"I know forgiveness doesn't come easily to you. But sending assassins you knew couldn't kill me—was that just an excuse to see me again sooner? How generous of you. To offer your blades to meaningless deaths, so that you wouldn't have to speak first." "Did I not speak first with you?" "You did. But only after I killed them all. There were quite a few, if I recall. It's fortunate I returned them to you—revived, and not permanently dead." "You could've chosen a better way to start a conversation. I might've answered. I know you don't forgive easily—but if it's me asking, I'd be willing to offer something in return." "I want to see you kill yourself over and over again. Since you're only able to kill yourself—no one else can." Ren didn't flinch. "As you wish." He stepped forward. Calm. Precise. But before he could move— "Master, stop—why would you…" Mianmian's voice cracked, trembling with fear. Gǔlóng Yáo turned, eyes molten with stormlight. "Stay out of this, little rodent. This has nothing to do with you. It's between me and your master." Her voice didn't rise. It deepened.
"He hurt me. Deeply. And now I want to see the man I love—yes, love—kill himself. Over and over again. So he can feel what I felt when he left." The storm stirred. "It wasn't just his lovers who suffered. There were others. Friends. Companions. He left us all. Without a word." Lightning flickered across her scales. "He told us to wait. Fine. I waited. We all did." Her voice cracked—not with weakness, but with truth. "But he didn't even say goodbye." Ren looked at her. Not with defiance. Not with regret. He smiled. Soft. Unshaken.A smile carved from love, not apology. Then he drew his sword. No flourish. No hesitation. He turned the blade inward— —and drove it through his heart. The silence that followed was not peace. It was a witness. He collapsed. Breathless. Still. And then— He rose. Eyes dimmer. Smile unchanged. Again. Steel met flesh. Blood met stone. Love met grief. Again. He died. He returned. He died. Each death was a word. Each resurrection, a sentence. And still he smiled. Not because he felt no pain— But because he chose it.
She watched Ren kill himself. Again. And again. And again. He looked at her like he still loved her. Like nothing had changed. Like love was enough. She understood. Ren told them he was leaving. Told them to wait.Said it would be a long time. And they did. They waited. But he never said goodbye. Never said when. Just vanished. That— That was what broke her. Not the leaving.
The silence. And after that— The women he left behind were shattered. They turned on each other. Fought in divine arguments that became wars. Sect against sect. Realm against realm. Anything could spark it. A word. A glance. A slight. Small or large— It didn't matter. They punished. They destroyed. They unleashed their might. Their divine realms burned. Not because of Ren. But because of what he left behind. When she heard Ren had returned— Gǔlóng Yáo became a storm. In front of her clan. In front of her descendants. In front of the cold, dead-serious bloodline she had shaped for more than aeons. She didn't speak. She didn't command. She didn't roar. She wept. And the storm broke with her. Lightning cracked across the ancestral halls. Wind howled through sacred stone. The sky darkened—not with wrath, but with sorrow. It was joy at first. Then the pain again. A wound reopened by hope. She was distraught. Depressed. Unmade. And she was the Ancestor. The one who never bowed. Never wept. Never faltered. Her family rushed to her side. Held her. Shielded her. And then they spoke. "Anyone who leaks this—anyone who speaks of her breaking—will be punished." "Severely." "Killed, if necessary." No exceptions. No mercy. Not even for kin. Her grief was sacred. Her storm, divine. And it would not be made a spectacle. In the end, she stayed in her room. The summons had gone out—every ancient clan called by the Three. She didn't go. Couldn't. She sent one of her blood samples instead. And while the world gathered, she sat awake through the night, unmoving.
Someone lit the incense for her. Someone closed the window when the wind grew bold. She didn't speak. Didn't sleep. Just waited for the storm to pass without her. Eventually, she left her room. That's how she ended up here—watching the man she loves kill himself again. And again. Without hesitation. Without care. She knew he wouldn't die. Knew it meant nothing to him. If it could've killed him, she wouldn't have asked. She would've asked for something else. Something that could evoke her sorrow. But there was nothing. So she watched. And he bled. And the night didn't end. Eventually, Ren had killed himself more times than she could count. Quick. Precise. He didn't hesitate. Didn't flinch. He just kept doing it. Until she asked him to stop. What did death mean to him, anyway? It wasn't released. It wasn't punishment. It was just another motion. If this was what she wanted, so be it. He was okay with that. But she wasn't. Not really. If death could've meant something, she would've asked for it. She would've asked for pain. For memory. For sorrow. But death meant nothing to him. So she watched. And he bled. And the silence stayed between them, heavier than any grave. Ren could feel the blade in his heart each time—if he allowed it. If someone else had struck him, he wouldn't have felt a thing. But this was his hand. His own choice. And so the pain came. Sharp. Familiar. It had been a long time since he felt pain like this. Not since he turned. Not since he became what he is. Too long. Far too long.
