Guan guan cry the ospreys, on the river isle.
Graceful is the lady, fit pursuit for a gentleman…
Mu Daoying had another dream.
He dreamed of distant river waters, standing alone on a sandbar, where he saw a pair of white waterbirds.
He chased after this pair of white waterbirds, wading upstream through vast, clean sands, with mirage-like mists shrouding the distant shores.
The tide rose full, soaking the hems and cuffs of his robes with dewy algae.
And on the other side of the water, he spotted a soft, faint silhouette.
Mu Daoying frowned slightly, feeling that the silhouette was exceptionally familiar—where had he seen it before…
Mists rolled in, and the waterbirds, along with the fragrance, all vanished without a trace.
In the blink of an eye, before him was… a bed?
The bed curtains hung low, gently stirred by the spring breeze, as if hiding some treasure within.
As if urged by some invisible will from the void, he groggily lifted the bed curtain.
At first glance, he recoiled in shock.
A woman lay sprawled on the bed!
Her skin glowed like jade, her figure graceful and curvaceous, black hair scattered, her face innocently alluring—that was a face with brows and eyes identical to Liu Qiao’e’s.
Mu Daoying froze, as if struck on the head with a club, his ears ringing.
His fingertips still gripped the bed curtain. He thought, he should immediately close his eyes, turn away, retreat, and kneel to beg forgiveness.
But the Liu Qiao’e in the dream was not the arrogant and domineering woman from waking life. Her round face was like the moon, her starry eyes sparkled, and she grinned foolishly at him: “Ning Xia.”
Reason told Mu Daoying that he really ought to leave, but for some reason, he could not tear his eyes away.
In that instant of daze, the world spun once more.
Red waves surged, two entwined figures faintly visible. Thin silk blouse and gossamer skirt tangled with pale Daoist robes.
The abrupt shift in scenery left him momentarily confused. Seeing those robes, Mu Daoying’s brows furrowed slightly in displeasure. Which Daoist was this, so reckless and improper, not even removing his robes before thus tarnishing the Daoist gate?
That Daoist was not old, his fair skin bare, pressed over a slender waist and slim back, damp black hair trailing along the spine, scattering with each thrust and rise.
Because he faced sideways, Mu Daoying could not make out his features, only seeing his constantly tensing muscles, sweat-dampened dark temples. He panted lowly, hips bucking wildly, distinct knuckles gripping the woman’s soft waist. He appeared utterly moved and immersed, leaning down to coax the woman beneath him softly, forcing her to lift her face—her gaze met his squarely. The woman’s cloud-like hair was disheveled, starry eyes brimming with tears.
It was precisely Liu Qiao’e.
Mu Daoying’s expression changed slightly, bitterness like swallowing gall spreading in his mouth, his mind a chaotic whirl of shock and doubt: How was she here, and how had she tangled with this young Daoist? Who exactly was this Daoist?
In his shock, a flicker of anger arose, his mind turning to mush, and muddled thoughts urged him to step forward and pull them apart.
That young Daoist coaxed her tenderly, nuzzling her ear, thrusting deep and shallow. At this moment, he finally lifted his face.
Mu Daoying endured the faint bitterness in his heart and saw his long brows and dark temples, straight nose and thin lips.
But in the instant their gazes met—
He jolted awake from the nightmare in horror.
It was his own face!
After such a terrifying nightmare, Mu Daoying’s face still bore traces of shock, his heart pounding like drums, cold sweat dripping. The fingers he lifted felt limp and weak.
He shifted his body and suddenly felt sticky and damp all over. He paused, lifted his robe hem, and watched as a large wet patch soaked the Daoist robe. Mu Daoying’s face drained of color in an instant, as if struck by five thunderbolts, his tongue turning bitter.
Aside from some fleeting youthful fantasies upon reading of the river goddess as a boy, since taking up cultivation, his mind had been resolute, and he had never experienced a nocturnal emission in his dreams.
How could this be? Mu Daoying’s ears rang like clashing bells, his heart in utter turmoil.
Could it be, could it be—
He suddenly recalled yesterday’s kiss,
That passionate kiss he closed his eyes to, one he could not withstand.
