Chapter Ten: Raising My Head to Gaze at the Bright Moon

Once inside the cabin, with only master and servant left, Shangguan Chuci finally spoke in a low voice:

“Uncle Shen, what do you make of what just happened?”

The man she called Xuan Qi, dressed in dark robes, was actually Shen Guizhou by name. He was a practitioner at the fifth tier of the Nine Heavens of Dao, known as the Viewing Waves Realm, and a deathsworn warrior of the Lanling Prince’s residence, codename Xuan Qi.

Shen Guizhou pondered for a moment and replied, “One thing is certain: that wasn’t Dao Ruin. Dao Ruin is the collapse of the Dao heart, when humanity is completely devoured by the turbid currents, turning a cultivator into a monster driven solely by madness and instinct.”

“Before that, signs of Dao heart instability always appear—like an avalanche, manifesting as demonic transformation. But that boy only showed slight changes from Dao contamination, and judging by his actions at the time, he clearly retained a sliver of rationality.”

“Still, even if it wasn’t Dao Ruin, to be able to, as a mere mortal, possess such eerie presence that he could simultaneously intimidate Zhao Chengde of the Resolute Heart Realm and his four Fire-Wielding guardians…”

Shangguan Chuci mused aloud, “It’s not Dao Ruin, nor is it the usual mark of a cultivator’s heart. Wait…”

“Uncle Shen, don’t you think his condition is somewhat reminiscent of the Lamp Bearers from the Turbid Current cult?”

“Those madmen open doors and listen, deliberately embracing madness and wielding the turbid currents. What should have been a curse of Dao transformation becomes part of their power.”

Shen Guizhou shook his head. “Princess, Lu Chenyuan is merely an uninitiated mortal. How could he perceive the world’s turbid flows, let alone control them?”

Shangguan Chuci had no answer, and shifted the topic, “Uncle Shen, did you notice how he broke free from that peculiar state?”

“Yes, a drop of wine. His master used a single drop to unlock him.”

“Uncle Shen, you’ve seen much in your time—have you ever encountered a technique that could so easily and subtly resolve a cultivator’s loss of control?”

“I have never heard of such a thing.”

“Indeed, unheard of.”

Shangguan Chuci walked to the window, gazing at the bright moon suspended above the sea, lost in thought.

“How could I teach you with my half-baked skills?”

It was Sitou’s voice, calm and indifferent.

Lu Chenyuan pressed anxiously, “But you always say your swordsmanship is unmatched in the world.”

“Oh? Did I?” Sitou turned her head, her eyes devoid of the slightest amusement. “Perhaps it was drunken boasting, I don’t recall.”

With that, she paid him no further heed, turned, and found a sturdy branch to recline on at an angle.

Soon, all movement ceased, as though she truly had fallen asleep.

Lu Chenyuan was left despondent, sitting for a while, watching her peaceful sleeping face. Suddenly, a surge of youthful spirit rose in his chest and he couldn’t help but say, “If Master won’t teach me, then…I’ll find a teacher who will!”

He thought Sitou was already deep in sleep, but as soon as he finished speaking, the figure atop the branch trembled slightly.

Sitou did not sit up; instead, her voice floated gently on the breeze, as if it might dissipate at any moment: “Then go.”

She paused, then added, “But…don’t ever come back to see me.”

Though spoken lightly, Lu Chenyuan was struck with terror and hurriedly asked, “Why…why not?”

Sitou was silent for a long time, so long that Lu Chenyuan thought she might not answer. Then finally, she said, “It’s nothing. Just go.”

Lu Chenyuan’s heart fluttered with panic, fearing he had angered her, and pressed, “Master, are you…are you upset?”

“Upset?” Sitou suddenly laughed at herself, a hint of loneliness showing on her face as she spoke softly, “A wise bird chooses the right tree to roost, a loyal minister chooses the right lord to serve. If I cannot teach you anything, why force you to stay by my side? What right do I have to be angry with you?”

Hearing her words, Lu Chenyuan felt even more confused and uneasy, but determined to clear things up, he asked, “Master, I want to hear your reason—why won’t you teach me cultivation?”

Sitou sighed, her gaze drifting to the distant mountains, bathed in moonlight, as if lost in a monologue or speaking to the starry heavens.

“Yuan’er, do you think cultivation is a staircase, step by step ascending to the celestial palace?”

She lifted her wine gourd and took a deep draught.

“Wrong.”

Her voice grew ethereal, tinged with the haze of drink and a piercing world-weariness.

“Cultivation is nothing but picking up a blade and etching words into your own flesh, stroke by stroke. So-called immortality is taking your living heart, extracting it, and roasting it day and night over the True Fire of Samadhi.”

