After Being Certified by the Immortal Lord on the Path of Ruthlessness - Chapter 69

Shuanghan glanced at Ye Qingge, then at the guard, and stretched out his hand. “Give that to me.”

 

“Yes.” The guard reached into his clothes and retrieved the potted plant, revealing it fully.

 

Just as the pot was about to be handed over.

 

Ye Qingge suddenly rose, her hand flicking forward to bring the pot before her.

 

Inside, a slender brown branch grew, its roots and stem riddled with cuts. Most of the leaves had fallen, leaving only a few clinging to the top.

 

Her eyes scanned the remaining foliage, and a long sigh of relief escaped her lips. Then, with a swift motion, she flung the pot to the ground.

 

The pottery shattered into shards, scattering across the floor.

 

The guard kneeling nearby and Shuanghan froze, staring in shock at the dazed Empress.

 

It wasn’t the Sleep-Inducing Grass.

 

For some reason, Ye Qingge didn’t feel the relief she had expected.

 

Instead, as the guard entered, her throat tightened, and her heart leapt into her throat.

 

In that fleeting moment, she had actually hoped that the grass in his hands was the Sleep-Inducing Grass.

 

A hope she had long since severed yet why did such an illusion still cling to her?

 

How could she fantasize that the grass could somehow come back to life?

 

“Master, what about this grass?” Shuanghan dared not touch the pot, her eyes fixed on the last remnants of roots struggling on the ground. “How should it be handled?”

 

Ye Qingge leaned back abruptly in her chair, her voice cold: “Throw it out.”

 

“Yes.” Shuanghan bent down to gather the remaining roots and stems.

 

Suddenly, the grass pot cried out: “Your Majesty! Spare my life!!!”

 

The desperate plea rang sharply through the hall.

 

Ye Qingge raised her hand, stopping Shuanghan from clearing it away.

 

The grass pot on the ground quivered as it spoke, “Your Majesty, I am a branch of a peach tree cultivated on Snake Mountain. The red serpent was gravely injured and near death, and my clan by chance possesses a secret technique. I was plucked by the soaring bird and planted here!”

 

“Secret technique?” Ye Qingge’s voice was icy. “What secret technique?”

 

Hearing a glimmer of hope, the peach branch hurriedly replied, “Your Majesty, my clan’s secret technique is resurrection. It can bring the dead back to life, reshaping their flesh and soul!”

 

Ye Qingge let out a disdainful laugh. “The so-called secret technique you speak of, I possess it as well.”

 

“Does Your Majesty truly know it?” the peach branch asked. “If you do, then why are you often tormented by nightmares? The person in your dreams… was killed by your own hand, wasn’t he? It is said that those slain by the Goddess are instantly annihilated, never to enter the cycle of reincarnation!”

 

Bang—

 

The desk shook from a heavy strike.

 

Ye Qingge’s expression turned icy. “Speculating about people’s hearts? You dare speculate about me?”

Understanding her intent, Shuanghan immediately lifted the peach branch and severed its incomplete roots and last remaining twigs.

 

“If you can truly bring the dead back to life,” Ye Qingge sneered, her voice icy, “then first resurrect yourself and crawl back.”

 

Shuanghan raised his hand and chopped the peach branch into three sections. The already sparse leaves were now gone entirely, and even the roots were utterly destroyed.

 

Ye Qingge’s gaze returned to the memorials, her expression unreadable.

 

The shredded peach branch, along with the terrified guard, were both cast out by Shuanghan.

 

Ling Lan herself could hardly recall how she had made it back to Mount Taibai. She only remembered collapsing in front of Banyan Cave, using the last of her strength and accidentally breaking the door open.

 

Then came Rong Qi’s scream.

 

After that, darkness swallowed her.

 

The coma lasted fifteen years.

 

For the plant spirits, the fifteen years atop Mount Taibai passed no differently than fifteen years in the mortal world.

 

Throughout that time, Rong Qi sighed and lamented, praying day and night.

 

She had originally been tasked with overseeing Mount Taibai during the New Year festivities. But when she returned to the mountaintop after briefing the fruit tree spirit who had taken over her duties, she found only two empty houses and a towering pile of firewood.

 

There was no Jiang Mianhao, no Ling Lan, and not even that eccentric immortal lord.

 

At first, Rong Qi assumed the three of them had gone traveling again. But when she opened the door and saw Ling Lan, whom she hadn’t seen in three years collapse straight to the ground, her heart skipped a beat.

