Mountains and Rivers Doubled, Seemingly No Path Forward, Part 3

In the cultivation study, the calming sandalwood incense burned silently.
The slender ash atop the crimson incense stick rose two inches high, finally unable to hold. A mountain breeze swept through the room, snapping the ash in half, crumbling into the lotus-shaped incense burner below.
Shattered to dust.

…Yun Yao felt she was that incense stick right now.

In the room’s dead silence, she burned with embarrassment and despair.

Though, aside from her, the only other person present hadn’t spoken—
After the demon monk’s words, Mu Hanyuan had merely brewed tea, set the cup, poured, and returned to his seat without lifting his eyes.
As if nothing had happened.

Unable to endure the torturous silence, Yun Yao rubbed the teacup’s rim and spoke. “Um… I can explain.”

Mu Hanyuan raised his eyes.
A glint of cold darkness seemed to flicker across his lotus crown.

Unnoticing, Yun Yao heard his warm, elegant voice, betraying no distinction. “Which matter does Master wish to explain?”

“…”
Oh, there was more than one.
She might as well jump off Qianmen’s Tianxuan Peak to atone.

Yun Yao took a sip of tasteless tea to calm her agitation, then said, “When you woke earlier, I wasn’t taking advantage of you. Leaving Buried Dragon Valley, I clearly saw a silver dagger in your chest, but it vanished in a blink.”

Glancing uneasily at Mu Hanyuan’s chest, she continued, “Like starlight dissolving. I worried the illusion’s dragon left some malice, some lingering harm, so I checked.”

“The dagger wasn’t Yuyan’s resentment,” Mu Hanyuan paused. “He only wanted us to perish together in the illusion, not leave any escape.”

Yun Yao pondered, frowning slightly. “You mean there was someone else in the illusion?”

Mu Hanyuan paused.

[Give her—]
[Back to me.]

That face, like a mirror to his own, vivid with blood-red demonic patterns, seemed to rise before him again.

His thumb tightened slightly under his sleeve, but his refined face only curved into a faint smile. “Just a guess, no evidence.”

“Then why sound so certain?”
Her words sparked a question she’d briefly forgotten.
Leaning back in the armchair, she shifted. “Since we’ve left Buried Dragon Valley, can you tell me why, knowing its dangers and deceit, you insisted on going?”

“The reason is already with Master.”

“Hm?”
Yun Yao froze, meeting Mu Hanyuan’s gaze for two breaths before realization hit, her expression complex as she lowered her head, raising her palm upward. “…For this?”

With her words, a dragon scale phantom appeared in her hand.

—The Dragon Heart Scale from the illusion.
It followed her out of the valley, and she’d sensed it could merge with her soul, keeping wary.
Yet…

Yun Yao thought of something, asking tentatively, “Did you know this trip would yield the Dragon Heart Scale?”

“I’d heard of it by chance.”

Yun Yao held her breath. “Did you also know what would happen after taking it?”

Sensing the suppressed emotion in her voice, Mu Hanyuan looked up.
Meeting her shocked, complex gaze, he smiled faintly, a frosty chill dusting his refined features. “Does Master think I knew everything and deliberately sent others to die?”

“…”

Yun Yao was speechless.
She knew the boy she brought back from the demon realm three hundred years ago wouldn’t do that, but three hundred years later? What had he been through?
Most crucially, the thorn lodged in her heart—the tales of the three thousand worlds where Mu Hanyuan slaughtered the immortal realm, leaving corpses strewn and blood seas adrift. Was it truly just the demon seed—no, the Flame of Finality—reawakening and controlling him?

“You and Yuyan…” Yun Yao’s voice was hoarse. “Are you connected?”

Could this be why he grew to hate the immortal realm, annihilating all?

Mu Hanyuan lowered his eyes, his smile ambiguous, long lashes casting a cold veil. “Master seems to struggle to trust me—is it because I knew of the Dragon Heart Scale, or some reason I don’t know?”

His gaze met hers abruptly.

Startled, Yun Yao instinctively avoided his eyes.
She hadn’t expected his sharpness.
“What other reason? You knew the secret realm was a trap, yet insisted on going, and happened to become Dragon Lord Yuyan in the illusion’s soul projection…”

Or perhaps, it was him.

“…”

Never had she heard such a heavy, resolute tone from the usually gentle Mu Hanyuan. Yun Yao couldn’t help turning to look at him.
Then she fell into his gaze.

“Whether Master believes me or not,” Mu Hanyuan paused, eyes lowering, “…I am not him, because I—”

Yun Yao: “…”
Yun Yao: “?”

“If Master truly cared for me as Changyong did for Yuyan, with full devotion, day and night, heart and soul, then over hatred, I’d only feel…”
Mu Hanyuan’s voice trailed off.

Yun Yao felt uneasy, yet something scratched at her heart. “Feel what?”

He smiled.
Cold yet captivating, like snow-dusted peach petals unfolding at his eye’s corner.
“Guess, Master.”

Yun Yao choked.

