Chapter Text
One day, Xinmo fell silent. For a cursed demonic sword, silence was unnatural, but Luo Binghe, who had long forgotten what it was like for his mind not to be filled with a constant buzzing, relaxed on his throne with relief. Even in sleep, his mind had been under assault by the bloodthirsty influence of his own weapon.
So when silence finally reigned in his head, the Emperor of the Three Realms felt an unprecedented relief, as if a pulsing pain had finally ceased. He did not ask what had happened to the sword. All he did was close his eyes, savoring the blissful calm. No buzzing, no demands for blood or sex. Luo Binghe almost slipped into nirvana.
Ning Yinyin noticed first. The girl ran into the throne room with such lightness and carelessness, as if she did this every day.
“Ah, A-Luo!” — she chirped, approaching her husband.
His gentle gaze swept over Luo Binghe’s relaxed body. He opened his black eyes - devoid of bloody rage, only rare serenity. He stirred on the throne, spreading his legs and arms so that Ning Yinyin could settle on his lap and press herself to his chest.
“You look so peaceful today,” the girl sang, brushing his cheek with her fingertips. He smiled. His black eyes closed again, he leaned into her touch like a cat starved for affection.
“The day is indeed peaceful,” he purred. His hands rested on her thigh - not lustfully, but softly, almost protectively. “Did you want something?”
“No, no, A-Luo. I just… haven’t seen you in so long. You’ve been away, and we started worrying.”
Yesterday, a mere mention of the harem would have made his thoughts whisper vilely about intertwining with one or several wives. But now, the thought passed fleetingly out of habit—and dissolved. This made Binghe realize that his ceaseless lust was not truly his own.
He only murmured softly in response. He did not want to move - he knew Xinmo’s silence wouldn’t last, and he intended to savor it while he could.
“A-Luo, will you come tonight?” Yinyin played with a strand of his hair.
“Not today.”
The girl frowned in disappointment, but Binghe kept his eyes closed and didn’t see her reaction.
“But why? Liu Shizhe and I are waiting. Sister Sha has been on edge for days, looking for a quarrel.”
“I have work to do. I’ll visit once I’m done,” Luo Binghe said, unwilling to squander the unusual blessing on bedroom antics. For the first time in a long while, his body did not respond automatically to feminine charms. He carefully lifted Ning Yinyin off his lap and set her on the floor. “The more you distract me, the longer it will take.”
His first wife stomped her foot in frustration. Her face twisted, lips pouted. But after a minute of silent sulking, she bit her lower lip, staring at the floor.
“I heard… Liu Minyan asked you to find out… how Shizu… Shen Qingqiu killed Shishu Liu.”
At the mention of their former master’s name, Luo Binghe’s aura flared; the candles in the hall flickered.
“That bastard really did kill Shishu Liu,” the Emperor replied sharply. “I was in his mind and saw his memories.”
Ning Yinyin did not look up. She swallowed quietly and nodded.
“Do you doubt him?” Binghe purred sweetly, yet threateningly.
“I only trust you, A-Luo,” she hurriedly chirped, blinking like butterfly wings.
Binghe nodded, acknowledging her words. Without the sword’s influence, his irritation did not flare so fiercely, so he merely waved his hand, ending the conversation. He rose; his black robes lifted dramatically.
“I’ll come myself when I’m free,” he said, watching his wife leave obediently. He exhaled - the blessed silence returned.
***
One day — wonderful. Two days — suspicious. But Binghe chose not to disturb the sleeping hornet’s nest and continued enjoying Xinmo’s silence. Without its caprice, the demon’s mind was clearer than ever: full of anger and resentment, but not reckless.
If he tried to describe this silence, he would call it contemplative. As if the sword had retreated into itself, analyzing something. If the Emperor were not such a selfish tyrant, he might have wondered what had affected his weapon so profoundly.
The third day began to grate on him.
On the fourth, Xinmo finally made itself known, but not as expected. It remained silent, as if savoring anticipation. Then it flew out of its sheath on its own, opening a portal that Luo Binghe had not summoned.
