Realizing that she might have triggered an unusual reaction in Feiwang, Shang Can anxiously awaited the developments. To her surprise, days passed without the light screen illuminating again. Although there had been times in the past when days went by without seeing the clouds, this particular situation made her feel increasingly anxious. Unable to sit still, Shang Can attempted to communicate with Feiwang again, asking to see outside, even just for a moment.
Feiwang remained silent, watching her without blinking, which made Shang Can feel an odd sense of helplessness emanating from Feiwang’s dark eyes.
It must have been her imagination. Disheartened, Shang Can paced the room, torn between wanting to use her spiritual power and the uncertainty of the consequences outside. Finally, she suppressed her impatience and continued waiting patiently, just as she had over the past two years.
Logically, she had plenty of time and had become quite adept at waiting, but in the end, she still couldn’t endure it.
“…How long has it been?”
Even though it was difficult to gauge time within the sword, the unusually long duration had started to make her anxious. The light screen seemed broken, never lighting up again, while Feiwang carried on with an unbothered demeanor. Spending more time with Feiwang, Shang Can even learned to patiently rub her furrowed brow with cool fingers.
But the more calm Feiwang appeared, the more Shang Can associated her with the clouds. Truth be told, she sometimes felt that her current predicament was absurd. Although she knew Feiwang was merely a sword spirit transformed into her master’s likeness, it was easy to be momentarily lost in that resemblance, causing her to hesitate to get too close to Feiwang.
Even though she had repeatedly asked Feiwang about her master’s safety without receiving a response, after spending a long time together, Shang Can could tell that Feiwang wasn’t overly concerned. It was likely that nothing significant had occurred outside. Still, she couldn’t fully relax, and eventually, she couldn’t help but use her spiritual power to try to activate the light screen. However, whether she was doing it wrong or for some other reason, the screen lit up only to reveal a dark red expanse, with nothing else visible, which seemed ominous. Frustrated, she stopped and refrained from further reckless actions.
However, the situation didn’t remain stagnant; it grew increasingly strange.
At some point, Shang Can noticed that her spiritual energy was recovering rapidly, almost as if she was practicing on her own, and she couldn’t stop even if she wanted to. This anomaly worried her, leading her to rummage through her memories but failing to find any similar examples. She could only speculate that perhaps her soul’s prolonged state had caused this, maybe even related to her phoenix bloodline—
…And at such a time, she had no one to consult with. It was maddening.
Shang Can could only feel anxious, unwittingly spending much of her time resisting the recovery of her spiritual energy. It was already distressing not knowing how long it had been since she last saw the clouds, and now with this uncontrollable force pushing her forward, the thought of being forced to reincarnate under such circumstances—
Just considering that possibility made her feel like she was choking, powerless like an inverted hourglass, enduring day after day, sensing the power within her growing ever stronger. With a mix of frustration and helplessness, it wasn’t long before she noticed that something seemed off about Feiwang as well.
“Are you…” Shang Can stared at Feiwang for a while before hesitantly continuing, “…have you changed a bit?”
Perhaps it was because she hadn’t paid enough attention to Feiwang lately, but now, upon closer inspection, the sword spirit seemed a bit thinner, even taller. This shouldn’t have been possible; after all, Feiwang was merely taking the form of the clouds, and her appearance shouldn’t change with time.
Yet the evidence was right before her. Shang Can believed her eyes, feeling a strange unease in her heart, and blurted out, “Could it be that something has happened to the clouds?!”
“…”
Feiwang remained silent, but there was something subtly different about her demeanor. Slowly, she lifted her gaze to meet Shang Can’s eyes, calm and composed, but she blinked slowly at her.
Shang Can couldn’t decipher the meaning behind Feiwang’s almost significant blink, and she couldn’t think further as Feiwang, who had been quietly sitting beside her, suddenly stood up and leaned toward her without hesitation.
Instinctively, Shang Can tried to step aside, but Feiwang seized her hand, causing her heart to race with a mix of confusion and surprise as she locked eyes with beautiful, shimmering ones. Her original question got stuck in her throat, and she watched as Feiwang gently pressed her lips together before abruptly parting them.
