After his rebirth, this was the first time Song Qian Ji heard that name from someone else’s mouth.
The pattering sound of wind and rain in his ears transformed into a melody. In his memory, the woman playing the zither suddenly looked up and smiled tenderly.
Before Song Qian Ji set off for the edge of the continent to save the World Tree with the Immortal Spring, the night before his departure, Miao Yan said she wanted to see his sword.
Not wanting to disappoint his intended Dao companion, he slowly drew the sword from its scabbard: “Be careful not to hurt yourself.”
Moonlight streamed through the ornate window, illuminating the long sword, like autumn water, casting a cold glow throughout the hall.
Miao Yan took it with both hands, carefully cradling it, a shallow dimple appearing beside her lips: “Solitary Light, truly extraordinary… Ah!”
The sword’s chilling energy leaked out, piercing her delicate fingertip. Crimson drops of blood splattered onto the white jade floor, like plum blossoms blooming in the snow.
A shrill sword cry rang out simultaneously.
The scenery before her eyes distorted.
Raging fires blazed across the plains, smoke billowed to the sky, and vultures circled overhead.
A figure emerged from the killing field, sword tip pointing to the ground. He was covered in blood, his wide sleeves fluttering.
Miao Yan tried desperately to see the face of the approaching figure, but the bloody storm was too fierce, stinging her delicate face, making it impossible to keep her eyes open.
“Be careful.” It was Song Qian Ji’s voice.
As soon as the words were spoken, the wound on her finger instantly healed, and the illusion dissipated without a trace. She was still in the celestial palace, enjoying the cool evening breeze and moonlight.
She finally saw the face of the person in the illusion. Clear and refined features, quite handsome.
—Song Qian Ji was right beside her, wearing a moon-white brocade robe, his ink-black hair falling like flowing clouds, serene and peaceful, like a quiet shadow on a jade wall.
Miao Yan shuddered, feeling that the one wading through seas of blood with a sword in hand was his true face.
How many powerful experts must a sword kill to develop such terrifying spiritual pressure, creating such vivid illusions?
“What a fierce sword, just like you.” She smiled.
“When have I ever been fierce to you?” Song Qian Ji felt somewhat wronged.
“Even when I’m just watching you use your sword against others, I feel afraid.”
Song Qian Ji said calmly: “After we formalize our union, husband and wife as one, our fates connected, there will be nothing in the world for you to fear.”
Only those who had reached the pinnacle could possess such extraordinary confidence.
Because what he said, he could accomplish.
Miao Yan wasn’t satisfied. Her autumn-water eyes reflected the cold light of the sword’s edge, tinged with a trace of coldness:
“Including this sword?”
Song Qian Ji nodded: “No matter how fierce Solitary Light is, it’s still my sword.” He awkwardly, unfamiliarly comforted his intended Dao companion, “Don’t be afraid.”
The beauty’s moth-like eyebrows slightly furrowed, and she said softly: “Our engagement was hastily arranged, and I know so little about you. I always fear I can’t satisfy you in all matters. If one day I make a mistake, would you use this sword to kill me?”
Song Qian Ji couldn’t understand: “Even if you made a mistake, as your Dao companion, I would naturally take responsibility for you. How could I kill you?”
Miao Yan seemed provoked by these words. She suddenly looked up, tears welling in her eyes, her voice trembling like an over-tightened zither string:
“What if I truly committed an unforgivable sin? What if I betrayed you, deceived you, harmed you? Would you draw your sword against me?”
She screamed silently in her heart.
Just like your powerful enemies and sworn foes, who, no matter where they hide in heaven or earth, will always die by the Solitary Light sword. Don’t talk about the bonds between Dao companions; you are the Undying in a Hundred Battles, Song Qian Ji. Someone like you, marrying me only out of lust and to display power, how could you possibly have even a fraction of true feeling?
Why do you still pretend? Dare you to show your true face?!
Song Qian Ji only gazed at her quietly, gently prying open her delicate fingers to retrieve Solitary Light.
The long sword returned to its scabbard with a soft, lingering ring.
Miao Yan suddenly came to her senses, wiped away her tears, and forced a smile: “I was rude.”
But she heard Song Qian Ji sigh: “I wouldn’t kill you. I would just… be heartbroken.”
How unreasonable.
Only helpless weaklings would merely feel heartbroken. Song Qian Ji was the world’s foremost powerful cultivator; besides his divine sword, he had hundreds of magical abilities and thousands of Dao techniques.
But he made a vow:
“Solitary Light will never be drawn against you.”
Miao Yan was stunned.
After a long moment, her smile bloomed again: “Let me play another tune for you.”
Song Qian Ji didn’t remember the name of that melody, only that it was gentle and lingering, like the spring rain that was now about to cease.
Suddenly, the seven-stringed zither broke, the moon waned, and flowers flew.
The jarring sound of the pipa pierced his ears, like armies with metal weapons, an ambush from all sides.
That woman cradled her pipa, her arm gauze fluttering, standing amidst the swirling snow, tears falling in melancholy:
“Qian Ji, I’m sorry.”
Sorry, sorry, sorry.