After My Death, the Immortal Venerable Became a Demon for My Sake - Chapter 5

Song Wangxiao stared at the cleaned game, her mind still somewhat in a haze.

In the cultivation world, high-level practitioners didn’t need to eat. Their internal spiritual energy was enough to sustain them through centuries of meditation. Clearly, the woman belonged to that elite echelon.

Wangxiao had only hunted the day before because her own cultivation was so pitifully low; her spiritual energy wasn’t enough to keep her body running, and the sheer weakness had become unbearable.

“Th—thank you,” she managed, her response stiff.

Wangxiao moved the campfire outside. She didn’t stand on ceremony, sitting right next to the meditating Jiang Cishuang to skewer the meat over the flames. She glanced at the woman, whose eyes were closed in a trance, feeling that something subtle yet profound had shifted between them.

“After all this… what are your plans?”

Wangxiao had been staring blankly at the roasting meat when the woman’s sudden question snapped her back. Thinking of her reflections from that morning, she gave a bitter smile. “I don’t know. The world is vast, but I have no idea where I belong.”

To survive the Great War, she needed to find a place of peace and harmony—and that place certainly wasn’t here. She turned the question back: “What about you? Is there somewhere you need to go?”

Realizing the woman was supposed to have amnesia and might not remember her destination, Wangxiao quickly added, “But the most important thing right now is healing. We can worry about the rest later.”

The woman didn’t answer. Instead, she reached into her sleeve and produced a piece of folded parchment. The paper was of exquisite quality, with intricate patterns pressed into the borders. She unfolded it to reveal a short text.

Lately, interactions between the Immortal and Demon races have deepened, and trade conflicts have arisen in the borderlands. Our sect invites representatives from all factions to discuss matters of inter-racial trade.

Signed: The Guanqi Sect.

Wangxiao read the lines, her brow furrowing. “Are you going to attend this?”

Jiang Cishuang refolded the invitation. “I believe so.”

Wangxiao searched her memory of the original novel. The Xiyi Sect and the Guanqi Sect were indeed on the same geographic route. It made sense that the woman was headed there, but the wording of the letter felt wrong.

If this were just about trade disputes, why make such a grand show of it? Usually, minor border issues were handled via communication talismans. A formal physical invitation suggested the “trade summit” was merely a front for something much larger.

Given the timeline of the impending Great War, this gathering was almost certainly a war council. The Guanqi Sect was located closest to the demonic territories; if the demons invaded, their interests would be the first to burn. No wonder they were desperate.

Wangxiao pieced the logic together. Then a thought hit her: if this woman had such an invitation, she must be a formidable figure from a powerful sect.

She looked at the woman again. She was devastatingly beautiful, her features carved from winter frost, every movement carrying the innate grace of a high immortal.

“You should definitely go,” Wangxiao said. “But your injuries haven’t healed, so you can’t fly your sword yet. And we don’t even know how far Guanqi is from here.”

Jiang Cishuang turned to look at her. When Wangxiao smiled, her eyes looked incredibly pure. Even now, with a slight worried frown, she was captivating.

“Then we shall wait until our wounds have mended,” Jiang Cishuang said. “The assembly is a month away. That is time enough.”

Wangxiao hadn’t expected the woman to be so direct, including her in the “we.” The recommendation she was about to make died in her throat. She suppressed the frantic hammering of her heart and met the woman’s gaze with a wide smile.

“Then it’s a plan.”

“By the way, what should I call you?” Wangxiao asked. Knowing the woman “didn’t remember” her name, she didn’t wait for an answer. “How about… Yin Xiao?”

Jiang Cishuang paused for a second. “Very well. Thank you.”

With the new name established, Wangxiao felt a sense of relief. That night, she extinguished the fire as usual. She moved to drape the quilt over the meditating woman, but a hand rose to stop her.

“There is no need.”

Wangxiao blinked. “But it’s freezing at night. It’ll make your injuries worse.”

The woman simply stood and led her to a small, makeshift bed of dried hay. She sat at the corner of the hay pile and gestured for Wangxiao to lie down.

Wangxiao obeyed, settling onto the straw and pulling the quilt over herself. Then, she took the other half and draped it over Jiang Cishuang’s lap and shoulders.

“This is better,” Wangxiao whispered. She gripped the edge of the fabric, took a deep breath, and turned her back to the woman, trying to process her racing thoughts.

