Chapter 128
"I've already made my decision, Huan Zheng," Ling Xu finally said.
Her voice was no longer gentle like when she forgave The Silent One, no longer filled with hesitation like when she wondered whether she should become a monster or not. Instead, it was firm and unwavering, like someone who had thought everything through carefully and would never retreat, never change her mind, never be swayed by anyone.
"They will be punished. They will feel what my mother felt. They will be violated. They will be raped. They will be used by anyone who wishes to use them, endlessly, mercilessly, without pity, forever. And that punishment will be displayed, Ling Xu. Displayed upon pillars. Shown before all the people. As a warning that evil will never be tolerated, that justice will always be upheld, that those who commit atrocities will receive the punishment they deserve, no matter how long it takes, no matter how much influence they possess, no matter how high their status may be."
And Huan Zheng—upon hearing Ling Xu's decision, upon hearing that the dozens of humans who had destroyed her childhood would be punished in the same way they had punished her mother, upon hearing that the torment would be displayed publicly as a warning—merely nodded.
A single nod that felt like respect. A single nod that felt like acknowledgment that Ling Xu had every right to do whatever she wished to those who had stolen her happiness, that no one could forbid her, that no one could stop her, because she was Ling Xu, the daughter of a Goddess who had been violated and abused before her eyes, the lover of a lazy man who preferred sleeping atop an ox cart rather than living in a magnificent palace, and now, one of the four supreme rulers of the infinite universe, whose Dao authority could not be challenged by anyone.
The punishment was carried out the following day, in the main square of the capital city, before thousands of citizens who had gathered to witness justice being served.
Dozens of humans—men and women, old and young, rich and poor—stood upon towering iron pillars, their hands bound, their legs chained, their mouths gagged with filthy cloth so their screams would not disrupt the execution of the sentence.
And one by one, through the Dao authority possessed by Ling Xu, Huan Zheng, and The Singer as cultivators of Complexity Dao, the torment began.
Not ordinary physical torture—beatings, whippings, or crude forms of suffering—but something subtler, crueler, far more inhuman.
They were forced to feel what Ling Xu's mother had felt that night, upon the cold stone floor, when dozens of depraved men took turns violating her body, when she screamed for help but no one listened, when she cried and begged for mercy but no one cared, when she finally lost her voice and could only remain silent, silent, silent, until her head was severed from her body and all that remained was silence, a silence more horrifying than screams themselves.
"This is for my mother," Ling Xu whispered.
Her voice was no longer firm and steady like when she had declared the punishment, but broken, trembling, like the snapped string of a guqin in the middle of its most beautiful melody, and at the corners of the empty eyes hidden beneath her white bandages, something wet began to gather.
Not tears, because she had lost both of her eyes, and without eyes, no tears could fall. There was only pain, pain with no outlet, pain festering within her chest, rotting, rotting, rotting. But this time, that pain no longer felt like a burden. Instead, it felt like release, like something finally leaving her after years of suppression, like a wound finally being cleaned after years of being wrapped without ever truly healed.
"This is for every tear she shed. This is for every scream that left her lips. This is for every part of her body that you enjoyed without guilt."
And the punishment would never end.
Not because Ling Xu was cruel, not because she was incapable of forgiveness, not because she wished to become a monster, but because she understood that justice did not always mean death.
Sometimes justice meant making the guilty feel what their victim had felt.
Sometimes justice meant denying them escape, denying them repentance, denying them anything except endless suffering, forever, just like the memory of her mother would never fade, never disappear, never be forgotten, no matter how many gods she killed, no matter how many universes she burned, no matter how many deaths she endured.
And while the punishment still continued—while those dozens of humans still screamed upon the iron pillars, while the people watching slowly dispersed one by one because they could no longer bear witnessing endless suffering, while the sun began to sink beyond the western horizon and the sky turned blood-red like the memory of her mother that she could never forget—Ling Xu, Huan Zheng, and The Singer stood side by side.
Silent.
Not speaking.
Not moving.
Only breathing, breathing, breathing, feeling that something unimaginably heavy had finally been lifted from their shoulders, that something which had bound them for years had finally come undone, that they were finally free—free to live, free to love, free to be happy, without constantly looking back, without constantly remembering the past, without endlessly wondering whether what they had done was enough, whether what they had sacrificed had been worth it, whether they deserved happiness after everything that had happened.
Several weeks after the punishment had been carried out—after Ling Xu began growing accustomed to a peace she had never felt before, after she could finally sleep without nightmares of her mother being violated before her eyes, after she could finally smile without guilt—Huan Zheng summoned her to his private chamber.
It was a simple room, containing only a bed, an old teakwood table, and a window overlooking the palace's blooming rear garden.
"Ling Xu," Huan Zheng said.
His voice was still as lazy as ever, still sounding like someone casually reading a shopping list in the marketplace, yet beneath that laziness, something stirred. Something that might have been called nervousness by people who still believed that even a lazy man could feel his heart race when about to say something important.
"There's something I need to tell you. About… about my family. About Huan Mei. About Huan Shu and Huan Yan. About what truly happened to them after they left me behind."
And Ling Xu—upon hearing those names, names that once made her jealous, names that once angered her, names that nearly drove her to tears because she believed herself unworthy of loving a man who already had a family—remained silent.
She merely sat at the edge of the bed, merely looked toward Huan Zheng with her third eye that remained tightly closed yet pulsed faintly, signaling that she was listening, that she was ready, that whatever Huan Zheng was about to say, she would accept it.
No hesitation.
No fear.
No need to hide.
To be continued…