TBR CH31

There is only one Qingcheng Sect in the world, and Qingcheng Sect has only one Fu Tingxue.

Fu Tingxue resided on Xiao Zhu Peak, a place of solitude all year round.

Until today, when Xiao Zhu Peak once again welcomed an old acquaintance. The wind rustled through the trees, their whispers seeming to greet his arrival.

The immortal walked with him through the bamboo forest, his steps light, the bamboo leaves beneath his feet making only the faintest rustling sound. Years ago, he had taught Gu Shishu to wield the sword in this very forest, where the cold gleam of his blade once sliced through the falling leaves.

In the midst of this tranquility, should an enemy appear, a single strike would have already pierced their heart.

The bamboo leaves shimmered in vibrant green, and wisps of morning mist drifted over the mountain. As the veil of clouds parted, the immortal’s palace came into view.

It was exactly as he remembered, without the slightest deviation.

Every step felt like treading upon an old dream. Only when Fu Tingxue turned his head to look at him did Gu Shishu snap out of his memories. He gazed into the immortal’s eyes and keenly caught a reflection of his own emotions.

Fu Tingxue’s eyelashes trembled slightly. The scenery before Gu Shishu was one of the past, but for him, it was an unchanging tableau across countless seasons. From the most exalted palace in the world, he had looked down upon nothing but flourishing greenery and scattered mountain winds.

Yet, the person he longed to see was never there.

Until now, when Gu Shishu stood before the jade steps. The Demon Lord, with his dark hair and eyes, should have clashed starkly with the ethereal beauty of his surroundings, yet in this moment, he seemed to blend in seamlessly.

Fu Tingxue almost wondered if this was a dream.

Not that Gu Shishu’s presence was an illusion, but that the centuries they had lost were.

His momentary daze did not escape the Demon Lord’s notice. The demon race had always been audacious, and Gu Shishu had never been one to restrain himself. Their intertwined hands were pressed against the cold jade wall as his ink-black hair fell between them, obscuring the immortal’s vision.

Strands of hair traced out an intimate space, their breaths mingling in the quiet air.

“Immortal Lord, I’m right here.”

Just now, his gaze had drifted into a daze, but Gu Shishu forced him to focus back on him.

Gu Shishu could think of countless ways to describe the immortal’s eyes—like ice and snow, like the waters of spring, sometimes sharp and frigid, sometimes glistening with captivating brilliance.

But what he liked most was when those eyes reflected his own figure.

Walking through the familiar halls was like breaking free from the chains of memory. Every thought and sentiment surged forward uncontrollably. Even the touch of green along the window ledge was deeply familiar, and every object around them carried traces of their shared past.

Fu Tingxue led Gu Shishu into the main hall, yet it felt as if Gu Shishu was the true master of the place. He knew the layout of Xiao Zhu Peak all too well.

The so-called “main hall” was, in fact, the immortal’s personal chambers.

As Fu Tingxue’s disciple back then, Gu Shishu had occupied an extraordinarily favorable position—his own dwelling was right next to the main hall. Even on foot, it was only a few short steps away. While there were many ways master and disciple relationships could manifest in the cultivation world, this level of proximity was already an exception.

Even the sect leader had once privately remarked that Fu Tingxue, after thousands of years, truly favored the first disciple he had ever taken under his wing. With such a renowned master, even an ordinary disciple need not worry about struggling on the path of cultivation.

What the sect leader did not know, however, was that despite this prime location, the dwelling often awaited its master in vain.

Gu Shishu, defying convention, frequently spent his nights in the immortal’s palace instead.

They say that those closest to the water’s edge reach the moon first, but Gu Shishu had long since claimed the moon, discarding the water’s edge entirely.

The immortal’s chambers were sparsely furnished, almost overly simplistic, yet the room carried an unmistakable elegance. Through the lattice window, one could glimpse the verdant peaks beyond.

A small table by the bedside held a vase of white jade, empty and unadorned—its hollowness somewhat abrupt. It ought to have held a bouquet, something to add a touch of color.

But at this moment, there was no need for anything else to liven up the space.

The immortal bit his lip and spread his arms slightly, his collarbones smooth and elegant—a silent gesture of acquiescence.

Before Gu Shishu, the most precious of all things lay bare. Fu Tingxue instinctively wanted to shield his eyes, but he was not allowed to. Instead, he averted his gaze slightly, yet even so, he could still feel the heat of an unwavering gaze upon him.

