TBR CH23

All in all, Gu Shishu decided to accompany the Sword Sovereign to the yao realm to assess the situation firsthand.

According to Fu Tingxue, he had mercilessly inflicted a fresh wound atop Wusu’s old injury. Though the immortal spoke of it with perfect composure, when Gu Shishu imagined the scene, he felt a cold chill settle in his chest. Even if the Yao King had not died outright, he had likely lost half his life.

Not that Gu Shishu particularly cared whether Wusu lived or died.

However, the yao realm was one of the four great realms, and if its ruler suffered a significant setback, it could destabilize the balance of power. Since Fu Tingxue, as the Sword Sovereign of Qingcheng, had drawn his sword against Wusu, he would have to take full responsibility for the aftermath. That was the way of an immortal.

But ultimately, this incident had occurred in the Demon Lord’s palace.

Gu Shishu thought to himself—he might as well go take a look. At the very least, things shouldn’t escalate too far.

Would the yao race believe it?

That their King had been stabbed by the Sword Sovereign—inside the Demon Lord’s palace?

Wusu had not informed his people of his visit before he left. Later, when he secretly took the clan’s qilin bone for his own dealings, he had kept it hidden even from the esteemed elders of the yao race.

Had they realized this by now, when their sovereign returned to the palace in utter disgrace?

“The Demon Lord truly intends to come with me?”

Fu Tingxue asked once more. The immortal had initially intended to keep Gu Shishu uninvolved.

After all, Gu Shishu had no reason to take a stand against the Yao King or involve himself in such a mess. But as for Fu Tingxue—his sword strike had been meant to kill Wusu.

“Killing, hmm…”

Gu Shishu tilted his head slightly, his dark hair slipping loosely over his shoulders, its strands framing the dim light in his eyes.

He smiled at Fu Tingxue, his expression languid, and the immortal’s heart stirred ever so slightly.

“Sword Sovereign, even if you hadn’t invited me, I would have gone anyway.”

Wusu was indeed on the brink of death. But in the end, he still had a breath left in him.

Barely conscious, he had fled the scene, and only upon reaching the yao realm did he finally allow himself a fraction of relief.

As long as the mountain stood, there would always be firewood to burn.

If he recovered properly, his chances of making a comeback were not entirely lost. And even if Fu Tingxue wished to pursue him… surely he would hesitate before openly opposing the strength of the yao race. If he were to attack Wusu here, he would be walking straight into the heart of the enemy’s stronghold, and the advantage would not be his.

Wusu instinctively dismissed the possibility that Gu Shishu and the Sword Sovereign had truly joined forces.

It was too absurd. Too… terrifying.

It was far easier to convince himself that the immortal had used some inexplicable trick to deceive the Demon Lord. Otherwise, if those two had truly allied, then forget the cultivation world—under the heavens, there would be no force capable of opposing them.

At least he still had power.

Staggering forward, he pressed a hand to his chest, but the blood continued to seep between his fingers, ice-cold against his skin.

When he finally appeared outside the royal palace, the gathered yaos were stunned. Panic spread among them as they rushed forward to assess their sovereign’s injuries.

The searing pain in his body should have made him grateful for their concern, but instead, all Wusu felt was fury—fury at having his wretched state witnessed.

“Get out,” Wusu rasped, his body swaying as he struggled toward the throne. Slumping into the seat, he pointed sharply at the attendants, his voice hoarse with pain. “Bring the medicine—quickly!”

A delicate beauty with fox-like ears hesitated before asking timidly:

“Does His Majesty want… the same medicine as before? The one used to treat sword wounds?”

Wusu was drenched in blood, clearly suffering from a fresh injury, yet he was demanding that particular remedy. Everyone in the yao palace knew that medicine had been specially prepared for Fu Tingxue’s blade.

Had their King been—again?

Wusu clenched his teeth. Her question was necessary, but he could not shake the feeling that she was exposing his humiliation.

“Yes,” he spat. “Bring it at once.”

The attendant knew better than to press further. She quickly withdrew, vanishing from the hall.

Meanwhile, the latest batch of medicinal pills had already been placed before Wusu. Without hesitation, he swallowed them—elixirs that most cultivators would never even glimpse in their lifetime—yet he found them utterly insufficient. They were nothing more than a temporary fix. His wound, gaping and relentless, continued to drain his spiritual power and strength.

