Chapter 6
"You are angry, young man. And anger is a poor advisor," he replied, his old yet clear eyes staring at Huan Zheng without blinking.
Huan Zheng snorted, his chest still rising and falling from the remnants of poison and anger that refused to subside.
"You do not know what happened between us, Prince. She—"
He pointed at Ling Xu with a trembling finger.
"… has toyed with me. Tortured me with poison. Made me her servant."
Ling Xu, now standing beside Prince Whou Ming with a face still pale but gradually regaining composure, interjected,
"Subordinate. Not servant. There is a difference."
Huan Zheng almost spat upon hearing that word.
"A difference? For a goddess whose mother was violated, perhaps you are right—but to me, there is no difference!"
Prince Whou Ming raised his hand, a slow motion that somehow felt like an undeniable command.
"Enough. I am not interested in a quarrel over who has suffered more."
He turned toward Ling Xu, then toward Huan Zheng, his gaze moving like a pendulum weighing both sides.
"Miss Ling Xu, you claim he is your subordinate?"
Ling Xu nodded, slightly hesitant yet firm.
"Yes. He is Huan Zheng, a former warrior of humanity—now my subordinate."
Prince Whou Ming nodded slowly, then looked at Huan Zheng with an unreadable smile.
Not mocking, not sympathetic, but like a teacher observing a troublesome yet intriguing student.
"And you, Huan Zheng, do you acknowledge that?"
Huan Zheng fell silent.
The veins on his temples bulged, his mouth opening and closing several times like a fish out of water.
"I… am forced," he finally answered, his voice hoarse like scraped glass.
"But that is not because I accept it—it is because of that damned poison—"
"Enough," Prince Whou Ming cut him off again, this time more firmly.
"I do not need the details. What I need is order within my camp. And the two of you, with your poison and hatred, are disrupting that order."
Ling Xu, who had been silent and observing, suddenly stepped forward.
She lowered her head—a gesture unusual for her, as she was more accustomed to bowing over herbs than offering apologies.
"Prince Whou Ming," she said, her voice soft yet clear.
"I apologize for my subordinate's discourtesy. He is indeed rude, and I will deal with him later."
She glanced briefly at Huan Zheng, with a look that was perfectly clear.
'Be quiet, or the poison will activate again.'
Huan Zheng gritted his teeth, but said nothing.
Prince Whou Ming chuckled softly—a warm laugh that still kept its distance, like a bonfire that did not wish to be approached too closely.
"Miss Ling Xu, you are interesting. A goddess apologizing for a human—in a world after the Harmony Conflict, that is a rare sight."
He exhaled, then gestured toward the camp behind them, now beginning to glow with oil lamps.
"It is already dusk. The air is growing cold. And my stomach is beginning to growl."
He looked at Ling Xu, then at Huan Zheng, then smiled—a smile that seemed both inviting and commanding.
"How about the two of you dine with me this evening? I am curious about your story."
Hoooh!
Days in Xuelan Camp passed like murky water flowing slowly—unnoticed, yet leaving dirty residue in every corner.
Ling Xu, with her white, multicolored-streaked hair now always tightly tied to avoid suspicious gazes, had learned to read celestial maps, record guard rotation schedules, and most importantly.
To visit the Pavilion of Books every night, pretending to study herbal history, while her fingers secretly copied escape routes onto bamboo slips she hid beneath the wrappings on her chest.
"We must leave before the next full moon," she said one night to Huan Zheng, who lay lazily atop a pile of dry straw in the corner of their tent, his eyes half-closed like a cat too full to care about anything.
"I have found a gap in the northwest—the guards rotate every fifth hour, and that is where the energy barrier is weakest."
Huan Zheng snorted, unmoved.
"You speak to me as if I care," he replied, his tone lazy and slightly mocking, "run or do not run, it is up to you. But remember, if you die on the road, my poison dies with you—and that is the only reason I am still here."
Ling Xu clenched her fists, restraining herself from snapping her fingers and activating the poison again.
"Ungrateful human," she hissed, then turned back to continue carving the map onto bamboo, because she knew—despite his feigned laziness, he would not let her die.
At least as long as that poison still bound them.
But the real reason Ling Xu wanted to escape was not discomfort, but because she had begun to see.
On the first night in Prince Whou Ming's dining tent, she still thought the old man was merely kind—his smile warm, his tea fragrant, and his stories of the past like a blanket on a cold night.
But on the third night, when Whou Ming invited her alone without Huan Zheng, Ling Xu began to feel something strange: the man's gaze was no longer that of a wise old prince, but like a merchant appraising his wares.
"Your hair is beautiful, Miss Ling Xu," Whou Ming said one night, his fingers nearly touching the strands of white before Ling Xu stepped back, "its colored veins… like rivers telling a thousand stories."
Ling Xu forced a smile, gave her thanks, then hurriedly excused herself.
And in the Pavilion of Books, amidst copying maps, she found old pages accidentally tucked between volumes of camp history.
Records of dozens—nearly a hundred—female cultivators who came to Xuelan Camp and never returned.
"They were employed as palace servants," one record read in faded ink, "yet not a single one retained their Star of Singularity upon leaving. Or… they never left."
Ling Xu shuddered.
She suddenly remembered the empty-faced women she had seen in the corridors behind the main tent—their smiles too wide, their eyes too hollow, and all of them wore identical jade bracelets.
Bracelets identical to the emblem of Xuelan Camp.
And that very night, Ling Xu gathered her courage to follow.
She slipped behind the curtains of the main tent, holding her breath, and witnessed it with her own eyes.
Prince Whou Ming, with the same graceful hands that poured tea, grasped the wrist of a young girl—a Lower Star cultivator, only nineteen years old—then took something from her chest.
Not the Star of Humanity, because the girl clearly possessed a Star of Singularity—a bluish-white light emerging from her chest like a soul being forcibly torn out.
"Do not be afraid, my dear," Whou Ming whispered, his voice still soft, still warm, "it will only hurt for a moment. After that, you will be happy. You will be mine forever."
The girl let out a faint scream, then her body went limp, her eyes turned empty, and Whou Ming—with breath beginning to quicken—began to indulge in the "purity" he had just taken, right above her helpless body.
Ling Xu stepped back, slowly, step by step, her hand covering her mouth to keep herself from screaming.
She remembered her mother.
She remembered the violation.
And for the first time in years, she did not feel anger—she felt a disgust so deep it froze her marrow.
To be continued…