LABMY CH125

After the negotiation results with the six major forces from the sea region were publicly announced, the entire Asriga Empire fell into two emotional states—no, it would be more accurate to say that everyone in the Warriors’ Sect did.

One was joy: they no longer had to spend their lives in chaos, struggling desperately to achieve ascension, only to realize that it was merely the starting point for others. Their land would no longer be a forsaken place, and their existence was now acknowledged by the entire Ninefold Continent.

The other emotion was more complicated.

In the past, people ridiculed how awkward and difficult it was to remember the name “Asriga Empire” and questioned why it had been used for over a thousand years. But now, they all regretted it.

No matter how unpleasant “Asriga Empire” sounded, could it be worse than “Warriors’ Sect”?

Yet, the one who chose this name was Jian Yuanbai, and at this moment, no one could say “no” to the man who had single-handedly saved the fate of everyone in this land.

Thus, they could only deceive themselves as they looked at the groups of muscular male and female cultivators around them and tried to find comfort: never mind whether the name sounds good—at least it fits.

It fits at least eight-tenths of the way. No other name could be more fitting.

After all, on this land, those below the Nascent Soul stage had all abandoned their original cultivation techniques to practice body-tempering arts. Even some who had reached the Nascent Soul stage with lower-tier techniques had chosen to start over.

As for those above the Nascent Soul stage? They were rare like phoenix feathers and qilin horns. If the people of this land were divided into two groups, at least 80% of the cultivators had trained in body-tempering techniques, leaving them with bulging muscles.

Especially around Fisherman’s City—those who had witnessed that overwhelming battle firsthand might not have learned anything else, but in that moment, amidst the chaos, they had entertained themselves by transmitting messages in secret. That experience had convinced them to accept the name wholeheartedly.

In fact, when they thought back to that day, when the entire coast was lined with towering men and women, each standing two or three meters tall, their muscles bursting with power, they could vaguely understand why Sect Master Jian had chosen such a name.

Anyone who had seen that scene would never forget it.

While others were finding amusement in their suffering, Mu Jingzhuo, who was at the main peak of Wuwang Mountain, remained unaware. At this moment, he had only one thing on his mind.

Mu Jingzhuo sought out Jian Yuanbai and expressed his thoughts: “Let’s not hold a grand ceremony for our bond-forging ritual.”

Jian Yuanbai was puzzled. “It won’t be grand, just a simple ceremony within the sect.”

Mu Jingzhuo unconsciously pouted, looking rather unhappy. After hesitating for a moment, he reworded his request. “I mean, just the two of us—no one else.”

Jian Yuanbai asked, “Why, my dear?”

He had instinctively called him “my dear,” and Mu Jingzhuo didn’t find anything odd about it, simply responding, “If possible, I’d like to stay in seclusion on the main peak for the next ten years.”

“I absolutely don’t want to go out or appear before anyone.”

Jian Yuanbai frowned slightly. “Not even me?”

Mu Jingzhuo replied naturally, “You’re not other people.”

They were in the main hall at that moment. Mu Jingzhuo picked up his chair and moved it closer to Jian Yuanbai, first putting on a stern face and huffing, “If you hadn’t insisted on making me say those things last time, I wouldn’t be so reluctant to face people now.”

“Because of that incident, I get anxious just seeing people now, do you know that?”

Then, he grabbed Jian Yuanbai’s sleeve and gently shook it. “So let’s not hold the bond-forging ceremony, okay?”

“Please, Master.”

If he were truly angry about what happened last time, Mu Jingzhuo wouldn’t have let it go so easily. He understood that Jian Yuanbai had his difficulties. However, understanding didn’t mean he wasn’t utterly embarrassed—no, it was beyond embarrassment; it felt like a public execution in a different sense.

For the next ten years, he didn’t want to see a single stranger—except for Jian Yuanbai. As far as he was concerned, the Mu Jingzhuo of that day had “died.” Under no circumstances should there be a grand bond-forging ceremony.

He dreaded the possibility that, if the ceremony was held, it would bring together two highly attention-grabbing events. The effect would be doubled, ensuring that people would remember every detail even after twenty years.

Jian Yuanbai pondered for a moment before saying, “Don’t you want everyone to witness our bond-forging ritual?”

