Please, Don’t Die - Chapter 45

The courtyard was deep and secluded.

Jagged rockeries and bizarre stones stood in peculiar formations, with plum blossoms, orchids, bamboo, and chrysanthemums, representing the beauty of all four seasons, scattered throughout. To ensure the emperor remained untouched by evil, every scenic spot was not only meticulously crafted by artisans but also embedded with arrays of varying scales designed to suppress malevolent forces.

It could be said that within the imperial palace, not a single plant or stone was placed without purpose.

Thus, He Qingsheng treaded with utmost caution.

Her goal was clear: the imperial garden along the central axis of the palace. In this vast, heaven-blessed forbidden court, only that place had a faint purple glow and an overwhelming surge of sinister energy.

Along the palace paths, rows of uniformly dressed palace maids and eunuchs moved in orderly fashion, one group carrying flower fertilizer, another with sickles and hooves, all heading toward the imperial garden. Their steps were hurried yet disciplined.

Yet the overall atmosphere was not overly solemn. Soft murmurs occasionally rose from the procession, lending a touch of liveliness to the deep palace, preventing it from feeling desolate.

The sinister energy was so thick, yet when dispersed across each person’s face, it seemed to leave no trace at all.

He Qingsheng followed them into the imperial garden with suspicion.

She was nearly blinded by a dazzling golden glow.

Her lips twitched as a sudden, sharp pain prickled across her body.

The agony of the golden glow’s poison had been seared into her soul. Displeased, He Qingsheng plucked a small yellow flower and crushed it vengefully between her fingers.

A young maid carrying a pot of fertilizer shivered at the abrupt chill and hastily set the pot down, scurrying back into line.

Strangely, once inside the garden, everyone fell silent as if by unspoken agreement, focusing solely on their tasks.

To He Qingsheng, it was like watching a silent film on fast-forward.

The maids and eunuchs moved with careful precision, their expressions tense, as though something terrifying lurked in the shadows, something that would claim their lives at the slightest misstep.

The leading matron gave a soft cough, and the group flinched like startled quails, hurriedly arranging the pots and fertilizer back into place, their hands moving so fast they blurred.

Once everything was restored, they lined up in perfect unison. The matron seemed to count heads before leisurely returning to the front of the procession.

In no time at all, the imperial garden was empty.

He Qingsheng pushed aside the golden glow and stepped forward, only to be ensnared by a ribbon of twilight.

A second before the killing intent struck, a pair of hands clamped down hard on her shoulders.

Then, a transparent barrier rose, sealing them off from the outside world.

“Don’t move! Don’t make a sound!”

Yu Fu’s voice was sharp, stern, and brooked no argument.

The Qiguang silk strained to tighten around the wooden puppet, fearing she might struggle free at any moment.

Unexpectedly, she didn’t resist.

He Qingsheng sensed no killing intent from the Qiguang silk.

Yet being bound by it was an incredibly dangerous move.

Back at Fuliu Sect, when their master had the disciples choose their weapons, her senior and junior siblings had opted for famed swords. He Qingsheng, aiming for flair, had picked a long spear. After much deliberation, all three had chosen weapons of extreme sharpness.

Only Yu Fu, the youngest disciple, had been drawn to the supple Qiguang silk from the start.

It was an exquisite weapon, named for its ability to shift hues with the changing colors of dawn and dusk. Unlike the sharpness of a sword or the dominance of a spear, it was soft and elegant, like a clear lake embracing all things.

In Yu Fu’s hands, this cloud-like silk became an unshakable shield for his fellow disciples, catching the wounded in battle and suffocating even the fiercest foes without a gap.

Yu Fu was the youngest, with a baby face that belied his role as the dependable backbone for his senior brothers and sisters.

He bore every task without complaint.

Their master had once scolded him in frustration, telling him not to be so naive, to stop grinning foolishly even when his seniors played tricks on him.

But Yu Fu would only reply with his usual good-natured smile, “But my senior brothers and sisters are so kind to me,” continuing to be the most reliable presence in their sect.

After the sect was annihilated and Yu Fu was taken captive, his fate remained unknown. During the fifty years of He Qingsheng’s exile, she had risked her life countless times to search for any trace of him.

Yet, she found nothing.

Who could have imagined that their reunion would happen in the mortal world, amidst schemes and treachery, in such a wretched state?

Yu Fu’s expression was tense, his eyes unblinking as he stared at the imperial garden before them.

Following his gaze, a figure shrouded in thick, dark miasma strode forward with eerie ease.

The man’s black imperial robes were frayed at the edges, corroded by the sinister energy, dirt clinging to the fabric. Yet, the exquisitely embroidered dragon patterns remained starkly visible. His movements were stiff and jerky, like a freshly reanimated corpse clawing its way out of the grave.

He Qingsheng held her breath, a vague answer forming in her mind, Emperor Zhao Wu, the founding emperor of the Great Su Dynasty.

The man who resembled Emperor Zhao Wu wore an expression of twisted delight as he greedily inhaled the scent of the Mianrihui flowers, as though their fragrance were poison. His lips stretched into an unnatural grin, drool dripping from his chin onto the golden blossoms.

