The butterfly finally reached its destination, plunging deep into the heart of the Miè Rán Sect's mansion. It flew toward Língxi, who remained blissfully unaware of the danger his daughter had called upon herself.
The night was still, and the Cold Spring of Bai Luo (白落) – Falling White, rippled with a faint, ethereal spiritual light. This private, icy sanctuary, nestled behind the Wàngshān Guǐyuàn Temple, was the source of Língxi's enduring power—the place that maintained his young, impossibly perfect, yet fragile "glass doll" appearance.
The spring's borders were encircled by a colossal, white-ice dragon, its form eternally coiled, its eyes a striking, unsettling icy blue. The water itself was clear and impossibly blue, its bottom shimmering white, as if no other color were permitted in this sacred space.
Língxi's long white hair, like a dragon's tail, trailed in the water, a stark contrast against the pale glow. Water ran in slow rivulets from his bare, sculpted shoulders; he wore nothing but a white robe draped around his lower body.
Between his elegant fingers, a curled black dragon pendant hung suspended, its eyes faintly pulsing with red light. His own deep, royal blue eyes were fixed on it, their intensity suggesting a silent conversation, a dialogue spoken only through depth of gaze.
"When did the candle blow out… before the night ended?" Língxi murmured, his voice soft, thoughtful. His expression was as serene as the ice around him, his eyes half-lidded, white lashes dusting his pale cheekbones. Whenever the pendant's red energy brushed the gem on his forehead, the two resonated, and a pulse like distant, violet thunder trembled in his veins.
His brows furrowed with thought. He gently clenched his fist around the pendant, sighed with closed eyes, and rested his back against the ice. His free hand dipped into the water, absorbing the silence broken only by the soft tip-tap of water dripping from the cave ceiling into the spring.
Suddenly, the messenger butterfly fluttered to his side. Língxi's eyes snapped open, his royal blue gaze immediately recognizing Lànhuā's energy signature. "Lànhuā?" he muttered, raising his damp palm. His eyes instantly sharpened, becoming serious. The butterfly echoed Lànhuā's frantic voice, a desperate plea delivered directly to his mind: "Father! Please quickly come to the mouth of Fukaki! We are trapped here! A dangerous female special-grade yokai is chasing me!"
With that desperate echo, the butterfly vanished. Língxi was on his feet instantly, his expression a mask of silent worry laced with a hint of annoyance. "'We'? Who is with her then?" he muttered, confusion briefly clouding his gaze.
"I've warned her not to go near the mouth of Fukaki, nor Wàngchuān Huā… yet she didn't… she never did… just as her mother," he whispered under his breath. His expression turned bitter, his worry eclipsing the anger. A cold, familiar dread crawled into his heart. Fear, perhaps?
He walked out of the cold water, his skin shining like silver, renewed and perfect. Lànhuā was twenty-three now, no longer a child. Yet, she still hadn't grasped the severity of her situation. She called herself the next Daozu, but her actions were soft—soft for her Xiao, and cluelessly prideful and stubborn for the outside world. Língxi realized his greatest failure: he hadn't fully taught Lànhuā that surviving as a demonic cultivator was infinitely harder than surviving as a normal one.
Língxi's thoughts hardened, and his royal blue eyes grew cold—a deep, frozen sapphire. He snatched his outer robes, not caring that his wet skin and damp hair immediately saturated the fabric. His mind was miles away. He quickly squeezed his hair dry, donned his blue-and-white robe, and, without hesitation, summoned the white-blue dragon sealed in his sword. He threw the sword from its sheath, and a massive, glowing dragon erupted, curling its tail at his feet to form a staircase of polished scales.
He stepped onto the dragon, his damp white hair trailing behind him in the sudden gust of power. He looked toward the deep, misty Fukaki mountains and spoke, his voice clear as ice on glass, yet silently commanding. "You know where to go."
The dragon answered with a resonant growl and carried him through the night sky toward the mouth of Fukaki.
In mere minutes, Língxi arrived. His presence was a silent, commanding force, a king of demonic cultivation who looked too holy to be evil.
"Silence," he commanded, his calm voice cutting the thick air like a blade. The dragon roared in agreement. "Let go of my daughter… before I seal you." His tone was colder than the ice he had just left.
His eyes flickered between the two yokai—the giant lizard and the massive peacock yokai. He noted the smaller, foolish-looking female yokai clinging to his daughter. Crucially, Mo was obscured by the fog.
Suddenly, the curled black dragon pendant pulsed violently within his robe. It was trembling, strangely attracted to the peacock yokai like a magnet. The red light of the pendant pulsed softly, mirroring the color of the peacock yokai's eyes.
Mo's lips parted in surprise. He noticed the strange resonance, and his curiosity about both Língxi and the peacock yokai intensified. But for now, his priority was self-preservation. Lànhuā was safe, having been passed out and left in a shallow hole he had dug earlier. He now only had himself and the peacock yokai to save. He thought about quickly telling Língxi that Lànhuā was fine.
[ End of Flashback ]
And just like that, Lànhuā snapped back to the present. She was still sitting in Xiao's room, waiting, but the wait felt like an eternity. She still didn't know what happened after that moment—Mo never told her, and her father always paused and avoided the subject as if she were speaking a foreign language. After the incident, Mo barely came to the lake anymore; she knew now that he was actively avoiding her.
Her father had sealed those memories for her safety, but if they were returning, would the trauma return with them? She shook her head, taking a deep breath. "No, no, no… she's gone." Yet, the whole memory—the love, the trauma, the betrayal—felt forever alive, a ghost that still hunted her.
She was relieved her father had come, but a crushing guilt settled over her. If she had been strong enough, she could have handled the situation herself. "I'm sorry, Mo… and Peacock… I was such a dumb child," she whispered with profound regret, her eyes fixed on the washroom door. The guilt that she might have ruined the unknown yokai's peace ate at her. She felt foolish, too soft to be a true demonic cultivator, never deadly enough. She had only wanted to save herself from the desperate female yokai, not to hurt Mo or the others.
Her head suddenly grew heavy, her skin turning cold from the resurfacing trauma. "I'm fine… I'm here with everyone. She's sealed… she can't get me… again," she whispered to herself, looking around the peaceful, familiar room.
Her heart pounded, and she clutched her chest, feeling the old, sharp pain of the mark the female yokai had left. She found nothing wrong; everything seemed fine. She was about to let out a relieved breath to calm herself down when it happened.
A hand. A cold, black hand, the same one from that awful night, landed squarely on her chest, squeezing the same breast. Another cold hand slid down, possessively claiming her stomach.
Her breath hitched before she could let it out. Her eyes went wide, her pulse raced, and her vision seemed to burn. The bright room went dark, mimicking her past. She was paralyzed.
Then she heard the same glass-cracking, dark, cold voice right in her ear, its breath hot and needle-sharp—a curse she never wanted to hear again.
"Missed us?~" the yokai purred, its dangerous smirk palpable, its ugly white eyes burning with lust, anger, and a hint of the hurt that only Lànhuā knew she had caused.
Her blood turned to ice. Her breath grew ragged, like someone was crushing her lungs.
She screamed, a lung-searing wail that ripped through the quiet room: "AAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAA!!!!!!!!"