Yun Duan was fleeing from Tianwai Tian in a panic.
At that moment, she had no room to care about anything else. When she attacked Pei Chen, the commotion was so great that it quickly attracted the guards outside. If they had arrived just a few breaths later, Pei Chen would have died by her hand. Yun Duan wasn’t sure if she should feel regret about it.
When the guards realized something was off and tried to intervene, Yun Duan, who had just been filled with murderous intent, was quickly defeated.
The reason was simple—she couldn’t draw Feiwang to fight back.
All of her killing intent and emotions receded like the tide when her hand instinctively reached for the sword hilt, leaving behind nothing but chaos and devastation in her heart. Yun Duan no longer wanted to stay there any longer. She stumbled and fled from Tianwai Tian, running through several streets before stopping woodenly in an unknown alley.
Wan Shao, who had been waiting outside because her demonic race status prevented her from entering Tianwai Tian, hurriedly caught up. Even though she had no idea what had happened in such a short time, anyone could see that something was terribly wrong with Yun Duan at that moment. Wan Shao suppressed a growing sense of foreboding and softly asked, “…What happened?”
“…”
Facing a dead-end alley, Yun Duan remained silent, as if in a trance, showing no reaction to Wan Shao’s words. Wan Shao couldn’t see Yun Duan’s expression but inexplicably sensed a distant coldness and solitude from her thin figure.
The ominous feeling was so strong that Wan Shao didn’t dare to ask Yun Duan further. Just as her nerves were fraying, the person in front of her suddenly spoke, like someone talking in their sleep.
“…The Ghost Realm.”
Her voice was faint. Wan Shao quickly stepped closer, afraid of missing something, but she didn’t expect Yun Duan, who had been standing still, to suddenly turn around. A heart-stopping red flickered in her usually clear eyes.
Yun Duan’s thin lips parted slightly, her trembling voice carrying a bitter determination.
“I’m going to the Ghost Realm.”
Nothing else seemed to matter to Yun Duan. She practically stormed into the Ghost Realm.
The gentle, patient, and compassionate person she once was had completely vanished. Wan Shao, afraid something might happen to her, stuck close behind, but never had a chance to intervene. Yun Duan moved like a precise killer, mercilessly slashing at any ghost who came within three feet of her—with Wuyou. Feiwang remained securely fastened to her waist, silent and untouched.
Though she hadn’t wanted to stay a moment longer, she still made a detour to retrieve Wuyou from Yuncheng before storming into the Ghost Realm. This made Wan Shao, who hadn’t been able to get any explanation from Yun Duan, even more confused. Throughout the entire process, Yun Duan remained silent, not uttering another word. The once ethereal and graceful woman now seemed more like a soulless husk in Wan Shao’s eyes.
Fortunately, Yun Duan wasn’t bloodthirsty. The ghosts soon realized they were dealing with a formidable opponent, and, being a disorganized bunch to begin with, they scattered, avoiding Yun Duan and no longer throwing themselves at her to die. The journey became much smoother, and Yun Duan paid no attention to the ghosts watching her from the shadows, merely gripping Wuyou coldly as she walked past. The scene was almost comical.
By the time Nanshuang and Yuange, who had rushed back from the Immortal Realm, arrived, Yun Duan had already turned the Ghost King’s study upside down.
“What is Yun Zhongjun doing?” Nanshuang almost laughed in disbelief as she looked at the chaotic study. “Charging into the Ghost Realm alone—are you here to declare war?”
Yuange was much more gentle, taking a few steps forward to stand in front of Yun Duan, who was still flipping through books without looking up. She asked with concern, “What are you looking for? We heard about the commotion at Tianwai Tian before we returned… Did something happen?”
Yun Duan paused her quick flipping through the pages, then closed the book and finally raised her eyes to meet Nanshuang’s.
“The registry,” she said calmly, her tone no different from usual. “I need to see the ghost registry.”
“…”
Nanshuang subtly glanced at Yun Duan’s hand, which couldn’t quite stop trembling. After a brief silence, Yun Duan’s gaze grew colder and colder. Even if she didn’t know exactly what had happened at Tianwai Tian, the Ghost King had already pieced together most of it in her mind. Without further hesitation, she went to the corner of the study and retrieved the ghost registry from a hidden compartment.
Yun Duan’s entire body tensed. She reached out to take it, but Nanshuang deftly avoided her hand, leaving her grasp empty. In an instant, palpable killing intent locked onto Nanshuang, and both flower spirits in the room took two steps back. Standing in the center of the deadly aura, Nanshuang struggled to keep her composure as she looked at this woman, now so different from just days ago, and slowly spoke.
“…So now you think Shang Can is dead?” Nanshuang’s words were blunt, watching Yun Duan’s reaction closely. She chuckled lightly, “What use is there in flipping through the ghost registry?”
“This registry only records names, the date they entered Biluohuangquan, and where they went after—”
Nanshuang casually flipped through the thick book in her hands, her words laced with a bit of sarcasm: “Even if you find ‘Shang Can’ in here, how will you know it’s really her?”
“And even if you don’t find her name, does that mean it’s good news? It might be better to give up now.”
Coldly watching the person in front of her, who was about to snap, Nanshuang casually tossed the registry to her. In a voice only the two of them could hear, she added, “…If you’re sure she’s really dead, but her name isn’t in the registry, then either her soul was captured before reaching Biluohuangquan, or she’s been completely annihilated—whether you find her name or not, what difference does it make?”
Suddenly, a flash of white sword light burst forth. Behind Nanshuang, who still maintained a calm expression, the wall was sliced cleanly in half. It slowly collapsed with a deafening crash, followed by the sound of more walls tumbling down like dominoes throughout the Ghost King’s residence. Yun Duan had destroyed half the residence with a single slash.