He had to wait for the medicine.

Suppressing his pain, Wusu let out a harsh, ragged breath.

On the table before him still sat the heart-shaped stone Shen Nian had once gifted him. Its surface reflected dimly in his unfocused gaze, and as the pain in his body sharpened, so too did the sting of betrayal.

With a violent sweep of his sleeve, he sent everything on the table crashing to the floor.

The clatter echoed through the chamber.

And then—footsteps approached from beyond the doors.

Someone was entering.

Was it the medicine?

Wusu lifted his gaze, a flicker of hope in his exhausted eyes—only to see a servant stepping forward, her head bowed, carrying a black bowl of bitter liquid.

She walked with deliberate slowness, her posture graceful, her hair twisted into an elegant high bun.

The familiar scent of medicine filled the air.

Wusu struggled to rise, his voice raw as he urged her forward.

The candlelight flickered.

For just a moment, the flames wavered, casting shifting shadows across the room.

Then the woman lifted her eyes—and smiled at him.

“Your Majesty, there is no need to be impatient. The medicine is here.”

A sudden chill crawled up Wusu’s spine.

Something was wrong.

Something was very wrong.

Yet he could not pinpoint what.

All he knew was that the woman’s eyes—

They were eerily, hauntingly familiar.

Shen Nian’s eyes?

No—no, that maid with Shen Nian’s eyes…

Back then, he had been enraged at her, nearly gouging out her eyes.

Those who had offended him—those who had served him poorly—had either died or been crippled by his hand. The rest had long since disappeared from his presence.

How could she dare come before him again?

No—how could she have been allowed to return?

At first, Wusu had only been disgusted by her resemblance to Shen Nian, wanting to carve out her eyes just to rid himself of the sight. But now, as he looked at her, a different wave of emotion surged within him. Not hatred, not cruelty—something worse.

The words Shen Nian had hurled at him replayed in his mind, sinking deeper, cutting sharper.

But she held the medicine.

The Yao King shut his eyes tightly, his voice sharp as he ordered:

“Put the medicine down. Then get out.”

But when he opened his eyes, he saw that the maid had not moved.

She did not panic and flee. She did not obey and hand him the medicine.

Instead, she stood there, still holding the bowl, still smiling—that same eerie, twisted smile.

“You—”

Wusu finally realized—something was wrong.

His hoarse voice rang out as he called for his attendants, mustering the last remnants of his spiritual energy in an attempt to summon them inside.

But the doors—

The woman had sealed them shut.

No sound came from beyond them.

“Your Majesty.”

Half of her face was illuminated by candlelight, the other half swallowed by darkness.

In the shadows, her demonic pupils gleamed with an unsettling glow.

“Do you remember me? No—you must at least remember these eyes.”

She tilted her head slightly, her voice syrupy and mocking.

“What a shame. You waited for your beloved Young Master Shen to emerge from seclusion, and yet, you can’t even keep your throne.”

Wusu’s face turned ashen.

The woman had no idea about Shen Nian’s betrayal. She was merely trying to provoke him—but that only made her words cut deeper.

He endured both the searing pain in his chest and the humiliation in his heart, forcing himself to suppress his fury and wield the authority of a ruler.

“If you do this,” he said through gritted teeth, “you will be torn apart, your corpse scattered to the winds. You will meet a fate worse than death.”

But his threat only made her smile widen.

“If I had never betrayed you, would my fate have been any different?”

There was no fear in her eyes—only a deep, lingering resentment.

She tilted the bowl.

The black liquid poured out, splashing onto the palace floor.

The last of the antidote.

Wusu wheezed, unable to speak.

His gaze locked onto the dark stain seeping into the stone tiles.

That was his last chance at recovery. His body was already so weak he could barely stand. The chill in his chest spread, numbing his limbs, and for the first time, he felt as if he were about to be frozen solid.

“Who sent you?” he rasped.

“Does it matter, Your Majesty?”

The woman’s voice was light, almost amused.

“The palace is filled with those who hate you just as much as I do.”

She was no longer bothering to hide her malice. There was hatred in her voice, yes, but there was also something else—an intoxicating satisfaction.

“Ah, Your Majesty, this was the last bowl of medicine you would ever get. If you truly wish to live, you’ll have to crawl on the ground and scrape it up yourself.”

She was telling him to beg.

