Moqian turned towards her, voice quiet. "Stand still."
Lan Yan blinked. "Eh? For wha—"
Before she could ask what that meant, he crossed the distance between them in a single step, seized her by the chin, and kissed her. Lan Yan's eyes widened.
Oh no!
Even if it was a man's soul doing the kissing, that body— that body was still hers!
Did that mean she was technically kissing herself? Or worse—being forced to kiss a man as herself?
Whichever way she tried to reason it, the conclusion was the same: to Lan Yan, this was an utterly shameful act.
The world went white. Power surged like a tidal wave, ripping through her senses. When she opened her eyes again, she was back in her own body—knees weak, mind blank, lips burning.
Moqian—now in his true form again—stood tall, unearthly and terrifying. He raised a hand toward the sword that pierced the center of the field. But even when demonic energy and his NihilFire raged like a storm, the blade did not move.
Si Nuya's divine light glimmered faintly across its edge.
Moqian's jaw tightened. "Si Nuya," he murmured.
Then, coldly: "Fan Nishan. Is the Purple Moon Sword still in the Demon Palace?"
The Purple Moon Sword was an ancient relic forged by the Immortal of Knowledge Zhihui, possessing the unique ability to break even a Divine Lord's primordial spirit. It was held in the Demon Realm for thousands of years. Its ownership was tied to a vicious betrayal: Zhihui had gifted the sword to a Fox Demon he loved, but she stabbed him with it and presented the weapon to the Hou family's Fourth Demon Ruler because she fancied him. Though Zhihui survived the attack, the Demon Ruler killed the Fox Demon shortly after.
Fan Nishan stepped forward quickly, bowing low. "My Lord, the Purple Moon Sword remained under the Demon Realm's inspection for thousands of years. But one thousand years ago, it was stolen."
Moqian's eyes narrowed slightly. Nishan swallowed and continued.
"The strange thing is—nothing else was taken. Only that sword vanished. It was guarded by your own spiritual power, yet because of Divine Lord Si Nuya's primordial spirit—the one that pierced deeply into your soul root during these ten thousand years—we believed the protection barrier had weakened, and someone from the Heavenly Realm stole it.
"But… after a long investigation, we found traces of the sword's ashes scattered across the Naihe River. The remnants were retrieved. They're still preserved in the Demon Palace."
Moqian's gaze sharpened. "Weakened? Me?"
Fan Nishan immediately dropped to one knee, lowering his head, "I misspoke! This subordinate deserves death!"
Moqian said nothing for a moment. The air between them was heavy enough to crush bone. Then his voice came, low and restrained.
"Stand up… and search for the Nine-Tailed Fox's tail."
"At your command, my Lord!"
Fan Nishan rose, bowed deeply once more, and his figure dissolved into shadow—vanishing without a trace. Wherever he went, it was somewhere close to death.
Lan Yan stood there awkwardly, still processing the aftertaste of everything that had just happened—the kiss, the divine light, and that ridiculous exchange.
She rubbed her lips, "So that's what a kiss tastes like."
Moqian didn't even looked at her, He just turned and started to walk away, Lan Yan noticed that fan Nishan was missing and Moqian is leaving too,
"Wait—you're leaving?"
He didn't even glance at her.
"Wait, what about me?!" she shouted, her voice echoing across the field. "You're seriously just going to fly off and leave me here?!"
Still nothing.
She threw her arms up. "I mean, it's not like I want to follow you or anything, but at least take me out of this grave!"
His movement paused for half a second. Then, in that same calm, quiet voice, he said, "You've already served your purpose."
Lan Yan's mouth fell open. "What do you mean 'served my purpose'?!"
The faintest flicker of annoyance crossed his eyes, though he didn't turn. "Ungrateful woman," he muttered.
Lan Yan's jaw dropped. She stood there, utterly baffled. What did I even do to deserve that?
Moqian didn't bother clarifying, nor did he glance back at her. To him, "ungrateful" simply meant that he hadn't killed her when he easily could have — that sparing her life was already a mercy.
But Lan Yan, of course, had no way of knowing that. She just glared at his retreating figure, hands clenched into fists.
"You—You scum! Abandoning a woman after taking advantage of her?!"
That stopped him.
Moqian turned his head slightly, eyes cold as ever. "...Advantage?"
"You kissed me! Twice!" she shouted. "Do you know what that means where I'm from?!"
