Hanrui opened her eyes to the dim hush of her residence. The air was thick with the scent of healing cultivation medicine—bitter, floral, ancient. Her body ached beneath layers of bandages, each one a silent testament to the duel she'd lost and the pride she refused to surrender.
Yunbei was there.
He'd been watching over her, eyes rimmed with worry. The moment she stirred, he rushed to her side, voice trembling with relief. She smiled—soft, calculated—and reached up to touch his face—handsome, loyal, hers.
Velanisse Historia's fiancé.
But that title was ceremonial. Decorative.
Hanrui and Yunbei had been childhood companions, shadows of each other. They trained together, bled together, whispered secrets in the cold hours between cultivation sessions. And somewhere along the way, behind Velanisse's back, they became something else.
Not lovers. Not allies.
Co-conspirators.
She had him under her hand—not through seduction, but through history. Through guilt. Through the quiet power of being the one who knew him before he became who he pretended to be.
And now, as he knelt beside her, she didn't see betrayal.
She saw possession.
Of course, Hanrui had been friends with Velanisse Historia for years. They'd cultivated together, conspired together, shared victories and secrets. That made the betrayal worse. She knew it was wrong—claiming Velanisse's fiancé behind her back—but she did it anyway. Not out of love. Out of pride. Out of the need to prove she could still take what she wanted.
Velanisse had tried to reclaim her honour after losing to Ren. Hanrui had warned her not to cross Shen Wuyin. Velanisse didn't listen. She went through with it—and saw things she wished she could unsee. Things that didn't fit the old order of fear and reverence.
Hanrui understood that too well.
For the first time, she felt powerless. Not because she lacked cultivation. Not because she'd been defeated. But because someone looked at her and didn't flinch. Shen Wuyin didn't treat her like an empress. Didn't worship her like a goddess. He treated her as if she were ordinary.
And that terrified her.
He wasn't her type—plain-looking, with no status, no visible power, and no beauty to weaponise. She had dismissed him as irrelevant. The only thing she appreciated, if she was honest, was his height; he stood over ten feet tall, while she was nine feet one inch. That fact gave her pause, but height alone didn't inspire fear.
Silence didn't equate to submission.
Shen Wuyin neither bowed nor threatened. He didn't even acknowledge her as someone worth fearing. That, more than anything, made her feel small.
She clenched her fist so hard it split the skin, blood threading down her knuckles like melted rubies.
Yunbei didn't flinch. He stepped closer, voice low, almost reverent.
"What's wrong, my Ice Phoenix?"
"It's nothing, my Mythical Ox," she said, voice brittle with restraint. "Just keep standing there. Let me look at you—your height, your silence, your power. It makes me happy. It reminds me you're mine. Mine alone."
She didn't mean it as possession. Not entirely. It was desperation dressed as devotion—a need to reclaim something that hadn't bowed to her. Shen Wuyin didn't respond. He didn't need to. His presence was enough: tall, quiet, unshaken.
And that, more than anything, made her furious.
Not because he defied her—but because he didn't even try. No resistance, no reverence, no fear. Just silence. As if she were beneath reaction. As if her power, her beauty, her name meant nothing.
That kind of disregard was worse than defeat. It was erasure.
After that, her best friend arrived—Velanisse Historia, quiet as snowfall, eyes sharp with concern. She saw Yunbei standing in Hanrui's residence, posture intact, expression composed. To most, he looked untouched. But Velanisse knew better. His pride bore deeper wounds than his body.
She stepped closer, voice low, intimate, edged with sorrow.
"Yunbei… are you alright, my poor fiancé?"
"I'm fine, Velanisse," Yunbei said, voice low but steady. "Thank you for asking. I'm still standing. That's all that matters."
He paused. His breath hitched. Blood touched his lip. He wiped it away without ceremony, then clenched his fist, knuckles whitening.
"He pulled his power. I felt it—held back, like I wasn't worth the full strike. And still…"
He looked down at his hand, trembling with fury.
"To think someone like him—someone who looks like nothing—could do this to me. A prince. The future emperor of the Ox Clan. Second only in power to the legendary ancient Ox Clan from the stories my grandfather told me."
His voice dropped, bitter and resolute.
"I won't disgrace my clan again."