Having lived through Dragon Lord Yuyan’s illusion, Mu Hanyuan’s emotions were far more open than before.
Indeed, near vermilion one reddens, near ink one blackens.

Moreover, beyond his unsettling words, she cared more about—could the original Yun Yao’s tragic death be because Mu Hanyuan valued his purity over her life?
Was that reasonable?

Choked by her own thoughts, Yun Yao gulped tea, changing the subject. “The Dragon Heart Scale is yours. You came for it—just say so.”

Her fingers flicked.
The Dragon Heart Scale phantom flew to Mu Hanyuan.

He caught it with a sweep of his sleeve. “A treasure said to grant ascension—Master doesn’t ask its purpose?”

“It’s not mine, and I’m not the one chasing it. Why ask?” The cool tea calmed her, and Yun Yao slipped back into her lazy demeanor.
She rose, intending to avoid further debate.

“Then when the weapon is forged, I’ll present it to Master as a gift.”

“Gift?”
Yun Yao, two steps away, stopped, turning in confusion. “What do you want it for?”

“Master’s cultivation has fallen. Without revealing your identity or unsealing Naihe at Tianshan’s peak, you lack a sword.”

As he spoke, Mu Hanyuan’s fingers gripped the air, pulling. The Dragon Heart Scale phantom formed a faint golden sword outline in his palm.
A dragon’s roar echoed from the sword’s shadow, and a true dragon phantom climbed from hilt to blade, its edge unmatched.
He gazed calmly, unmindful. “Though unworthy of Master, it’ll do for now.”

“…”

Yun Yao stared, stunned, before asking, “You risked death just to forge me a sword?”

“Not quite death.”

“…Touch your heart when you speak. Someone nearly sent to the endless hells dares talk big right after standing.”

Hearing her fierce tone, Mu Hanyuan’s eyes shimmered with a faint smile. “With Master here, even if I fell to the endless hells, I’d find my way back.”

Yun Yao: “…?”
Why did that sound like he’d haunt her even as a ghost?

Before she could dwell on it, a knock sounded on the second-floor door of Lingxiao Pavilion, urgent at first, then slowing, as if restrained.

“Uncle Yun, it’s me,” Wu Fengming’s voice came, hesitant in addressing her. “Master Liaowu said Lord Hanyuan has awakened. The disciples have gone to report to my master… Elder Lu.”

“Got it.”
Yun Yao recalled revealing her identity before entering the illusion in Buried Dragon Valley, feeling a headache.
She’d used Mu Hanyuan’s injury to deflect their questions, but now…

“No need to worry, Master.” Mu Hanyuan’s voice rose.

Yun Yao turned to him.

His deep, gentle gaze seemed to read her every thought, needing no words. He lowered his eyes. “The few disciples who know your identity—I’ll ensure they stay silent.”

Yun Yao hesitated. “Do I need to show myself?”

“Such trifles aren’t worth troubling Master.”

“Good, I’m too lazy to explain. Handle it.”
As Mu Hanyuan saluted and turned to leave, Yun Yao remembered something. “I still haven’t traced that dagger. Watch your health these days—if anything’s off, tell me.”

Mu Hanyuan, passing her, paused briefly, his lashes lowering after a moment. “…Alright.”
His cool voice grew slightly hoarse.

Unnoticing, Yun Yao turned wearily. “These days have worn me out. I’ll sleep in the inner room… cough, meditate a bit, borrowing your couch.”

“As Master wishes.”

“…”

As Mu Hanyuan straightened, the woman’s figure had vanished behind the gauze curtains.
The thin veils, like clouds, outlined her graceful red silhouette.

He watched silently, another scene flickering before him—

In the illusion, under the stone garden pavilion of the Dragon Emperor Hall.
Two figures clung closely, hair tangled, robes entwined. Even with eyes closed, he could smell the faint rouge on her, her delicate, burning warmth piercing thin fabric, enveloping his senses and soul.
He felt submerged in an endless abyss sea, on the verge of drowning, yet willingly sank without a struggle.

“…”

In the incense-filled study, silence lingered.

Clouds briefly veiled the window’s light, casting a dark shadow.
A trace of ink-like intent rose from the pristine lotus crown, then vanished swiftly, like an illusion.

Yun Yao’s sleep was restless.

Before learning the evil at her brow was the Flame of Finality, it was merely a thorn. Now, it loomed like an axe over her neck, with all of Qianyuan hanging beneath.

Immortal records stated the Flame of Finality would ignite a world-ending fire, no wonder it answered the prophecy of annihilation.
Yun Yao had never witnessed a minor world’s demise.
She didn’t know its form—perhaps, as the tales recorded of her and Mu Hanyuan’s original life, it chose him as a host, using his hand to destroy all?

Though unclear why such a deadly thing chose Mu Hanyuan, for the original Yun Yao and their shared past three hundred years ago, she couldn’t ignore it.

Especially since she was now the unlucky one sealing the Flame of Finality.

Mulling chaotically, Yun Yao slipped into a muddled slumber.

She dreamed a strange dream.

