The forest was a sea of emerald, bathed in the dappled sunlight filtering through the canopy. Mist curled around towering peaks like a living tapestry, painting the landscape in strokes of ethereal beauty.
March—the season of blooming peach blossoms. Yet here, deep in the mountains, the scenery rivaled the fabled "Peach Blossom Spring," untouched by the clamor of the mortal world.
"Chirp-chirp—"
A crisp morning breeze roused Haru from sleep. Still groggy, he groped beside him out of habit, only to find the usual meditating figure absent.
No matter. He stretched out lazily, blinking up at the now-familiar wooden beams above.
"A whole year already…"
That's right—he'd isekai'd.
Twelve months had passed since he'd been thrust into this world, and Haru had slowly adapted to life here… including his "cohabitation" with the Rakshasa King, his self-proclaimed elder sister.
They technically lived together—shared meals, shared a roof.
Though "meals" were a stretch. The Rakshasa King had long since transcended mortal needs like eating or drinking. She could survive in airless voids, unscathed by extreme heat or cold.
Calling her "human" almost felt inaccurate. "Sword Immortal" or "Celestial Beauty" fit far better.
He rolled over.
Though her warmth had long faded from the bedding, her scent lingered—a mix of alpine frost and something inexplicably divine.
Don't get the wrong idea.
While they did share a room, Luo Haru's situation was only marginally better than a certain "Condor Hero"'s chaste arrangements. The bedding? All his. The Rakshasa King spent her nights in meditation, never bothering to distance herself from him… but that was the extent of it.
Anything more?
Not a chance.
The gap between their strength was laughable. Even after a year of rigorous training under her, Haru stood no hope of rivaling her—not in decades, maybe not even in lifetimes.
Because she was—
A Campione.
A God-Slayer.
By definition, one who had felled a deity, devoured its soul, and seized its divine authority.
No amount of talent, no decades of cultivation, could bridge that chasm. That's why Campiones were called "Kings"—beings who defied mortal limits through miracle or sheer, absurd luck.
Human strength meant nothing before gods. Becoming a Campione wasn't about bloodline, destiny, or hard work.
It was about breaking the impossible.
And the Rakshasa King?
She was China's Campione, the Martial Arts Alliance Leader, the Supreme Demon Sovereign reigning over the Five Sacred Peaks Sect. A warrior-queen who stood at the pinnacle of martial might.
And yet—
She was also unbearably, devastatingly gorgeous.
Vain? Absolutely. But with her peerless beauty and power, she had every right to be.
Haru wasn't immune to her allure. (Who would be?) But so far, his greatest privilege was… occasional lap pillows.
The Rakshasa King was a paradox—disciplined yet domineering, aloof yet oddly doting. She treated him as genuine family, sharing her space, even indulging his whims at times.
A stark contrast to how she dealt with others.
Most who dared meet her gaze would gouge their own eyes out.
Those who heard her voice would sever their ears in penance.
"Hah… better get up. She'll scold me if I laze around."
With a sigh, Haru pushed himself upright, taking in the spartan elegance of her—no, their—chamber.
The room was sparsely furnished—aside from the sleeping area, there stood only an antique dressing table and a wardrobe. Some of the furniture and daily necessities had clearly been added for his sake.
The early March morning carried a slight chill, but the mere thought of displeasing his elder sister sent a jolt through Haru. In an instant, he rolled out of bed and swiftly changed his clothes.
"Hmm, my hair's gotten longer."
Without hesitation, he seated himself at the Rakshasa King's dressing table, studying his reflection in the bronze mirror.
Jet-black, thick short hair. Handsome brows and bright jade-green eyes, a face as flawless as jade—radiant yet gentle.
Resting his chin on his hand, he flashed a smile, instantly transforming into the very image of an elegant, carefree young master.
"Wow… I really do look Chinese. But if you look closely, I have Japanese features too."
That had confused him at first. When he first looked into the mirror a year ago, he'd been shocked to see such a beautiful 15-year-old kid staring back.
Not that he was an old man before. He'd been 20.
But still, the difference was insane.
A year into his transmigration, he hadn't awakened any cheat-like abilities or a "golden finger" system—but he had been blessed with striking good looks.
Even without deliberate grooming, his natural charm as a dashing gentleman couldn't be hidden. The kind of beauty that could make countless young maidens swoon.
What did it mean to "wake up handsome every day"?
This was it.
After tidying his hair in the mirror, Haru grabbed a wooden basin and headed to the stream behind the cottage for a quick wash.
Living deep in the mountains had its perks—serene, picturesque scenery—but it also meant no internet, no phone signals, no electricity, no gas, and no running water.
Even oil lamps and candles had only appeared after his arrival.
Once finished, he made his way to the front hall.
But unlike the tranquil surroundings, the atmosphere inside was heavy and silent.
It wasn't empty—far from it.
Two figures occupied the space.
One sat imposingly on a chair, exuding an aura of unyielding authority.
The other knelt on the ground, posture utterly reverent.
Despite the morning chill, the figure kneeling on the ground was pale as paper, sweat pouring down his face. His lowered eyes held nothing but fear and reverence.
"Sis."
A slight nod.
Though her expression was icy, her features were exquisitely, devastatingly beautiful.
No matter how many times he saw her, Haru was struck anew by her radiance every time he stood beside her.
She could only be described as a "peerless beauty"—green eyes like gemstones, silken black hair cascading like ink, adorned in an elegant han-style robe embroidered with delicate flowers and foliage.
Her sleeves and hem flowed long and graceful, sheer ribbons fluttering like a celestial maiden's feathers. A floral hairpin adorned her ear, and she held a folded fan with effortless poise.
The moment Haru appeared, the oppressive atmosphere seemed to lighten slightly.
Yet, without a word from the Rakshasa King, the kneeling figure dared not move—though inwardly, he breathed a tiny sigh of relief.
This was a boy of about thirteen or fourteen, with delicate, refined features, dressed in a black upper robe and dark jeans.
Less a "boy" and more a heartbreakingly adorable shota!
Lu Yinghua—the Rakshasa King's personal disciple, a prodigy since childhood, already possessing remarkable skill despite his youth.
But right now, he knelt there, badly injured, before a broken relic. A smashed treasure. Whatever it had been—it was now nothing but fragments.