The Frost Beneath Her Veil - Chapter 25.2

Once everyone had left, the bottom of the tower returned to a deep, profound darkness. Yin Jiuruo felt Fu Qing’s spiritual energy repairing her heart—keeping it from shattering completely, yet ensuring it would never heal. She tried to calm herself and ignore the pain in her chest, but the next moment, her brain exploded with a sharp, agonizing pain.

Massive waves of memory surged like a dark tide, swallowing Yin Jiuruo’s blank mind.

There was a version of Fu Qing wearing a phoenix crown, her face like jade, looking even more seductive. She sat on a bright yellow couch, holding Yin Jiuruo’s hand, and said: “I like you very much.”

The next scene: she watched Fu Qing and a sister who looked “very similar” to her ascend the throne together as Emperor and Empress. Behind her, bones littered the ground as she was pierced by ten thousand arrows, falling eternally into hell.

New memories appeared. She called Fu Qing “Sister,” drank the clear wine the other handed her, and immediately collapsed as the poison took effect. “Sister will protect you,” the woman said tenderly.

The scenes shifted. Over a dozen lifetimes of memories with Fu Qing flashed through her mind. In every life, they had once been intimate and inseparable; in every life, without exception, it ended with drawn blades and her falling into the abyss. It was like a script written specifically for her—lifting her high into a warm heaven, only to drop her heavily, shattering her into pieces.

What kind of person could be so heartless?

Yin Jiuruo lay on the ground, recalling the Fu Qing she knew. The woman had no particular hobbies; for a few days she might enjoy tasting tea and admiring flowers, then spend a few days playing chess and sparring. The world was vast, and beautiful things were countless. To like something for a moment was, to her, equivalent to a lifetime—there was no need for lingering attachment or sentimental sorrow.

Likely, Yin Jiuruo was exactly that kind of “thing” to Fu Qing. Better to have, but fine to be without.

She thought of how hunters used to trap exotic beasts: setting a snare, taking them home to care for them meticulously, then skinning them alive when their fur was at its best. Because the fur is softest and most useful when taken while the prey is still alive.

Awakened from the dream, the truth was revealed. She thought she suffered from a strange amnesia, but it was merely a script dictated by Fu Qing’s casual whims. She had never imagined she was such an “important” object—worthy of the entire immortal sect spending a hundred years meticulously designing a plot just to make her suffer, just to make her despair.

It feels like a lifetime ago; who is the one left behind by time?

Yin Jiuruo breathed with difficulty. She finally realized the seawater in the Heart Tower helped her shattered heart continue to beat. Such painstaking effort—arranging her short, pathetic life so perfectly.

In the darkness, someone carrying an ever-burning lamp descended the stairs step by step. A hoarse voice rang out.

“Little Master, do you want to play chess?”

It was the little sprite who had accompanied her for ten years.

“It’s you,” Yin Jiuruo said, her vision blurred.

“It is me. I liked the chess manuals Little Master sent before very much.”

“Is that so?” Yin Jiuruo’s eyes were hollow. She felt like a scarecrow drained of strength, numbed by the weight of her emotions. “Why are you here?”

“The Venerable One once told me to take care of Little Master. She said Little Master is afraid of the dark, and told me to light a lamp for you for the duration of one incense stick.”

“Take care of me, or watch me? Afraid that someone with a sword through her heart might run away?”

“Little Master, shall we play chess?” The sprite lowered his head, not daring to answer. “There is still some time left.”

“Tell me… does a chess piece have the right to play the game?”

The sprite looked at her in shock, his horns trembling slightly, before he quickly lowered his head again. “I… I don’t know.”

“How many more are there like you?”

“I don’t understand what Little Master is saying.”

Yin Jiuruo laughed loudly, regardless of how much it tore her wound. Was it possible the entire Canglan Sect consisted of people Fu Qing had arranged to monitor her?

How absurd. The senior brothers and sisters who showed her kindness were all actors arranged to make her happy. False kindness or true malice—which one hurts more?

“Little Master can rest assured. The Venerable One will keep you alive. Once this is over, you will surely be safe.”

“Keep me alive for what? To continue being deceived?”

The sprite was speechless. He stared at the blood-stained, hideously scarred yet laughing Yin Jiuruo. For some reason, a deep sadness rose in his heart. One feels for one’s own kind.

The darkness under the tower always made time feel infinitely stretched. Against the contrast of light, the dark places seemed even more loathsome. The sprite stayed with her silently until someone called out “Venerable One” with respectful flattery.