She had kissed him until he was dazed and confused, like a clumsy child who had forgotten how to breathe, face flushed and holding his breath until she kissed him faint.
Was today’s dream the lingering soul of that fragrant kiss?
Two faint patches of red bloomed on Mu Daoying’s pale face, but even a slight recollection set his mind swaying again, heart in turmoil.
Panic, embarrassment, unease, and that faint, heart-shaking thrill all mixed together, leaving him bewildered and fearful.
Mu Daoying closed his eyes slightly, unable to believe things had developed to this point—everything felt utterly messed up.
It had clearly started only to gain her trust, with repeated acts of feigned compliance—
Then, a thread of guilt had arisen.
Guilt was an exceedingly strange emotion; from it easily sprouted a trace of pity, and a man’s pity for a woman was not far from love.
Step by step back, originally seeking escape, yet unwittingly binding himself.
The waterbirds from the dream lingered before his eyes.
Guan guan cry the ospreys, on the river isle, graceful lady…
Mu Daoying dared not think further. He hurriedly steadied his mind, rolled off the couch, changed into fresh clothes, cupped water to wash his face, and only then did his wildly thumping heart gradually calm.
At this moment, Zhao Yange and Shen Chengyin came to find him again.
Mu Daoying did not dare neglect them. He opened the windows all around to let in air, then welcomed the two inside.
Zhao Yange asked as soon as he entered: “Ning Xia, they’ve already traced it to Fogveil Mountain. What do you plan to do?”
What did he plan to do? Mu Daoying poured tea for the two, then held his own cup in silence, still dwelling on that terrifying dream. He feared Zhao and Shen would notice something amiss—how could he have the mind to think about Fogveil Mountain?
Zhao Yange stared at him. The youth’s brows were slightly furrowed, black hair somewhat disheveled and sweat-damp, snow-white skin flushed with a peach-blossom hue, eyes rippling like water.
Shen Chengyin suddenly said: “Ning Xia, are you ill?”
Mu Daoying’s heart skipped. He slowly closed his eyes, lashes trembling, revealing an expression of utmost shame, endurance, resolve, and pain.
“I…” His tone was a bit stiff, words coming slowly, “Allow me to think a bit more.”
Zhao Yange and Shen Chengyin exchanged a glance and withdrew.
Mu Daoying’s fingertips traced the cup’s rim as yesterday’s chaotic memories slowly fell into place.
He had had such a dream; he had offended Liu Qiao’e.
Strictly speaking, he was now her public male pet, and serving at her pillow was only natural.
But that intense longing in the dream, the low moans and coaxing force, could not be called false.
This was an intolerable active offense, a betrayal of his Dao heart.
Thinking of the dream, recalling his own reckless actions within it, Mu Daoying pressed his lips together, finally unable to deceive himself.
With his Shizun’s whereabouts unknown, what secrets Fogveil Mountain truly hid, now that Liu Qiao’e and the others had traced it there, and he had developed such an unspeakable affection—whatever should he do?
–
Liu Qiao’e noticed Mu Daoying’s distracted state.
This was already the fifth time he had zoned out in front of her.
Liu Qiao’e watched him pour tea from the pot, the overflow spilling out. Her face showed displeasure: “What exactly are you thinking about today?”
“Sorry.” Mu Daoying startled, glanced at the mess under his hand, hurriedly set down the pot, and wiped it with a cloth.
After her prompting, he no longer zoned out, but his gaze shifted from some point in the void to her face, repeatedly lifting his eyes to scrutinize her brows, eyes, nose, and mouth.
Mu Daoying’s serious demeanor, as if he meant to stare a flower out of her, made Liu Qiao’e’s face heat and heart race. She could endure it no longer.
“Kiss me,” she commanded imperiously.
Mu Daoying startled and subconsciously shook his head in refusal.
Liu Qiao’e tossed aside the document in her hand, smirked, and walked over to hook his neck. “Yesterday you weren’t like this. What, off the bed and you don’t acknowledge it?”
The words were utterly absurd.
Her body was soft like dough, the jasmine fragrance at her temples thick and nose-assailing—a stimulation hard to describe for him. Mu Daoying endured it, raised a hand, and gently pushed her away.
