27.Don't Let Her Rewrite Our Story

The soul that once shimmered like moonlight was now fractured—like a broken mirror, barely holding itself together.

Within the fog-drenched realm of Rongxu Jing, a voice echoed deep from the bones of the world.

"You have reopened the wounds of the world."

And Zhenyu stood still—between a crumbling spirit and the truth that could shatter everything.

_________

The sky of Rongxu Jing that morning was shrouded in a pale violet mist—unusual for this realm. Normally, this world pulsed softly like an unfinished dream, as if even the air hummed silent songs for the lingering souls. But now, silence reigned, as though the entire realm held its breath before an old wound was about to be reopened.

Mist veiled the towering trees that grew without roots and stretched skyward without casting shadows. Their branches hung low, grazing the earth like the fingers of spirits longing to return—yet unable to find the path home. The ground beneath Zhenyu's feet felt slick with the dust of memory—not wet, not dry, but still. As if the land absorbed every step without leaving a single trace.

Each of his steps upon the soil of the spirit realm felt heavier than before, as though Rongxu Jing itself recognized that the one who walked here was not merely a man, but a vessel of two souls bound by sorrow and an inheritance left unresolved.

> "Rongxu Jing remembers you," he murmured to himself, his voice low. "But I wonder... if it will accept the presence of us both."

Behind the mist, the shadow of Helian Qingyin followed from a distance—faint, like a shimmer of light on still water. But with every step Zhenyu took deeper into the realm, her image grew clearer. Their silence was not born from a lack of words, but from the weight of everything they could not bear to say.

Zhenyu stopped walking. A soft wind stirred, brushing through his hair, carrying the faint scent of spirit blossoms that bloomed without color.

> "Can you hear it, Qingyin?" he whispered, his voice soft as the season's first autumn rain. "This land is calling to you... yet it rejects me."

Her shadow trembled lightly, and the answer came not as a sound, not as a whisper, but as a feeling—like grief that had been silent for far too long.

> I don't know... if I'm allowed to return.

Zhenyu looked ahead, his gaze reaching toward the shifting landscape as the illusion slowly peeled away. The trees withdrew. The mist cracked apart, revealing a quiet space guarded by time—a field of crumbling stone ruins covered in soul moss. And at its center, a round, silver-hued lake stretched wide like an eye that had never once blinked.

And in its heart:

The Mirror of Memories.

The lake did not reflect the sky—it reflected time.

It did not show shadows—it revealed wounds.

Zhenyu stepped forward slowly—yet behind him, it was Qingyin's shadow that moved first. Her footsteps did not stir the water, but parted memories, like fingers sweeping through a veil of mist.

> "It's time," Zhenyu's voice was fragile, barely more than a breath. "Time to see what you truly wanted to forget."

And in an instant, the world changed.

The fog lifted—drawn away by memory. Time twisted, not forward, not backward, but spiraled in a vortex of feeling. Gentle voices from the past slipped into his ears—so familiar, so delicate, they struck straight into Zhenyu's chest:

> "Yaochen… when the world cast me aside, you were the only one who looked at me without hatred."

There he stood—Bo Yaochen, bathed in petals of light. His face was young, soft, and untainted. His robes were white—not pure, but like hope left unfinished. Opposite him stood Helian Qingyin, her former self, eyes wet but not crying. Silence embraced them, deeper than words.

> "You called for me, Qingyin. So I came," the man replied, his voice low and steady. "Even if the heavens forbid it, even if the world names you a curse—I chose to believe in the light I once saw in your eyes."

Zhenyu nearly stepped back. The memory was too vivid. Too… real. Even the rhythm of his heartbeat had shifted—as if his body pulsed not for himself, but for a soul that wasn't his.

Qingyin… was this the love you carried? Or the wound you left behind?

But memories were never kind. They kept turning.

Light turned to shadow. The air of Rongxu Jing carried another sound—the night of ruin.

The night the heavens broke and the earth rejected the name Helian Qingyin.

Zhenyu watched it all from within the lake, as if he were standing just behind them.

Bo Yaochen stood with his back to Qingyin, clutching the celestial seal in both hands. His eyes were hollow—like a stone statue refusing to live.

> "You know this is the only way,"Yaochen's voice trembled, like a tree forced to bow in the wind. "If I let you live, the world will fall with you."

Qingyin's smile in that memory…

was empty.

Not out of surrender,

but from hoping too many times.

>"Why must they force me to become a disaster," her voice shook softly, "when all I wanted… was to simply be human?"

In a blink,the memory shattered.

The waters of the lake fell still again,as if nothing had ever been shown.

Zhenyu collapsed to his knees,breath ragged, body swaying—dragged between two worlds, neither of which wanted him.

And then, a voice rose. Cold. Creeping. Like frost touching bone:

> "Now you understand why I never returned home."