Not only that, but he found himself inexplicably conceding to all of Gu Shishu’s reckless demands.

He felt ashamed, yet he still tried his best to comply.

His voice was beautiful.

Gu Shishu’s fingers lightly pressed against the immortal’s lips, his voice husky, rich like aged wine.

“Make a sound.”

And so, his lips could no longer remain sealed. No matter how much he tried to suppress it, faint, breathy sounds escaped—a voice that could no longer be hidden.

The lone crane of the heavens, willingly bowing its neck beneath Gu Shishu’s hand, letting out a call both clear and sweet.

Yet such a sound only further stoked desire.

Even the moonlight in the immortal’s palace was unlike that of other places—cold yet radiant, casting a silver glow upon Fu Tingxue’s hair.

Bathed in that moonlight, Gu Shishu finally noticed that Fu Tingxue had silently opened his eyes.

Yet his gaze remained hazy, like looking at the moon through a misted window. Because of what had just transpired, those pale irises were still tinged with a thin sheen of moisture.

His eyes remained fixed upon Gu Shishu, unblinking. The Demon Lord, under such a gaze, felt his heart soften.

He reached out and touched him. Fu Tingxue did not evade, allowing him to gently wipe away the lingering traces of dampness. The motion brought him even closer, though their distance had already been close enough.

So, they naturally exchanged another kiss.

The Immortal Lord leaned against the bed, adjusting his robes. The pristine white fabric draped over his skin, concealing most of the traces left upon it—though not entirely.

Gu Shishu idly played with his hair, silver strands flowing gently through his fingers.

Somewhat flustered, Fu Tingxue turned his head and asked,

“Can you check if there are still any marks on my back?”

The word “marks” was spoken so softly it was nearly inaudible.

Gu Shishu’s fingertips lightly pressed against one of the red marks, his voice carrying a slight rasp:

“There’s one here. And another… here.”

As he spoke, he let out a low chuckle, offering a half-hearted apology.

After all, he was the one responsible for those marks.

Fu Tingxue’s skin was far too fair, making the red imprints stand out vividly—like plum blossoms blooming against freshly fallen snow.

“…Enough.”

The immortal was clearly struggling to endure Gu Shishu’s teasing, let alone the way his fingers lingered suggestively on that small patch of skin. He cast a pleading glance at Gu Shishu.

Clearly, he was the one being bullied, yet he still sought help from the very person tormenting him.

Gu Shishu resigned himself to fate—how could someone be this endearing? He ruffled Fu Tingxue’s hair in reassurance before standing up to fetch him another robe with a higher collar.

He was remarkably adept at this task. Time on Xiao Zhu Peak seemed to have come to a standstill—nothing here had ever changed.

But upon closer thought, that was because Fu Tingxue had never allowed it to.

A short while later, the Immortal Lord had changed into a new robe, one that covered him completely, with the high collar concealing most of his neck. Gu Shishu’s slender fingers adjusted it meticulously.

Still dressed in snow-white garments, he looked as composed and unapproachable as ever.

The belt of this attire had a designated spot for his sword. Though Fu Tingxue could store his natal sword within his spiritual core, he usually carried Qing Shuang (Clear Frost) with him.

Its glow was as bright as the moon, but along one side of its blade, there was a scorched mark—an abrupt and jarring imperfection on an otherwise flawless spirit sword.

Gu Shishu’s thoughts stirred.

“Immortal Lord,” he asked,

“During the war between the immortals and demons, your sword path was damaged. Shall I mend your sword for you?”

To this day, Gu Shishu could now recall, with calm clarity, the battle he had fought against Fu Tingxue.

There had been no right or wrong—only the stances they represented.

Both had fought with the sole aim of bringing the other to ruin. The Demon Lord had thought himself capable of doing so, yet some things had long puzzled him.

For instance, Fu Tingxue’s sword strike that day had been particularly ruthless—so why had it left only a shallow scar on his chest?

The Immortal Lord’s sword path was legendary across the cultivation world, yet Gu Shishu could not help but feel it was somewhat exaggerated.

It was said that Qing Shuang’s killing move lay in its icy aura, capable of freezing an entire continent with a single strike. Once struck, one would be plagued by cold poison—so long as the sword master lived and his intent remained, the affliction would be impossible to dispel.

Yet back then, Gu Shishu had not been inclined to dwell too much on matters concerning Fu Tingxue.

He had simply attributed it to his unique demonic constitution.

That explanation sufficed.

