After Infusing Love Poison to the Cold Sword Sovereign - Chapter 21.3

Luo Qingyi didn’t refuse. Steadying herself with the other’s support, she took a deep breath and finally mustered some energy. “Some things have happened recently. I really am a bit exhausted. Ah Nuo, I’m sorry for neglecting you.”

“It’s alright. I support you in doing what you want to do.”

Wu Ruo helped the other woman to the resting area outside the Long Mirror Chamber. There were no other disciples from the sect here, only a simple-patterned, soft blanket spread on the floor.

“Lately, I’ve been cultivating here,” Luo Qingyi explained. “The mirrors in the Long Mirror Chamber are exceptionally clear. I’ve felt the spiritual energy within me stirring back to life. Perhaps in a few more days, I’ll be able to break through my bottleneck and resume my path to enlightenment.”

Wu Ruo gazed into the woman’s eyes, her own gaze slowly tracing every feature, the dark pupils, the pale lips, the hem of the moon-white Daoist robe adorned with only a few cloud patterns, marking her as the most ordinary of the sect’s sweeping guests.

Yet the white immortal robe she had once worn was embroidered with countless cloud patterns, too many to count.

She looked at her with longing almost obsession, taking in everything, from her cheeks to the hem of her robe, from her hair to the cloud patterns, from her face to her retreating figure.

“Good. You will,” she said softly, her voice tinged with melancholy.

Soon, she would no longer be able to see her.

Luo Qingyi rubbed her throbbing temples and forced a gentle smile. “I’ve done enough cultivation for today. Where would you like to go? I’ll accompany you.”

“Then let’s return to Falling Snow Peak,” Wu Ruo said, just as she had been about to suggest. It seemed the effects of the love gu were as reliable as ever, always aligning with her desires.

Soon. Luo Qingyi would no longer treat her this way.

She gave a bitter, helpless smile, tightening her grip on the small porcelain vial before slipping it back into her pocket.

She wanted, in these final moments, to share one last snowfall with Luo Qingyi atop Falling Snow Peak to bid farewell in her heart to the companion of ten years.

“The spiritual herbs in the sect are thriving. This one smells wonderful, it could be used as gu bait or to attract butterflies in their mating season.”

“The immortal deer at the foot of the mountain run so fast. Last time I tried to pet one, it nearly knocked me over. They’re so fierce.”

“Can you show me your art of turning objects into cranes again? I love cranes so much. Wait, you’re giving this to me? Alright, I’ll take it then.”

She wasn’t usually talkative, but now she chattered incessantly, each sentence tumbling out before the last had fully ended, as if afraid her words might be cut off that she might never get to speak to her again.

Fortunately, Luo Qingyi had always been an excellent listener, responding to her excitement, attuned to her emotions, no matter when, no matter where.

They walked and paused, paused and walked. She watched as the roadside flowers bloomed brilliantly, the low-lying greenery twisting and winding, until at higher altitudes, only the stubborn pines remained, rooted in the frigid, unyielding soil.

The paper crane, folded from rice paper, perched on her finger like a snow-white gu butterfly. She carefully tucked it away.

“Qingyi,” she called.

“Hm? I’m here.”

Wu Ruo looked at the weasel’s burrow on the cliffside, half-buried in snow. A small white head peeked out before quickly retreating.

“If… well, if I’ve done something wrong, would you forgive me?”

It was a question she had always wanted to ask Luo Qingyi but had deceived herself into avoiding.

Once, a junior sister had asked the same, and Luo Qingyi’s answer had been: “It depends on the severity and consequences of the matter.”

But this time, Luo Qingyi didn’t give the same reply. Instead, she answered firmly, without hesitation:

“Yes.”

“Will you forgive me? No matter what mistake I make, will you forgive me?” Her heart lifted slightly, as if a clear spring flowed over it, slowly moistening the parched fields.

Perhaps it was because she had neglected her during this time that Luo Qingyi felt guilty.

Though just a single sentence, it was the best gift Luo Qingyi could give her before the gu was lifted.

“Yes,” Luo Qingyi replied. “If it’s a mistake you’ve made, I will bear it with you.”

But…

The threshold of the house had already been worn down by countless footsteps, the eyes of many elders fixed upon the narrow roof ridge. It felt like the surveillance of overseers, or perhaps gaping, bloodthirsty maws.

Wuruo asked, “What is this tribulation in the cultivation world?”

The skin where their palms touched trembled imperceptibly. Luo Qingyi’s fingers curled back for an instant before she feigned composure and spread them again.

“Are you lost in doubt?”

“…”

The air carried a faint, cold fragrance winter plum blossoms from the Snowfall Peak quietly bloomed, their crimson petals like tiny hoofprints in the snow, drifting to the ground.

“Qingyi”, Wuruo gazed into the other’s eyes, her heart rising and falling, sinking and slowing.

“It’s normal for you to be lost. Because I, once placed.”

A love, gu.

The final words caught in her throat. She gasped for breath, clutching at her own neck, digging her nails into her palm.

She couldn’t say it. She couldn’t bear to. She didn’t want to leave Luo Qingyi she couldn’t bear it.