Qingyin's shadow stood behind him. But this time, she was more solid, more real—and more wounded. Her robes fluttered though there was no wind. Her eyes no longer blurred, but sharp with clarity.

> "I am not merely a spirit inside your body, Zhenyu," she said, voice quiet but cutting. "I am the truth the world wishes to forget."

Zhenyu trembled.

> "Then what am I?" he whispered, unable to meet her gaze. "Am I just your shell? Are all my steps… just the echoes you left behind?"

The shadow didn't answer immediately. She turned toward the fading sky. In the distance, the sun of Rongxu Jing rose without light. This realm did not welcome morning—only delayed the night.

Finally, Qingyin spoke, her voice as soft as mist brushing over stone:

> "You are stronger than I thought. But your strength will be tested—not by enemies, but by memory."

Footsteps echoed from beyond the illusionary thickets. Tension rippled through the air, like the threads of fate beginning to weave once again.

Out of the fog emerged a tall figure, silver robes gleaming—striking against the muted hues of the spirit realm.

Yuwen Jinhai.

His gaze pierced, but it wasn't cruel. His calm wasn't born of serenity—it was the kind that came from being too well-trained at hiding anger.

"You vanished for two days," he said, his voice composed but laced with wariness. "Even the hours in Langyao were disturbed by your silence."

Zhenyu turned slowly, her voice still cloaked in the remnants of unshed tears.

"Why did you come here?"

Jinhai stepped closer, his gaze falling on the lake. The light of memories still shimmered faintly on its surface.

"Because I know," he said, "when someone returns to the place where their soul shattered, they never come back alone. Something always returns with them."

The air tensed. Helian Qingyin stood beside Zhenyu, silent. But the way she looked at Jinhai hinted at something deeper than hostility. There was history. There were wounds.

"You… you were the one who broke the first seal, weren't you?" Jinhai asked, this time directing the question to Qingyin.

The spirit met his gaze without flinching.

"You called to me with Langyao blood," she said calmly. "And that blood can never erase the vow you once made."

Zhenyu closed her eyes for a moment. This spiritual realm had become the stage where old scars crossed paths within her.

Finally, Jinhai spoke, his voice quiet as though confessing a secret to the mist:

"You can't save her, Zhenyu. But maybe… you can save yourself from sharing her fate."

When they emerged from the Lake of Memory, the skies of Rongxu Jing had already begun to crack—slowly, like frost spreading across glass. The realm knew: a memory had been awakened, and a truth could no longer be buried.

Zhenyu walked back, but her chest no longer felt like her own. Inside her, Qingyin's voice whispered—not to take control, but to remember:

"If I leave my mark on your heart, then you'll understand… not all who die wish to be forgotten."

The lake stirred faintly, though nothing showed on the surface. Its mists were thicker than before, and the pale lavender sky had begun to flicker—streaked with faint, silver lightning veins trying to pierce the veil of the world.

Zhenyu stood still at the lake's edge, her body still echoing the remnants of Qingyin's memories. But what unsettled her wasn't just the past—it was the silence. It felt too aware. As though Rongxu Jing itself was watching her now.

"That mirror," Zhenyu murmured, "it doesn't just reflect the past. It chooses what to reveal."

Helian Qingyin's shadow parted the mist and slowly approached. She no longer looked like a flicker. Her form was taking shape—long hair black as night ink, eyes deep and fractured like a mirror once hurled into flames. Yet her gaze toward Zhenyu wasn't that of a spirit seeking possession—it was the gaze of a woman who had lost everything, and had found fragments of herself in someone else's body.

"Do you hate me?" Qingyin asked, her voice clear yet carrying the weight of sorrow.

Zhenyu didn't answer right away. Her head lowered, hands trembling as she stared at her open palms.

"I don't know... if this is my body or yours. But I know one thing," she looked up and met Qingyin's eyes. "The feelings are real. Your guilt. My fear. They both exist here. And I can't keep pretending not to hear you."

Qingyin fell silent, then gave a bitter smile. "The world only knew me as a curse. Even in death, Langyao recorded me as the reason the Five Skies cracked. But not one of them knew—I only ever tried to protect someone I never should've."

"Bo Yaochen?" Zhenyu whispered.

Qingyin's gaze hardened, then softened again.

"Not just him. I protected love. I protected choice."

Suddenly, the skies of Rongxu Jing drew taut, and the entire spirit realm began to tremble with a muted rumble. Particles of light danced like dust lost in the wind. The lake began to pale.

Another figure stepped out of the mist—not Yuwen Jinhai this time.

But… Langyao Xian.

The spirit's form was no longer whole, not like what Zhenyu had seen inside the Sealed Library. His figure was fractured, with parts of his face resembling shattered mirror shards.

"You have reopened the wound of this world," the voice was deep and echoing, as if resonating from the very heart of Rongxu Jing.

Zhenyu froze. "What do you mean... the wound of the world?"

