The Immortal’s "White Moonlight" Reborn - Chapter 1

Cangwang Realm, Wansen Domain.

This domain was a landscape defined by rolling mountains and an endless, suffocating sea of trees. Legend had it that a millennium ago, the Demon Lord and the Great Spirit King fought their final battle here, leaving countless masters to fall beneath the canopy. It was a place where lethal danger and golden opportunity existed in equal measure. Every year, when the hidden paths into the domain opened, cultivators from every corner of the world would flood into the forest, hoping to strike it rich. This was always the liveliest time for Wansen.

At the easternmost edge of the domain sat the only human settlement in the region. Whenever the paths opened, the local cultivators made a killing. Stalls lined the streets, selling artifacts some genuine, some clever fakes purportedly scavenged from the depths of the endless forest.

If one walked straight out of this town, they would find themselves staring into the emerald abyss of the woods.

In the heart of the town sat a bustling teahouse. Cultivators of all stripes stopped here to rest their feet, grab a drink, and, more importantly, trade information. The air was thick with the scent of tea and the low hum of voices.

On the first floor, a storyteller took a long sip of tea to wet his throat. He brought his gavel down with a sharp thack, signaling the start of the day’s tale.

“Sir! I’ve been sitting here for three days, and your stories are always the same. I’m bored to tears! If you don’t give us something fresh today, don’t expect a single copper from me!” a young cultivator shouted from the crowd.

“He’s right! Change it up! We want something interesting!”

“Ahem…” The storyteller stroked his beard thoughtfully. “In that case, how about we speak of the one on Mount Yunwu—the great Immortal Yun Heng?”

On the second floor, a woman in a sea-green dress sat quietly by the window. Her fingers, slender and pale like finely carved jade, cradled a teacup. Steam curled upward, carrying the rich aroma of the brew. Amidst the raucous noise of the teahouse, she seemed to exist in a pocket of profound stillness, as if time itself had slowed down just for her.

But the moment she heard the name Yun Heng, her tranquil composure shattered like a stone dropped into a mirror-still lake. She looked up, her gaze drifting toward the noisy crowd below.

How long had it been since she had heard that name?

Wen Qiwu quickly turned her head toward the bustling market outside, trying to let the mundane chaos of the world drown out the sudden turbulence in her heart.

“Qiwu? Qiwu!” Her friend, who had just returned from shopping, had to call her name several times before Wen Qiwu snapped back to reality.

“Ah… I’m sorry. I was just lost in thought.”

Her friend lowered her voice, asking with genuine concern, “Qiwu, is something wrong? Are you feeling unwell?”

“It’s nothing. I just… remembered something from a very long time ago. It’s all in the past now, don’t worry,” Wen Qiwu said, offering a small, reassuring smile.

Her friend wasn’t entirely convinced—Wen Qiwu looked like she had seen a ghost—but since she wasn’t opening up, she didn’t push.

“My home is over in the Canghai Domain. In a month, they’re hosting the decennial ‘Dragon Gate’ ceremony. It’s a huge celebration. Why don’t you come stay with me for a bit? It might help clear your head.”

A change of scenery? Wen Qiwu nodded. “That sounds lovely. I’d like that.”

“As everyone knows, after the Great War between Immortals and Demons a century ago, Immortal Yun Heng was left with devastating injuries…” The storyteller’s voice drifted up to the second floor.

Clack!

The scalding teacup slipped from Wen Qiwu’s hand, spilling hot tea across her ivory skin.

“Qiwu!” Her friend jumped, startled.

The woman’s pale lips trembled slightly as if she wanted to ask something, but the words wouldn’t come.

“Immortal Yun Heng went back to the Demon Realm alone ten years ago to slay the Myriad Soul Demon Lord… Her wounds should have healed by now,” someone nearby remarked, their conversation bleeding into Wen Qiwu’s space.

Has she really recovered? Wen Qiwu wondered silently.

“Are you alright? Your face is so pale,” her friend asked, reaching for a cloth.

The water was hot, but not enough to truly burn a cultivator of her level. It wasn’t the tea that was hurting her.

“I’m fine…” Wen Qiwu lowered her eyes and poured herself another cup. The tea rippled—a perfect reflection of her internal state.

“If you aren’t feeling well, we can head back. The market is open for another two weeks; we don’t have to see everything today,” her friend suggested.

“Let’s sit a while longer.” Wen Qiwu’s voice carried a faint, barely perceptible tremor. Her eyes were drawn, almost against her will, back to the storyteller. She had been away from the world for a hundred years. She had no idea what had happened during her absence.

The storyteller took another sip of tea before continuing. “That Immortal spent decades in seclusion before storming the Demon Realm alone. She found the Myriad Soul Demon Lord—the one who nearly destroyed the Wenshen Sect—and cut him into a thousand pieces. They say every agonizing torture he ever invented was turned back on him by her hand. His soul supposedly wails day and night, begging the Immortal for the mercy of a quick death.”

“Whoa, she’s ruthless.”

“Nonsense! That demon nearly wiped out her entire sect. If it were me, I’d have done worse!”

“True. Killing him was a service to the world. As long as Immortal Yun Heng stands guard, the other two Demon Lords won’t dare move. Maybe the realm can finally have some peace.”

