Chapter 64 – Frostless Winter
The Demon Realm knew no winter.
Even when the calendar whispered the month of frost, the wind that prowled through its streets carried no bite. Children chased each other barefoot over polished stone, shrieking with laughter, their faces flushed not from cold but from wild joy. Merchants hawked rare silks and jars of scarlet wine as if the year's end was just another day to barter. The beauty houses never closed, not even at dawn — their painted lanterns burned through the night and into morning, scattering music and laughter into the streets like petals on a restless tide.
Here, the cold was not in the air, but in the hearts.
In shadowed alleys, thieves slit purses and throats alike without slowing their step. When a girl cried for help, shutters stayed closed; the street turned its back. Life in the Demon Realm did not pause for another's misfortune — it stepped over it.
At the heart of this city, beyond markets and brothels, rose the dark crown of it all: the Demon Monarch's palace. Neither entirely fortress nor entirely pleasure hall, it loomed like a slab of night carved into towers. Its walls glittered with the sheen of obsidian, guarded by sentries whose eyes never strayed from the gates. Within, corridors coiled like a labyrinth around gardens of poisonous blossoms and moonlit pools.
It was here that Hua Mo, the Demon Monarch, lived — and ruled.
The monarch was a man without age. Even in repose, reclining on a couch draped in black fox fur, his presence pressed against the chamber walls like a tide. His features were carved with an artist's precision — high cheekbones, a straight, fine nose, a jaw sharp enough to cut. Long fingers idly plucked grapes from a dish, the juice dark against the pale of his knuckles. A slim volume lay open in his lap, the script neat and ancient.
Around him, attendants fanned the air perfumed with amber resin. Others knelt, offering delicacies or arranging scrolls for his idle reach.
When the doors opened, the Monarch did not look up — but the air shifted.
A tall man in dark armor crossed the threshold and sank to one knee. Hua Mo's personal guard — and his shadow in all but name. The Monarch flicked his fingers, and the attendants scattered like startled birds, the silken whisper of their steps vanishing into the side corridors.
"Speak," Hua Mo said, his eyes still on the page.
The guard bowed low. "Mó jūn, I have found hints of something… concerning the Soul Box."
At that, the Monarch's hand stilled. The book slid shut with a soft thud. His gaze lifted — slow, deliberate — to meet the guard's.
"Continue."
"It is said," the guard replied, "to be within the Verdant Cloud Sect. The exact location is… unclear."
For a moment, nothing moved. Then Hua Mo leaned back, the faintest curl of disdain touching his mouth. "Zhou Yuanzhen's sect," he murmured. "And my son… is there."
His fingers tightened on the closed book until the leather creaked.
"Prepare the escort," Hua Mo said at last. "We ride for the Verdant Cloud Sect. Publicly, we retrieve my son for the New Year. Nothing else."
The guard bowed and withdrew.
Alone again, Hua Mo pressed a hand to his temple, rubbing slow circles. If the Soul Box is that close… why has Hua Ling said nothing? A frown cut across his brow. I will have to speak to him myself.
His gaze drifted toward the high window, where snow that would never fall shimmered only in memory. And… to see Zhou again. The thought drew a sigh, long and unreadable.
Verdant Cloud Sect – Hua Ling's Chambers
Chi Ruyan had been pacing for some time.
She had learned the secret of the mark — how, she did not yet know what to do with it. But the knowledge burned hot in her chest, restless and insistent.
When Hua Ling finally entered, the faint frost of the courtyard still on his sleeves, her lips curved.
"My prince," she greeted, voice like honey sliding over a blade.
He glanced at her without surprise. "Name your business."
Instead of answering, she drifted closer, fingertips grazing his shoulder with a practiced touch.
"Why the long face? Sit, at least."
He sat, and she poured the tea — the pale steam coiling upward between them.
"Our wedding is near," she began lightly, "yet you still treat me so coldly."
Hua Ling's lips curved — not in warmth, but in mockery. "Wedding?" He tilted his head, as though tasting the word.
She chuckled, lowering her lashes. "What else could a wedding mean to you, Your Highness?"
"You dream too well," Hua Ling replied, the snort in his voice sharper than a blade's edge. "Marry my brother. He is better than me."
Her eyes narrowed in amusement. "Hua Yè?" She gave a short, elegant laugh, then stepped nearer, the faint scent of her perfume curling between them. "My heart only wants you."
But Hua Ling was already rising.
"You will regret it," he said, and walked away without a backward glance.
She stood there, the tea cooling on the low table. Her fingers toyed with the rim of the cup before setting it down. Very well — if his back was turned to her, she would speak to someone whose eyes were not.
She was halfway to the door when a familiar figure blocked her path.
Chao Chao, the palace's ever-smiling steward, inclined his head. "Madam — the Demon Monarch will be arriving here shortly. You may tell him yourself."
Her lips curved. "Well. That's convenient."
And this time, her smile reached her eyes.
The winter air over Verdant Cloud Sect was a blade of frost, yet Hua Ling's thoughts burned hot enough to melt it. He had been told his father was coming to take him back—personally.
The weight of it pressed against his ribs like a slow, deliberate hand.
Xinyu.
The name alone was enough to knot his breath. He could imagine the other's indifferent gaze, the guarded way he'd listen without answering. If Hua Ling told him what sat heavy in his chest, would Xinyu sneer? Would he turn away, cutting him off as cleanly as a sword stroke?
The risk was unbearable. So, he chose silence.
The sun was tilting toward dusk when Hua Ling stepped down the snow-laden path and almost collided with Mochen. They had not crossed paths in weeks, and Mochen's eyes gleamed with something sharp.
Hua Ling's gaze was a sheet of ice, ready to crack.
"Your father is arriving," Mochen said, his tone deliberate, slow, as though savoring each word. "Your time here is at an end."
Hua Ling's boots halted on the frozen ground.
"You can never see him again," Mochen continued, voice curling into mockery. "How sad. But… you'll have your wife beside you, my prince."
The words slid under Hua Ling's skin like poison. His pupils tightened, and before Mochen could blink, Hua Ling had fisted his collar, knuckles pale against the dark fabric.
"Don't trigger me, Mochen." His voice was low, trembling not with fear but with something more dangerous. "It won't end well for you. Watch your mouth."
Mochen only lifted his hands lazily in the air, a smirk tugging at his lips. "Alright, calm down. No need to lose that royal composure."
Then, with mock sweetness: "Chen Xinyu probably wouldn't care for your departure. He hasn't come to see you in a whole month. I wonder… what happened between you two?"
The jab found its mark. Hua Ling's grip loosened as if the words had knocked the breath out of him. His eyes, rimmed faintly in red, dropped away from Mochen's face. Without another word, he turned and walked off, the sound of his boots biting into snow.
Mochen watched him go, his smile slipping into a muttered curse.
That same afternoon, Mochen sought out Xinyu. He found him on the training grounds, sleeves rolled to the elbow, hair damp with frost-scented sweat. The clack of wood against wood echoed under the winter sky as Xinyu struck at the practice dummies again and again—sharp, precise, merciless.
Mochen didn't approach. He only leaned against the shadowed fence, arms crossed. There was a certain satisfaction in seeing that Hua Ling would not get his way… yet the sight of Xinyu's strained, stubborn focus was not exactly what Mochen had wished for either.