“…”
It seemed like she wanted to say something; Shang Can almost heard a sound similar to “ah,” but it was abruptly cut off. The person before her looked like they had merely opened their mouth, then pursed their lips again, leading Shang Can to question if she was overly anxious about the clouds, resulting in an auditory hallucination that matched the clouds exactly.
Shang Can couldn’t correctly interpret what Feiwang was doing, merely staring blankly at her eyes, which looked like they wanted to say something. After a moment, Feiwang sighed lightly, and they stood quietly for a long time before slowly shaking her head.
Uncertain if the sorrow she perceived on Feiwang’s face was an illusion, Shang Can examined her closely, only to find that this seemingly fleeting change of emotion soon vanished, and Feiwang returned to her usual expression, still holding Shang Can’s hand without letting go. The coolness of her fingers gently grazed Shang Can’s palm and moved slightly.
The delicate touch in her palm was somewhat ticklish, and Shang Can instinctively wanted to withdraw her hand, but Feiwang firmly grasped it, then began to more seriously move her fingers across Shang Can’s palm—only then did Shang Can notice that Feiwang seemed to be writing something.
So the sword spirit could write?
An astonished thought flashed through her mind, and it took Shang Can a moment to realize what Feiwang was writing. The strokes were quite intricate, and Feiwang wrote them multiple times with great care. Eventually, Shang Can could no longer endure the ticklish feeling and grasped the cold hand that was about to write again, unable to stop herself from asking, “What do you want me to wait for?”
Feiwang stopped her movements at Shang Can’s palm and silently raised her eyes to meet hers, a glimmer in her gaze like water in the dark night, making it hard to discern.
In the end, Shang Can’s question remained unanswered. Feiwang returned to her usual passive demeanor, no longer attempting to speak or write. Shang Can was at a loss for how to deal with her and had to continue waiting with a mind full of questions, occasionally talking to Feiwang, trying to coax out some understanding from the sword spirit.
“…If you can write, why didn’t you write before? Did you just learn how to recently?”
“Why did you only write once and stop? Can you only write that one word?”
All her questions about Feiwang’s unusual behavior were met with silence, not even a glance. Shang Can felt exasperated, but soon she gathered her spirits and switched topics: “Have you noticed that you’ve changed? Your hair seems to have grown a bit.”
“…”
Feiwang continued to sit there, staring at her, and Shang Can sighed softly, saying, “You must have felt it yourself. There’s an overwhelming amount of spiritual energy here recently; just us sitting here probably surpasses the efforts of many cultivators. Look at you; you’ve changed; your cultivation must have increased significantly.”
“I never saw such a spectacle while I was alive. I don’t even know what’s happening outside, or if you’ve been taken to do something—”
She had spoken casually, but suddenly a thought crossed her mind, and she hesitated, saying, “Could it be… has Feiwang been reforged?”
“…No wonder the last time I activated the light screen, I only saw red; we might be in some powerful furnace right now.” This guess increasingly seemed plausible to her. Shang Can blinked blankly, looking at the unperturbed Feiwang, and encouraged her, “You should be concerned too. If Feiwang is being reforged, it will significantly affect you. We should activate the light screen and take a look—”
Suddenly, Shang Can stopped mid-sentence, feeling an inexplicable warmth as she glanced down at herself.
It was indeed extraordinary that her soul could feel warmth. Frowning, Shang Can suddenly had a chilling realization: perhaps Feiwang really had been thrown into a melting furnace, and she might be melted alongside her.
As the heat intensified around her, her spiritual energy surged uncontrollably, yet Shang Can maintained a strange calmness. She even found herself pondering: if this was a sign that Feiwang was being refined in the furnace, could the half-demon phoenix still be reborn from the boiling molten metal?
The choices she had been indecisive about had already revealed their answers, but clarity often struck just before the outcome was known. After two years of hesitation, Shang Can suddenly realized that she might soon lose her options. A flash of insight surged in her mind, and she clenched her fist tightly.