"Stop that. Enough. It isn't significant. What does death mean to you? What do I even mean to you?" Her voice didn't rise. It broke—under the weight of everything she'd swallowed. "Good, true immortal… I will make sure that I fulfil my duties for you. I will join the war that's coming. Like the others. I'll fight in the future you choose. I'll bleed for it. For you." She didn't say it out of loyalty. She said it because love, once broken, becomes a vow. She turned to leave. But before she could take a step, Ren was in front of her. His dragon form shimmered—vast, quiet, terrible. He looked at her with eyes you never really read unless he let you. And this time, he let her. "I want to see my Gǔlóng Yáo's real form," he said. "If this is our last time seeing each other for a while… I'll be seeing you then. All of you."
She hesitated. Just for a breath. Just long enough to remember what it meant—to be seen. Then she allowed it. Her form shifted, folding inward, collapsing the storm into flesh. She stood before him in her human form. Her hair fell thick and long, lightning blue—charged with stormlight, braided with thunder. Her eyes burned electric, sharp enough to split silence. Her robe flowed like a tempest held in silk, each fold betraying grace and fury. Her skin glowed with the hue of jade struck by lightning—alive, divine, inevitable. She was Gǔlóng Yáo. Named for the storm. Made of it. And now, she stood before the man she loved— not as an ancestor, not as an Ancient dragon, but as herself.
Gǔlóng Yáo looked at him, her voice low, trembling with restrained fury. "Why would you ask to see this form? I mean nothing to you, anyhow." Ren smiled—soft, unshaken, carved from something older than apology. "That's such a silly thing to say. If you meant nothing to me, I wouldn't have listened to your command. Even if I can't feel the pain of death unless it's by my hand— Even if death is meaningless to me— I was willing to do it. Because you asked." He stepped closer, not to touch, but to be near. "If there's something else you'd prefer— Something you want me to do, or give— I'll do it. Straight away. Without batting an eye." He looked at her, eyes open, unguarded. "And I wouldn't be standing here in front of you If I didn't care." His voice softened, but didn't falter. "I'm willing to wait for you to forgive me. After all, we both have all the time in the world." Then, quieter still— "And since I do intend to raise the children you're bearing— for as long as you'll let me— after all, they're ours." He paused. "I'm sorry, it's not enough. But I might as well say it anyhow."
Gǔlóng Yáo stood still, her voice sharp, brittle. "Why did you have to see that crazy bitch first, Mìngjiè Xiānlù?" She didn't cry. But it took everything not to. Every ounce of willpower to stand there and not break. Ren didn't flinch. "I didn't choose to. It happened." His voice was steady, not defensive—just authentic. "I intended to see all of you. Whatever order it came in doesn't mean I cherished her more. Not to me, anyhow." He looked at her—not past her, not through her. "I just go with what feels right in the moment. When I'm ready. When you're all ready." He stepped forward slowly and deliberately. "After all, I might come at a bad moment. Some of you might not want to see me. It might bring too much pain." He paused, then added— "But you pushed yourself to see me. Even if you sent assassins to kill me. Even if you started the observation from there."
"You're a cruel and hateful True Immortal." Gǔlóng Yáo didn't shout it. She said it like a truth carved into bone. She looked down at her belly—flat, but still carrying. She'd been pregnant a long time. Longer than mortals could bear. Longer than he'd been gone. She rubbed it slowly. Not tender—just trying to feel something that wasn't pain. She'd thought about killing them. Back when he first left. Back when he didn't say goodbye. But they wouldn't have died. Not really. They were his children. And she'd stopped herself. Not because they were immortal. But because she couldn't bring herself to take it out on her flesh and blood. That made it worse. It made her feel shitty. For even thinking it. For being that hurt. For being willing to do something so monstrous to make Ren regret leaving without a word.
She nearly cried. But didn't. She turned without a second glance. No words. No fury. Just silence. Then—her body shimmered, lengthened, coiled. Scales rippled like moonlight on water. Her mane flared, divine and untamed. Claws curled, breath thick with stormlight. Gǔlóng Yáo became the dragon. Not the beast. The storm. She rose without wings. The sky bent to her. Clouds parted. Thunder bowed. She vanished into the tempest, a streak of sorrow and divinity. Ren watched her go. He didn't follow. Didn't call out. He stood there for a long time. Then turned. And walked back to his disciples.
Mianmian broke the silence, voice sharp but uncertain. "Master… who was that woman? She seemed… unstable. What did you even see in her?" Ren didn't flinch. "That's like asking what I see in you. Does it really matter? I just see you. That's enough for me." No anger. No defense. Just truth. Gao Yun stepped forward, voice low but probing. "You've given me advice on how to be better for my wife. How come you don't follow some of it yourself?" Ren gave a faint smile. "Depends on the woman. Each one is different. They might seem similar— but they feel things in their own way." He looked at Gao Yun, steady. "I give you advice based on what I know will work for your wife. You follow it because, deep down, you already know what's right. You just want another voice to confirm it.