“Arno? What’s wrong? Why do you look like that? Did I do something wrong? Don’t cry!”

She forced out a strained smile, her expression more pitiful than tears.

I’m sorry.

In the end, she still couldn’t bring herself to tell Luo Qingyi the truth.

“No, I’m not crying Qingyi, look over there, a snow lotus has bloomed. Isn’t it beautiful?”

The woman was indeed distracted by her words and turned away.

Crack!

The porcelain vial slipped from her hand and shattered into pieces. The jade-white fragments scattered like fireworks, broken beyond repair.

“Hmm? Did you drop your—”

In that fleeting moment, a thread-thin gu worm crawled onto Luo Qingyi’s body, bit lightly at her ankle, and dissolved into her skin, vanishing without a trace.

“What is this?”

Luo Qingyi looked at her in confusion, but her voice abruptly cut off. Her pupils dilated, her body swayed, and her eyes slowly closed.

The love gu was officially lifted.

Ten years of the gu. Ten years of companionship. Ten years of vows of love and undying devotion.

From now on, she and Luo Qingyi would be strangers no, worse she would become someone Luo Qingyi despised. If the woman’s love for her had been shallow, it would turn to aversion; if deeper, to hatred.

Her mind flashed back to the illusory space, where darkness surged like tides, and she heard that hollow, desolate cry.

Never place the gu and then, Never lift the gu.

All of it had come true.

Wuruo gave a self-deprecating glance at the shattered porcelain shards, folded a snow crane, and sent it to the sect leader. The elder would escort her away from Zhiyuan Immortal Sect, finding her a quiet place to live out the rest of her days.

She took one last look at Luo Qingyi’s face, the woman still sat poised and serene, as if merely resting her eyes, as though she might open them at any moment and smile at her.

But this could never happen again. Luo Qingyi would never love her again, never gaze at her with tender concern, never again.

It was just Luo Qingyi’s hatred, a price she could bear.

Then, one last time, she would touch Luo Qingyi’s face before quickly leaving, lest she see the disgust in the woman’s eyes.

Her hand hovered in the air, fingertips just about to brush against the woman’s face, when in the next second, a ruthless slap struck her away.

Smack!

Familiar eyes slowly opened, pitch-black pupils devoid of even a sliver of light cold to the bone, cold to the point of terror.

“Wu Ruo,” Luo Qingyi said.

Her voice held not a trace of warmth, like water below freezing condensing into millennia-old ice, frigid with fury, disdain, and a bone-chilling, authoritative cruelty.

“You planted an unrepentant love gu in me, what were you scheming?”

The next moment, a pale, powerful hand clamped around Wu Ruo’s throat!

Those fingers were long and elegant, the knuckles pronounced usually such a beautiful hand, now veins bulging with force, nearly enough to snap that fragile neck.

“Hah, ah!” Wu Ruo was lifted off the ground, her feet dangling, her entire weight suspended by that merciless grip, and the pressure only tightened further.

The air in her lungs dwindled, her face flushing crimson. “Qing! I, I just!”

Her chest filled with bloody froth, her throat crushed out of shape. She couldn’t understand how Luo Qingyi had woken so soon, but all she faced now was the woman’s gaze as if looking at trash.

Thud.

Luo Qingyi released her grip, merely flicking her wrist, and Wu Ruo was flung dozens of meters away. Her back slammed into a jagged boulder, sharp edges cutting into her skin, leaving streaks of blood.

Wu Ruo collapsed to the ground, pain seeping through every limb. She curled into herself, her gaze hollow.

It hurts. So, this was how it felt to be despised by Luo Qingyi.

Absurdly, she recalled the day they first met, the demonic cultivator Luo Qingyi had torn apart. Those blackened chunks of flesh, in their final moments, must have felt the same icy sword intent.

She shouldn’t have lingered, shouldn’t have hoped for one last moment of tenderness with Luo Qingyi. She should have left immediately, should have,

Luo Qingyi strode toward her, silent perhaps deeming a mere Miaojiang gu cultivator unworthy of words, or perhaps finding the decade-long defilement by such a person too vile to acknowledge.

Her sword was cold, her gaze was cold, her words were cold.

“Demonic filth you deserve death.”

The woman raised her hand slowly, the motion stretching into a languid cruelty in Wu Ruo’s eyes. The blade flashed, reflecting the snowy ground’s brilliance so bright it was blinding.

Thump!

Wu Ruo stared blankly at the sword impaling her chest, blood dripping along the gleaming edge. The blade, clear as autumn water, faced upward, mirroring her own face her stunned, disbelieving expression.

Her heart ached.

It hurt, it hurt, it hurt.

Not just the physical pain, yet somehow only the physical pain remained. The tangled emotions in her heart flattened into blankness under the overwhelming agony, past love and hatred erased, leaving only the searing torment in her chest.

As if tearing her soul apart, stripping it bare.

Her strength ebbed with her grievous wounds, leaving her unable to even lift her head. She could only stare dazedly at the sword leveled with her gaze and the hand that held it.

The silver serpent-shaped tassel hung motionless behind the sword, steady as its wielder gripped the hilt. She had woven this tassel herself, using tribal craftsmanship, meant to bring protection to its bearer.

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