A long time passed. Once Wangxiao’s breathing finally steadied into the rhythm of sleep, the woman beside her slowly opened her eyes. Her gaze was as deep and dark as the night itself.

…

Jiang Cishuang’s recovery was remarkable. Within days, she had suppressed the chaotic energy in her veins. When Wangxiao stood near her, she could no longer feel that bone-chilling frost radiating outward.

But while her internal state improved, her physical wounds—the jagged cuts from the ambush, refused to close. The deep gash at her waist had only managed to stop bleeding; there were no signs of the skin knitting back together.

Wangxiao was baffled. By all rights, the Spirit-Stabilizing Pills should have worked wonders on external trauma. She’d gone through half a bottle, yet Yin Xiao’s wounds remained raw.

Did the alchemist sell me expired meds? Wangxiao wondered.

In contrast to Wangxiao’s anxiety, Jiang Cishuang remained unnervingly calm, as if the injuries belonged to someone else. She knew the truth: Demonic cultivation was treacherous. Many who fell into the demonic path used weapons tainted with “malignant miasma.” Such energy was stubborn and foul; wounds inflicted by these artifacts simply would not heal through normal means.

Still, the dressings needed to be changed. Since Jiang Cishuang couldn’t reach the wound on her back, the task fell to Wangxiao.

Wangxiao, too worried about the lack of progress to care about propriety, agreed immediately.

Jiang Cishuang lay on the soft quilt. She had shed her outer and middle robes, leaving only a thin, silk inner garment that fluttered in the cool moonlight.

Wangxiao prepared the powder and silk, casting a cleansing charm on her hands to keep the area sterile. As she reached out to unfasten the inner robe, her fingers trembled slightly—a subtle betrayal of her nerves.

As the silk fell away, the elegant curve of Jiang Cishuang’s shoulder blades was revealed. In the moonlight, her skin seemed to glow with a soft radiance, as if she were the source of light in the room.

Wangxiao forced her gaze downward to the waist. The old bandages were stained with a dark, worrying red. The faint, metallic scent of blood hung in the air.

Taking a deep breath, Wangxiao unwrapped the old silk. The sight was grim, the wound was still raw, looking exactly as it had days ago.

Frowning, Wangxiao applied the medicinal powder. She cut the silk to length and began the delicate process of wrapping it around the woman’s torso. It was a difficult task; to get a firm wrap without hurting the patient, she had to move with extreme precision.

Her fingers occasionally brushed against Jiang Cishuang’s bare skin. Each contact felt like a static shock, causing both of them to flinch.

Wangxiao’s breath hitched. She looked up instinctively and collided with a pair of eyes that were shimmering and wet, like a mist-covered lake. Jiang Cishuang looked… fragile. Almost as if she were being bullied.

The air in the temple grew heavy and thick. Every breath felt scorching.

Wangxiao tore her gaze away, frantic to finish. She secured the bandages at record speed, her chest heaving slightly as if she’d just run a marathon. Before Jiang Cishuang could even get her robes back on, Wangxiao blurted out an excuse about gathering more firewood and bolted out the door.

Jiang Cishuang sat up, looking at the neat bandages. The phantom sensation of the girl’s touch still lingered on her skin.

She reached for her clothes. Under the moonlight, her slender, pale hands were shaking. In her palm, the small crescents where her own fingernails had dug into her skin began to heal, silently and instantly.

…

When Wangxiao returned, Jiang Cishuang was already fully dressed and sitting calmly by the hay bed. Her face was a mask of indifference, making Wangxiao wonder if the “misty-eyed” look from earlier had been a figment of her imagination. The strange tension had vanished.

A flicker of disappointment, which Wangxiao couldn’t quite explain, rose in her chest. She lay down on the hay and buried her face in the quilt.

The night remained silent, until the rustle of fabric cut through the air. Wangxiao froze, her heart hammering against her ribs.

The quilt was lifted. A cold, slender body slipped in beside her.

Wangxiao’s palms went sweaty. She held her breath, her mind racing with a confusing mixture of fear and expectation. But the movement lasted only a few seconds.

Silence returned, eventually replaced by the sound of the woman’s soft, even breathing as she fell asleep. Wangxiao opened her eyes, staring at the rafters above, and finally buried her face in her hands.

…

The next morning, Wangxiao woke up alone, as had become the routine.

She tidied the temple and folded the quilt. When she stepped outside, she saw Jiang Cishuang practicing with her sword.