Yet the sword light did not fade. The clear, resounding hum of the sword echoed through the sky, and the brilliant white light cut across the blood-red skies of the Ghost Realm. Though the person who had ridden their sword away was already far gone, the sword’s hum lingered for a long time.
Unconcerned with the crumbling building, Nanshuang listened closely. After a while, it almost seemed as though she could hear someone sobbing in the distance.
Finally closing the pages of the book, Yun Duan’s fingers felt stiff, as if frozen. Her breath seemed to form ice crystals, and her entire body was chilled to the bone.
She had spent the entire night poring over the ghost registry.
There was nothing. Yun Duan found three entries for “Shang Can,” but none of the dates matched the Shang Can she knew. She had wasted an entire night, gaining nothing.
Although the Ghost Realm wasn’t supposed to have seasons, it felt much colder now than when she first arrived. Yun Duan moved her arm, numb from hours of flipping through pages, and pushed herself to stand.
She had no idea where her sword had taken her in her fury, but she knew she was still by the banks of the River of Forgetfulness. The endless river flowed quietly, and Yun Duan slowly walked to the edge, staring silently at the water.
There was no sense of relief, nor was there fear. Yun Duan felt as though her heart was like a torn bag, all its emotions scattered on the ground, leaving behind only emptiness. It was as if a cold wind blew through the gaping hole in her heart, carrying a mournful echo that never returned.
What did it matter, she thought. Nanshuang was right—what did it matter?
It was easy to entertain the thought that maybe Pei Chen was just making things up, but Yun Duan couldn’t bring herself to believe that anymore. On one hand, her rational mind clearly argued that Pei Chen’s expression wasn’t faked, yet on the other, she couldn’t help but hate herself for that same rationality.
Shang Can was dead.
Those four words echoed in her hollow heart, creating a deafening roar that made Yun Duan frown in discomfort. The reflection in the river furrowed its brow along with her. Her dark eyes were devoid of emotion, and her face was deathly pale, like a wandering ghost along the River of Forgetfulness.
Is this what she looked like? It had been too long since she’d really looked at herself, and Yun Duan found her appearance almost unfamiliar.
What should she do now?
The saying “time heals all wounds” had its merit. At least now, Yun Duan was calmer than she had been in Tianwai Tian. Her mind, still numb, managed to carve out a small space to seriously think about the future.
It seemed that after learning Shang Can had likely died on that mountain, many things had lost their importance—like her attachments, her love, or even herself.
But that wasn’t entirely true. Despite the weariness that filled every corner of her body, Yun Duan quickly realized that something else still remained. Something urgent, restless, like a thorn lodged in her throat.
—Why did she deceive me into living those two extra years?
The memory of that faint, yet vivid figure flashed in her mind. Those last days, the golden eyes that had been tightly shut, and the last words she had said: “Close your eyes, then go to sleep.” At the time, Yun Duan had only thought her voice was cold and distant, now she regretted obediently closing her eyes. She missed seeing what expression she wore when, after hesitating for a moment, she finally pulled Yun Duan into her arms.
Was it calm? Determined? Or was it a peaceful acceptance, knowing she was ready to meet death?
Once the memories started, they all sharpened with painful clarity. And what had once been a question was no longer something Yun Duan could call a mere doubt. If that person had long since decided to die, then all the elaborate deceptions, the effort to make Yun Duan believe she had simply disappeared… What else could it have been for?
It couldn’t have been because Shang Can hated her.
Shang Can knew her junior sister so well. She knew her so well.
And now, after so many days had passed—too late—Yun Duan stood alone by the River of Forgetfulness, unable to find even the faintest trace of that lost soul. The mountains were vast, the heavens boundless. Where could she go to find that small, fragile soul?
She hadn’t even come to Biluohuangquan. Shang Can had let go so completely, cruelly departing, and yet she had made sure that Yun Duan wouldn’t chase after her. Only now, after everything had been laid bare, did Yun Duan dare not even touch the sword Shang Can used to take her own life. She didn’t even know if Shang Can had died in some accident, her soul scattered to the wind, or if she had purposely avoided coming to the Ghost Realm.
Why did you deceive me into living those two extra years?
In her heart, a small voice still stubbornly asked that question, though the answer had been obvious all along. Yun Duan belatedly felt the sharp pain spreading through her chest, unbearable, like a piece of her heart had been forcibly torn away. The unbearable pain gradually turned into dampness, clouding her dry eyes, which had not closed for a night.
Why now, after everything, was she allowed to know these things?
Why now, when she could no longer see Shang Can, when she had lost even the right to chase after her, was she allowed to know that perhaps Shang Can had cared more than she ever let on?
At a time when no matter how much she wanted to see her, she could no longer find her. At a time when even throwing everything aside to pursue her was no longer an option, she finally learned that she and Shang Can, though heading in opposite directions, had both arrived at the same place. Sharing the same feelings but keeping different secrets. Their unspoken thoughts had festered into resignation. While Yun Duan tried to draw closer, that person had quietly planned an unspoken farewell.
Love and hatred tangled in her heart, endlessly rising and falling. Yun Duan couldn’t bear the overwhelming weight of these emotions. It was too much to handle, and it pulled her down. She bent forward, her reflection on the calm surface of the river growing distorted as ripples formed, like a sudden rainstorm had descended.
How could a person have so many tears?
Yun Duan thought dazedly as she wiped her eyes again and again. Her sleeves rubbed her skin raw, but even then, she still couldn’t figure it out.
How could there be so many tears? And who were they for?
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