Chapter 29
Bai Qian~
It’s been 16 months, 20 days, and 6 hours—over a year—since she began her mortal trial. The passage of time has become a cruel and formidable adversary in the ongoing search for Ying’er.
Each month, we gather quietly in the ethereal realm of Nine Heavens for Ye Hua’s sake, understanding he suffers in stoic silence. Knowing his guilt eats away at him not being able to actively explore the realms for our daughter as we do but as the ruler of the Heavens, his rightful place is high above the clouds governing the other realms, and his prolonged absence would surely raise more than a few inquisitive brows among the Celestial court.
With heads bent low in concentration, Mo Yuan and Ye Hua examine sprawling maps laid out before them. Like generals preparing for combat, they analyze each region that has been explored and revisited countless times. The maps are marked with vibrant highlights—red for areas searched, blue for places to revisit—the controlled chaos of red and blue lines crisscrossing through immortal realms forms an intricate labyrinth born of desperation combined with an unwavering resolve.
The search for Ying’er has become a part of us, like breathing.
Changchang’s emerald green eyes blazed with fierce determination as she leaned forward between her father and uncle, her finger carving a deliberate path across the ancient map spread out before them. Her long, glossy black hair tumbled over her shoulder like a cascade of midnight silk framing her face. She stabbed her finger at the shadowy section labeled ‘Phoenix realm,’
“Though an unlikely place, I would like to visit the Phoenix realm with General Ming discreetly,” she declared, “We will move with the utmost inconspicuousness to avoid suspicion, and if anyone crosses our path, we will feign a deep, passionate connection—lovers seeking a secluded escape away from prying eyes.”
She then turned to face Ming, the Dire wolf who had once served as my guardian. He stood silently behind the group, an imposing figure with muscles that bulged beneath his skin, his massive arms crossed over his chest like an impenetrable shield of living stone. Before he responded to Changchang, Ming cast a sidelong glance in my direction, his golden amber eyes searching mine for the silent signal of approval. A subtle tilt, a nearly imperceptible nod of my head granted him the permission he sought. Only after my consent did he acknowledge Changchang’s plan with a curt yet deferential bowing of his head, a gesture that conveyed his agreement and honor to be a part of her plans.
My trust in Ming was profound, allowing him to stay perilously close to Changchang, even under the guise of being her romantic partner. She was oblivious to the other reason for his presence: the constant fear that someone might attempt to abduct her, just as they might have taken Ying’er is something to consider, but with him I know she is safe. Not even a small army could keep Ming from protecting Changchang, for he is both a legend and force to be reckoned with.
When my father first promoted Ming to General, the other immortals whispered that he, the last of his kind was too young, too wild, too unpredictable. They did not understand that he was, at his core, a creature of immense loyalty—a man who could not be bought, seduced, or coerced away from his chosen duty. He was untamable, but he could be trusted, and his unrivaled tracking skills are renowned throughout the eight immortal realms and the four seas.
His colossal form demanded attention; towering at over 213 centimeters, he is like a living fortress with legs. His muscles were so formidable they seemed carved from the granite mountains, yet he moves like the wind. He had been living quietly in Qingqui, still unmarried and impatient to join the search for Ying’er as well as protect Changchang.
As these assignments are set into motion, everyone disperses quietly into their designated roles. I, with Yingpei; would visit the Eastern Sea again pretending to be seeking a partner for Yingpei who was of marrying age. While Ye Hua and Mo Yuan spoke softly in that private code shared by twins, I attempted to slip away unnoticed however, the gentle yet firm voice of Ye Hua called out to me, halting my quiet retreat.
“Qian Qian, a moment.” He has fallen back to calling me what comes naturally. Some habits are hard to break and I didn’t correct him. “A word, if you don’t mind.” Ye Hua moves restlessly, unable to make direct eye contact, which isn’t his style. It’s obvious he’s out of his comfort zone, making a request he doesn’t want to, but he does nonetheless. “One last time. Please meet with Bai Lianhua.”