He regarded her for a long moment before saying flatly, "It means you're still alive. And if you don't want to…"
Moqian lifted one hand, and Lan Yan's body was pulled off the ground as if the air itself had turned against her. She landed unceremoniously across his forearm.
He held her there with effortless strength—one arm steady beneath her as though she weighed no more than a feather.
Lan Yan, however, was certain of one thing: either she barely weighed thirty-six kilos… or this man was terrifyingly strong for someone who looked so lean.
Lan Yan was draped horizontally across his arm, her stomach pressing against the hard curve of his forearm. Her face was pointed outward, toward the desolate landscape, while her feet dangled uselessly near his hamstrings. She immediately started kicking her legs, but failed to escape from his grab.
This is so humiliating! she raged internally. Why am I being held like a discarded yoga mat? I'm not luggage!"
"Put me down.."
Moqian glanced at her, his expression unreadable, voice calm in that dangerous, detached way that made her skin crawl.
He said softly—too softly, like a man about to toss her into the nearest pit. "Allow me to help you, then…"
He didn't need two hands to hold her, and he certainly didn't need to slow down for her frantic kicks. To him, she was about as challenging as an ant.
He's doing this on purpose! Lan Yan realized, eyes widening.
She felt an awful, burning shame. This was supposed to be a majestic flight, but for her, it was more like being a damp blanket being aired out over a railing.
"Wait a minute," she thought, momentarily ceasing her kicks as the grand, terrifying scenery of the Xi'Tian Field blurred beneath them.
I'm currently being flown out of an ancient battlefield by the most handsome being in the universe, and I don't have to walk! Doesn't that mean he's caring for me?
A thought, small and shameful, began to bubble up: He is annoyingly strong, though. I barely weigh forty kilos, but he's carrying me like a feather. Alright, I'll stop screaming now. This is definitely better than having to run.
She immediately stopped kicking. After all, if this Demon King was going to act as her unwilling ride-share out of the death zone, she was not going to complain about the method. Survival first, dignity second (or maybe tenth).
For a moment, the flight was almost peaceful.
The storm clouds parted as they soared beyond the edge of the Xi'Tian Field, wind whipping through her hair. Lan Yan dared to peek down—and instantly regretted it.
"Whoa, whoa—how high are we right now?!"
Moqian didn't answer. He simply adjusted his arm slightly, as if repositioning a troublesome parcel, and kept flying. His expression remained as calm and detached as though he were contemplating the weather.
Then, without warning, he stopped midair.
Lan Yan: "…"
He finally looked at her—expression unreadable, tone flat as stone.
"Do not show yourself to me again."
Before she could process that—
he let go.
"Wha—WAIT! YOU DEMONIC—!"
Lan Yan tumbled through the clouds with a scream that could have startled the heavens.
Leaves slapped her face, branches tore at her sleeves, and then—thunk!—she was hanging upside down from a tree.
Silence.
A single leaf drifted past her nose.
"…Am I alive?"
She blinked, staring at the ground, which looked far too distant for comfort. Her robe was hooked neatly around a branch, her hair dangling like a particularly pitiful spirit. Far above, a black speck—definitely that heartless demon—was flying away without so much as a backward glance.
"Hey! You devil-faced scoundrel! You could've at least dropped me closer to the ground!" she yelled. The only reply was a gust of wind and her own echo, mocking her.
Lan Yan sighed, hanging limply. "Unbelievable. Since I arrived in this world, it's been one disaster after another. I'm so done with this place."
After several embarrassing minutes of kicking, wriggling, and accidentally smacking herself in the face with her own sleeve, she finally fell—gracefully, of course, if one ignored the small thud and the dirt now decorating her forehead.
She lay there for a moment, staring up at the canopy.
"I'm alive," she whispered, half in awe, half in disbelief. Then, louder, "I'm alive!"
A dramatic pause.
"…That heartless man really dropped me!"
She sat up, brushing off leaves, fuming. "Who does that?! What if there hadn't been a tree?!"
Her mind raced. "Maybe he's just—ugh—too handsome to have basic morals!"
Despite herself, her thoughts drifted to his face—cold, sharp, devastatingly beautiful.
Lan Yan groaned, clutching her head. "No. Stop. He's evil! Ruthless! Probably cursed! He literally flung you like laundry, Yan. Focus!"
After confirming that all her limbs still worked (mostly), she began to walk. Her once-pale blue robes were now a tragic brownish-green, but at least she wasn't dead. The forest gradually thinned, replaced by the scent of water and salt.
