Chapter 72: The Legend Grows (Unfortunately)

The attack should have been a secret.

It should have remained between the only three people who actually experienced it: Shen Kexian, Ming Yu, and me.

But by sunrise, the entire palace knew. By breakfast, it was in the servants' quarters. By midmorning, I heard one of the younger kitchen boys telling the story to a chambermaid while dramatically flinging flour into the air like "spirit smoke."

And the retellings?

Oh, they were getting worse by the minute.

Apparently, in one version, I single handedly summoned a hundred-foot tidal wave from the heavens and rode it through the streets like a vengeful sea deity, flinging assassins into buildings with a flick of my pinky.

In another, Shen Kexian didn't just hold the line, he supposedly fought off ten masked men while mortally wounded, clutching his side and reciting poetry while bleeding dramatically onto cobblestones. Poetry.

My personal favorite?

Someone swore up and down that Ming Yu didn't "arrive"—he descended from the sky on a sword wreathed in fire, his robes untouched by gravity, his eyes glowing with divine fury.

Which, of course, he did not confirm or deny.

Ming Yu had the audacity to look vaguely confused every time someone bowed and called him "The Flame Descended."

I tried correcting the story once but it didn't work. Lady Zhao patted my hand sympathetically and said, "Oh no, dear, don't be modest. We heard you turned the water into knives with a kiss. So romantic."

I choked on my soup.

Shen Kexian didn't help either.

When asked about the events, he simply said, "There was an incident. It was handled." Then walked off like a man who very much enjoyed watching me drown in attention I didn't ask for.

Now every time I walked through the corridor, people stared. Whispered. Bowed slightly. One servant actually asked if I could bless her tea so her husband would stop gambling. I was half-tempted to say yes just to see what would happen.

After settling in the palace after the attack, we finally gave our official report.

A real report.

Not the fire-sword-riding, sea-goddess-descending, poem-bleeding nonsense that had taken over the palace grapevine, but a straight account of what actually happened.

Two masked cultivators. High skill. No insignia. No demands. Just an ambush and a very narrow escape.

Who were they? Still unknown.

Shen Kexian, as calm and composed as ever, bowed once, said, "I will investigate," and disappeared before anyone could object.

Of course he did. It was his favorite trick.

That left Ming Yu and me standing awkwardly in the royal hall under the polished ceiling beams while three ministers whispered furiously behind their scrolls and a guard tried not to stare at the burn mark on the hem of my sleeve.

Eventually, they dismissed us.

And then—I did what any emotionally unstable, spiritually exhausted consort who just survived an assassination attempt would do.

I went to harass Wei Wuxian.

He was halfway through drinking something that definitely wasn't tea when I barged into his room.

"I need your secret room," I said without preamble.

He blinked. "The one with the reinforced doors and the soundproof seals?"

"Yes."

"And I assume this is for some very sacred, highly classified divine ritual?"

"It's so I can talk to Ming Yu without six people eavesdropping and three more writing fanfiction in the hallway."

He leaned back in his chair, smiling far too slowly. "I am going to tease you for days."

"I'm allowing it," I said flatly. "But I swear, if you stall for more than five minutes I will make your next drink taste like fermented shrimp."

He raised his hands in surrender. "Alright, alright. Lovers' sanctuary unlocked. Go forth. Whisper. Cry. Ruin my cushions."

He handed me the key talisman with a wink. "Be safe. Don't accidentally destroy the floor with emotional resonance again."

"No promises."

And with that, I turned on my heel, heart pounding, breath caught somewhere between anticipation and dread because for the first time in weeks, I was finally going to be alone with him.

***

I had asked Ming Yu to meet me in Wei Wuxian's not-so-secret secret room.

The walls were thick and cool, but the space was anything but grim. Dark wooden shelves lined with books, tapestries muffling sound. A low table with tea still warm, even though no one ever seemed to make it. Soft cushions. A lantern burning with a gentle amber glow that made the whole room feel suspended in dusk. It smelled faintly of old paper and memory.

It felt like safety.

And tonight, I needed that more than I'd ever admit out loud.

Ming Yu stood near the far wall when I entered, half-lit by the lantern, his sword propped beside him. He didn't look surprised.