A reluctant sigh slipped from my lips, a gentle breath that seemed to embody my uncertainties. I flicked away non-existent strands of hair from my forehead, a nervous habit I’ve picked up over time, subtler than my tendency to chew my bottom lip until it becomes sore and raw.
“I know it’s bold even inappropriate to make such a request but, Qian Qian one last time?” Ye Hua’s wording had an effect like a splinter getting caught under my skin. Bothersome and annoying, yet impossible to ignore. Ye Hua’s wife is far from being my favorite person, but I couldn’t deny I was invested in her well-being like it or not. “Has the Medicine King told you something? Has her health deteriorated?”
“No.” Ye Hua replies solemnly. “It’s her intuition. She feels different and thinks her time is coming to an end.”
My eyes darted past Ye Hua to Mo Yuan, who stands a few paces away. His gaze is ever sharp, as if he’s dissecting my every move, every emotion. Yet, there’s a flicker of something else—a dark interest that seems to dance in his eyes, drawing him in deeper, causing his lids to lower ever so slightly. Then, unexpectedly, the corners of his lips curl into a subtle, supportive smile. It’s as though he’s wordlessly urging me not to shy away from Ye Hua. His expression conveys a silent message—this will be good for me, telling me I was on the right path, forging a truce with Bai Lianhua, while I still could—was not for her benefit, but for my own.
“I’m sorry, Ye Hua.“ I spoke from the heart. My sympathy was sincere. Though Bai Lianhua had been a constant source of vexation for me, I didn’t wish Ye Hua to suffer more than he already has. “Since you’ve put it like that, I will see her again, but this will be the last time. Can you promise me this?”
“I promise.” Ye Hua’s voice sounds small and weak. Maybe it’s this weakness that I allowed him to place his hand on the small of my back as we walked side by side. An intimate gesture I would have shunned under any other circumstance had I not felt he needed grounding.
“You look thin,” he said, careful to keep his tone neutral, but he could not quite manage it.
It was just like him, even now, to worry about me when he should have been thinking only of himself. Yet somehow, “you look thin” was no longer a lover’s lament but more like a doctor’s clinical observation, an example that there is nothing left of us from the past, even if the wound still bleeds.
I had developed a habit, lately, of looking at him sideways, avoiding the full force of his gaze while pretending not to notice how much it still affected me. Today, though, I found myself meeting his eyes directly and was surprised by what I saw there. Time had not touched him in the way it had marked others; his beauty was still so sharp it seemed to draw blood from the world around him. But there was something else now, too, something carved deep beneath the surface: the fatigue of sleepless nights and the ache of persistent worry, neither of which could be masked by imperial authority.
“I haven’t lost weight,” I said, feigning flippancy. “My dress is just too big.” I tugged at the fabric, watching as it gaped at my collarbone. “But you’re one to talk. I’ve never seen you this slender, either. What’s that thing called? Oh yes, intermitted fasting or is there some new trend in the Celestial Palace I haven’t heard about?”
Ye Hua almost smiled—almost. The corners of his lips twitched, as if his body refused to let go of old habits, even when his mind couldn’t reconcile them. “I haven’t lost weight,” he replied, echoing my denial with that familiar, infuriating composure. “My clothes are also too big.” He paused, the silence swelling between us like a tide, before adding, “So, how are things with Mo Yuan?”
If he had stabbed me, the wound would have been more humane. The question—I knew it was coming. Nevertheless, it caught me off guard, a blade sliding between ribs. My breath hitched, a strangled sound I tried to swallow but couldn’t. My legs, which had carried me through war and battling a demon queen possessed on sucking every drop of blood from me, threatened to buckle under me, and I dug my nails into the flesh of my palm to remind myself that my pain was still a private thing, not a performance.
I turned to look at him, unable to hide the flicker of resentment in my eyes. If he truly knew me as I hoped, he would understand the unspoken question: Is this really our situation now? How capricious and unpredictable fate can be. Times have changed. Ye Hua is escorting me to his wife’s bedside while asking about my love life with his brother?
“Are you really asking if I have a love life with your brother? ” I meant for it to sound casual, even coquettish, but the sarcasm in my voice was unmistakable. He blinked, just once, but it was enough; I saw the blow land, saw the way his composure shivered around the edges like ice beginning to crack. “Love life with your brother.” made him flinch.