Langyao Xian looked at him, then turned to Qingyin. "Rongxu Jing is a land of memory. But if you bring too much pain into it... it ceases to be a place of reflection. It becomes a battlefield."

Qingyin narrowed her eyes, suspicion gleaming within. "Are you here to warn us, or to judge us?"

Langyao Xian didn't answer immediately. His light dimmed, and from within the folds of his robe, he raised something—the Third Seal, forged from split soul-bone and encircled by slow-falling black snow.

"If you wish to break this seal," he said to Zhenyu, "your body must be truly your own. Helian Qingyin's soul must willingly retreat. If not... Rongxu Jing will collapse along with you."

Silence fell.

Zhenyu turned toward Qingyin, only to find her gazing back at him—with eyes that looked... resigned.

"If I leave now, you'll die," Qingyin whispered.

"If you stay," Zhenyu replied, his voice echoing through the fog, "then I will never truly live."

Before either could speak again, a faint crimson light burst forth from the ground. A fissure opened at the edge of the lake, and something unfamiliar slipped into Rongxu Jing. The aura—it belonged to none of them.

Langyao Xian exhaled softly. "Someone from the real world is forcing their way in. But not with their soul... with blood."

Qingyin and Zhenyu exchanged glances. Only one name came to mind:

Ji Suling.

---

The crack widened.

From within it, blood began to flow—dark and alive, like a river that disobeyed time itself.

But this was no ordinary blood. Its color was too deep, too vivid—almost alive with whispers, currents, and murmurs.

The violet mists of Rongxu Jing began to recede, pulled back by a force from beyond this realm.

Langyao Xian raised his hand, attempting to halt the surge of energy, but his power was thrown back—overwhelmed by the tidal wave of blood spirit energy.

By the lake's edge, the ground blackened into a sickly green hue, spreading strange patterns like veins of poison.

Zhenyu clutched his chest.

His body felt cold—not from fear, but because his soul was slowly being uprooted.

"This... is blood magic," Qingyin whispered, her face turning pale.

"She's trying to rip me from this body—forcing us apart without Rongxu Jing's consent."

Langyao Xian tried to speak, but his voice was already distorted. The mist swallowed half his face, and slowly, he began to fade, leaving behind one final warning.

"If this gate is forced open from the outside... neither of you will be able to return."

A crimson streak split the sky above the lake.

Zhenyu shut his eyes, his soul trembling—not just from the pain, but from the faint pull of his body in the real world—the rhythm of a heartbeat being stolen. Something was touching his body. A needle? A blade? A spell?

Helian Qingyin stepped back, eyes fixed on the growing fissure, then on Zhenyu, whose footing was slipping.

"I can seal it," she said softly. "But I'll have to go into it. And I won't be able to come back."

Zhenyu's eyes widened. "No. If you leave, Ji Suling will take over my body."

Qingyin looked at him. There was no fight left in her gaze—only the quiet surrender of a spirit who had lingered in the mortal world too long.

"It's better your body belongs only to you… even if you must face the world alone, than for it to belong to someone else."

But Zhenyu shook his head, breath uneven. "I can't do it without you. I... I'm afraid I'll lose my way."

"You've already become me, without needing to be replaced. And I..." Helian Qingyin stepped closer. Her translucent fingers brushed his cheek with the gentleness of a sister, a friend, a shadow who once lived.

"I only ever wanted to be heard, not owned."

With that, she turned toward the crack. Every step she took left behind faint traces of starlight on the darkened earth. And when she reached the edge, she looked back—wearing a small, peaceful smile.

"Guard this body. Guard our name. And... don't let her rewrite our story."

Zhenyu reached out to her, but the mist consumed it all. The skies above Rongxu Jing shattered in an instant. The rift closed with the sound of a final breath.

Silence returned.

_____

Zhenyu awoke to the roar in his ears.

Not the sound of blood. Not a spell. But the steady, pounding beat of a heart—his own.

His body was cold. His clothes soaked in sweat and... something else. Blood? The scent of iron filled the air. His eyes fluttered open, catching the blurred outline of a panicked maid near the door.

"M-Madam Bai! He's awake!" Meilan's voice cracked in a mix of relief and fear.

But Zhenyu barely heard her. He turned toward the edge of the bed.

There, on a bronze tray, lay a small black mirror—the Shadow Mirror. But Qingyin's reflection was gone.

Only Zhenyu's face remained, cracked down the center, as if the mirror itself no longer knew who it was reflecting.

From outside the room, soft footsteps echoed—multiple layers of footsteps, too refined for a palace maid.

A woman was approaching.

Uninvited.

Ji Suling.

________

Zhenyu stared at the Shadow Mirror—his own face reflected, fractured down the middle.

No trace of Qingyin.

No whisper of warmth.

Only silence, and a void where her soul once rested.

Then came the sound of footsteps—soft, deliberate, and cold.

Ji Suling had arrived.

And the war for his soul had only just begun.