The crowd murmured in agreement, though a few noted that the storyteller seemed unusually somber today. They weren’t disappointed for long; the man let out a heavy sigh.

“You aren’t wrong. With only two Demon Lords left, the Demon Realm is toothless as long as the Immortal is well. Unfortunately… while wounds of the flesh are easily mended, the tribulations of the heart are far harder to cross.”

Wen Qiwu’s brow furrowed. She remembered this storyteller; he was notorious for spinning wild rumors and sensationalist gossip. She looked down at the crowd and suddenly froze. There, sitting among the commoners, were several young people wearing the distinct robes of the Wenshen Sect.

Her first instinct was to hide, but then she remembered how much her appearance had changed. Even if she stood right in front of them, these disciples of the younger generation wouldn’t have a clue who she was.

“What most people don’t know,” the storyteller whispered, leaning in as the crowd hushed, “is that the Immortal’s long seclusion wasn’t just for her physical wounds. It was because she developed an inner demon.”

“An inner demon? Impossible!” The crowd erupted. Yun Heng was the closest thing to a god in this realm. How could someone of her stature succumb to such a thing?

The storyteller shook his head with a knowing smile, pointing a folding fan toward the heavens. “Because in the Immortal’s heart, there is a ‘white moonlight’—a moon she can see but never touch. To desire what cannot be had breeds obsession. And obsession, my friends, breeds the inner demon.”

He put it delicately, but everyone understood the implication.

“You mean… the great Yun Heng is suffering from unrequited love?”

“Surely that’s just a tall tale? Since when did she become so human?”

Downstairs, the reactions ranged from disbelief and mockery to subtle, jealous malice.

Thump.

Wen Qiwu stood up abruptly and walked to the railing, staring down at the first floor. Her friend, confused, followed close behind. Amidst the heated debate, Wen Qiwu remained deathly silent. Her friend stole a glance at her face and was shocked to see a cold, icy fury in the eyes of a woman who was usually the embodiment of gentleness.

It was baffling. In the short time they had known each other, her friend had never seen Wen Qiwu lose her temper or even give someone a cold look. Even when they were attacked by bandits in the forest, Wen Qiwu had apologized after killing them. This sudden flash of anger was entirely unprecedented.

“…Utter nonsense,” Wen Qiwu finally said, her voice freezing.

Her friend suspected that Qiwu had spent the last minute trying to think of a scathing insult, but her polite upbringing had failed her, leaving her with only those two words.

Trying to be supportive, her friend started joining in, whispering critiques of the gossiping crowd. Every time she said something, Wen Qiwu would nod solemnly, looking strangely adorable in her serious indignation.

Her friend turned her head slightly to hide a smile. “But Qiwu, are you actually close with that Immortal from the Wenshen Sect?”

Wen Qiwu’s hand tightened on the wooden railing, her eyes clouding with a whirlwind of emotions. “We aren’t close…”

“Not close? Then why get so upset?” Her friend glanced down at the Wenshen Sect disciples who were quietly drinking tea. “Look at those disciples. Even they aren’t arguing. I’m starting to think there might be some truth to it, even if the storyteller is laying it on thick. She isn’t a practitioner of the ‘Path of No Emotion,’ so it’s normal to have someone she likes…”

The casual chatter felt like a weight in Wen Qiwu’s ears. She swallowed the words she had been about to say.

Are we not close?

Her gaze turned hollow. She had lied to draw a line between them, but then she realized—she had been the person who knew Yun Heng best in the world. But that was a hundred years ago. To her, it felt like she had just woken up from a long nap, but to the rest of the world, an era had passed. Perhaps they truly were strangers now.

Maybe it’s better this way.

Yun Heng wouldn’t have to suffer the scandal of loving her own junior sister, and Wen Qiwu could finally let go of the past. She tried to smile, but it was a bitter, aching thing.

“Qiwu, do you have an acquaintance in the Wenshen Sect?” her friend asked suddenly. One of the women among the disciples had looked up, staring toward their balcony with a dazed, shocked expression.

Wen Qiwu followed her gaze and locked eyes with the stranger. She didn’t recognize the woman, but there was something hauntingly familiar about the curve of her eyes.

Wen Qiwu instinctively gave a soft, habitual tilt of her head. The woman below gasped and immediately looked down, staring intensely at her teacup as if it held the secrets of the universe.

“Elder? Did you see something?” the disciples nearby asked, noticing her sudden agitation.

“It’s nothing,” Dong Shiyue murmured. She didn’t dare look up again. If she did, her disciples would see that their stern, unshakeable Elder had eyes brimming with tears.

It was just a resemblance, she told herself. I just saw a shadow of Elder Wen in that traveler. Especially when she smiled… but it can’t be her.

“I don’t think I know her,” Wen Qiwu said softly. The woman was likely someone who joined the sect after her “death.”

“You sound like you’ve been to the Wenshen Sect before.”

“Yes…” Wen Qiwu whispered.

It was more than just a visit. From the moment she first opened her eyes as an infant, her world had been the Wenshen Sect and her senior sister, Yun Heng. Those people and those mountains had made up every second of her former life. Even now, she could close her eyes and map out every leaf on Mount Yunwu and the face of the woman who made the moonlight seem dull by comparison.

Perhaps that was why trying to cut it out of her heart felt like such a bloody, violent endeavor.

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