 

Initially, she thought Ling Lan was merely exhausted. But upon helping her inside, Rong Qi discovered the extent of her injuries.

 

Ling Lan’s body was covered in wounds, most horrifyingly a long, winding gash across her back. Though crudely stitched together, fresh blood continued to seep relentlessly.

 

Rong Qi immediately undid the stitches and her heart sank. Ling Lan was missing her third vertebra. The snake bone that had been used to fill the gap had long since crumbled into dust.

 

The lantern in the Banyan Cave burned for ten days and ten nights. Rong Qi exhausted half her cultivation to mend and suture Ling Lan’s spine.

 

Ling Lan’s injuries were grievous, and it took a full fifteen years of recovery before she finally awoke.

 

Upon regaining consciousness, Ling Lan recounted the events of that fateful year to Rong Qi, including how she had traded her immortal bone for a forbidden technique.

 

Carefully, she took out the seed she had been carrying and planted it in a grass pot.

 

The day after she was able to walk again, she began taking the pot out to bask in the sunlight and collect dew.

 

Day after day, another fifteen years passed.

 

The seed in the pot still showed no signs of sprouting.

 

Yet Ling Lan persisted, missing not a single day.

 

Every morning, she would lift the grass pot, channel spiritual energy into the lifeless soil, and whisper with a smile, “Good morning, Mianhao.”

 

After sunbathing and drinking dew, she would linger late into the night, waiting for the moon even though its appearance was rare and fleeting.

 

Just like the meticulous care Jiang Mianhao had received when struck by Green Wine, yet this time, it was different.

 

The seed refused to sprout, but Ling Lan never wavered.

 

Though Rong Qi had healed her wounds and the scars on her back had faded, losing her immortal bone had slowed her cultivation to an excruciatingly slow pace.

 

Fortunately, her talent as a sword cultivator remained intact. Every day, after sunbathing with the grass pot, Ling Lan practiced her swordsmanship.

 

Fifteen years of unwavering persistence.

 

One morning, Ling Lan unexpectedly woke late.

 

“You haven’t sunbathed today!” Rong Qi called from the doorway, hands on her hips. “Don’t forget to go to the Dew Terrace at noon!”

 

Ling Lan hurriedly pulled open the door, a mix of guilt and determination on her face. “I know, Granny! I’m going right now!”

 

Jiang Mianhao’s little wooden cabin still stood, and the grass sprouts she had planted around it long ago had emerged, growing strong and vibrant.

 

Every night, Ling Lan placed her grass pot among those unnamed sprouts, hoping they might coax Jiang Mianhao to sprout as well.

 

But it was all in vain.

 

Just as Ling Lan turned with the grass pot in her arms to go sunbathing, a faint glimmer of light flickered weakly among the patch of unnamed grass.

 

Before her eyes stretched an endless expanse of darkness.

 

Ye Qingge fell, the howling wind whipping past her ears. As she plummeted into the void, someone caught her.

 

A pair of blood-stained hands wrapped around her waist from behind.

 

Ye Qingge turned, and a familiar face came into view.

 

Jiang Mianhao smiled gently and called softly, “Green Wine, have you come to be with me?”

 

Held in that embrace, Ye Qingge froze, momentarily free of fear, forgetting even to pull away.

“I have good news to tell you, Lu Jiu!” The arms wrapped around her waist suddenly tightened, twisting Jiang Mianhao’s smile into a distorted grimace. “Lu Jiu—”

 

Ye Qingge struggled briefly, only to realize that an Immortal-Binding Rope had somehow coiled around her waist.

 

“Why won’t you listen to the good news? You despised your mother for sacrificing herself to the Dao and refining her daughter into pills, but what about you! Is killing your wife to prove your Dao the path you endorse?!”

 

As Jiang Mianhao’s lips parted, blood gushed from her mouth, dripping onto Ye Qingge’s cheeks.

 

Ye Qingge forgot to dodge, her gaze drifting downward.

 

The sword wound piercing Jiang Mianhao’s chest had become a gaping hole, continuously seeping fresh blood.

 

The falling blood stained Ye Qingge’s white robes crimson, yet she made no move to evade.

 

“Why did you lie to me!”

 

“Why did you lie to me!!!”

 

Soaked in blood, Jiang Mianhao’s screams of accusation rang in her ears, but Ye Qingge remained frozen, dazed.