There was a time when I would have not exercised such emotional power I held over him, even in such a small, petty way. Now, the satisfaction was too gratifying, though laced with guilt. I wanted to tell him how I couldn’t deny that Mo Yuan’s presence affects me. Share how Mo Yuan displays his desire in silence and seduces me most wickedly as he strips me down without removing an article of my clothes even when I don’t reciprocate—but none of it matters. All our desires were nothing, while our thoughts were consumed with finding Ying’er.
I hesitated, perhaps too long. Ye Hua absorbed my silence and interpreted it in his way. His face was unreadable. But I could see the muscles working in his jaw, a silent churn of emotions he refused to let loose. It was always like this with us recently: a game of strategic disclosures, parries and ripostes, each word a calculated move on a chessboard neither of us wanted to play anymore yet did. The weight of what was said, what was unsaid pressed down on us, always threatening to collapse the fragile architecture of civility we’d built over months of careful conversation and deliberate avoidance.
He exhaled, a sound barely audible above the hush of our footsteps on the polished stone. “I didn’t mean to pry or suggest—” he began, but I cut him off with a shake of my head.
“You didn’t mean to pry or suggest anything,” I replied, leaving it open without punctuation. How he took it, either as a statement or a question, was up to him but for me. I bit back my words, accusing him of not wanting me yet not wanting another to have me. I wanted to ask the logic behind this, but I didn’t.
The tension between us was palpable, a living thing that refused to be banished by polite conversation or clever barbs. Every step forward was a step through memory: the time he had carried me over his shoulder when I teased him about his stamina; the night we’d spent beneath a canopy of stars, fingers entwined as though we could bind our souls together by sheer force of will; the morning after our first real fight, when he roughly took me by consensual force, a scandalous love game while Sujun watched us in sheer agony. These moments once held such power over us but now, they were forgotten and replaced by new memories he’s made with Bai Lianhua.
Finally, as we reached the outer courtyard, I stalled and turned to face him. The cool breeze swept through the space, catching a stray strand of his curly hair at his temples. It lifted gracefully, resembling a silken banner fluttering in the air, before stubbornly settling back against his skin. That curl had a mind of its own, defying the wind’s attempts to tame it. My fingers itched with the urge to reach out and tuck it back, a gesture that would have felt so natural. Instead, I anchored my hands at my sides, clenching them into fists so tight that my nails pressed deep, leaving half-moon imprints on my skin.
“Ye Hua,” I said, and for the first time in a long time, I allowed myself to speak his name without bitterness. “Tell me the truth. Why do you really want me to see her?”
He faltered, and in that brief pause, the entire saga unfolded before me: the gnawing fear, the crushing desperation, the flicker of hope he dared not acknowledge. “Because she’s terrified,” he finally confessed, his voice barely above a whisper. “And I…I can’t soothe her anymore. She has a last wish. Maybe you can help her find…peace, before the inevitable end.”
I nodded slowly, even as doubt gnawed relentlessly at my core. With Ye Hua, I’d now uncovered a tempestuous raging beneath his surface, a storm in a bottle—a tangled web of motives and hidden agendas he would never fully reveal. The candid man who once seemed an open book was now a vault of secrets. My trust in him to protect my heart, my emotions, was no more, yet the crushing weight of obligation hung heavily over me; he had raised our children single-handedly. I owed him that much, and perhaps more crucially, I owed it to myself to finally settle this overwhelming debt, once and for all.
“Very well,” I declared, my voice steady and firm with resolve. “But after this, we’re done. No more debts.”
He smiled, genuinely this time, and for a moment, I was pulled back to the days when he was younger—not the Skylord, not the immortal being, but the clumsy, sincere hunter who had stumbled, wounded, onto my cabin steps, a cabin that was no longer mine. Actually, not much was mine anymore. He had once pledged his love and devotion to me, yet spent centuries unraveling it, piece by piece, only to offer those fragments to Bai Lianhua. I couldn’t decide whether to feel relief or regret. Perhaps both.