Fu Qing had arrived. Was she here to send her on her way and make use of what remained? Yin Jiuruo thought sardonically. No wonder Fu Qing stabbed her heart and then protected it with spiritual energy. Because of that energy, she couldn’t even end her own life; she couldn’t even decide her own death. How cruel, how tragic.

Shen Cangli diligently held the lamp for Fu Qing. The woman walked with an elegant pace, a longsword on her back—ethereal, celestial, and breathtakingly beautiful.

Fu Qing saw Yin Jiuruo. In the same spot under the Heart Tower, Yin Jiuruo had once looked at her with the expectant, clinging gaze of a fledgling bird. Now, however, the girl in the red wedding robes stained with black blood looked like a despondent bird, nailed to the damp mud, devoid of life.

“Everyone, leave us. This Sovereign wishes to be alone with Xiao Jiu.”

“Changfan, will you be in danger alone?” Shen Cangli knew Fu Qing’s cultivation was unfathomable, but legends said the wretch possessed abilities they didn’t understand. She was not to be underestimated.

“Yes, Venerable One, beware of the wretch’s counterattack,” the Sect Leader added worriedly. “Why not let us stay by your side to guard you?”

Yin Jiuruo’s fingers curled and stretched slowly. It was hilarious—she was the prisoner, yet these people were trembling with fear of her.

“No matter. Leave.” The woman’s voice was serene and elegant, yet possessed a majesty that could not be resisted.

Once everyone had left, Fu Qing opened the cell door and knelt beside Yin Jiuruo. She thoughtfully changed Yin Jiuruo into a brand-new, dark-green satin robe. The person suffering from blood loss took on a certain gentle and dignified air.

“Xiao Jiu, this Sovereign is here to take you out.”

Yin Jiuruo had no strength to resist. She could only be taken away by Fu Qing like a dead dog.

Once outside, she saw that Fu Qing had changed out of her wedding robes. She was back in her snowy white robes—radiant, high-minded, and stainless. Beyond the Abandoned Firmament Hall, dark clouds pressed against the city. A dragon-coiled pillar rose into the sky—ancient, simple, and heavy. It emitted a sense of hunger, as if ten thousand demons were craving the power of flesh and blood.

“Why did you make me remember?” Yin Jiuruo tilted her head, looking at Fu Qing’s holy and compassionate appearance. Her delicate brows and red lips were moving, even in her heartlessness.

Fu Qing looked down at Yin Jiuruo, her snowy face cold, noble, and emotionless.

“This Sovereign required your deepest despair.”

So that was it. To make her hurt more, this woman had used every possible means. Every life, she wove a dream for her, granting her bits of love and affection, only to deliver the most profound despair. This was likely the favorite game of these high-ranking immortals.

“Have you ever felt a single shred of pity for me?” Yin Jiuruo coughed up blood, her eyes welling with tears of blood.

Fu Qing had succeeded; at this moment, she was truly in the depths of despair.

Hearing the question, the woman glanced at her casually, her mind tranquil. She did not answer. Yin Jiuruo understood, completely. This Daoist Sovereign Changfan, who protected the world and pitied all beings, had never spared her a single shred of pity.

She thought of Gouyu. She had thought she was the decoy, but it turned out she was the main course from start to finish. Fu Qing locking her in the Heart Tower was merely to instill fear. Gouyu was just a side effect, two birds with one stone.

“Was going back to Peach Blossom Town a plot as well?”

“Mhm. That letter from Suige had to be given to you at the right moment.”

“And the bowl of milk porridge every night?”

“It nourished your heart meridians.”

“So that I could be stabbed through the heart and not die? Was that your mercy?”

Fu Qing let out a sigh. “This Sovereign will not let anything happen to you.”

“Were all my previous memories erased by you?”

“Mhm,” Fu Qing answered shortly, without any concealment. A misty fog shimmered in the corners of her upturned eyes.

“What else?” Yin Jiuruo laughed. “Aren’t you going to make me even more desperate?”

The woman picked her up and bound her to the dragon-coiled pillar. The warm fragrance and soft jade felt like a cage meant to trap her to death.

Spikes designed to drain blood grew from the pillar. The Chishuang Sword, having drunk its fill of her heart’s blood, stood high in the air, its blade glowing with a crystalline clarity.

Snow began to fall again on Jixing Mountain—lustrous, white, and fluttering—yet this snow had turned warm.

“The demonic energy of the Outer Lands is near! Disciples of the Canglan Sect, hear my command!” the Sect Leader shouted, his sword raised like a scepter, his face majestic. “Full alert! Assist the Venerable One!”