The woman wore the simple grey-white robes Wangxiao had given her. On anyone else, they would have been drab; on her, they looked like the vestments of a goddess. She moved with a lethal, effortless grace, the Fuming Sword whistling through the air in perfect synchronization with her body.

Frost coated the blade. With a final, sweeping strike, Jiang Cishuang unleashed a wave of spiritual energy that shattered the silence of the forest and sent a flock of birds into the sky.

She sheathed the sword and turned to see Wangxiao watching her with wide, star-struck eyes.

“Is your injury healed?” Wangxiao asked breathlessly.

“I have recovered enough to circulate my energy,” Jiang Cishuang replied.

Wangxiao checked the woman’s waist. No blood. “Does that mean… you can fly now? You can use your sword?”

A rare glint of genuine satisfaction appeared in Jiang Cishuang’s eyes. “Yes.”

“That’s amazing!” Wangxiao cheered. Without thinking, she lunged forward and pulled the woman into a tight hug. “That’s so great!”

She had been carrying so much guilt. Ever since Yin Xiao had saved her from the tracking spell and nearly suffered a cultivation relapse, Wangxiao had felt like a weight was crushing her chest. Now, that weight was gone.

Moreover, it meant they could finally head for the Guanqi Sect. Sure, it was dangerous, but Wangxiao believed in the “hiding in plain sight” strategy. The Xiyi Sect would never expect her to be right under their noses at a major assembly.

Jiang Cishuang stiffened. She seemed paralyzed by the sudden, warm embrace. Her expression shifted through several complex layers as she gripped her sword tightly, allowing the girl to hold her.

Realizing she’d overstepped, Wangxiao quickly let go, her hands hovering awkwardly at her sides.

Jiang Cishuang’s lips curved into a faint smile. “Would you like to try? You seemed quite entranced just now.”

Wangxiao’s heart skipped a beat. Was I entranced by the swordplay, or by you? She nodded anyway. The “original” Wangxiao had never been taught a proper technique, and she only had a cheap sword she’d bought at the foot of the mountain. She felt like a bit of a fraud as a “sword cultivator.”

Jiang Cishuang watched the girl’s fluttering lashes. A sudden, playful impulse rose within her. “If I am to teach you, shouldn’t your way of addressing me change?”

Wangxiao thought for a moment, then tilted her head. “Master? (Shizun?)”

Jiang Cishuang, the woman who was always a statue of ice, actually laughed. It was a soft, genuine sound that reached her eyes.

Wangxiao knew she was being teased, but she couldn’t bring herself to be annoyed. She just felt that Yin Xiao’s joy was even colder and more reserved than most people’s. Her sect must have had some incredibly strict rules for her to hide her emotions so thoroughly.

Jiang Cishuang regained her composure quickly and handed over the sword.

As Wangxiao took the Fuming Sword, the temperature of the blade seemed to drop. The sword-spirit clearly didn’t like her. She wondered what she’d done to offend a piece of metal.

Before she could ponder it, a pair of soft, slender hands wrapped around her wrists. A warm body pressed against her back, enveloping her in that clean, cool fragrance. Another hand came to rest firmly against her waist.

Wangxiao turned into a statue. Her arm moved only because Jiang Cishuang was guiding it.

“When holding a sword, you must treat it as an extension of your arm,” a cool voice whispered directly into her ear. “Hold your breath. Focus. Use your spirit to drive the blade.”

Jiang Cishuang guided her through a beautiful, sweeping arc in the air, her hand remaining on Wangxiao’s waist to steer her through the footwork.

Wangxiao was a puppet. She couldn’t feel the sword or the technique; she could only feel the heat of the woman behind her and the thunderous beat of her own heart.

When the final move was executed, Jiang Cishuang felt the girl’s body remained stiff as a board. She let out a soft chuckle and stepped back, releasing her.

The sudden rush of air felt like a shock to Wangxiao’s system. She shoved the sword back into the woman’s hands. “I… I’m going to go pick some fruit!”

Without waiting for a response, she bolted into the forest.

Jiang Cishuang watched her flee, then looked down at the Fuming Sword, which was humming in indignant protest. The smile vanished from her face, replaced by a crystalline clarity.

She watched the empty forest for a moment, sheathed her sword, and then suddenly turned toward the distant mountains.

Her eyes turned cold and deep. In the next heartbeat, she vanished from the spot entirely.

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