Velanisse stepped forward and wrapped her arms around Yunbei. He hesitated, then returned the embrace—slowly, like someone remembering how to be held.
Hanrui didn't rise. She lay in bed, propped against silk pillows, the frost lotus scent still clinging to her skin. Her face was unreadable. Not cold. Not jealous. Just indifferent.
She didn't flinch. Didn't speak. She already had him—folded beneath her silence, curled in the back of her hand like a blade she hadn't yet drawn.
She watched them with the quiet of someone who'd already won. Velanisse's warmth was temporary. Yunbei's loyalty was fractured. And Hanrui? Hanrui was the fracture.
Velanisse sat beside Hanrui's bed, the bowl warm in her hands. She stirred the porridge slowly—ice honey folded into cream, the kind Hanrui liked when her body ached but her pride refused to show it. She lifted the spoon and fed her, gently, like one would a sister or a queen.
Hanrui accepted it without ceremony. Their eyes met. They smiled.
It was soft. Familiar. Almost tender.
Velanisse knew Hanrui had a thing for Yunbei. She'd seen the glances, the silences, the way he stood too close when he didn't need to. She suspected the truth. She just hadn't caught them yet.
And until she had proof—undeniable, unspoken, unshakable—she wouldn't do anything. Not yet.
For now, she fed her friend. And watched.
Velanisse and Yunbei walked side by side, fingers intertwined. She smiled at him—soft, radiant, the kind of smile that belonged to someone who believed in love. He smiled back, just enough to make it believable.
To anyone watching, they looked complete. A prince and his betrothed. Loyal. In love.
But Yunbei's heart was drifting.
Not away from Velanisse entirely—she was still warmth, still memory—but toward someone colder. Someone sharper. Someone who didn't ask for his love, only his silence.
Hanrui.
As they made their way back to the residence, they caught sight of Shen Wuyin. He wasn't alone—walking beside him were Princess Lianhua Tianchen, Prince Mingyu Tianchen, Gao Yun, and Mianmian.
After a brief exchange, they each returned to their residence. Shen Wuyin and Mianmian lingered. She leapt onto his shoulder with a soft laugh, arms draped like silk, her giggle trailing behind them as they crossed the threshold together.
"I don't believe it. I mean—she's dating him? I might not like her, but she's an attractive woman. She should have standards."
"Forget it. Let's go, Velanisse. I don't want to see his face again. Just looking at him pissed me off."
Velanisse slept, but the dream came sharp and vivid—like memory from a future she hadn't lived. She didn't know where she was, but the walls resembled Hanrui's residence. There was a sound. Low, rhythmic. She didn't want to believe it. It was Yunbei. And Hanrui. The closer she moved toward the door, the clearer it became. They were together. Laughing. Breathing. He was having sex with her—open, unrestrained, more alive than he ever was with Velanisse. Tears came before she could stop them. What was wrong with me? she thought. Was I not as striking? Not as wanted? Her body was perfect. She wasn't inferior. But the doubt crawled in anyway. Then—someone behind her. A whisper, low and intimate, brushing her ear. She turned—a figure cloaked in shadow.
"Just make me forget," she pleaded. "Please."
She kissed the darkness.
And woke up.
I woke in sweat and tears. Yunbei wasn't beside me. I got up, bare and frantic, pulling nothing on as I ran through the residence. He was there—shirtless, towel slung low, steam rising from the shower behind him. He looked at me with worry, voice soft and loving, and for a moment, I thought, I don't deserve you. I should treat you better. You're my fiancé.
I'd had my suspicions about him and Hanrui, but it couldn't be true. I didn't want to believe it. If the dream ever became real, I wouldn't survive it.
Still, the shadow figure lingered in my mind. The voice—it sounded familiar. Too familiar.
No, I thought. It couldn't be.
As if I'd ever sleep with someone like that.
"What's wrong, Velanisse? I'm here. I haven't gone anywhere—just stepped into the shower, that's all."
He smiled, eyes soft. "You're naked."
Then he lifted her, gentle and familiar, and carried her to bed.
And just like that, the dream vanished. As if it had never existed. As if her mind had sealed it away, too vivid to hold, too painful to name.
Hanrui lay in her residence, sleeping off the bruises and fractures. But her dream was something else—vivid, visceral, wrong.
