Xuan Yi slept for five or six days straight. When she woke up, the patrol spirit officials told her that Fucang had fallen ill.

Probably because of the changing weather in the lower realm, he had caught a cold and was moved to the Vermillion Tower where the Peach Tree Earth Immortal resided. The pure qi there was abundant, greatly benefiting his illness.

As an existence like a mass of ice, Xuan Yi was also temporarily not allowed to approach him. She could only lie outside the window and watch for a while each day. His high fever came and went intermittently. He looked quite bad—his complexion alternating between pale and flushed, covered in sweat, breathing heavily. The white-bearded Peach Tree Earth Immortal often treated him with magical arts, but the situation remained unpredictable, sometimes better, sometimes worse.

For this inexplicable illness, the Earth Immortal was also helpless: “This minor immortal’s abilities are meager. Why don’t you upper gods and spirit officials seek help from the upper realm?”

The Chief Spirit Official shook his head. This usually rather undignified celestial deity rarely showed a trace of solemnity: “Fucang Shenjun descended to the lower realm to resolve karmic bonds. Everything fated has its own causes. That the mountain demon national preceptor could succeed in his petition was due to the cause created when Shenjun descended to the lower realm last time and threatened that demon with Chun Jun. That Fucang Shenjun could be brought into the Green Emperor Temple by this Earth Immortal was due to the cause created when Shenjun sat under the peach tree for one night—his divine power surged, causing it to achieve immortal form early. Your Highness is allowed to approach for two reasons: first, you have the Green Emperor’s personal letter, and second, you’re resolving his greatest karmic bond. Beyond this, there is absolutely no reason to allow external forces to interfere, otherwise what use are the disciplinary laws? Your Highness, don’t approach him before Shenjun recovers from his illness, or if he dies in this lifetime, he’ll have to start all over again.”

Who knew if she heard or not—she gave no response at all. The Peach Tree Earth Immortal and the patrol spirit officials could only sigh and leave separately.

Only Fucang’s heavy breathing remained in the room, just like that day in the Green Emperor Palace when he endured the thorn punishment.

Would he die? Would he suddenly perish like Mother had?

Xuan Yi stared at him fixedly for half the day, then with a sweep of her sleeve, placed all the white snow trinkets she had brought by his pillow. What she made should all be things he liked. The shrimp was probably something he liked to eat, right? Last time at Zhuxuan Yuyang Manor, he had picked this to eat. Previously he had gotten angry over the whirling peony—he must have really liked it. Actually, she wasn’t sure if he really liked her dragon form very much. Perhaps he just loved seeing her frustrated and annoyed appearance from before.

She had brought him all the things he liked. Open your eyes and look—you’ll definitely be happy.

Don’t die. Don’t die, or this karmic bond will only become more and more entangled. She always indulged her own willfulness before him. Whether he was a divine lord or a mortal, she always instinctively acted this way, so she was always wrong.

There would be no next time.

But how could she help him sever this karmic bond?

Fucang on the bed suddenly turned over and opened his eyes. His vision was filled with blood red. He saw a slender figure standing outside the moon window, her head drilling in through the gap, both eyes wide open staring at him. This scene was somewhat horrifyingly comical, just like when she crouched by the bedside at night with her eyes bright and alert—the same manner.

Fucang looked for a long while, struggling to find his hoarse voice: “Why don’t you come in?”

Xuan Yi was silent for a moment, then said softly: “Fucang Shixiong, will you die?”

Fucang’s mind was muddled as he murmured: “…What did you call me?”

She didn’t answer.

In his dizziness, he listened to her breathing, which was much heavier than usual, and couldn’t help asking: “Are you crying?”

Xuan Yi shook her head: “Will you die?”

Fucang only felt his consciousness gradually fading again and couldn’t help murmuring: “How could one die from a cold? Come in…”

Before he could finish, he fell unconscious again.

The night gradually deepened. After Fucang was awakened to take medicine, he fell back into deep sleep. The white snow little loach was squeezed off the bed by his arm, its tail breaking off. Xuan Yi summoned it back to repair the tail. She had only sculpted halfway when she heard him begin to murmur something in his sleep again.

Was he dreaming? What was he dreaming of? The Green Emperor Palace with its green mountains and clear waters? The Mingxing Hall of the Three Hundred Courtyards? Or that stupid lion at his home?