“In the end, your skin becomes glass, your heart becomes charcoal, and you forget your name, your origins, your destination—leaving only a shell chasing after the illusory light.”

She turned slowly, her almond eyes bottomless beneath the moon.

“Do you truly want such a ‘blessing’?”

Lu Chenyuan looked at her, earnest, “Master, you are already unmatched in the world, yet you have not become a heartless creature. Why can’t I do the same?”

“Whether it’s a blessing or a curse, I only want to protect you.”

Sitou was silent a moment before speaking, “You don’t understand. You and I are different. And I don’t want to…”

At that moment, it seemed a crystal droplet slid down her cheek.

Was she crying?

Lu Chenyuan wasn’t sure, for he had never seen his master shed tears.

Shangguan Chuci was silent for a long while, as if musing to herself or confiding in Shen Guizhou:

“A boy who appears mortal yet harbors strange powers…an unfathomable, radiant master…and myself, the uninvited helper…”

“Uncle Shen, isn’t his luck a little too much?”

“Such fortune…it’s just like those so-called ‘children of destiny’ in the stories.”

As she spoke, her voice suddenly faltered.

Shen Guizhou, standing nearby, sensed that the aroma of incense in the cabin was subtly diluted by a chill.

His gaze sharpened; he saw the princess’s hand gripping her teacup, the slender fingers pale at the edges—unnaturally so.

From the corner of his eye, he glimpsed a fleeting ink mark beneath her smooth neck, vanishing as quickly as it appeared, leaving only delicate white skin. Perhaps it was nothing more than a trick of the shifting lamplight.

Yet the calm, steady air around the princess was undeniably disturbed.

Shen Guizhou’s heart sank, though he dared not show it, bowing his head and asking quietly, “Princess, is something troubling you?”

Shangguan Chuci seemed startled by his voice, looked up, and forced a smile: “Nothing, just some old memories.”

She waved her hand gently, her voice drifting, “Uncle Guizhou, let me be alone for a while.”

Shen Guizhou looked into her eyes, now uncertain and lost, and his heart grew heavy.

But he knew that some inner demons must be crossed alone.

He bowed deeply and replied, “This old servant will wait outside.”

Shangguan Chuci gazed at the bright moon, recalling the verse, “Raising my head, I gaze at the bright moon; lowering it, I think of home,” and murmured:

“If…he is truly the protagonist of this world, then what am I, the one who crossed over?”

“Could it be that I’m not the only guest from beyond?”

A chilling thought surfaced uncontrollably from the depths of her heart.

“If my crossing was no accident, but designed to complement the world’s protagonist…then am I nothing but a beginner’s gift by his side?”

“If…even my crossing itself was arranged…”

“Then all my so-called modern knowledge, my parents, my past, my twenty years of life…how do I know they aren’t fabricated memories, implanted within me?”

Shangguan Chuci’s handsome face turned instantly pale.

She felt something within her begin to crumble.

“No…those memories are so vivid, how could they be false!”

Sitou had refused him after all, and as Lu Chenyuan left in a daze, only Sitou remained atop the rooftop.

The night wind swept by, lifting a strand of her hair and bringing a biting chill.

She wanted more wine, raised her gourd.

Only a few drops remained.

She stared at the crimson wine gourd, her slender fingers gently caressing it. In the moonlight, faint engravings could be seen, their origin lost to time.

Bathed in moonlight, she studied it quietly, her gaze layered and complex.

Shangguan Chuci suddenly thought of her modern knowledge, fading with time.

Those formulas, theorems, historical events, once so clear, now seemed like old books soaked in water, the ink bleeding and fading.

She’d been here half a year, and once she realized this, she tried all ways to preserve them.

Even writing them down, when her memory dulled, reading her own notes did not bring it all back as she’d hoped. Instead, it felt strangely familiar yet unfamiliar—

She was gradually losing her understanding of things once taken for granted.

“If I truly am meant to assist some so-called protagonist, why must I lose all memory of my past?”

“But if those memories are genuine, how can I ever go back?”

“What should I do?”

“Should I simply settle for being Shangguan Chuci?”

She instinctively reached out her hand, as if to grasp the cold moonlight outside the window, catching only a handful of icy emptiness.

After a long pause, Sitou suddenly let out a mocking laugh.

But this laughter carried none of its usual carefree charm—only endless self-mockery.

“Are you really doing it for his sake?”

“Sitou, oh Sitou…”

She hugged the empty wine gourd to her chest, gazed up at the unchanging moon of three millennia, and cursed softly,

“How selfish you are!”