusion went awry, leading to deviation. After emerging, my memories are nearly gone.”

“…”

As Yun Yao spoke, her eyes never left Liaowu’s expression.
But when he heard her, his prayer beads paused. He looked up, stunned, his gaze settling slightly above her eyes—her hairpiece?

In that glance, the monk’s smile faded, his eyes churning like seas over eons, shifting through endless changes, finally settling on a faint sorrow.

Yun Yao felt he was looking at her, yet also through her, at someone long buried in the sands of centuries past.

“So, the world has one fewer who remembers her.”
The monk lowered his brows, the blood-red auspicious mark on his forehead now carrying a trace of otherworldly compassion.

“Her? Who?”

Yun Yao frowned, a nameless heaviness brushing her heart. Irritated, she waved a hand, her wrist’s golden bell chiming crisply. “Never mind, I don’t want to hear.”

Liaowu’s eyes lifted at the sound, glancing at her eclectic adornments, then smiled again. “Though Benefactor Yun has forgotten, she hasn’t entirely.”

“…”

Yun Yao recalled how, in the immortal realm, she loathed the Western Realm’s Buddhas, always spouting riddles. She’d wished to plug her ears and go deaf.
Now, needing his help, she silently repeated, ‘I need his help.’

Reassuring herself twice, Yun Yao lifted her face, propping her chin with one hand, offering a gentle smile. “After leaving Buried Dragon Valley in haste to tend my disciple’s injuries, I didn’t linger outside. May I ask, Master, what were the immortal realm’s losses after the secret realm?”

Liaowu chanted a Buddhist verse, lowering his brows. “The elders and elite disciples sent into the secret realm by various sects a day before your group all perished in the valley. The rest, including myself, escaped thanks to Benefactor Yun’s protection.”

“…”

“Benefactor Yun’s insight is keen; you likely sensed it. Buried Dragon Valley was long filled with bones, sustained by resentment-formed cities and living sacrifices.” Liaowu frowned, puzzled. “But after entering, I observed the valley’s fate—it should’ve perished nearly ten thousand years ago. How could such towering resentment persist?”

Yun Yao hesitated, then recounted the dragon city’s millennia-old tale from the illusion, omitting her and Mu Hanyuan’s entanglements, sharing all with Liaowu.

“So that’s it.” The monk fell silent, then said, “If I recall correctly, ancient texts note that ten thousand years ago, the immortal realm’s sects rose, and a human dynasty ruled.”

Yun Yao raised her eyes. “And this Princess Changyong?”

“Changyong was the title of the dynasty’s most prosperous yet final ruler, taken upon ascension.”

Yun Yao paused. “During her reign, the dynasty fell?”

“The monarch died violently; heaven’s wrath destroyed the nation.” A faint swastika seemed to flicker in Liaowu’s eyes. “But after the dynasty’s fall, the immortal sects rose, leading to today’s prosperity.”

“…Prosperity.”
Yun Yao’s lips curved, neither smile nor sneer clear, as she reached for the teacup on the table, only to find it empty.

“Even for the last true dragon, residual resentment shouldn’t last ten thousand years unless…” Liaowu’s gaze returned to Yun Yao. “The dragon soul, reformed by his people’s living sacrifice, was incomplete, sleeping and sustaining for millennia. His awakening and departure left Buried Dragon Valley rootless, requiring living sacrifices to sustain the bone city with resentment.”

Yun Yao set down the cup, nodding idly. “I guessed as much. This Dragon Lord, whether dragon or soul, harbors an irreconcilable grudge against humanity. His hatred, evident in this miasma over Hidden Dragon, spares no thought for innocence or guilt. To him, all humans deserve death.”

Liaowu lowered his head, chanting. “Though I don’t know how Benefactor Yun broke the situation, without you and your disciple, Buried Dragon Valley would’ve claimed countless more lives. This debt I’ll report to the immortal sects.”

“I care little for debts. But one matter—if Master could help, I’d be endlessly grateful.”

Noticing Yun Yao leaning slightly forward, Liaowu smiled, lowering his brows. “Is it about the evil at Benefactor Yun’s brow?”

“Exactly,” Yun Yao said firmly, eyes brightening. “Does Master know what it is?”

“Benefactor Yun truly has forgotten. I said upon noticing it that this thing holds destructive power. If not sealed properly and allowed to grow, it could soon bring ruin to Qianyuan’s beings.”

“—”

Yun Yao’s eyes widened in alarm, leaning back into the armchair.

This monk had some substance.
As tales foretold, after Yun Yao’s death, the Demon Lord’s return would devastate the immortal realm, leaving Qianyuan in ruins.

“Then does Master know its origin, or why, even with my half-step tribulation realm cultivation from years past, I couldn’t fully seal it?”