Where the saliva touched, the Mianrihui withered instantly. Row after row of flowers vanished in the wake of his approach.

The withering flowers fed the deathly aura around him, a terrifying mix of malice and miasma coalescing into an overwhelming sense of danger.

This man was an extreme threat.

He Qingsheng quickly assessed that the meager amount of miasma she currently possessed was no match for him.

The man flailed his arms wildly, staggering through the flowerbeds with erratic, drunken laughter. There was no rhyme or reason to his movements, one moment he bit into a flower’s stamen, the next he chewed on leaves, golden sap smearing across his lips, deepening the grotesque wrinkles of his face. His madness was palpable.

Suddenly, a purplish-black face pressed close to the edge of their barrier.

He Qingsheng froze. Years of tacit understanding allowed her to sense Yu Fu’s tension as well.

Yu Fu recognized this thing, neither human nor ghost!

He was wary of it!

The man sniffed the air like a beast, his crimson eyes scanning the empty space before him with unsettling focus, determined to find any flaw in their concealment.

Time seemed to stand still, each second stretching unbearably long.

At one point, He Qingsheng even felt as though she was locking eyes with those blood-red pupils.

Unstable three souls, rootless seven spirits.

Possession?

Possession of a corpse?

Stealing the life of the living.

The thought sent a chill down her spine.

“Your Majesty, we have business to attend to,” a soft, eerie voice murmured. Another figure, clad in golden robes, materialized from the void.

That single address confirmed the man’s identity to He Qingsheng.

Emperor Zhao Wu bared his fangs at the golden-robed man, his face twisting with displeasure at the interruption.

Unfazed, the newcomer stepped forward, gripping the emperor’s head and slamming it into a pot of Mianrihui. The finely crafted porcelain emitted a grating, teeth-chattering screech.

“You think I call you ‘Your Majesty’ out of respect? Don’t get delusional.”

Shattered pottery, scattered soil, and the furious but impotent Emperor Zhao Wu.

“Wretched cur, I will replace you one day.”

“Tch. A waste like you, trapped by mere flowers? Keep dreaming.” The man scoffed, tossing the emperor aside like garbage. “If you’ve had your fill, crawl back to where you belong. Don’t interfere with our master’s plans.”

Emperor Zhao Wu rose stiffly, letting out a furious roar as a tempestuous gale erupted around him. Thick, black, foul-smelling demonic energy responded to his call, converging from all directions.

At the center of the massive vortex, Emperor Zhao Wu’s power surged relentlessly. Yet the golden-robed man stood unshaken, his expression one of disdain. Only when the emperor neared the brink of madness did he leisurely slap him across the face.

Beyond that, he made no further move.

He Qingsheng gaped at the scene before her.

Upon closer inspection, the ribbons of black energy transporting the demonic miasma weren’t one-way channels, they connected both parties in an exchange.

The input endpoint was Emperor Zhao Wu, while the output direction spread across the capital.

It was impossible to tell how much time had passed, perhaps only moments.

The golden-robed man’s patience finally ran out. He slipped a rope around Emperor Zhao Wu’s neck and led him away like a dog, vanishing on the spot.

The black ribbons of demonic energy abruptly snapped apart, scattering joyously in all directions.

In the imperial garden, vast stretches of Mianrihui flowers withered and died, leaving only the outermost ring of golden blossoms drooping weakly, their heads trembling.

Only after the two had departed did the tense atmosphere in the air ease slightly.

Yu Fu remained silent for a long while, as if confirming they wouldn’t return. His stiff expression finally relaxed slightly as he quickened his pace to leave.

“Where are you off to in such a hurry, silly little fish?” Lan Shanqing emerged from some unseen corner, draping herself coquettishly over Yu Fu’s arm.

He Qingsheng sensed him stiffen momentarily before regaining his composure.

She remained motionless within the Qiguang silk, playing dead.

“This isn’t the place to talk,” Yu Fu said coldly.

Lan Shanqing glanced at the imperial garden and pursed her lips. “Truly worthy of being called the last madman of the fallen dynasty. He’s insane indeed. Back then, I merely slaughtered your entire family, but from the looks of it, he intends to take the whole world with him.”

“Enough,” Yu Fu snapped.

Lan Shanqing’s smile remained radiant. “After bringing it up so many times, I thought you’d be used to it by now. Why do you still look so upset?”

Her tone was light and childishly innocent, yet her words were utterly cruel.

“Ah-” Lan Shanqing pouted playfully. “Can’t win with words, so you resort to biting me now?”

He Qingsheng didn’t hear Yu Fu’s reply. Instead, the sudden sound of heated breathing filled the air.

He Qingsheng: ?

He Qingsheng: Are they kissing?

“Satisfied?” Yu Fu wiped the blood from his lips, his expression icy.

“Ah-” Lan Shanqing licked her bitten lip, her pupils contracting excitedly into vertical slits. “Not afraid of snake venom anymore?”

