My Archenemy Is Soft and Delicate - Chapter 2

The cave was deep and dim. On the lake’s surface, the petals of the Two-Life Flower had long drifted from their stem, losing their vitality and much of their glow, leaving them looking withered and forlorn.

Dou Yingjun stirred faintly, half-conscious. The sound of splashing water filled her ears, as if someone were wading through the shallows.

The night carried a slight chill. She shivered, only to feel a warmth brushing past—something soft draped gently over her.

Finally, it wasn’t so cold anymore.

She turned over, her mind still hazy. When her eyes slowly adjusted to the darkness, she could at last make out the face before her.

It was Yang Chunyu.

Exhaustion weighed on every inch of Dou Yingjun’s body, her thoughts sluggish and scattered. Wrapped in a large, warm outer robe, she lay on the cold, hard ground—and yet, somehow, she slept more peacefully than she had in years.

Yang Chunyu’s eye sockets were shallow, her skin pale as snow glinting under sunlight—so white that even a faint light could illuminate her whole face.

Her features were not precisely delicate; there was even a touch of bluntness about them. Her nose was straight and high, the tip slightly rounded.

Dou Yingjun reached out and gently brushed the tip of that nose. When they were little, she used to pinch it every time she beat Yang Chunyu at rock-paper-scissors—those small, mischievous fingers of hers always reaching out to squeeze it before bursting into inexplicable laughter.

Yang Chunyu never complained, but someone always tattled to their master. The master would call Dou Yingjun over, knock her on the head a few times, and lecture her about behaving properly.

“Yang Chunyu doesn’t understand much,” the master would say. “You should take better care of her.”

Take care of her?

How had she not taken care of her?

Every time someone mocked Yang Chunyu’s clumsy swordplay or shaky foundation, Dou Yingjun was the first to step up for her. Whenever anyone made sly, cutting remarks, she was the one charging forward in defense. And yet, the master said she was the one who didn’t understand, who didn’t take care of Yang Chunyu?

“Master, isn’t it supposed to be the senior who looks after the junior? If she’s the senior sister, why do I have to be the one taking care of her?”

“She should be the one taking care of me!”

“If you’re so displeased with me, then just send me back home! You’ve never liked me anyway. I only ever make you angry, I can’t do anything right, I’m childish—and apparently, I bully my peers too!”

She had shouted those words in anger inside the main hall, her eyes rimmed red, before running out—leaving her master’s calls behind her.

Storming down the temple steps, her heart still seething, she came face to face with Yang Chunyu—and behind her, Yao Xi, looking guilty and evasive. That alone was enough to make her rage boil over. She slammed her shoulder into Yang Chunyu’s and strode past without looking back.

After that, Dou Yingjun never played with Yang Chunyu again.

From then on, no matter how she looked at her, Yang Chunyu seemed to rub her the wrong way. She would always talk back, contradict her, challenge her. Over time, word spread throughout the sect: though they trained under the same master, the two senior sisters could never see eye to eye. Still, because Dou Yingjun was talented and proud, no one dared gossip too loudly in her presence.

Then came the incident.

Dou Yingjun fled the sect in disgrace—alone, hunted. Along the way, not a single fellow disciple believed her innocence. Even her closest friends—those she had trusted with everything—were more eager to capture her for merit than to hear her out.

That was when she realized just how utterly she had failed as a person. In a sect so vast, not one soul stood on her side.

From childhood, her family had sent her to the master purely to secure a legacy—to have her inherit the master’s teachings and bring honor to their name. For years she lived by her master’s side; the master had promised to take only one disciple. But in the end, she took Yang Chunyu as well—breaking her vow, elevating Yang Chunyu above her, and making her a laughingstock among her peers.

When she finally fled, she stopped at the foot of the mountain, staring up at the bold characters carved on the sect gate. For a long while, she didn’t know where to go.

The world was vast, yet nowhere could hold her.

She remembered the last time she saw Yang Chunyu. It was in the town at the mountain’s base. Pursued and cornered, Dou Yingjun had ducked into a dead-end alley, hiding amid a pile of broken baskets.

Yang Chunyu appeared—dressed in white, mourning attire already upon her.

Of course. As the master’s senior disciple, who else had the right to wear mourning if not her? Certainly not a traitor like Dou Yingjun.