Mu Jingzhuo pouted. “That day, in the Sea of Falling Waters, over ten thousand people already blessed us.”

In the past, he had once mockingly asked whether their master-disciple relationship wouldn’t invite criticism, only for Jian Yuanbai to respond with a thousandfold, ten-thousandfold affirmation—proving that no one would ever dare to criticize it.

Mu Jingzhuo was three parts moved, ten thousand parts ashamed.

Jian Yuanbai said, “Preparations for the bond-forging ceremony started days ago. If I were merely your master, I would refuse your request on the grounds that you must not act willfully.”

He smiled at Mu Jingzhuo. “So, what should you call me?”

Mu Jingzhuo pressed his lips together. After much hesitation, he softly muttered, “Qixiong.”

Between two men, when they became Dao companions, they did not use the traditional titles of “husband” and “wife” but instead addressed each other as “Qixiong” or “Qidi.”

Jian Yuanbai, despite having no past memories, still remembered general customs and knowledge. He simply didn’t recall who he was or what he had experienced. Thus, to him, the terms “Qixiong” and “Qidi” held no deep significance.

He wasn’t satisfied with it. Then, in a sudden flash of inspiration, Jian Yuanbai recalled that Little Spoon had once asked him what “wife” meant. That meant people in the cultivation world didn’t understand the concepts of “husband” and “wife.”

Jian Yuanbai cleared his throat and said, “Wrong. You should call me ‘husband.’”

Mu Jingzhuo furrowed his brows slightly in confusion. “What is ‘husband’?”

Jian Yuanbai explained, “It means the one who will be by your side for a lifetime, the person who walks with you hand in hand.”

He looked at Mu Jingzhuo with anticipation in his eyes. Under his burning, scorching gaze, Mu Jingzhuo inexplicably felt a little nervous, his heartbeat quickening, and even his voice could not conceal the rapid drumming of his heart. “Husband?”

There was a hint of experimentation, a touch of novelty, and endless intimacy in his voice, which was soft and sweet, as if dusted with the world’s most delicate sugar frosting.

Jian Yuanbai did not speak. His pupils gradually darkened as he leaned in toward Mu Jingzhuo, who was seated beside him. His calloused hand covered Mu Jingzhuo’s face, his thumb lightly hooking onto his delicate chin. He did not apply too much force because Jian Yuanbai knew that the beautiful young man before him, blushing and averting his gaze, would not truly shy away.

Because this person was his…

“Wife.”

Jian Yuanbai called out in a low sigh, almost a murmur. His scorching breath spilled over Mu Jingzhuo’s lips, igniting a burning sensation at the corners of his mouth.

The last sliver of distance between their lips disappeared. Mu Jingzhuo trembled slightly as he was led by Jian Yuanbai, surrendering himself wholeheartedly to this battle of conquest.

Jian Yuanbai sucked on the soft bead of Mu Jingzhuo’s lips, his tongue lightly tracing over it before delving into the warm, moist cavity of his mouth. His tongue swept over his teeth, glided across the sensitive membranes, leaving his presence on every inch.

Not only did he refuse to let go of Mu Jingzhuo’s soft tongue, but he also audaciously licked across its surface with his rough tongue. The shameless teasing made Mu Jingzhuo’s eyes well up with moisture, yet his body instinctively pressed closer to Jian Yuanbai. Between the kisses, he let out faint whimpers, like a small creature purring contentedly under a gentle touch.

When the kiss ended, Jian Yuanbai’s thumb, which had been resting under Mu Jingzhuo’s chin, lightly brushed over his lips, as if wiping away the shimmering traces of their kiss. Yet instead of merely wiping, he rubbed and kneaded, pressing firmly, making the already flushed lips turn an even deeper shade of red.

“So obedient.”

Jian Yuanbai placed a light kiss on his ruby-like earlobe and sighed softly, “Let the day come sooner.”

Mu Jingzhuo opened his eyes with a hint of confusion, as if asking what he meant.

His eyelashes were damp, and his ears were stained red. He was always so easily embarrassed, yet for Jian Yuanbai, he would repeatedly break past his own limits of shame, saying things that would make anyone want to hide, whether before one person, a hundred, or ten thousand.