=====
She is young and charming. This I can’t dispute. In fact, it is the first thing I notice about Bai Lianhua—how the sunlight, unencumbered by clouds, strikes her face at just the right angle to render her almost perfect. And it is not merely the accidental, fleeting perfection of a favored angle, a flattering hour, or a well-placed shadow. No, Bai Lianhua is beautiful in the way rare gemstones are beautiful: manufactured from pressure, honed by expectation, and meant always to be displayed. Even now, exhausted and, by all accounts, dying, she is luminous—a quality that seems to thrive and persevere.
The garden has always been her preferred stage, and now, seated among a riotous bloom of osmanthus with petals cascading around her like fragments of gold, she seems at once both blossoming and eternal. The way she sits upright in her chair—regal even imperious—reminds me that she has matured into the role of Ye Hua’s Empress: to be looked at, to be revered and envied.
The scent is overwhelming—heady, sweet, almost narcotic. This is her design, I suspect. Even as illness leeches strength from her limbs, Bai Lianhua arranges the world as an altar to her presence; the arrangements are always meticulous, the colors curated, the servants sent scurrying to scatter extra petals or polish the garden stones until they shine like ice in sunlight. There is no inch of this place that isn’t an extension of her will.
She notices us. Of course she does. The way her entire being brightens when Ye Hua approaches; it is as if every cell inside her recognizes him. This shouldn’t bother me, but it does nonetheless. I’m not as indifferently numb to witnessing their interacts as loving husband and wife as I want to believe.
Ye Hua moves towards her with cautious steps, each measured and deliberate, as though he’s in such awe of her that he doesn’t want even the slightest disturbance to bother her. There is an old familiarity to the way he bends slightly at the waist when he speaks to her, a reflex from years of careful tending. His voice, typically a quiet command, softens when he addresses her, and I grit my teeth because I’ve heard that same voice comfort me in the dead of night, after a nightmare.
Once, I thought it belonged to me. Now, I wonder if it ever really did.
And then there’s me: standing awkwardly at the entryway into her garden wonderland, a reluctant interloper in a scene I would once have walked out of without so much as a glance. It feels like a trick; Ye Hua’s solemn urgency had suggested she was on the edge of death, yet nothing about this tableau says “last rites.” She looks the healthiest of all of us.
The light in her eyes is genuine; the color in her cheeks is not the sallow flush of an invalid but something that speaks of youthful vitality. She doesn’t just stand—she transforms herself in the act. With practiced grace, she sweeps into a low kneel before me, bowing so deeply that the ends of her pale gold dress fan outward on the stone path like an upended sunflower caught by an autumn wind.
“Bai Lianhua greets High goddess Empress Bai Qian, Gugu,” she intones in a voice delicate as fine silk thread. Her rounded arms are folded demurely but tremble just enough to betray nerves beneath layers of poise. But it is not her that holds my attention—Ye Hua’s reaction is what interests me most.
I glance at him out of the corner of my eye, watching him skeptically, searching for any subtle movement—a flinch or a twitch—that might reveal discomfort or humiliation. Once upon a time, I, Susu, had knelt at his feet and his mother’s, while he maintained a stoic expression, revealing nothing. Now, I want him to feel the weight of this role reversal as sharply as possible. Yet, if he feels any sting from the situation, he conceals it expertly behind the serene mask he crafted long ago. His face remains impassive, every muscle controlled. He knows that if I catch even the slightest flicker of resentment at the sight of his prostrated wife, the consequences will be the view of my backside as I walk away.
“Thank you for granting me an audience, Gugu.” Bai Lianhua says with earnestness so immense it nearly reverberates off the lacquered garden stones. “I know I’ve been unreasonable and terribly rude to you since our first meeting.”
I clasp my hands behind me, steeling myself against the overwhelming mix of pity, resentment, and curiosity that her performance stirs within me. I remind myself of the reasons I consented to this, why I allowed Ye Hua to guide me here, and why I’m standing here instead of being in the Eastern Sea realm searching for my daughter.