Watching her, Dou Yingjun couldn’t help but think bitterly: no wonder she had resentment toward their master. If their positions had never been reversed, if things had gone the way they were meant to, wouldn’t it be Yang Chunyu crouching here instead?

Just as the thought crossed her mind, Yang Chunyu suddenly turned. Through the cracks between the baskets, their gazes met for an instant.

Footsteps approached from the alleyway entrance. Dou Yingjun gripped her sword, its edge chipped from battle, her fingers trembling.

She had fought her way here through blood and exhaustion; her spiritual energy was nearly depleted.

Then Yang Chunyu’s sword—Cunqing—sang sharply as it left its sheath. She became a flash of white lightning, darting past the alley mouth.

“Dou Yingjun!”

The pursuing disciples of the Qingxiao Sword Sect heard her shout and, assuming she had found the fugitive, turned to chase after her instead.

Dou Yingjun didn’t understand why Yang Chunyu would cover for her. Maybe she still believed Dou Yingjun wasn’t truly evil—that she hadn’t killed their master.

But Yang Chunyu was wrong.

Dou Yingjun’s gaze flicked over the pale skin of Yang Chunyu’s neck, faint traces marring its surface. Memories from the night before came rushing back, and she drew in a sharp breath.

The fragments aligned. The petals of the Two-Life Flower drifted on the rippling lake, warmth filling the air of the cave. The once-fresh scent of bamboo had grown cloying—tinged with something sweet and intimate.

Dou Yingjun had clutched Yang Chunyu’s shoulders, lips brushing her ear, whispering incoherent words as heat flushed her cheeks.

Ripples spread across the water. Her breath quickened. Suddenly, she gasped—a low, trembling sound—and her fingers dug into soft, pale skin, leaving angry crescents behind.

Her teeth sank into Yang Chunyu’s shoulder. Strands of hair clung to her damp face, her eyes hazy, the corners tinged pink. Outside, the night deepened. Mist rose from the lake. Clothes, half-submerged, drifted in the current. Within the haze, two figures tangled together, movements blurred into a haze of breath and shadow.

Now, Dou Yingjun’s eyes were cold again.

Carefully, she eased herself out of Yang Chunyu’s arms, pulling the robe tightly around her shoulders. She took a few steps toward the exit—then suddenly turned back and picked up Cunqing, the sword resting at the side.

Cunqing was originally the sword Dou Yingjun had brought out from the illusion realm—her bonded weapon. Yet now, it had somehow become Yang Chunyu’s life-bound sword.

Dou Yingjun’s teeth itched with hatred. She wanted nothing more than to pounce on the slumbering Yang Chunyu and bite her to death, one bite at a time.

Her fingers closed around Cunqing’s hilt. She had only meant to play around, to point the sword teasingly at Yang Chunyu. But the moment she gave a light tug—Cunqing came free.

Dou Yingjun froze in shock, her eyes darting toward Yang Chunyu in disbelief. She suspected some sort of trick, but the woman lay there sound asleep, her brow smooth, her breathing even—completely unaware of what had happened.

After a brief daze came elation.

She knew it—Cunqing was a loyal and righteous sword!

As expected of the destined weapon she had pulled from the heart of the illusion realm—even after forging a new contract, it still answered to her command.

Cunqing had been born from the sword-forging stone within that realm—a divine weapon of the highest grade. With such a treasure in her hands, Dou Yingjun’s first thought was, of course, revenge. She raised the blade and slashed toward Yang Chunyu, but when it came within a hand’s breadth of the woman’s body, the sword halted midair, refusing to move another inch.

“You’re protecting your master?” Dou Yingjun let out a furious, incredulous laugh. Then, realizing it was pointless, she gave up the idea of harming Yang Chunyu and turned to leave, sword in hand.

With a weapon like Cunqing, no ordinary cultivator would dare approach her. As long as she kept a low profile for a few years, found some rare herbs to heal her body, and entered secluded cultivation, she could restore her strength to its former peak—then exact her revenge!

Moving quickly, Dou Yingjun supported herself along the cave wall and soon found the exit. Yet the mouth of the cave was sealed by a dark, lightless barrier.

It must have been set up by Yang Chunyu. Breaking it would certainly wake her.