The sword vibrated excitedly, like a wild beast. Binghe narrowed his eyes suspiciously at the rift in space.
“What are you planning?” he asked. The sword only purred louder in his head, the portal writhing as if beckoning.
Xinmo impatiently leapt into his hand, raising the demon’s arm toward the portal. Binghe understood: the sword wanted to send him somewhere. Over these days, it had been searching for something. But what? Where did the portal lead? Naturally, the Emperor regarded the weapon’s adventure with skepticism.
“I’m not going without explanations.”
The sword roared with rage in his mind.
“Pair! Phoenix! Alive!”
Binghe’s eyes widened. Phoenix? What kind of phoenix? Yet a sly smile spread across his face.
“Oh? A pair? Do swords have pairs too?” — he smirked.
Xinmo fumed, the qi in his body boiling. The demon ground his teeth, glaring at the weapon, squeezing the hilt until it creaked.
A moment later, he smoothed his expression and snorted:
“Fine. Let’s see what you want to show me.”
The sword purred excitedly as the Emperor stepped through the portal.
A blinding sunlight struck him — unfamiliar after his demonic life. It seemed that with the appearance of the Sacred Demon Mark, the colors of the world had faded.
He covered his eyes with the back of his hand, waiting several heartbeats for his vision to adjust. Then he caught the sound and splash of the river.
Removing his hand, Binghe looked around and his gaze landed on a beast’s corpse. The smell of blood invaded his nostrils: fresh, hot, heavy, like steam from a forge. The carcass had been expertly processed — innards removed, claws ripped out.
He touched the soft fur: it would make excellent warm lining for winter clothes. The pelt had been left behind out of ignorance or disuse.
Luo Binghe glanced at his fingers, stained with blood, clicked his tongue, and moved toward the sound of the water. But he stopped behind a tree.
The river glinted like a silver ribbon. And amid this cold clarity stood a man. Waist-deep in the water, long black hair clinging to his bare back like spilled ink on white jade.
The strong muscles of his arms and back shifted as the stranger scooped water and traced it across his chest and collarbones.
Blood usually made people look messy. But on him, it lay like a pattern—a stern mark that this person had just killed.
Old scars lined his back and arms. Luo Binghe squinted. He had seen countless bodies, countless fighters. But such as this—rare. The man’s entire being was like a drawn bowstring: power in every muscle, control in every lazy movement. A predator, always alert.
Water mingled with thin ribbons of blood, running down his taut abdomen. Strange, mesmerizing combination.
Xinmo shivered inside, as if holding its breath.
When the man turned sideways, fresh claw marks ran along his ribs — but they were harmless.
He lifted a hand, tossing black hair back to reveal a snow-white nape. The other hand washed his neck. His face remained hidden, as if deliberately concealed.
For the first time in a long while, Luo Binghe felt true interest. In his world, every man was an enemy but this one…
The man froze. Had he heard or felt something?
Luo Binghe stepped back half a pace.
The river carried blood downstream. The man turned his head toward the shore, revealing his face for the first time.
The first thing the demon noticed a mole under his eye. Then a straight nose, sharp eyebrow line, lips pressed into a thin line. Beautiful—like a sword.
His gaze was cold, focused, like a predatory bird.
“He… seems like an embodiment…” — Binghe found no words. His four-arts training was a mockery, but he could admit: the man embodied severity, strength honed by years of practice, and an accidental nobility of gesture. He did not try to be beautiful—but he was.
The man straightened. His hand rose, and the sword flew into his palm, gleaming in the sun. Xinmo vibrated with excitement, but did not demand blood — it wanted something else.
Luo Binghe froze. The stranger swung the sword, and the water parted, allowing passage. Wet trousers clung to his body, yet he moved as if leading an army. He leapt across the river like a bird in flight.
In a single jump, he landed before the demon, pointing the blade at him.
“Luo Binghe?” — the man’s brows furrowed slightly.
The demon froze. How did he know him? Who was he?