She was in her bed, head pressed into the pillow, someone behind her, pulling her hair. The rhythm was unmistakable.
Then she saw him. Yunbei. Standing in the doorway. His eyes were wide, horrified.
She woke instantly. Breath ragged. Her body is twitching.
She looked down, touched herself. Wet.
What was that? she thought. "
As she lay there, the dream still clinging to her skin like sweat, Hanrui frowned. It felt too real. Like prophecy, not fantasy.
"I let him finish inside me," she murmured, voice flat.
She didn't let men do that. Not even Yunbei.
That act—so final, so intimate—was something she'd sworn to reserve. Not until she chose the man worthy of bearing her child. Not until she decided.
But she hadn't decided. Not truly. Not then.
She blinked hard. No. That wasn't real. Just a dream. Just noise.
She turned over, pulled the blanket tighter, and let sleep take her. By morning, it was gone—forgotten, buried.
Velanisse woke in silence. Yunbei lay beside her, deep in sleep, his breath slow, untroubled. She rose without a sound, wrapped herself in her robes, and tied her flame-orange hair into a high ponytail—stylised, deliberate. A fire lotus clip glinted at the base, the emblem of her clan. She applied her makeup with practised ease. Not for vanity. She was beautiful without it. But she liked the ritual—the control, the femininity, the quiet assertion of self.
The dream was gone. Forgotten. As if it had never clawed its way into her sleep.
She glanced back once—Yunbei still unmoving—then stepped into the corridor.
She didn't see him until they collided.
Sheny Wuyin. Cold eyes. Indifferent. That look—flat, unreadable—lit something in her chest. Rage, stupid and sharp. How dare he look down on me? One of the striking beauties of this sect. He should be grateful.
He walked past her without a word.
She struck the floor—robes flaring, orange hair spilling like flame. Her voice cracked the air.
"How dare you ignore me. You will show me respect—I am a princess of the Fire Lotus Empire!"
She forced him to meet her gaze. But his eyes didn't shift. Didn't see her. Not truly.
Unforgivable, she thought. This boy needs reminding.
He stood over thirteen feet tall. She was nine feet one. Not close. Not even near. But she would collapse the distance. She would make him see.
She shoved him against the wall, hand firm on his shoulder, forcing his gaze downward until he met her eyes. She stood tall—nine feet one, flame-haired, furious—and made sure he saw every inch of her.
"Much better," she said, voice low and cutting. "I don't like feeling small. Especially not to someone like you."
Sheny Wuyin didn't react. That indifference—calm, unreadable—only made her blood burn hotter.
"You've beaten me more than once, fine. But you cheated. I know you did. I don't want to believe what I saw—because what I saw wasn't you. That power doesn't belong to someone like you."
She leaned in, eyes narrowed.
Still, his eyes didn't shift. Still, he didn't speak.
And that silence—that refusal to acknowledge her—was the most profound insult of all.
She raised her hand to slap him. He caught it mid-air, fingers closing like a vice. Bone cracked. The muscle tore. She gasped, not from pain, but from the shock of being stopped.
"How dare you?" she hissed, voice trembling with fury.
Her other hand rose, slower this time, but he didn't wait. He hurled her sideways—no flourish, no ceremony—just a broken toy discarded mid-play.
"You're really annoying," he said, brushing dust from his sleeve. "I don't like hurting people. Not unless I have to."
He looked at her then, not with guilt, not with triumph—just a quiet, tired disdain. As if she'd made him break something he'd rather have left whole.
He walked away without a second glance. No hesitation, no farewell—just the quiet dismissal of someone who'd already decided she wasn't worth the weight.
Then Velanisse noticed it: a squirrel perched on his shoulder, tail flicking with unnatural precision.
It shimmered, twisted, and transformed—fur giving way to skin, claws to fingers. Mianmian sat there now, legs curled around his neck like a throne, smirking with theatrical disdain.
She met Velanisse's gaze, eyes gleaming with mockery, then leaned in and kissed Shen Wuyin on the cheek—slow, deliberate, territorial.
"Don't pay attention to her, Master," Mianmian transmitted into his mind, voice silk-wrapped venom. "She's just an annoying little nuisance. She doesn't know you like I do."
Her tone was playful, but the message was clear.