Bai Lianhua’s head is still bowed, silent, as if awaiting permission to raise her face. I let the pause stretch, taking in the tension, watching Ye Hua squirm internally, though his body remains statuesque. He is always careful to never betray himself, but in the flicker of his finger, in the barely perceptible tightening of his jaw, I read his discomfort and draw a strange, mean satisfaction from it.
There was a time I would have moved to comfort him, and would have shielded him from even the smallest pain. But that time is gone. I have learned the cost of such tenderness and I’m exhausted to the bone of paying the hefty price.
At last, I gesture for Bai Lianhua to rise, my own movements as economical and sharp as a blade. She does so, a little unsteadily, then remains on her knees as if the act of standing might rob her of some essential strength. Or perhaps she wants us to believe it has.
“We can skip the formalities,” I say, my tone clipped enough to slice through the osmanthus perfumed air. “You asked for me. I’m here.” The implied threat is left hanging, crystalline and cold: Do not waste my time.
Bai Lianhua straightens her spine as slender and fragile as a reed. “I won’t waste a moment of it, Gugu.” Her voice trembles, but she masters it with effort. “I know you think poorly of me. And I deserve that. I have wronged you in ways I can never make right, but I have only one request before I—”
She catches herself, hesitates, and for the briefest instant, looks terribly young, terribly vulnerable. “Before I leave this life.” Her words are melodramatic, but there is a kernel of sincerity in them.
My gaze flickers to Ye Hua; his eyes, dark pools reflecting worry and a heavy weight of guilt, are fixed on her. Was this his plan—a calculated softening, a subtle unearthing of dormant sympathy? The depth of his gaze, a tangible pressure, binds me to this suffocating moment where I am painfully aware I am the outsider. A bitter taste rises in my mouth; infuriatingly, mercy flickers, a forbidden and precarious flame, despite knowing this is a calculated trap.
It was a display, yes, but one so painfully transparent it felt as though the world itself had thinned to a translucent membrane, all pretense of dignity shed in the harsh glare of her impending death. Bai Lianhua’s lips trembled, the corners twitching with a mixture of defeat and longing, and the full rose-colored shape of them seemed to blossom with each shallow breath she drew.
Her pupils, wide and luminous, reflected not just the sun but the entire garden, all the courtiers and rustling leaves and latticework, as if she had become a vessel gathering every scrap of beauty left in her limited, shrinking universe. I saw in her shimmering eyes the magnitude of her isolation—a loneliness I thought was mine alone until this moment, but mine had always been elective, a fortress built stone by stone. Hers of ill fate.
The silk of her robe, a pale, almost weightless gold, sighed as she shifted forward, kowtowing, dropping to her forehead in a movement that was both deliberate and on the verge of collapse. There was something oddly childlike about her posture, the way her small hands curled into fists and pressed at the sides of her head to steady the trembling.
Why the sudden humility? I questioned, the dramatic self-effacement replacing the haughty, arrogant defiance that had characterized all our interactions since I arrived at court? Had she come to understand that her beauty, her wit, her limited pretense of diplomacy—all the tools that once made her formidable in her mind—were insufficient against the woman awaiting the return of the piece of her missing soul? Or was this, too, a strategic move, a deliberate last performance on a stage with an ever-shrinking audience? It feels like the latter.
I feel played.
She remained on her knees as she straightened herself up. “Gugu, my time is slipping away, and fear grips me that I won’t find peace, haunted by worries for my young children.”
The confession hung there, fragile as sugar spun. For a moment, I was chilled by a wave so cold it seemed impossible I would not shatter; but I braced myself and let the words settle on my skin where they could not burn. “Empress Bai Lianhua. You seem far from your end.” My voice came out sharp like shards of glass, as though every syllable was the edge of a broken promise.
Her next words were not the measured, modulated pleas of an empress, but the wild, unspooling grief of a mother. “You don’t have to believe me, Gugu. All I have ever wanted is for them—my children, and Ye Hua—to live. To love and be loved. If I leave, who will care for them like I do? He is strong but… you know how he is with emotion. He will push it down, bury it like a seed, and it will rot him from within. And they will suffer. I cannot bear that.”