And the day Jian Yuanbai spoke of truly arrived soon—on Mu Jingzhuo’s eighteenth birthday. That day, Jian Yuanbai mysteriously led him to the edge of the main peak.

Gazing at the rolling sea of clouds before him, Mu Jingzhuo asked in confusion, “Why are we here?”

Jian Yuanbai feigned mystery and said, “Jump down. Don’t use your spiritual energy.”

As he spoke, he even sealed Mu Jingzhuo’s cultivation.

Losing his connection to his spiritual energy all of a sudden made Mu Jingzhuo uneasy—especially when Jian Yuanbai wanted him to jump off this cliff, which was at least ten thousand meters high, into the unseen depths below.

Standing at the cliff’s edge, staring at the churning clouds beneath him, fear was instinctual. But Mu Jingzhuo’s trust in Jian Yuanbai outweighed his instincts.

Taking a deep breath, he suddenly leaped down.

The wind howled past his ears as he plummeted through the clouds, the weightlessness and rapid descent making his heart race uncontrollably.

Suddenly, he seemed to hit something. A massive formation lit up in midair, bouncing him back up.

He shot back into the sky, reappeared before Jian Yuanbai for a brief moment, then quickly fell again.

First, he was stunned. Then, excitement took over. A smile broke across his face, unable to be suppressed. His voice was filled with exhilaration. “This is… what?!”

Seeing his reaction, Jian Yuanbai secretly let out a breath of relief. He remembered how Mu Jingzhuo had reacted the first time he rode the Cloud-Stepping Foal and had guessed that he would enjoy this as well.

But no matter how much he had speculated, it was only upon seeing the genuine joy on Mu Jingzhuo’s face that Jian Yuanbai finally relaxed completely.

Then, with a graceful leap, he followed Mu Jingzhuo into the descent and answered, “Hmm, you could call it a trampoline.”

On Mu Jingzhuo’s eighteenth birthday, Jian Yuanbai did not present him with a grand, traditional coming-of-age gift. Instead, he created an enormous amusement park—his farewell to his own youthful self.

A trampoline suspended in midair by a grand formation, a true roller coaster soaring through the skies, a game where one could shoot targets for prizes, and a free-fall ride that dropped straight down until it stopped just above the ground.

Each contraption was powered by the finest spirit stones and could only exist for a single day.

As night fell, Jian Yuanbai led Mu Jingzhuo to a unique Ferris wheel.

The frame was made from the supreme magical artifact, the Extreme Yin Sky Silkworm’s Death Threads, while the cabins were formed from clouds. Standing atop what seemed to be soft mist, Jian Yuanbai reached out his hand toward Mu Jingzhuo.

“May I invite you to join me?”

Bathed in moonlight, his smile was warm. Mu Jingzhuo’s face turned slightly red, but he reached out and placed his hand in the one Jian Yuanbai offered.

The moment he stepped onto the cloud, the silk threads at the wheel’s core lit up, their glow spreading outward, illuminating the surrounding clouds in various hues.

Mu Jingzhuo sat on the soft, cotton-like cloud, feeling the gentle breeze of movement. His eyes sparkled with excitement, but before he could speak, a loud explosion echoed in the distance.

Fireworks bloomed across the sky.

Grand, brilliant, dazzling.

They burst and vanished in an instant, yet the fleeting light left an overwhelming sense of beauty and awe. One after another, they illuminated the night, setting the heavens ablaze.

Seated upon the clouds, in the sky, Mu Jingzhuo had the perfect vantage point to watch the grand spectacle created just for him.

“I thought you only prepared fireworks.”

Jian Yuanbai chuckled. “How can something you already know about be called a surprise?”

Mu Jingzhuo’s face flushed, his smile radiant yet tinged with nervousness. “Most of the things today—I’ve never seen them before.”

“To be honest, I don’t even know who I am,” Jian Yuanbai said, reaching out to ruffle his hair. “But I know these things the way I know how to eat and drink—as if they are common sense to me.”

He sobered, his gaze serious. “You know, I won’t leave.”

The last trace of unease in Mu Jingzhuo’s eyes disappeared. His smile was bright, without a shadow of doubt, and he nodded firmly. “Mm! It’s a promise, then.”

Jian Yuanbai pulled him into an embrace. “Happy birthday.”