 

The questioning voice grew louder, more insistent. She stared at the familiar face before her and, almost instinctively, reached out to touch it.

 

The moment her fingertips brushed Jiang Mianhao’s skin, the figure dissipated swiftly, impossibly melting into a wisp of smoke that slipped through her fingers.

 

“Master! Master!” Shuanghan’s voice cut through the haze, hands gently patting Ye Qingge’s back. “Master, are you alright?”

 

The person slumped over the desk jolted upright, pressing her palms to the surface for support.

 

Before her lay half-reviewed memorials, the vermilion brush resting in the inkstone. Its wolf-hair tip soaked and frayed, abandoned mid-stroke.

 

Ye Qingge stared at her hands. Clean. No blood. No sign of the Immortal-Binding Rope that had coiled around her waist in the dream.

 

Why was she haunted by nightmares even while awake?

 

Why had she fallen so deeply into one without noticing?

 

A dull ache throbbed in her skull, thoughts colliding and scattering like ink spilled across paper.

 

Why had she dreamed of Jiang Mianhao? And of events that had never truly occurred?

 

Shuanghan’s gaze lingered on her pale-faced master, torn between anxiety and hesitation. She wanted to reach out, to soothe, but dared not disturb the fragile silence.

 

The chamber was thick with the faint scent of calming incense, its ethereal fragrance drifting through the air like a whisper.

 

Utterly drained, Ye Qingge exhaled a long, shuddering sigh. “Leave me. I wish to be alone.”

 

Shuanghan hesitated, her concern warring with obedience. Finally, she took a careful step back, eyes brimming with unspoken worry.

 

Ever since Ye Qingge had awakened, she had not closed her eyes. For months, Shuanghan had watched her master, heart trembling at each restless movement, every strained breath.

 

Now, alone, the silence of the chamber pressed down, as if the nightmares had followed her into the waking world.

 

Especially moments ago, when Ye Qingge had suddenly collapsed while reviewing memorials, leaving Shuanghan panicked and drenched in cold sweat.

With Shuanghan’s departure, the chamber sank into absolute silence.

 

Ye Qingge drew in a slow, measured breath, regulating the spiritual energy coursing through her body. Since breaking through her Dao and ascending, she had immediately assumed the throne. Only to be swallowed by an unending tide of governmental affairs.

 

In mere months, the celestial realm had been reshaped. The newly enthroned Empress had decreed the unification of the Three Realms, granting them a single day to surrender.

 

Those who hesitated or resisted would face the full weight of her armies.

 

Fear of the new Empress spread like wildfire across the Three Realms.

 

Though Ye Qingge did not personally lead the battles, the endless stream of memorials, petitions, and reports left her physically and mentally exhausted.

 

She had believed that immersing herself in duty would suppress the emotions she deliberately avoided, but the nightmares only multiplied. Now, even her subconscious had betrayed her. She had fainted without realizing it.

 

The question lingered in her mind, sharp and unrelenting:

 

Was it because of Jiang Mianhao?

 

Yes.

 

Since severing her emotional tribulation, Ye Qingge’s nightmares were no longer of the alchemical furnace, but of countless versions of Jiang Mianhao.

 

Jiang Mianhao sternly questioning her why; Jiang Mianhao smiling like a flower blooming under the sunlight; Jiang Mianhao draping a coat over her in the dead of night; Jiang Mianhao making plans with her to go to Penglai; Jiang Mianhao standing beneath the fireworks and saying her heart belonged only to her.

 

It was all Jiang Mianhao.

 

The chaotic thoughts completely disrupted Ye Qingge’s rationality. Just as she grew increasingly agitated, the door to her bedchamber was gently pushed open a crack.

 

“Has Your Majesty had a dream?”

 

A voice came from the doorframe.

 

The peach branch, whose roots and leaves had been severed months ago, now lay across the doorframe. The bare brown stem struggled to inch forward.

 

“Nightmares generally fall into two categories,” it said. “One is a trapped past; the other is repressed desires from the depths of one’s heart.”

Ye Qingge stared coldly at the peach branch, which, after being severed, should have had no chance of survival yet it had suddenly reappeared, laboriously crawling toward her.

 

The brown branch slowly made its way onto the desk and said softly, “But Your Majesty’s nightmare is of a third kind.”

 

“It is something you yearn for but has never happened. In simpler terms, it is the regret buried deep within your heart.”