“What’s a little more?” Yu Fu scoffed, sidestepping her clinging form. “Get lost. Go do your job.”

Yu Fu’s lack of resistance to the venom left Lan Shanqing in high spirits despite the rebuke. She blew a teasing breath against his ear. “Pity that lunatic wants the thing urgently. Otherwise, I’d have my fun with you right now.”

With a regretful poke at Yu Fu’s chest, she giggled. “I’ll come find you tonight.”

Yu Fu recoiled in disgust, leaving Lan Shanqing’s wild laughter far behind him.

“Idiot.”

Layer upon layer of palace walls flashed past his vision.

The final towering barrier.

The barrier expanded, sealing off another uninhabited realm.

Yu Fu clenched the small wooden figurine in his hand.

Freed from the Qiguang silk’s confinement, He Qingsheng drifted out effortlessly.

Mortals couldn’t perceive spirits, but that didn’t hinder cultivators from recognizing them.

Her white robes, styled in the Fuliu tradition, were stained with blood. Her hair was loosely half-tied in the simplest of buns, disheveled and barely held together, relying entirely on her strikingly beautiful face to carry an air of effortless grace. Fortunately, her spirit form appeared clear and unblemished, showing no signs of hidden injuries, otherwise, she would have looked even more disheveled.

But it was still a far cry from the refined elegance expected in Fuliu.

She didn’t miss the flicker of heartache in Yu Fu’s eyes.

He Qingsheng lowered her gaze with a faint smile, lightly raising a hand to brush a stray lock from her temple, feigning nonchalance. “With my junior sister gone, there’s no one left to tie my hair properly.”

Yu Fu didn’t respond. His gaze swept over her before settling on the translucent wound on her shoulder, a sword strike to the soul, one that would never fully heal.

One of the main reasons why cultivators of the Twelve Walls never lingered in the mortal realm after death was to avoid injuries to their souls. Yet He Qingsheng clearly had no fear of this.

He opened his mouth, as if unsure where to begin.

A long silence stretched between them.

Finally, he spoke. “Senior Sister, since you’re already dead… just move on to the next life.”

The setting sun bled crimson, casting a warm orange glow over the Qiguang Silk, weaving fragments of the past like relics, memories too distant to reclaim.

They locked eyes, the air thick with unspoken words.

He Qingsheng smiled at him. “I can’t, Junior Brother. The underworld won’t take me.”

Her words weren’t entirely a lie.

Yu Fu, of course, didn’t believe her excuse. His voice turned sharp. “If I were to act, I could scatter your soul to the winds right here, let alone…”

Let alone the Emperor Zhao Wu and that mysterious golden-robed man.

What awaited her on the path of vengeance was nothing but an abyss, utter annihilation.

“That little imperial preceptor is just a mantis trying to stop a chariot. Stay out of it, Senior Sister.”

“I’m begging you.”

“Who says I wouldn’t survive against you?” He Qingsheng laughed brightly, pretending to be offended as she playfully rapped Yu Fu’s head. A wisp of spiritual energy slipped unnoticed into his hair.

Yu Fu scoffed at her indifference, retorting, “Meddling in so many affairs, is your Dao-heart still free and unfettered, Senior Sister?”

He Qingsheng paused. So, Yu Fu still thought she was cultivating the Path of Freedom as a spirit. According to orthodox records, most ghost cultivators were those who continued pursuing the Dao after death, refining spiritual energy through specific methods without altering their original aspirations.

If He Qingsheng were truly following that path, she might indeed be no match for Yu Fu.

But she wasn’t walking the righteous way.

Yu Fu didn’t know that, and He Qingsheng had no intention of telling him. She deflected with a careless grin. “My Dao is freedom, I do as I please. If I act according to my heart, how can my Dao-heart be unstable?”

“Besides… I’m not willing to let go.”

Yu Fu stared at her. He knew exactly what those words meant, a sea of blood, a mountain of grudges.

Who could ever let go of such hatred?

But still…

Yu Fu shut his eyes tightly. “Senior Sister, just leave.”

“Go back to the top of Tianqi Tower. Return to the Twelve Walls.”

“If you can’t let go, then go back and kill Liang Qiuji!” His eyes burned red, teeth clenched so hard that dark blood seeped from the corner of his lips, his entire body trembling in agony.

So, it really was connected to that old bastard.

He Qingsheng cursed inwardly, instinctively reaching out to steady him, only for her hand to pass straight through Yu Fu’s arm, grasping at empty air.

Both of them froze.

“Ah, don’t mind the small details.” He Qingsheng forced an awkward laugh, clumsily changing the subject. “How about you tell me how you ended up with such terrible luck in love?”

Yu Fu took a silent step back, his gaze burning into her shoulder as if he could sear a hole through it with sheer intensity.

He Qingsheng opened her mouth, but the moment the first syllable left her lips, the Qiguang silk tightened once more with unyielding force, flinging her far beyond the palace walls.

Amidst the struggle, He Qingsheng deciphered the words on Yu Fu’s lips, “Next time we meet, I won’t hold back.”