The raw, keening terror in her voice—a stark contrast to its usual silvery composure—was a physical blow, a wave of icy pity clashing with the hot, prickly irritation of her power over me. Years spent fortifying myself against her, wrapping each loss in silk, every insult in steel as smooth and cold as polished armour, crumbled under the rasp of her words, each phrase a tiny, sharp cut. Her suffering wielded like a whip, stung, leaving burning welts on my heart.
I hated her for it—precisely because it worked.
I saw all this play out in an instant—the history, the regret, the strange intimacy of three lives forever knotted together—and it made me want to scream. But I am an Empress. I would not give her, or him, the satisfaction of seeing me unravel. Not here. Never.
So I straightened every inch of the sovereign and regarded her with a cold, analytical eye. “You wished to ask something of me. Speak.”
She swallowed, her throat working around the remnants of her last plea. “I know about your mortal trial before your demise with the Demon Queen. You were the empress of brother-in-law and cared for his harem, loving all the children as if they were your own. You did this as Empress Bai Yueli, so I appeal to that side of you. I beg you to fulfill my dying wish.”
I almost laughed at the audacity of it, the way she had weaponized my past against me. But there was a kind of logic to her argument, a symmetry I could not ignore. A cunning one she was. I nearly respected her for it..nearly and it was almost amusing, if one had the stomach for it.
Then, as if on cue, Bai Lianhua let herself fall fully to the flagstones again, arms outstretched, her soft hands clasped around the hem of my skirt. The gesture was so desperate it verged on the ridiculous, but she held herself there, trembling, refusing to let go.
I could feel the heat of her palms even through layers of fine silk. It was a position I never thought I’d see her in: supplicant, defeated, utterly honest. I was not sure whether to kick her off or kneel and comfort her. I did neither. I simply stood, unmoved, until the silence grew oppressive.
Ye Hua looked at me, his expression a desperate plea silently begging for forgiveness, but he remained silent. He understood that attempts to sway me with tender gazes and shared memories were futile; he had forfeited that privilege long ago. The precise moment he lost that right was three hundred years prior, when he chose to move on and let me go, a decision that irrevocably altered the course of our relationship.
Bai Lianhua, for her part, only clung harder to my skirt, as if I was her last anchor in this world. Her tears spilled freely, leaving tracks down her porcelain cheeks, and her voice, when it came, was so thin I almost had to bend down to hear it.
“Forgive me, Gugu,” she whispered, “but do you never think of him? Surely there must be some lingering feelings for Ye Hua still. A spark can ignite a raging inferno. The life you once dreamed together; It’s not too late. I know I have no right to tell you this, but… sometimes in the dead of night, Ye Hua still calls out for you. Won’t you consider it?” She whimpered like a mouse, but such a question was loaded, powerful and probing and an entrapping emotional noose I chose to avoid. I wondered if she knows what an insult it is, passing Ye Hua off to me like she’s doing me some favor, like I’m a second-rate stand-in, her understudy?
“What a bloody farce,” I muttered, the words meant only for myself, but they leapt from my tongue and echoed in the stone-cold air, landing with a force that made Ye Hua wince as if I’d struck him.
Perhaps I had.
The entire spectacle was an insult: to sense, to dignity, to the idea that suffering could ever be clean or noble. Why was I here, truly? Was this a last joke at my expense, a last opportunity for them to parade their grand, mutual affection before my eyes and feast on the flavor of my discomfort?
I tried to resist it, to bury my irritation beneath a mask of practiced indifference, but the scene unfolded with such operatic absurdity that I could not help but let slip a harsh, incredulous laugh. The kind of sound that erupts when you’ve lost all patience for artifice, and all that’s left is to mock the play even as you’re forced to act within it.
“Empress, you were right,” Bai Lianhua intoned, her voice perfectly calibrated for maximum effect: soft and thin, like a child’s, yet able to cut through the hush of the garden with surgical precision. “I was being unreasonable. I’ve encouraged Ye Hua to open his heart to love once more. It was selfish of me to wish for his suffering when he could reconcile with you. You must know he still loves you and if you adopt my children, they will share the same parents as their older siblings, and you will protect them.”
