The Trial Assembly lasted three days. Qingchen had meant to take Ling Wu back to Mount Kunlun first and return the next day.
But a heap of Immortal Lords had invited him around; he truly could not slip away.
Left with no choice, he settled his disciples in a side hall of the Celestial Realm.
The moment she stepped in, Ling Wu was stunned by the magnificence of the building. It was her first time staying in a palace so opulent.
Glazed tiles gleamed in every color; white jade pillars held up the hall, their reliefs carved with talismans and constellations she could not read. Immortal mist wreathed the whole palace, and spirit cranes occasionally swept past with low cries.
Before the hall lay a pool where a few lotus flowers floated, never wilting, year-round.
It really was beautiful!
At last Ling Wu understood why so many people wanted to ascend.
Scenery like this existed only in the Celestial Realm. To live years in a place like this—how pleasant would that be!
Yes. Ling Wu had no ambition again.
Later she heard Eldest Senior Brother say this place was where Master used to live. Whenever he wished, he could return at any time.
Ling Wu marveled: so Master was a hidden rich man all along.
She confirmed it once more: whatever happened, she had to cling tight to Master's thigh. As long as she followed him, she would never be reduced to chaff and thin gruel.
On the second day of the Trial Assembly, Ling Wu felt an unfriendly gaze for the first time.
The gaze came from a fairy sister dressed head to toe in pink, gorgeous of face, hung with pearls and jade—jewels everywhere, making her all the more resplendent.
Word was, her name was Wenyao, and she was a High God.
Though truly, Ling Wu could not fathom what a High God had to pick with a mortal like her. Besides, she did not know the woman at all.
She could have gone on not knowing her—except fate made them meet.
Ling Wu's head had begun to ache. She meant to tell Master, but he was being held in pleasantries by other immortals, so she slipped off first, meaning to nap in the palace.
By the time she woke, Master and the senior brothers should be back.
Ling Wu forgot one thing: she had no sense of direction.
The moment she stepped out, she lost herself in a peach grove.
The grove was lovely enough—but by the sixth time she circled back to it, she had lost all appetite for admiring.
Was this not the heavens? How could she walk in circles like a ghost-trapped mortal up here?
She sat beneath a tree, chin propped in her hand, at a loss what to do.
By now, at least, her head had stopped aching.
Suddenly a shadow fell over her from above, and a woman's fragrance washed over her.
Ling Wu looked up—and met Wenyao's eyes.
The woman looked down her nose at her, expression ice, tone no kinder: “So you're the orphan Qingchen picked up in the mortal realm?”
Ling Wu did not answer. The woman was simply rude.
Wenyao kept firing: “Ordinary looks, ordinary aptitude, even more ordinary strength. Why would he take you as a disciple?”
There were things a person could bear and things she could not. Ling Wu shot up in fury—and blacked out for a blink, nearly sitting right back down.
One hand braced on the peach tree to steady herself, she fired back: “Your face is passable, fairy sister, but your mouth is vicious. Don't tell me you practiced your poison arts so hard you swallowed the wrong end?”
“Sharp-tongued.” Wenyao sneered, the belittlement flowing without pause. “I've seen plenty of lowly mortals like you—fantasizing that by taking a master you'll fall in love over the long days and find a shortcut to ascension.”
“Give up that dream. Qingchen is not someone the likes of you may covet! If you know what's good for you, go back and withdraw from the sect this instant, and I'll be merciful. If not—the day I come calling, you'll never walk away again!”
Ling Wu understood at last: this fairy was one of Master's admirers. Qingchen this, Qingchen that—she made sure everyone knew of her secret love.
No wonder her stare had been so poisonous. She had taken Ling Wu for a rival.
Heaven knew her heart: she had never once thought any of those things.
Falling in love over time? A shortcut to ascension? What she felt for Master was filial devotion, thank you very much!
Closing her eyes, Ling Wu stopped holding back, her tone turning sharp: “Lowly mortal this, lowly mortal that—where exactly does your nobility come from? Not everyone nurses filthy schemes the way you do. I took a master to learn! Besides—if the fairy wants to come calling, she had best ask whether my master agrees! My master protects his own. The fairy might do well to think about how she'll explain herself, once I report this to him!”
What rotten luck—lost in a grove, and she had stumbled on a madwoman besides.
She did not want to tangle with Wenyao any further and turned to leave—only to be seized.
“Are you finished—” Furious, Ling Wu wrenched herself free.
She herself never noticed: a wisp of black vapor burst from her hand and knocked Wenyao to the ground.
Seeing the other woman's sorry state, Ling Wu felt a little abashed.
“I didn't mean to.” She moved to help Wenyao up—who barked her to a halt.
“Who are you, really?”
In that wisp of black vapor just now, she had distinctly felt that person's aura.
Ling Wu frowned: “Don't you already know who I am.”
And was it not “lowly mortal” this and that? How suddenly forgetful.
“You've come back, haven't you!” Wenyao pressed, a trace of venomous hate on her face. “If I'd known, I should have scattered your soul to the winds back then!”
Ling Wu understood not a word of it. Wenyao was truly hard to parse.
“I have no idea what you're talking about. In short—stop bothering me. You and I are strangers; I have no wish to become acquainted. As for today, I'll count it as never having happened. But if we meet again and you're still this rude, don't blame me for forgetting seniority and being rude right back!”
Whether she could manage it was one thing; the fierce words had to be said properly.
Wenyao was still staring straight at her: “Songluo. It's you, isn't it?”
Songluo? Why not call her Pothos while she was at it!
Truly speechless, Ling Wu rolled her eyes and gave her name: “My name is Ling Wu. Stop calling me whatever you like!”
“Whether it is or isn't—one test will tell—” Wenyao had risen at some point, back to her old imperious self.
She raised her hand. A thread of golden light rose from her palm and flew at Ling Wu.
Ling Wu braced as if for war.
Good heavens—the woman was a High God; how could she fight so dirty!
Her kitten-strength kung fu naturally could not block a High God's immortal technique. The blow struck her abdomen; momentum carried her tumbling backward, skidding across the ground.
Clutching her stomach, Ling Wu felt sweetness rise in her throat; a thread of blood ran from the corner of her lips.
Pain. It hurt so much.
“Why hide your strength? Weren't you so pleased with yourself when you struck me?” Watching her like this, Wenyao felt pure delight.
Ling Wu wanted to curse her mother.
This woman hit far too hard. One blow landed and she felt her five organs and six viscera had all changed addresses.
“Stop pretending, Songluo. Back then you were nothing like this. You must be very proud—to take Qingchen from my hands.” Memory's edge made the hate on Wenyao's face plainer still.
Ling Wu could not hear her clearly. She wanted to send a voice-message to Master, but badly wounded as she was, she could not shape a single complete immortal technique.
Damn it all—was her little life to be forfeited here today?
Wenyao was about to strike again. Ling Wu readied herself to dodge behind a tree.
And at that very moment, Master's voice came from not far off.
“Ah-Wu—”
Never in her life had she longed for Master's arrival the way she longed now.