Liu Qiao’e’s face changed, her voice sharpening: “You regret it?!”
All morning, Mu Daoying had been lost in a dreamlike haze, dazed and groggy, acting on bodily instinct. Her sharp voice snapped him back, and he met her face trembling with shame and fury.
“I…” He was somewhat startled, realizing what he had just done, and felt some regret.
With no other choice, he closed his eyes, embraced her as if going to his death, and pecked her lip corner once.
First time awkward, second time familiar.
Now such a soothing peck was already effortless for Mu Daoying—after all, in the dream he had kissed her a thousand times, his Dao heart already shattered to bits. His original vow to shun romance and unite body with the Dao—if there truly was a Thunder Department General in this world, it ought to strike him with lightning.
Pretending now would only seem hypocritical.
Mu Daoying did not open his eyes, merely closed them and deeply inhaled, savoring the flower scent at her temples.
He discovered that he had long grown accustomed to, and even craved, this intimate warmth of nuzzling.
He had always believed goodness was like climbing a mountain, evil like its collapse. Now he realized human fall indeed happened in an instant, like a torrent crashing down. It had nothing to do with Lü Zu’s lines: “A beauty of sixteen, body soft as cream, sword at waist slays mortal men. Though no head falls that all can see, in secret your bones and marrow wither.”
“Old Mother…” He murmured against her face, “Can Old Mother grant Ying a request?”
Liu Qiao’e had been quite pleased at first, but now grew vigilant again.
She was no girl to be dazed by a few sweet words from her beloved.
She wrinkled her nose warily: “Speak first, then I’ll agree.”
Mu Daoying opened his eyes and saw her furrowed fine brows, eyes flashing with sly brilliance. He felt no displeasure, only a touch of helpless endearment.
He hesitated, then turned his face to peck her lip corner again.
A cunning soothing.
Then, he raised his eyes, those clear-as-water, lonely yet gentle eyes enveloping her.
“Old Mother.” His fingertip lightly caressed her cheek, voice low and coaxing, “Will you remove the One Line Pull for me?”
She was bold and meticulous; she had already traced it to Fogveil Mountain.
He could not confide in Liu Qiao’e about the message his Shizun left, for he could not gamble his Shizun’s life.
Yet he had indeed developed feelings for her.
If possible, he did not want to deceive her.
Even knowing the chance was slim, he wanted to try.
But he had underestimated how much Liu Qiao’e cared for him.
To Liu Qiao’e, he was like a doll she had finally snatched from others after longing for it—a doll she clutched tightly, full of vigilance, glancing about lest someone steal it!
Even if that doll repeatedly said it liked no one else, repeatedly kissed and coaxed her, even if faint affection had sprouted in its heart for her.
“You want to run away, don’t you?!” As soon as he spoke, Liu Qiao’e felt a chill, glaring at him in fury!
Mu Daoying startled, inwardly cursing his haste.
He gauged her expression and hurriedly admitted fault in a soft voice: “That is not Ying’s intent.”
“I warn you, don’t even think of running.” The earlier pleasure had vanished without trace; chill gripped her heart, replaced by deeper, bone-piercing hatred.
She glared at him with loathing, as if at a despicable, scheming liar, disgust flickering in her eyes.
Mu Daoying had never imagined that one day her gaze of disgust would make his heart panic. He grabbed her hand to coax her.
But Liu Qiao’e coldly shoved him away: “Just a plaything, a whore—do you really think yourself some celestial fairy?”
Mu Daoying could not keep her; his arms felt empty as he watched her leave. Recalling her cutting words, his face paled.
Yet not because of her overt humiliation, but those words “plaything” pricked his heart like needles.
Liu Qiao’e’s words were not false; he was indeed her plaything, and she had many such.
He closed his eyes, unable to stop thinking of that morning’s dream again.
Did Cheng Xun, He Chuan, and the others count too? Had they long since become one with her like in the dream?
What he had not cared about before now haunted him like a ghost, wrapping around him. He could not restrain himself from repeatedly questioning in his heart, imagining, then feeling intermittent stabs of pain—it was called jealousy.