He looked like he'd been waiting.

Our eyes met—and my chest tightened.

He gave me a small smile—tired, but real. "Hey."

"Hey," I whispered back.

I closed the door behind me and stepped inside. We didn't sit right away. The quiet stretched between us, not heavy, just full. Like the room remembered us too.

He broke the silence first. "I'm sorry."

I swallowed. "You disappeared."

"I didn't mean to scare you," he said. "I just… I needed to think. Away from everything. From the palace. From him."

I nodded, not trusting my voice.

"I wanted to clear my head," he continued softly. "To speak to my master, to look through our sect's archives. And maybe… to see if you would miss me."

I let out a breath that wasn't quite a laugh. "I did."

He gave a half-smile, eyes warm. "Turns out, my instincts weren't wrong. You do miss me."

"I missed you like I was missing air."

That made his smile falter slightly. Like the emotion caught him off guard.

He stepped closer, but didn't touch me yet. "I didn't just go to avoid things," he said. "I needed answers. I needed to know if there was any way—any way—that you could access your power without him."

"And?"

His voice was low. "There's not. Not now."

The words didn't surprise me. But they still landed with weight.

"I spoke to my master," he said. "I read everything. There are stories, yes. But none that match this. None where power like yours blooms independently without a tether. And his cultivation... it's not just supporting you. It's linked to you."

His voice softened, almost like it hurt to say. "You need Shen Kexian."

"I suspected it already," he continued, eyes meeting mine. "Back in the throne room. I could feel it. When he touched you, the air would shift. But I was too stubborn. I didn't want to believe it."

I didn't respond right away.

Then he added, "But I love you."

The words landed like a stone dropped in still water.

"I love you," he said again, slower this time. "And yes, having Shen Kexian constantly two inches from your face will be irritating. I'm not pretending it won't bother me. But at least… at least I know he'll protect you. Even when I'm not there."

I opened my mouth, but he shook his head.

"But I also know you love me," he said softly. "And that has to be enough. I should've trusted that. I should've trusted you."

That was it. The final thread holding me together snapped.

The tears came in a wave—hot and sudden and completely uninvited. I pressed my hands to my mouth, trying to hold them in, but it didn't work. I sank onto one of the cushions, sobbing in gasps that rattled through my chest.

"I broke down," I whispered, trembling. "I wasn't fine. Not even close. You left, and I didn't know how to breathe without you in the palace. I cried every night. I snapped at Xiaohua. I skipped training and nearly killed Shen Kexian three times in a week. I didn't know if you'd ever come back."

Ming Yu dropped to his knees in front of me and took my hands gently in his. "I'm here now," he said softly. "I'm not going anywhere."

"I missed you," I choked out.

He reached up and brushed my tears away with his fingertips, then leaned in and kissed my forehead—slow, lingering, like he was memorizing the feel of me.

"I missed you too," he said, voice rough. "Every day."

And then he kissed me.

Soft at first. Careful. Like he was still afraid I might disappear. But when I kissed him back, everything that had been broken between us finally settled into something whole again. Our kiss deepened. Not rushed, not frantic—but full. Lingering. Slow like the first breath after surfacing from too long underwater. He kissed me like he hadn't just missed me—he'd been starving for me. I kissed him back like I didn't remember how to breathe without him.

Ming Yu pulled me closer, his hands steady on my waist, his mouth still tasting mine, then trailing lower—along my cheek, to the curve of my jaw, down the line of my throat. His lips moved with the same focused intensity he carried in battle—no wasted motion, no hesitation.

Each kiss burned.

Each touch carved a path, deliberate and reverent, like he was re-learning my body and claiming every inch of it as his. I gasped as he found the hollow beneath my collarbone, lingering there, kissing it again and again like it meant something sacred. My skin tingled everywhere he touched, my pulse jumping every time his breath caught against me.

There were no words.

No questions.

Just need.

Need like air. Like light. Like water for something parched too long.

Chapter: 72.5 : The Legend Grows (Unfortunately) (continued)

We undressed in silence, but the space between us thrummed with meaning.

