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Song Wangxiao transmigrated into a cultivation novel as a mere bit player, cannonball fodder destined for a short life.
From the moment she arrived, her instincts screamed danger. Everyone around her seemed to be eyeing her life like vultures. Choosing survival over fate, she fled. Along her desperate escape, she stumbled upon a “battle-damaged” beauty.
The woman was cold and elegant, her eyes reflecting a thousand miles of frost and snow. Finding her amnesiac and vulnerable, Wangxiao decided to take the stranger with her. The beauty was badly injured, coughing up blood every few steps; consumed by guilt and pity, Wangxiao cared for her with devoted tenderness.
Over time, Wangxiao’s heart softened. She began to care for the woman’s every mood and whim. Even when she realized her own predestined death was approaching, her first thought wasn’t of her own end, but of her companion: Will she be lonely? Will she cry for me when I’m gone?
She promised the woman: “I have to leave for a while. Don’t worry, and don’t be afraid. I’ll come back for you.”
The beauty only offered a faint, unreadable smile.
On the brutal battlefield where Immortals and Demons clashed, Wangxiao marched toward her fate. Even as she approached the most noble figure on the field, her mind was still filled with worry for the woman she’d left behind.
Then came the sound of a sharp blade piercing silk.
Wangxiao looked up to see a woman in white holding the sword. The face was hauntingly familiar, but the expression was one of cold indifference she had never seen before.
The woman was still beautiful, still regal, but the shy, watery gaze she once reserved for Wangxiao was gone.
It turned out that everything, the shared journey, the tenderness, the vulnerability, was nothing more than a fleeting dream, a phantom shimmer on the water granted by a merciful immortal. That faint smile hadn’t been a promise; it was a mockery of Wangxiao’s stupidity and her unrequited devotion. There was never a flicker of love.
Wangxiao let out a self-mocking laugh. With her final breath of spiritual energy, as her soul began to dissipate, she smiled:
“Congratulations, Immortal Venerable. You have severed your emotions and attained the stage of Transformation. You are truly divine.”
Wangxiao died in despair. She didn’t live to see the moment Jiang Cishuang’s cold, aloof eyes turned a horrific, bloody crimson.
…
Rumors say that the Qinghuai Immortal Venerable, the chosen one of the Heavens and the only soul capable of ascending in a millennium, turned her hair white and fell into the demonic path in a single night.
The world knows only that she lost her beloved in the Great War and succumbed to inner demons. They don’t know the truth: that the “fallen” Immortal once stood in blood-stained white robes, cradling a lifeless body, weeping tears of blood until her soul broke.