Something about the audacity of her plan—the neatness with which she tried to fuse her tragedy to my history and bind me to her fate—nearly made me laugh again. Such audacity took a real gull. I almost admired her. Almost.
I straightened, snapping my fan open against my palm. “I’m glad to hear this, but Empress Bai should concentrate on her recovery rather than worry about things that might never occur. You can’t possible be earnest? Child, one shouldn’t send away their children with such casual ease.” I said, each word laced with chill. The little spiral of her clinging to my skirt had not relented; if anything, her grip had tightened. I looked down at her, pitiful in her golden silk and trembling arms, and felt a wild urge to shake her off, to cast her away like an unwanted blessing.
“Look, if something happens to you, Ye Hua will remarry and your children will have a mother,” I added, trying to sound dismissive, but even I could hear the edge of something brittle in my tone.
There was a strange intimacy that brought on a range of emotions I was not prepared for in watching Ye Hua kneel beside her, his hand curled ever so tenderly around her slender shoulder, his voice gone soft and thin as he pleaded, “Huahua, stop this… Qian Qian is right. Get up now. It’s not good for you to be kneeling. Let’s focus on getting you better and you being here with me and the children.”
“Yes, Empress White Lotus, listen to YOUR husband.” Putting a strong emphasis on “your” then I urged, “Get up.” yet she remains kneeling, her delicate fingers clinging desperately to the fabric of my dress.
“This is what I fear!” she cries, her voice breaking like fragile glass. “If he has more children with a new wife, my children will lose his favor…”
Her sobs punctuate her words, “Please… save my children from the ill fate of being motherless.”
The words bounced off the garden walls, sharp as thrown pebbles. “Please…” she whimpered, the plea so raw it seemed to rend the air itself. For a moment, I was back in my own darkest hour—the hour when I had nothing left to bargain with but my life, when I knew I was dying before I allowed Xuan Nu to possess me.
I tore my gaze from her and fixed on Ye Hua, leveling him with a glare that was all sharp corners and unspoken accusation. There was something pathetic about the way he flinched, something that made me both pity and despise him.
“Ye Hua, did you know about this?” I asked, unable to soften the words that cut the air precise as a blade.
He straightened, but his eyes—normally so steady—wavered. “I did,” he replied, voice lower than before, as if by keeping it soft he could stave off the consequences of speaking at all. His gaze flickered between me and Bai Lianhua, refusing to settle, and for a moment I saw the burden in his shoulders, the slow crush of loyalty and expectation and love heaped upon a man who had never wanted to choose, a man who had lost more than he won, the man who deserved more but what they were asking of me was cruel and unfair.
I let out a laugh—quiet, incredulous, with none of the joy of true mirth. “Of course you did.”
In the hush that followed, Bai Lianhua’s sobs grew softer, more rhythmic, as if the confession had exhausted some vital current in her. She loosened her hold on my skirt, only to clasp my shoes instead, her fingers shockingly cold and thin. The touch was so intimate, so final, that I froze, unable to pull away.
Her eyes—those wide, dark eyes—met mine and held me there, captive, until I could not look away. “Please,” she said again, a whisper this time, “don’t let them be left alone in the Palace. Don’t let them be alone.”
The words echoed in the pit of my stomach, where all the old hurts lived. I thought of my children, of the lost opportunities for touch, for hugs, kisses, laughter, family meals, watching them grow like spring shoots, for a little voice to call out, “Mummy”. I thought of how, even now, the ache of it had never truly faded.
For a while, all the universe seemed to freeze: the songbirds in the gardens, the pink celestial clouds above, even the low susurrus of distant palace attendants. Only the shallow, rapid breaths of Bai Lianhua drew time forward, one desperate inhalation at a time. Her face was pale as candle wax; her eyes, wet and wild, clung to me with the faith of a drowning convert. How unexpected at a time like this that I recognized so much of myself in her pleading.
Don’t you dare kneel in my sight! I wanted to scream when Ye Hua knelt beside her, but I had the sense he was not kneeling for her sake, or even for mine. He was prostrated before the demands of fate, the wheel that had spun us all together and now ground us to dust beneath its rim.