To grovel like a dog just to survive.

A bitter laugh welled up in Wusu’s throat.

Everything—his vengeance, his power, his love—had all become a joke.

The moment those eyes, those wretched eyes, locked onto him, he could not bear it any longer.

He closed his eyes.

“…Then kill me.”

The yao realm was not peaceful that night.

Gu Shishu observed the city below—its flickering lanterns dim in the distance, the faint clash of weapons echoing in the air. With a simple incantation, he and Fu Tingxue concealed themselves and slipped inside.

From the shadows, they watched as Wusu’s old forces clashed with other factions of the yao race.

It became clear to Gu Shishu that Wusu was finished.

Even the Elder Council—once staunchly loyal to the Yao King—remained silent. Though they had not openly supported the coup, not a single one of those ancient creatures, some of whom had lived for millennia, was making any effort to intervene.

Gu Shishu touched the tip of his nose, feeling a faint pang of guilt.

Perhaps this had something to do with the sacred artifact of the demon race—the one that was now in his possession.

He hadn’t expected the elders to value it so highly.

But no, ultimately, this was just the nature of power.

When a great wall collapses, the people rush to push it down.

The Yao race was not like the demon clan.

The demons of the demon realm were mostly individuals who had chosen to embrace darkness later in life, but the Yao race—Wusu’s people—were born into their nature.

Cruelty was in their bones.

Cold-hearted and self-serving, they lacked the mortal world’s concept of morality.

Wusu had ruled by strength alone. Even after his defeat centuries ago at Fu Tingxue’s hands, he had maintained his position because the entire Yao race had been too weak to replace him.

But things were different now.

And, of course, his reputation did him no favors.

Everyone knew that Wusu was merciless, that he slaughtered his own servants at the slightest displeasure.

His downfall was inevitable.

As the firelight flickered across the blood-soaked city, Gu Shishu turned his head slightly, glancing at the man beside him.

Fu Tingxue had not anticipated walking into a full-scale power struggle, but he had quickly accepted the situation.

Dressed in white, the immortal stood amidst the chaos, an otherworldly presence untouched by the filth of war.

Noticing Gu Shishu’s gaze, he paused slightly in his stride.

“What now?”

His voice was calm.

“Does the Demon Lord have a plan?”

Wusu no longer needed a finishing blow from Fu Tingxue. But stability had to be ensured. If the Yao realm fell into further chaos, it could spread beyond its borders—especially to the human world.

But now was not the time to intervene.

They would have to wait.

“Oh,” Gu Shishu mused, lips curling faintly.

“For now, let’s just keep walking.”

Fu Tingxue blinked, a flicker of confusion in his eyes.

“…Walking?”

He genuinely did not seem to understand.

The two of them were moving through a city torn apart by betrayal and ambition.

The streets were filled with blood and fire.

They had no idea whether Wusu was dead or alive, nor who would claim the throne next.

But in this moment—after all these years—Fu Tingxue was not standing on the opposite side of the battlefield from Gu Shishu.

For the first time in centuries, they were walking together.

Through a war-torn city, an immortal in white and a demon in black.

Gu Shishu smiled.

“It’s a stroll,” he said.

Centuries ago, the immortal had known little of the mortal world. Gu Shishu had taught him much—taught him that, sometimes, one did not need a reason to walk side by side with someone.

No sparring, no training, no debates, no discussions.

No obligations.

Just walking.

That had been Gu Shishu’s lesson.

But he had underestimated the weight of his words.

He had once teased Fu Tingxue for always seeking purpose, for always needing something to do. He had told him—when you are with the one you love, you don’t have to do anything. Just walking together is enough.

Fu Tingxue lowered his gaze, hiding the emotion in his eyes.

The phrase echoed in his mind.

The one you love.

From the very beginning, this simple act—walking side by side—had carried a faint, unspoken tenderness.

Like sealing a peach blossom in ice, its colors muted beneath the frost.

He felt something stir within him.

He wanted to know—

Did Gu Shishu feel the same?

Did he want to reach for his hand?

But when he finally spoke, the only sound that escaped him was a soft, almost imperceptible, “…Mn.”

If he had misunderstood—if he had assumed too much—it would be far too unsightly.

In a city ablaze with war, where betrayal and ambition ran rampant, where blood was shed for power—

Two figures walked aimlessly, with no goal, no plan.

Just walking.