His eyes widened slightly. "Make you a woman?"
She blushed and nodded softly. "I'm not a child anymore," she whispered, her gaze fixed on his face. Her fingers rose, gently caressing his sharp jawline. "And through the Tide Sect's remnant caves, I've lived through hundreds of lives."
Her voice grew heavier, threaded with memories. "I've seen stories bloom, paths converge. I've watched friends I'll never truly have, lovers who never confessed, and carried that regret as the world twisted into madness around them."
"I've helped prevent tragedies, delayed others… sometimes I was only a messenger for two lost souls. Yet—" she drew in a breath, her expression softening into quiet acceptance—"no matter what I did, they never lived happily. All I could ever do was alter shadows of events already set in stone in the real world."
Her lashes fluttered, her voice growing tender. "But those echoes… those stories… they left me something real. Lessons. Lessons that now exist inside me alone. And it's those lessons that gave me the courage to finally say how I feel about you."
She paused, heart hammering, then let the words spill, trembling but firm. "…I love you, Uncle Shi. I love you. Every day, when I thought I couldn't keep going, I thought about you—how disappointed you'd be if I gave up. When I lost hope, when adversity crushed me, I clung to the belief you were still out there, waiting to spar with me again."
Her lips trembled, tears brightening her eyes. "Even when my faith wavered, when I feared we'd never meet again, the inheritance you left behind guided me. It whispered of you, led me back to you… until here I stand, finally, before you again."
"I love you," she repeated, over and over, the words breaking into sobs and smiles alike, until she pressed her lips to his once more, pouring all her years of longing into the kiss.
He melted into her, his eyes gently closed as he explored her warmth. The sweet taste of satisfaction washed over her, her voice squeaked through his mouth, "Xiu Mei... I love you too," he murmured, panting as a string of their passion connected their lips for a moment longer.
He closed his eyes and gently kissed her forehead. "But I'm not the Shi Yang you have invested your feelings into," he said, holding her shoulders. "If you replayed today's events, I'm sure someone like you would notice the inconsistencies of my actions."
He sighed softly. Let's hope this doesn't backfire, he thought, wiping her tears. I couldn't manipulate her anyway, and eventually, if I kept pretending, this farce would've ended with me in a coffin.
"The truth is… I've thought about you since this morning."
That single sentence shattered her heart.
His words struck like stone. Her throat tightened, eyes filling; she tried to speak, but the sound broke before it left her lips. He silenced her gently, pressing a finger to her mouth, tenderness softening the hard lines of his face.
"There are masks in this world," he murmured, watching the tremor in her. "Some wear them well. Others forget to put them on." His gaze lowered, then rose again to meet hers.
"When I met you at the market, I put mine on deliberately. I wanted to see where that path would lead." A rueful smile ghosted across his lips. "I hoped to uncover your secrets, the cryptic words you spoke. Never did I imagine you'd be entangled with the Tide Sect's inheritance."
He shook his head. "Back then, if I'd had even a hint about the Sect, or about your village's waterfall being tied to a hidden legacy, I wouldn't have wasted years chasing treasures and fighting to attune myself to Dao elements. I would've followed that single path instead."
"I was jealous," he admitted, his voice dropping. "The more I heard of your adventures, the more I cursed myself."
"But that doesn't mean I regret those years. Meditating in ignorance, listening for the faintest whispers of Dao—it gave me clarity. It taught me to feel the current beneath the world itself."
He drew her closer, holding her as steady as stone. "Had I known the waterfall's secret back then, I might have lost myself in obsession. I would've been trapped in that illusion you described, starving to death in some forgotten cave."
Then, unexpectedly, he smiled and ruffled her hair. "Only a bold girl—bold enough to shove a stick at me and demand I teach her—could've survived such an encounter. Only someone as stubborn as you."
His laughter warmed the air. "Do you remember what you said after I rejected your plea to be my disciple? 'If you won't teach me, I'll make you teach me.' Two days and nights you attacked me again and again. I dismissed you countless times, yet you never left. What began as irritation turned into rivalry, and rivalry became the thing I looked forward to most each day."
"Those were the best days of my life."
He stepped back, walked toward the wall, and took his swords. With a practiced flick, he tossed one to her. "At the time, I knew nothing of the Sage's decree. Nothing of the remnant caves. I didn't even know you were a woman. And I certainly didn't imagine we'd meet again a hundred years later, like this. All I knew was your promise: 'Someday, whether it takes a hundred or ten thousand years, I'll fight you again.'"
A crooked, familiar smile curved his lips—the same smile he'd worn when they sparred by the riverside. "Do you want to spar? Like the old days?"
They moved as if memory itself had pulled them into place. What began as playful practice sharpened in moments. Blades sang, light flashed; the room churned with steel and breath. Each strike was a confession, each parry an unspoken truth. Their clash became poetry—provocation and yearning bound together.
Then chaos erupted.
A misstep—too close—sent a lantern crashing. Flames leapt to paper scrolls as shelves toppled. The private room dissolved into wreckage: snapped wood, overturned chairs, shattered porcelain. Still, they fought on, ragged breaths weaving through smoke and sparks.
At last, Shi Yang yielded. Deliberately, almost theatrically, he let himself fall back onto the bed. His chest heaved, ears thundering with his pulse. Above him, she stood, breathless, hair wild, dust clinging to her robes. Her hand braced against his throat, her blade's flat edge pressed just enough to claim, not threaten. Her eyes blazed with triumph.
"It's a draw," she whispered, voice husky.
His sword lay cast aside. He blinked up at her, bewildered. "How—?"
Her lips curved into the faintest grin. The answer was simple: the way their bodies had collided—her hip pressed firmly into him—had left him helplessly aware of her heat and closeness, his grip slackened, his sword lost.
She kissed him then. Not forceful, but claiming. Rivalry remade into something more. Lips to lips, breath to breath, their world shrank to a single burning point of contact.
When she finally pulled away, her forehead rested against his. Both were laughing—breathless, shaken, and elated.
Her hand lingered at his throat, trembling with more than the exertion of battle. Slowly, deliberately, she let her blade fall aside. Her fingers slid downward, brushing the knot at his chest. With a tug, the ties of his hanfu loosened, fabric parting to reveal the heat of his skin.
"You said you wore a mask today," she whispered, eyes never leaving his. Her breath fanned across his lips. "Can you put it back on—just for a little bit longer?"
Shi Yang caught her wrist, but his grip was gentle, reverent. His gaze softened in a way that made the years fall away. "I'm sorry," he said quietly, voice unshaken. "But I will never wear one around you again."
His hand slid to cup her cheek, thumb brushing the line of her jaw. "Be my woman—not the Shi Yang you knew back then, but the man standing before you now. The man you've met for the very first time."
Her heart hammered, her lips trembling as her answer spilled out, certain and unyielding. "Yes."
The word bound them.
She leaned down, claiming his mouth with a fierceness that had nothing to do with rivalry and everything to do with release. His hands tore away the last knots of her robe as hers pushed the fabric from his shoulders, baring scars etched by a century of battles. They clung to each other as if both feared the other might vanish again.
The bed creaked beneath them as heat and breath mingled. Each kiss grew deeper, hungrier, until words lost all meaning. His hand slid along her back, pulling her down against him, while her body yielded and pressed closer still.
Their spar had turned into surrender, their blades discarded in favor of skin and breath and touch. For the first time in a hundred years, there were no masks, no sects, no promises—only the raw, unshackled truth of them.