Ming Yu's hands never left me. Every knot he untied, every layer he slid from my body, was accompanied by the soft brush of his fingers, the press of his lips. He didn't rush. He didn't ask. He simply was—steady, reverent, like a man reacquainting himself with the shape of something he'd missed with every breath.

"You're shaking," he murmured as his fingers traced the curve of my bare waist.

I nodded slightly, my voice small. "It's been a while."

His gaze searched mine. Warm. Steady. "Then let me remind you slowly."

He kissed me again, softer now, easing me down into the cushions beneath the low lantern light. His hands followed, brushing down my ribs, along my stomach, over the inside of my thigh. Every motion was deliberate, more worship than desire, though the heat between us burned.

He settled between my legs, looking up only once for permission.

I didn't speak.I didn't need to. I was already reaching for him, already pulling him closer.

His fingers moved first. Gentle. Testing.

A slow stroke, warm and firm, coaxing sensation back into nerves I'd tried to bury under grief and discipline. He circled me in silence, watching my face as my body opened to the feeling—no rush, no pressure, just him and me and the breathless ache slowly blooming inside me.

"You're beautiful like this," he whispered, voice thick with restraint.

I arched into his touch, gasping softly as he pressed deeper—just one finger at first, then more, coaxing my body into remembering what it was to be wanted. What it was to be safe.

My legs parted further without thought, welcoming him in, grounding myself with hands tangled in his hair.

His mouth trailed along my throat, my chest, the sensitive curve below my collarbone. When his thumb brushed that aching spot, I cried out—soft, surprised, already trembling.

He held me through it, fingers moving in a rhythm that matched the rising tide in my body, slow but unstoppable. My thighs tensed around him, my breath caught, pleasure curling low in my stomach, too full to contain.

Only when my body was trembling under his touch, soft and open and aching for him, did Ming Yu lift his head.

He kissed me again, slower this time, his forehead brushing mine as he positioned himself.

And then—finally—he entered me.

Slowly.

With control so tight I could feel the tension in every inch of his body.

He paused almost immediately, buried only halfway, jaw clenched, breath ragged against my cheek.

"Gods," he whispered, like the sensation was overwhelming. "It's been too long."

His restraint was palpable. Every muscle in him coiled, shaking with the effort not to move too fast, not to let go too soon. His fingers dug into the curve of my waist, anchoring him. I could feel him tremble as he pushed in the rest of the way—inch by aching inch—until he was fully seated inside me, buried to the hilt.

I gasped, head falling back, overwhelmed by the sudden fullness, the weight of him, the raw intensity of his presence inside me. He didn't move at first. Just stayed there, forehead pressed to mine, chest rising and falling against my own like we were sharing the same breath.

"You're perfect," he murmured. "Still mine."

And then he began to move.

At first, slow. Deep. Every stroke careful, measured, like he was trying to draw the moment out, brand it into memory. My hands roamed across his back, nails pressing in, my hips rising to meet him, urging him faster.

He groaned—low, shaky—and gave in.

His rhythm shifted, building quickly, each thrust driving deeper, harder. The tension unraveled between us, tangled and urgent. Our bodies moved in tandem, sweat-slicked and breathless, the room echoing with soft gasps and the sound of skin meeting skin.

He kissed me between every stroke. My mouth. My throat. The space between my breasts. Like he couldn't decide what part of me he needed most.

My body clenched around him with every movement, chasing that dizzy edge, that breaking point I could already feel looming.

He reached between us, found the place that made me cry out—his fingers quick, precise, unrelenting—and my release hit like lightning.

I shattered beneath him.

Back arching. Fingers clawing. A cry breaking from my throat as the pleasure crashed through me in waves—sharp and blinding and hot enough to steal the breath from my lungs.

I barely had time to recover before I felt him—

His thrusts lost their rhythm, his breath hitched, and then he groaned—deep and desperate—burying himself one last time.

He pulsed inside me with a shudder, his climax tearing through him in one hard, beautiful wave.

He collapsed against me, still buried deep, arms wrapping around my waist like he never intended to let go.

Our hearts beat in sync. Sweat cooled between us.

And in that breathless, tangled silence, I knew—

No matter how far we'd been apart.

This was where we always came back to.