She stretched her neck out as far as possible, wishing she could turn into a goose. She heard him repeatedly muttering something. Suddenly there was a sound, very faint but very clear—it was a name.

Finally, she had heard his sleep talk.

Xuan Yi stared at him blankly, only feeling her body alternately cold and hot in waves, unprecedented, even giving her the illusion of being unable to breathe.

She knew what he wanted.

*

This serious illness of Fucang’s kept him bedridden for over a month. His condition fluctuated—when it was good, he could get out of bed and take walks within the Green Emperor Temple, and when it was bad, he could only sit on the bed reading.

This day the weather was clear. When Fucang woke up early, he felt a rare mental clarity and refreshment. He had just drunk his medicine and was struggling with how bitter it was when suddenly the room door opened. A mass of white figure fluttered in like a flower butterfly, and immediately his face felt cool as a pair of soft hands covered it. He couldn’t help but freeze.

Xuan Yi stood by the bedside with a beaming smile, looking down at him: “Are my hands still cold?”

For over a month she had always only lingered outside the window, never entering once. When he went out, she would hide, and no matter what, he couldn’t catch her. He was quite vexed about this, never expecting that today she would suddenly run in and suddenly make such an intimate gesture.

Fucang subconsciously pressed her hands. They felt cool to the touch but not bone-piercing, and he couldn’t feel any cold air from her being beside him either. Over her elaborate and magnificent lotus-colored garment, she wore a snow-white outer robe that actually looked like men’s clothing—far too large, with sleeves and hem dragging on the ground. But for some reason, he found it very familiar.

He asked subconsciously: “Whose clothes are these?”

These were Fucang’s outer robes from the upper realm that she had Qi Nan request from the Green Emperor’s side. The cloud pattern totem on them could block divine power from overflowing—unique to the Huaxu Clan. Only by wearing these garments could she approach him, otherwise she would freeze this frail mortal.

“Guess.” Xuan Yi smiled as she released him. Seeing a plate of osmanthus cakes on the bedside cabinet, she pinched one to eat while directing him: “I want tea.”

Fucang couldn’t help wanting to tap her on the head, but in the end he still poured her a cup of tea and sat beside her on the bed, holding her overly large snow-colored outer robe in his hands and examining it endlessly. Whether in workmanship or style, this garment was rarely seen in the world. He was looking at it entranced when he suddenly heard her say curiously: “Eh? I’ve read this story. The superior scholar kills with his tongue’s tip, the inferior scholar kills with a stone plate.”

He came back to his senses and saw her holding the book he had been reading earlier, turned to the story of Zilu killing the tiger.

He was somewhat surprised: “You can read?”

At that time, it was emphasized that a woman’s lack of talent was itself a virtue. She… though he didn’t know what she was, she was still a young woman, so her literacy inevitably surprised him somewhat.

Xuan Yi was displeased: “Do I look like an illiterate idiot?”

Fucang suddenly let out a low laugh: “Write two characters for me to see.”

She turned her head away: “I won’t write.”

He came to the desk, took out brush, ink, paper, and inkstone, then dipped the brush in ink for her and without allowing any argument, handed the writing brush over: “Write.”

Xuan Yi was extremely unwilling. Having no choice, she could only write the character for “dragon” with flamboyant strokes.

Fucang squinted at it for a while: “Your characters really need practice.”

Your characters really need practice—this was the second time he had said this to her. Xuan Yi subconsciously was about to respond: When I’m as old as this, my writing will look good.

She suddenly bit her lip again and looked down at her own characters without speaking.

Warmth suddenly came from her side. Fucang stretched his arms around her slender body. Her hand holding the brush was also grasped in his palm as he slowly wrote the character for “dragon” below hers. The script was elegant and upright. In comparison, her character above looked like it was having convulsions.

Fucang placed his chin on top of her head, his voice gentle: “When I have time, I must teach you to write.”

Xuan Yi smiled faintly: “I don’t want you to teach me. I just love cursive script.”

Fucang drew the brush from her hand. Having been separated from her for a month just when emotions were stirring, the feelings in his heart were difficult to suppress. His arms hugged her tightly, his head bowing to kiss her hair, his fingertips caressing her cheek. Suddenly he felt her ice-cool skin become scalding hot. His heart stirred. He turned her around, and sure enough, her entire face was crimson, even her neck flushed red.

His lips fell on her forehead as he said softly: “Don’t leave me.”

He didn’t care why she had come. Since she had come, could she please not leave?