She was back in the immortal realm, a carefree yet bored little immortal in Sitian Palace. Her daily task was watching the three thousand minor worlds, like star lamps hanging from the palace ceiling, flickering unchangingly for millennia.

This day, as usual, she flipped through a tale collected from a minor world.

The latest, just given by another, told of a place called Qianyuan, where a refined, ethereal figure, revered by all, like snow atop a peak, was defiled by his master, becoming a world-destroying demon lord, slaughtering wildly.
The little immortal found the story familiar yet couldn’t place it. Entranced, she fell asleep at the desk.

Opening her eyes from her arm, she blinked oddly—

Sitian Palace had darkened, like a mortal night, with only the star lamps glimmering like a river of stars.

But when had the immortal realm known night?

Puzzled, Yun Yao sat up from the desk.
Then she froze—across the narrow sandalwood desk, a “person” had appeared.

He was strikingly refined, his features languid, skin whiter than snow, lips blood-red. Most eerie and vivid was the faint, jade-like blood-streaked demonic pattern under his lowered lashes.
Like the world’s most poisonous yet radiant flower threads, bewitching and deadly.
His black robes, edged with gold and silver, spread wide, their hem cloaking the palace’s “night” in ink-black demonic flames, burning fiercely behind him.

Yun Yao’s expression shifted, swiftly raising a hand to summon something.

Before leaving the desk, his sleeve flicked, an ink-black flame laced with blood-red streaking from his pale fingers, coiling her wrist, pulling down—

Bang.

The little immortal’s wrist was pinned back to the desk.

“Don’t move. I’ve killed enough today and don’t want another,” he drawled, his voice low and beguiling. “Besides, you look… somewhat like an old friend.”

With his words, his lashes lifted, the blood-like demonic pattern seeming to come alive, even more vivid.
He leaned closer, his cold fingers lifting her chin—she was bound by his flames, tightening around her, unable to move.
Staring at her features, his gaze grew vacant, as if sinking into time’s endless sands, seeking a faded shadow.

“Master…”

One word, and his eyes snapped clear.
Then came a flood of blood-red, mountain-toppling madness and rage—

He gripped her slender neck fiercely.

“Who allowed you to wear her face!?”

The flames seared, pain piercing to her bones.

Yun Yao tensed in agony, her consciousness nearly shattering, her cries stifled by his flames. As she neared death, everything stilled.
She opened her eyes with difficulty.

The desk between them had turned to ash at the flame’s touch.

He was inches away, his black robes nearly engulfing her.
Leaning down, he gazed at her with fascination and loathing, surrender and restraint, forcing out a hoarse whisper:

“They say in the immortal realm, you control the Rebirth Wheel. Give it to me, and I’ll spare you.”

“—!”

[Rebirth Wheel.]

In an instant, indescribable shock overwhelmed her consciousness, her vision plunging into a white sea of light.

In the distant void, familiar, urgent voices drew her soul closer.

“Little Uncle…”
“…Uncle…”
“Uncle Yun—”
“Uncle!”

“!!”

Yun Yao jolted awake, sitting up on Lingxiao Pavilion’s couch.
She yanked the wooden hairpin from her head, a sword phantom forming, slashing toward the neck beside her.

“Who are you!?”
She rasped.

“It’s—it’s me, Uncle…” A trembling female voice, nearly beheaded.

The white light faded.

Yun Yao saw clearly—it was Ding Xiao, a Qianmen disciple who’d rushed in.
This was Qianyuan.
Was it all just a dream?

In the dream, she saw… Mu Hanyuan?

No, not him—the Mu Hanyuan from the tales.

“…”

The face in her mind made her soul shudder, fully waking her.
The sword phantom turned back into the hairpin. Drenched in cold sweat, Yun Yao rose, casually tying her hair with the plain, unadorned hairpin, glancing out the window.

It was just past noon when she slept; now, the sun was high.
She’d slept at least a day and night?

Frowning, her heart raced, an inexplicable unease rising.

Ignoring the bizarre dream, she looked at Ding Xiao. “What’s the rush? What happened?”

Ding Xiao, patting her chest, said, “The young lord of Vermilion Bird City we met in Hidden Dragon Mountain, Wuyan—Fuyu Palace found him in the mountains… he’s dead!”

“Dead? Who killed him?” Yun Yao’s brow tightened. “Was it to silence him, tied to the mastermind?”

Ding Xiao’s face fell. “That’s what Fuyu Palace says!”

“…What?”

“The Immortal Alliance is discussing this in the palace hall—they claim Wuyan was killed by Lord Hanyuan!”

Yun Yao froze, sneering. “Even for a scapegoat, they should aim better. Who’s the conscienceless fool framing Mu Hanyuan after doing evil?”

“Because they say Wuyan’s body bears…” Ding Xiao’s voice lowered.

“Bears what?” Yun Yao grew impatient.

Ding Xiao glanced timidly, speaking softly for the first time. “The body bears the Naihe Sword Technique of Qianmen’s Little Uncle-Grandmaster… Only her direct disciple, Lord Hanyuan, wields it in the world.”

“…”
Yun Yao: “?”