“Fu Qing, you have no pity for me, no sentiment of master and disciple… but was there ever a single spark of true love?”

In the grand gale and snow, Fu Qing was dazzling despite her plain attire. Light flowed from her, and the flying snow could not hide her cold, peerless beauty and stern character. The woman lowered her head in thought, seemingly tired of lying, and shook her head.

“This Sovereign has practiced the Way of Emotionless for a thousand years. I have forgotten all passion.”

Yin Jiuruo knew she had seen through Fu Qing’s games long ago, but why did it still hurt? When a person can deceive even with love, what can you expect her to treat you as?

The tragedy was that she had once adored, once rejoiced, and once trusted, believing this person was sincere. Birds swept across the sky; the world was silent and lonely, yet it bloomed with countless beautiful flowers. The only thing that could bring joy was the fact that she was an object worthy of Fu Qing weaving a lie for.

Truly joyful.

Yin Jiuruo’s laughter was tragic and hoarse, her expression twisted and terrifying.

The wind and snow grew heavier, so violent that one could not open their eyes. The temperature of the snow rose, and the four seasons seemed to fall into chaos.

“Xiao Jiu, wait just a bit longer,” the woman said, coming before Yin Jiuruo. She pressed against the girl’s shoulder and stood on her tiptoes, pressing her lips against those stained with heart’s blood.

Once the kiss ended, Fu Qing ignored Yin Jiuruo’s mocking and hateful gaze. Carrying the Chishuang Sword, she became a blur of flying light. Her sleeves fluttered like a dance as she rode the light straight toward the darkest clouds in the sky.

The cultivators of the Nine Provinces mounted their swords, entering a combat stance. Spells of all kinds erupted—brilliant and grand—like a world-shattering war. A war of justice to save the common people. And in a battle, someone always has to be sacrificed.

“Did you think your meeting with Changfan was beautiful? A hero saving a beauty?” Shen Cangli happened to fly over on her sword, giving a light laugh. “Let me tell you something: there was never a Demon Lord causing chaos in Peach Blossom Town. A mere illusion was enough to make you devoted. You truly are cheap and easy to fool.”

Yin Jiuruo hung her head, her numb heart barely feeling any pain.

The great array, carved with strange symbols, lit up with a beautiful and holy glow because of Yin Jiuruo’s thick, pure black blood, and began to turn slowly. The array fed on the mental despair and physical agony of the “wretch” to exert its intended power. As the ancient array turned, it stirred up dust that turned golden in the sunlight—like golden ash, choking and majestic.

That patch of dark clouds seemed to have eyes; it paused above the dragon-coiled pillar, staring at Yin Jiuruo for a long time. Once the ancient array had absorbed enough nourishment, its light became blinding, a radiance that invigorated every cultivator’s spirit.

Except for Yin Jiuruo. Her heart’s blood flowed faster and faster, yet she could not truly die because of Fu Qing’s spell.

The demonic energy of the Outer Lands was extraordinary and ever-changing. Despite their numbers, the disciples of the Canglan Sect and other sects could not detect its movements and were instead successfully ambushed. Only Fu Qing, sword in hand, her dark phoenix eyes flashing with murderous intent, forced the demonic energy into retreat. The Chishuang Sword was surrounded by ice and flame, twisting like long dragons; the sword light was a vast, woven tapestry.

Suddenly, a shrill cry rang out from outside the array: “Junior Sister Jiuruo! Master! What are you doing?”

It was Senior Sister Chong You. Yin Jiuruo struggled to open her eyes and saw her senior sister, who had just returned on the wind, looking at the scene in disbelief.

The Sect Leader was locked in combat with the dark clouds and could not distract himself. He commanded: “Feng Qi, go make sure your senior sister doesn’t interfere!”

Only then did Yin Jiuruo realize Feng Qi was among them. Unlike the others, the look she gave Yin Jiuruo was filled with sorrow, reluctance, and heavy guilt.

“Jiuruo, your senior sister arrived too late,” Chong You ran to within ten paces of Yin Jiuruo. She saw her covered in blood, countless hooks piercing her body like a blue-feathered bird dead upon thorns.

“Senior Sister, don’t come over,” Yin Jiuruo looked at Chong You and gave a joyful smile like a child. “Senior Sister, go quickly. I’m fine.”

“Jiuruo, how did it come to this? Where is the Venerable One? How could she…” Chong You paused. Fu Qing’s cultivation was near the completion of the Heavenly Dao; who else could have hurt Yin Jiuruo? The answer seemed self-evident.

Support The Frost Beneath Her Veil