If she could successfully undergo rebirth and forget all of this to start anew…
That would be a wonderful option. It would cut through all the burdens effortlessly, freeing her from debts, feelings, and entangled destinies.
Yet, she didn’t want that. She didn’t want to forget the clouds.
This realization was disappointing. Rather than Feiwang trapping her, she had accepted Feiwang’s help as an excuse to cling to her memories for these past two years. But she could not admit that she didn’t want to leave the clouds. No matter how capable she once was, she was now just a wandering spirit, even weaker than a sword spirit.
She feared seeing the clouds abandon her yet wished to be free from being a burden to them. Shang Can was never perfect, but she desired to appear flawless. Ultimately, the person she found hardest to let go of was herself.
Shang Can didn’t know if this realization was timely or overdue. The heat within her felt ready to burst forth, her once-light body growing heavy. She began to feel a suffocating sensation, confused as to why her spirit felt as if it could hardly breathe.
Before she could think further, her vision faded to white. The last thing she saw was Feiwang squatting in front of her, quietly focused on her, then giving her a small wave, almost like a farewell.
Before she could grasp the significance of that thought, Shang Can suddenly felt weightless, as if falling. She briefly lost consciousness, and when she opened her eyes, she was blinded by bright light.
She instinctively shut her eyes and raised her hand to shield them, soon hearing footsteps and the rustling of fabric. The light filtering through her fingers dimmed as if someone had pulled a curtain shut.
As her senses slowly returned, Shang Can realized she was lying on a bed, feeling a profound weakness throughout her body. The familiar scent of sandalwood filled the air, and with it, a jolt of recognition struck her. She sat up, straining to catch her breath, only to hear a heartbeat that shouldn’t be there.
An incredible realization hit her: she was in her room at Qingyu. The window was closed, and only an oil lamp flickered in the dimness. The warm light danced on the white-robed figure sitting quietly by her bed, casting soft, flickering shadows.
Just moments ago, she had seen a face identical to the one before her, yet she couldn’t contain her racing heart. She looked directly at her, from the cool, ethereal eyes to the pale lips, and the ink-black hair flowing to her waist. Shang Can gazed hungrily, almost greedily.
“…Yun Duan?”
She whispered the name, afraid of breaking the dreamlike spell. The figure by her bedside blinked, inhaling sharply, then met her gaze with a steady look, speaking softly.
“I like you very much.”
Shang Can gasped in shock, and Yun Duan’s expression remained calm, looking directly into her startled eyes as she continued, “I’ve liked you for a long time, not in the sisterly way, but in a way that wants to spend a lifetime together.”
With that, Yun Duan’s demeanor shifted slightly, her eyes flickering before she lowered her gaze again, saying, “…You should have known this by now.”
Seemingly uninterested in waiting for Shang Can’s response to her sudden confession, Yun Duan quickly stood up. Shang Can had to lift her head to see her, but she couldn’t catch her gaze.
Yun Duan was looking elsewhere, her dark eyes vacant, staring into a corner of the room.
“But now,” she murmured softly, each word dripping with complex emotions, “…I hate you, Shang Can.”
In those few words, it felt like a life-and-death experience for Shang Can. She froze, staring at Yun Duan’s profile, only realizing she had forgotten to breathe when sharp pain surged in her chest. As she gasped for air, it felt like a relief, but her discomfort was distant compared to the true pain clawing at her heart.
Someone standing nearby seemed to move but held back, or perhaps it was just her imagination. In her coughing fit, she instinctively curled up, only to hear a faint metallic clinking.
Finally noticing the incongruity around her, Shang Can managed to stop coughing and sat up, staring blankly at the foot of her bed. A thin iron chain lay there, its coldness unmistakable, its end deeply embedded in the wall. The other end—
Shang Can slowly reached out, running her fingers around the tight iron ring clasped around her ankle.
Her fingertips grew cold, and it took her a moment to realize what was happening, hesitating before looking back up at Yun Duan.
But all she saw was Yun Duan’s retreating figure as she quickly left the room, her steps steady but her white-robed silhouette betraying an unsettling urgency.
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