And then, pressing his forehead against Mu Jingzhuo’s, their proximity unbearably close, he whispered,

“Since you don’t want a formal bonding ceremony…”

“Then, shall we form our bond today?”

Jian Yuanbai drew even closer, placing a soft kiss on Mu Jingzhuo’s cheek. “Be good, my little spoon. I’ve waited for so long.”

Mu Jingzhuo’s eyes flickered with shyness, nervousness, and lingering excitement. But he did not avoid him. Instead, he pursed his lips, heart pounding like a drum, and said with determination,

“Okay.”

With blood as their vow, with their hearts as their oath—

The moment their souls connected, Mu Jingzhuo felt as if he could faintly sense Jian Yuanbai’s emotions.

That vague feeling was not enough for him to know exactly what Jian Yuanbai was thinking, but he could roughly sense the other party’s emotions.

They kissed above the clouds. In the midst of being kissed into a hazy daze, Mu Jingzhuo felt an ominous sense of unease from the Dao Companion Contract, a feeling that made him afraid.

“Here?”

Jian Yuanbai kissed his face, ripe like a peach, and coaxed him in a low voice, “No one will see us. Trust me.”

This wasn’t a matter of trust. This was…

A matter of shattering Mu Jingzhuo’s sense of shame!

He had thought that the incident in the Sea of Falling Waters was already the limit, that nothing else could make his heart, tempered by storms, rise again to such an overwhelming level of embarrassment.

But he had underestimated Jian Yuanbai.

Jian Yuanbai always managed to show him that there was always a higher mountain, a deeper river. Though the type of shame differed, it was always Mu Jingzhuo alone who had to endure it.

He looked at Jian Yuanbai, saying nothing, but the expectant gaze on the other’s face left him feeling utterly helpless—he couldn’t bring himself to refuse.

With his face flushed red, Mu Jingzhuo reached out and wrapped his arms around Jian Yuanbai’s neck. His eyelids trembled as he turned his head aside, saying nothing, yet silently acquiescing.

He had never thought he could love someone this much, trust someone this completely.

It was as if, from the depths of his soul, a voice told him that the person before him would never hurt him—he believed it with unwavering certainty.

The moon hid behind the clouds, but its light still pierced through, illuminating the mist. The porcelain-white figure beneath the silvery glow seemed to radiate with a faint luminescence, unbelievably beautiful.

Meanwhile, in another place, a master was patiently teaching his very young disciple how to use a small spoon.

A large hand, radiating heat, wrapped around the spoon’s handle, demonstrating the movement once before guiding the little disciple’s hand to grasp it.

But the little disciple’s hands were unskilled in holding things. The spoon slipped from his grasp several times. Fortunately, the master had infinite patience, guiding the small hand repeatedly through the motions, grasping, lifting, then grasping again.

The master was patient, but the little disciple grew anxious. He worried that his poor performance would displease his master, and tears rolled down his delicate face in fat droplets. In his panic, his face flushed red, his tear-streaked cheeks damp as he cried, declaring that he didn’t want to learn anymore and wanted to let go.

But no matter how patient a master was, the goal was still to teach the disciple. Facing such refusal, he pressed his thumb against the tip of the spoon, seemingly holding back his frustration.

Beads of sweat surfaced on his strikingly handsome face, veins bulging on the back of his hand as if enduring something intensely.

But as a master, no matter what he felt inside, he had no choice but to coax his disobedient disciple. His voice was slightly hoarse as he murmured, “Be good. Just a little longer.”

The small spoon, caught in the tug-of-war between master and disciple, splashed out thick broth.

The master simply dipped his fingers into the spilled liquid and, unwilling to waste a drop, carefully returned it to the narrow bowl.

The bowl was rather special—its opening was extremely small. The master had to exert considerable effort to return the liquid, gradually increasing pressure to widen the mouth of the bowl. By the time he finished, sweat was already pouring down his face.

Sweat trickled from his temples, following the sharp line of his jaw before dripping onto the pristine, porcelain-like dish beneath him, as if transferring its heat onto the plate.

Tired of proceeding so painstakingly slowly, the master switched to another method—one that would allow him to fill the special bowl more efficiently when needed.

However, using this tool required time and force.