Velanisse Historia ignited—literally. Her body became flame, her hair a crown of wildfire, her eyes twin furnaces of wrath. She stepped forward, ready to chase him down, burn through his indifference, scorch the silence he left behind.
But a hand caught her wrist.
Yunbei.
"Leave him be, Velanisse," he said, voice low but steady. "He's not worth it. We'll get our payback—sooner or later. And we'll reclaim our glory. I promise."
She didn't speak. Her breath was still fire, her eyes still burning.
Then he kissed her—on the lips, with the kind of passion that didn't ask for permission. It wasn't soft. It was grounding.
She kissed him back, fierce at first, then slower. The heat in her veins began to settle. Her flames dimmed, then vanished, leaving only smoke and silence.
She exhaled, and for the first time in hours, her hands stopped trembling.
Hanrui had fully healed. The cultivation medicine had done its work, but it was the ice-honey porridge—warm, fragrant, laced with care—that lingered in her memory. Velanisse had fed it to her herself, spoon by spoon, with that rare softness she reserved only for Hanrui.
The pain was gone. The fractures mended. Her spirit felt whole again.
Hanrui stood before the frost mirror, combing her ice-blue hair with slow, deliberate strokes. Her reflection shimmered—ethereal, composed, breathtaking. She wasn't just beautiful; she was sculpted from winter's grace, the kind of woman men dreamed of but never truly touched.
She slipped into her cultivation robes, the same shade as her hair and eyes—ice blue, regal, serene. Each fold of silk whispered elegance, each movement a quiet declaration of control.
One final touch: ice-blue lipstick, calm and commanding. She pressed her lips together, then returned to the bed, the room still humming with quiet frostlight.
Then the door opened.
Yunbei entered, tall as ever, nine feet five and carved from stormlight. His presence didn't startle—it settled, like gravity returning to a drifting world.
Hanrui lingered at his jawline, fingers tracing the edge like she was mapping territory. Her hand slid across his broad chest—slow, deliberate, claiming each breath he took as hers. Then she kissed him. First on the lips, firm. Then on the neck, softer, but no less final.
This wasn't affection. It was a declaration.
He was her prize. Her object. Her possession.
Not because he was weak, but because she had chosen him. And when Hanrui chose, the world bent to accommodate.
After that, she rode him—not with haste, but with the slow, deliberate rhythm of someone claiming a throne. "That's it, my Mythical Ox," she whispered against his ear, voice thick with heat and command. "Make your Ice phoenix feel better."
Yunbei didn't answer. He didn't need to. His body obeyed, reverent and unyielding, like a beast carved for her pleasure alone.
She gripped his shoulders, nails biting into flesh. "Good," she breathed. "That's my good Yunbei."
Not a lover. Not a consort. A possession made divine by her choosing.
I sat cross-legged in Gǔlóng Shu's residence. When I opened my eyes, I saw her older twin sister—Gǔlóng Yáo, my lover. She stood before me, white-blue lightning flickering in her eyes, the same hue braided through her hair. Her robes shimmered with that same cold light, and her cape, torn at the edges, hung over armour streaked with blood. Crimson marked her cheeks— fresh, she'd come from battle and hadn't yet decided whether to speak of it. She didn't show pain, but there was a flicker of surprise in her gaze, as if she hadn't expected me here.
"So," she said, voice low and edged with something unspoken, "you're staying in her residence. The Black Dragon Sect. You're truly something, True immortal."
"What made you wear armour?" I asked.
"I fought the ancestor of the Ancient Tiger Clan. She asked about you mid-strike. I said there wasn't much to say—The True Immortal, not vanishing without a word this time."
"I warned you I might go. Told you all to wait. You knew that. But I understand why you keep bringing it up."
"And you keep saying that," she said.
"I didn't expect to see you again so soon, True Immortal—least of all in my younger sister's residence."
I looked up at her—nine foot seven, towering, silent. Her cape hung in tatters, clawed through by something ancient and proud. The armour beneath bore the same marks, but it was the blood on her cheek that stopped me. It wasn't hers. It was my other lover's.
"Why did you two fight?" I asked
"She was angry," she said, voice low, eyes unreadable. "Angry that I fought you last time. Angry that I tried to kill you. Pointless, honestly. You don't die." She looked at me then, with something like pity—no, scorn. "Sadly."