But if she ran fast enough—who would catch her?

Dou Yingjun was confident. She lifted her sword and slashed. The barrier shattered, sunlight pouring in as the chatter outside abruptly fell silent.

A group of Qingxiao Sword Sect disciples in blue uniforms turned toward her, eyes sharp. Seeing the masked woman in the cave entrance holding Cunqing, they instantly fell into battle formation.

Dou Yingjun took a step back. How could she have forgotten?

To snatch the Two-Life Flower, she had deliberately drawn nearby beasts toward the sect disciples to distract them, slipping into the cave while they were occupied.

So that’s why Yang Chunyu had shown up later—it wasn’t a coincidence at all! The sect had sent her to avenge their loss!

“Wait!” Dou Yingjun called out, her clear black-and-white eyes visible above her veil. “I have something to say!”

“Why are you holding my master’s sword?” the girl at the center of the formation demanded—a young cultivator with her hair styled into two small buns.

“Your master’s injured down below!”

Dou Yingjun blurted the first lie that came to mind. “She told me to bring her token and come get you—quickly, she needs help!”

“Oh?” The bun-haired girl’s tone softened as she looked Dou Yingjun up and down. “Then you must be the new disciple Master just took in—our little junior sister?”

Dou Yingjun feigned surprise. “She’s already told you about me?”

“Yes.” The girl sheathed her sword and walked closer, her steps light but quick. “Junior Sister, what trouble did Master encounter down there?”

She was almost at the cave entrance.

“You should stay here! I’ll go down myself!” Dou Yingjun said hurriedly.

Something felt off—too smooth. She studied the girl’s face, finding it vaguely familiar.

Then, a jolt of warning shot through her. Cunqing swung up in her hand just in time to block a flash of pale, water-like swordlight.

When the strike failed, the female cultivator’s soft sword twisted, coiling around Cunqing’s blade. The next moment, it snaked toward Dou Yingjun’s throat.

Her body hadn’t fully recovered; she couldn’t take the hit head-on. For some reason, Cunqing didn’t resist the other sword’s entanglement. Left with no choice, Dou Yingjun released her grip and dodged.

Cunqing clattered to the ground.

As Dou Yingjun evaded another slash, she struck out with her palm, forcing the girl to retreat. The girl kicked off the ground, sending Cunqing spinning into the air—and caught it neatly in her hand.

“What do you think you’re doing, Senior Sister?” Dou Yingjun pressed herself against the cave wall, panting.

“Hmph. You think everyone’s as stupid as you are?”

The girl sneered, then called out in a clear voice, “If Master was really in trouble, why would she give you her most powerful sword instead of some other token?”

“And why the mask? What are you hiding if you’re one of us?”

Dou Yingjun frowned. There was something about this girl’s manner that struck her as oddly familiar. Just as realization flickered through her mind, the girl moved again.

Her soft sword coiled around Dou Yingjun’s neck, the edge grazing her skin and drawing a thin line of blood.

The blade tightened like a silken cord. Just as the girl was about to yank her closer for questioning, slender fingers reached out—and caught the sword between them.

“Master?” the girl exclaimed, startled and delighted.

Yang Chunyu stood there, dressed in fresh robes with a high collar that hid the marks on her pale throat. Her long hair fell loosely, concealing the faint bite on her ear. Her face was calm, expression unreadable, as she glanced at the disheveled Dou Yingjun sitting on the ground.

“Master!” Dou Yingjun called out immediately, her voice full of aggrieved indignation. “Senior Sister didn’t believe me—she thought I was a liar!”

Cunqing leapt from the girl’s hand back into Yang Chunyu’s. She loosened her fingers and said mildly, “Lu Ming, she’s your junior sister.”

Lu Ming withdrew her Waterlight Sword, still frowning in confusion. Clearly, she hadn’t expected that to be true.

“Master, when did you take a disciple? Why didn’t you tell us?” she asked, her tone edging on accusatory.

Since when did a master need permission from her disciples to take a student?

Yang Chunyu didn’t bother to respond. She simply helped Dou Yingjun to her feet, listening as the girl began weaving another elaborate story.

“Oh, that’s a long story,” Dou Yingjun said with a bright, mischievous smile, eyes gleaming as she began her next lie.