When she finally stumbled out of the trees, her eyes widened.
Before her stretched a small fishing village shrouded in morning mist. Boats bobbed lazily by the dock, women shouted over the price of clams, and barefoot children chased each other with sticks. The air smelled of grilled fish and wet bamboo.
Lan Yan blinked. "Civilization."
Her stomach growled loudly.
"Okay," she muttered, straightening her robe as best she could. "Step one, don't die. Step two, find food. Step three, figure out if this place belongs to mortals… or immortals."
As she entered the market, heads turned. It wasn't hard to see why—her robes were torn, her hair was a disaster, and she probably looked like a drowned noblewoman who had crawled out of a painting.
A fishmonger blinked at her. "Miss… never seen you before. You new around here?"
Lan Yan blinked at the man, caught off guard by the direct question. "Uh… yes! I'm, uh," she forced a smile, trying not to sound like someone who'd just fallen from the sky—which, technically, she had. "very new actually."
The fishmonger squinted at her. "You talk funny, miss. Where're you from?"
Where am I from? she thought, panic flickering behind her smile. I really don't know that myself. I'm from another world, transmigrated into this chaotic mess. There's no way I can tell him that, right? She thought for a second before replying, "have you heard about the plum mist sect?"
The man's knife paused mid-slice. He glanced up sharply. "Plum Mist Sect? You mean that place up the northern ridge?"
Lan Yan nodded hesitantly because she herself don't know the Plum mist sect's whereabouts even though she's from there, "Yes, that one."
The fishmonger raised a brow. "Hah. Haven't heard that name in a while. You one of those cultivators trying to reach it?"
"No, no," Lan Yan waved quickly, panicking at the thought. "I am from there…"
The man froze mid-slice. Slowly, very slowly, he lifted his eyes to her.
"You. Are from Plum Mist Sect?" His voice dipped into disbelief. "That Plum Mist Sect? The mountain one? With all the weirdos who never come down and talk about longevity and enlightenment?"
Lan Yan nodded stiffly.
The fishmonger stared at her torn robes, her dirt-smudged face, her upside-down-tree-fall hairstyle.
"...You sure?"
Lan Yan forced a dignified cough. "Of course I'm sure. Why would I lie about being from such a... respectable place?"
The man let out a short, dry laugh. "Respectable? Miss, maybe from up close it looks respectable. But for us mortals… it's not that simple."
Lan Yan blinked. "What do you mean?" she was sure of one thing, she's in mortal realm.
He set down his knife and leaned his elbows on the stall, his voice dropping to something quieter—less mocking, more weary.
"It's not that I hate immortals," he said. "Everyone dreams of rising above hunger and sickness. We admire strength. We admire longevity. But admiration and trust are not the same."
He pointed at the village behind him—small houses patched with bamboo, children with bare feet, smoke rising from cracked roofs.
"Out here, life is hard. We work from dawn to dusk to fill our stomachs. And immortals…" His jaw tightened. "Immortals don't understand what it costs us."
Lan Yan's expression softened slightly.
"When your kind comes down the mountain," the man continued, "you take herbs from the forest because they're 'spirit-rich.' But those herbs are our medicine. Our people die without them."
Lan Yan froze.
"And the land near the river?" he went on, voice low. "Some sects declare it 'tainted by demonic qi' and forbid farming there. But that land was all we had."
His eyes flicked to her robe—blue, tattered, but still marked with the Plum Mist color.
"I don't blame ordinary disciples," he said. "Most of you follow orders. But the truth is—when immortals make decisions, mortals pay the price."
Lan Yan swallowed hard. Her chest tightened. She'd never thought about the world from this side.
"So no," the man concluded with a weary sigh. "I don't have anything against the Plum Mist Sect. But I've lived long enough to know this—immortality and compassion don't always walk together."
He picked up his knife again. In this very moment, lan Yan's stomach growled, the man looked at her, she embarrassed herself,
Right then, Lan Yan's stomach growled—so loud that even the nearby chickens stopped pecking.
The fishmonger slowly lifted his eyes toward her.
Lan Yan pressed a hand over her stomach. "…Ignore that."
He gave her a look that said he absolutely could not. Then he pointed at a grilled fish sitting on the corner of his stall.
"You hungry?"
Lan Yan immediately brightened. "Yes—"
He moved the fish away. "Then earn money."
Her expression collapsed.
"This is the mortal world," he said simply. "Immortals may pluck peaches from clouds, but we mortals don't."