Liaowu sighed. “I warned you—this bears chaotic energy, likely formed when Qianyuan’s heavens and earth began.”

“Chaos…” Yun Yao’s pupils trembled. “The Flame of Finality.”

Liaowu looked up, puzzled. “What?”

“…”

Yun Yao didn’t answer, couldn’t answer.
The moment that terrifying term slipped out, her voice had unconsciously hoarse.

In the immortal realm, only those in Sitian Palace, overseeing the three thousand minor worlds, knew of the “Flame of Finality.”
Born alongside the creation of these worlds, it was their counterpart.
If Qianyuan’s creation was hope and life for all beings, this flame was destruction, despair, the end of all things.

Life and death, cycles unending—this was the fate decreed for the three thousand worlds.

From the moment the Flame of Finality “awakened,” this minor world began its path to annihilation.

Ruin of all beings, extinction of all things…
Was it truly unavoidable?

“—Benefactor Yun?”

Liaowu’s questioning voice pulled Yun Yao from her barely calmed shock.
She steadied her heart, opening her mouth to find her lips dry. “I only learned by chance… it’s this world’s most terrifying existence.”

Liaowu, hearing this, grew solemn but unsurprised, clearly having suspected its dread.

Yun Yao felt a flicker of hope. “Since Master knew its danger three hundred years ago, is there any solution?”

Liaowu was silent for a long moment, then shook his head.
“I’ve roamed the world three hundred years and found nothing to counter it.”

Yun Yao froze, her gaze sinking.

“But…”

“?”
Yun Yao, about to rise, sat back down, turning. “But what?”

“In Fantian Temple, there’s a high monk unknown to the world, as he never leaves the temple.”

Yun Yao’s tone grew urgent. “He has a way?”

Liaowu shook his head again.

“Then why mention him, you demon—”

“If even he cannot solve it, then likely no one in Qianyuan can aid you.”

Yun Yao, half-risen in anger, paused: “…”
The little Uncle-Grandmaster quietly retracted her hand from the table, switching to a flexible smile. “Master, why speak in such suspense?”

Liaowu gave her a half-smile. “This monk has a peculiar temperament, ignoring worldly affairs, dedicated solely to guarding a tower.”

“Guarding a tower?”
Curious but reluctant to pry into high monks’ quirks, Yun Yao asked directly, “He won’t help?”

“We’d need to ask to know.”

Yun Yao exhaled heavily, struggling not to grit her teeth. “Then ask him.”

The monk rose, twirling his prayer beads, saluting Yun Yao before turning leisurely.

“Wait,” Yun Yao stood hurriedly. “Asking requires a trip back?”

Liaowu glanced around. “No need to return to the temple, but it’s inconvenient here.”

“…Fine.”
Yun Yao hesitated, softening her voice. “And my identity?”

“This humble monk won’t speak of it. Three hundred years ago, Benefactor Yun wasn’t exactly discreet. Though only juniors roam the sects now, the Immortal Sect Competition nears—hiding your true face may prove difficult.”

“Then we’ll deal with it then,” Yun Yao waved off. “One more thing.”

“Speak, Benefactor Yun.”

“This Finality…” Mentioning the name sent shivers through Yun Yao, so she skipped it. “Please don’t mention this to Mu Hanyuan.”

The room fell silent.
After a moment, Liaowu turned. “Why?”

“…No reason. Just don’t say a word.”

“Very well.”

Yun Yao stood, watching the blood-robed monk walk away.

If three hundred years ago she’d called him “demon monk” and “bald donkey,” his tolerance was vast to still labor for her sake…
Unless there was a catch?

As his straw sandals stepped out of sight, Yun Yao’s unease grew inch by inch.

As Liaowu lifted the gauze curtain, she couldn’t hold back, asking, “They say I have some… history with Master. Is it true?”

Liaowu’s hand, lifting the curtain, froze.

Yun Yao felt a sudden irritation. “Master, monks don’t lie.”

“…”

After a silent moment, Liaowu turned with a smile, the auspicious mark on his forehead like blood, his phoenix eyes stirring unease.
Truly a demon monk.

As Yun Yao sighed, Mu Hanyuan approached, carrying a teapot and cup, lifting the opposite curtain toward her.

At that moment, Liaowu, looking at them, chuckled softly. “Forgotten, Benefactor Yun?
Over four hundred years ago, with a peach blossom branch sword from Tianyuan Mountain, you broke through Fantian Temple’s Twelve Heavenly Gates of the Arhat Formation, beating me to vomit blood, insisting on taking me back to Qianmen to marry?”

“—”

His words fell like ice shattering.

The room went deathly silent.
By the incense burner, Mu Hanyuan, facing away from Liaowu, lifted his eyes silently, gazing across at the stunned Yun Yao.

Yun Yao: “…”
Yun Yao: “???”