"The dumbest suicide attempt I've ever seen."
Her voice didn't rise.
Just flat and factual, like she was noting the weather.
He didn't stop.
She exhaled, watching the slow ritual, hands folded behind her back.
"If that soul destabilizes, it won't just kill you. Every lower world in range gets swallowed with you. Small universes collapse like lungs under pressure…"
Wang Xiao's hands didn't shake.
Focused.
Still rearranging the dead.
The fragments of Yang Yuhuan's soul flared against his palm, bent, warped, then held down, while the sword traced through the air, obsidian and soundless, severing divine essence with the care of a surgeon and the ruthlessness of a butcher.
He wasn't repairing her.
That was what Xue Hanqin assumed, what she'd expected when he first knelt there, aligning the pieces.
But she stepped closer, her breath halting.
Because what he was shaping… wasn't her.
The fragments weren't fitting back into their old mold.
He reshaped them...