But there was one decision he had made—one that even his past self could not rationalize with any excuse. And so, he had simply avoided thinking about it.

In the final clash of that battle, no one knew—not even the Immortal Lord himself—that Gu Shishu had had a chance.

A chance to kill him.

His natural talent, a gift that was nearly a curse, had allowed him to grow at an extraordinary speed. By the time of the immortal-demon war, he had not yet reached his current unparalleled strength, but he was already an opponent beyond most imaginations.

Thus, when he stood across from Fu Tingxue, staring into the frost-laden indifference of the immortal’s gaze, he believed himself to be equally unshaken.

Then came the deadlock.

And within that deadlock, he glimpsed Fu Tingxue’s flaw.

Fu Tingxue was strong. But even the strongest had moments of vulnerability, and despite his reputation, he was not significantly stronger than Gu Shishu. Discovering this opening had been completely unexpected.

By that point, their battle had reached its most critical juncture.

Had he gathered all his strength and aimed directly at Fu Tingxue’s vital point, the Immortal Lord would have died.

It was a fatal flaw.

A thousand possible techniques flashed through Gu Shishu’s mind, each culminating in Fu Tingxue plummeting from the high platform, yet for some reason, he could not bring himself to make the decision.

And so, instead of ending the battle, they continued fighting—neither gaining the upper hand.

Until Fu Tingxue’s sword finally moved a fraction faster, sweeping toward his chest with the force of the cold wind.

The Demon Lord still had time.

There was no reason not to take the killing strike, was there?

As the Immortal Lord’s blade surged toward him, poised to deal a grievous wound, Gu Shishu had already gathered razor-sharp demonic energy in his palm. It was an all-out attack.

If he were lucky, he could even end Fu Tingxue’s life before sustaining any serious injury himself.

He lifted his eyes to the immortal before him.

Fu Tingxue stood as he always had—draped in white like frost and snow, his pale gaze unwavering. The wind roared around them, making his figure seem thin, yet utterly resolute.

Unchanging, like the lone moon in the sky.

One man stood before him, standing stronger than any fortification in the celestial realm.

If that pristine white robe were to be tainted with blood, how unsightly it would be.

In that moment—without reason, without calculation—Gu Shishu abandoned his strike.

The immortal’s sword tip glinted coldly, its reflection captured in his eyes.

Instead of aiming at Fu Tingxue’s fatal flaw, he turned all his gathered demonic energy into a final blow—one that struck directly at Qing Shuang.

What followed was a pure contest of strength.

And as equals, they could only end in mutual destruction.

The Demon Lord was struck by the immortal’s blade and forced to retreat from the battlefield. He barely managed to return to the demon realm before losing consciousness.

Qing Shuang was shattered—half of it destroyed.

A natal sword was intrinsically linked to its master’s cultivation. This wound to the sword became a permanent scar in Fu Tingxue’s path of the blade.

For years, Gu Shishu had tried not to think about that moment.

Because he could not understand it.

Or, perhaps, even if he did, he had tried to avoid confronting the obvious.

Until now.

Only now did he truly comprehend how much of the past—what had seemed like a battle to the death—had been veiled in lingering emotions that neither had been able to sever.

But it didn’t matter whether he understood or not.

Gu Shishu raised his gaze to the immortal before him. The lingering remnants of their intimacy still clung to the air within the chamber. Fu Tingxue, seemingly caught off guard by his offer, looked slightly dazed.

Gu Shishu took his hand.

Fu Tingxue instinctively let his fingers entwine with his, the contact feeling as natural as breathing.

Switching hands, Gu Shishu reached for the sword at Fu Tingxue’s waist.

Logically, he should not have been able to touch it. He was the one who had damaged this blade—yet Qing Shuang hummed softly at his touch, as if welcoming him.

A sword was a cultivator’s very soul. No one, save for those bound in life and death, could possibly lay a hand on another’s natal sword.

“…I don’t really mind,” Fu Tingxue murmured.

He paid no attention to where Gu Shishu’s hand rested, instead carefully mulling over his words.

“So many years have passed—I’ve grown used to it. It doesn’t make much of a difference to me.”

An outright lie.

The entire cultivation world knew that Fu Tingxue’s damaged natal sword was a tragedy. Many had lamented the fact. Had he not been a peerless cultivator to begin with, he might not have been able to maintain his position as Sword Sovereign at all.

Gu Shishu had already made up his mind.

He deserved the best.

And in the days to come, the Immortal Lord would have nothing less.