Just as the finest craftsman must endure repeated tempering in the flames to forge the ultimate masterpiece, this tool, too, had to be wielded with repeated strikes to achieve optimal results.

The little disciple, unwilling to continue learning, broke down in tears, begging his master to let him go.

But the master merely scolded him lightly, “So delicate.”

Yet he never once mentioned allowing the disciple to quit midway.

Fireworks bloomed brilliantly in the sky, their deafening explosions mixing with a faint, indistinct sound—was it the murmur of water, or the sound of suppressed sobbing?

It was hard to tell.

After the battle in the Sunken Sea, apart from the initial discussion, Jian Yuanbai never appeared in any further negotiations.

The Island Lord of Immortal Spirit Island and the others disdained negotiating with a Human Emperor whose strength had yet to even reach Mortal Immortal. Thus, every meeting was handled by one of the island’s elders.

When they learned that the Asriga Empire would present itself to the Ninefold Continent under the name “Warriors’ Sect,” the Island Lord of Immortal Spirit Island wore an expression of sheer incredulity.

He even questioned the elder who had brought this news to confirm its accuracy. Upon learning that the name had been personally chosen by Jian Yuanbai, his expression became even more indescribable.

Though the Asriga Empire had been renamed “Warriors’ Sect” and nominally placed under Jian Yuanbai’s authority, in truth, it functioned more like a massive city. Each sect within governed itself, only required to report to the Wangyun Sect at regular intervals.

Yet whether as the sect master of the Warriors’ Sect or the leader of the Wangyun Sect, Jian Yuanbai was more like a figurehead—stepping in only when military force was required.

In the ten years of the Warriors’ Sect’s rapid development, not a single person caught a glimpse of Jian Yuanbai.

All the sects, including the Human Emperor, had mentally prepared themselves to obey his command, expecting him to take charge. But after a decade without seeing him once, they were all dumbfounded.

They had assumed that when Jian Yuanbai had said he could be treated as a mere figurehead, he was only being modest. They had never expected him to vanish entirely for ten whole years.

Only one person knew the truth.

And that person regretted it immensely.

Mu Jingzhuo had been the one to declare that he would enter seclusion for ten years, focusing solely on cultivation and fading from the public eye.

But he had never imagined… this would be his so-called cultivation.

Simply put, no matter how much it had been modified, the Dual Cultivation Technique was still the Dual Cultivation Technique.

Whenever Mu Jingzhuo tried to escape, Jian Yuanbai would use his own words against him, reminding him of his vow to devote himself to ten years of cultivation. And he would justify it with righteous confidence, insisting that this method was far more beneficial than suffering through arduous training.

This left Mu Jingzhuo wanting to bang his head against a wall. He was utterly devastated—if given a choice, he would rather endure bitter cultivation!

Ten years.

Though it wasn’t every single night, anyone would break under a partner who was relentlessly enthusiastic about testing the absurd notion of “seven times a night.”

Even worse, Jian Yuanbai had the audacity to act wronged.

He couldn’t outright say that, according to the script, Mu Jingzhuo—destined to be a peerless genius—was supposed to manage seven times a night.

So instead, he simply gazed at Mu Jingzhuo with a wounded expression when the latter, utterly exhausted, finally stirred awake, and lamented, “How could you fall asleep? That was only the fourth time.”

Mu Jingzhuo was on the verge of breaking down.

Fourth time?! What more do you want?!

He couldn’t even muster the strength to complain. His voice hoarse, he asked seriously, “If you want me dead, just say it outright.”

But Jian Yuanbai only responded, “Nonsense. Last night, you advanced another realm—you’ve reached Nascent Soul now.”

Unable to bear it any longer, Mu Jingzhuo clamped a hand over Jian Yuanbai’s mouth and gritted his teeth. “Shut up.”

Even the energy replenishment from his breakthrough to Nascent Soul wasn’t enough to relieve the exhaustion and soreness in his body.

Jian Yuanbai was truly… a beast.

For the first time, Mu Jingzhuo internally cursed him and furiously swore—

To hell with the Dual Cultivation Technique!

To hell with all dual cultivation techniques!

When the ten years finally ended, the first thing he did was flee from Wuwang Peak.

In fact, it would be more accurate to call it an escape in the dead of night.