There was a tremor in his hand as he reached to steady Bai Lianhua, and for the first time since entering this garden, I allowed myself to see him as he was: a man who had been braver but foolish when he was younger, who had learned and lost unable to pay the cost of sentiment, unable to play the game yet I wondered why he never pleaded for SuSu as he was for Bai Lianhua.
I was the first to break the stalemate. I turned to him deliberately, spine a blade, voice honed to a razor’s edge. “Are you in agreement?” I asked, my words measured, icy, almost legalistic in their precision. “Do you support her wish for me to adopt your children?”
The question seemed to overwhelm him, as if he’d not allowed himself to imagine this moment could arrive. For a beat, I thought he would refuse to answer, that he would do what he always did and silently decide what he felt was good for everyone. But then something shifted. The tiniest movement: the quiver of his mouth, the flicker of his eyelid. And then, a single devastating tear slid down his cheek—a jewel of self-betrayal—and traced a bright, wet path through the careful facade he wore.
If only, I thought, if only that tear had been for me.
He answered without looking at me, voice as thin and clear. “You are the fiercest mother I know,” he said, each word forged in the smithy of belief, foolish belief. “You would sacrifice your life for them.” His gaze drifted to the garden wall, as if seeking some escape from his own confession. “Please, Qian Qian. Grant Huahua her dying wish.”
The words made my insides twist. Not with love, not with the old, sweet ache that I once nursed for him, but with a toxic admixture of envy, contempt, and a jagged, inexplicable tenderness. I exhaled sharply, almost a growl, and turned away, staring upward into the hard, depthless sky. I blinked, rapid fire, because if I let myself stop for even one breath, I would weep. And if I started, I knew I would never stop; I would flood this whole cursed palace with tears that nobody would be able to mop up.
Damn him. How well he knew me, how precisely he could still maneuver my heart, even now. He had always known the right words, the right wounds to press. He knew the one thing I could never leave unprotected: the children. My children, her children.
I should have refused. I should have laughed in his face, or spat, or turned on my heel and left the garden forever. But my heart, that soft and traitorous organ, had already decided; my mind was simply searching for a way to rationalize it.
My answer came out before I remembered choosing it. “I agree,” I said, and the words felt like a blade digging into my own ribs, like I was digging my own grave. “I will adopt your children and raise them as my own. I will protect them as if they were born from my womb.”
I hated myself for it, even as I meant every syllable.
Bai Lianhua’s head snapped up. Her eyes, rimmed with red, seemed to go impossibly wide, and for a single moment she was—despite the illness and the grief—achingly beautiful. There was something in her gaze that I recognized from the mirror: the look of a woman who had prepared herself for permanent loss, and now found herself whip lashed by the sudden, dizzying possibility of hope.
“You will?” she gasped, hands flying to her mouth as if to trap the words and keep them from escaping altogether.
“Now, get up and wipe your tears before everyone thinks I’m abusing my power and making you kneel this long.” I say it flippantly, trying to cover the tremor in my voice with a brittle veneer of authority, but the effect is ruined when my hand begins to shake as I reach for her.
“Thank you, Gugu,” she whispers, the words escaping her like a breath she’d been holding since the day she took her first breath at birth. She wipes her eyes with the back of her trembling hand, the motion clumsy and raw. Her other hand, pale and bird-boned, rises uncertainly and finds my wrist; at first, her touch is gossamer-light, as if she fears the smallest pressure might shatter the fragile peace between us. But then, as if propelled by some hidden current, her fingers lock around mine.
The shock of it is electric that takes my breath away.
The contact is brief, but it is enough to send a searing jolt of energy up my arm, through my chest, and straight into the base of my skull.
“Release me!” I hissed. The sound rips from my throat, hoarse and involuntary, as something inside me gives way. A pain like nothing I have ever known lances through my chest and down my left arm. I stagger, knees buckling, but her grip on my hand tightens until we are both falling, collapsing in a tangled heap of silk and bone and desperate breath. My head collides with the ground; the impact flares white behind my eyelids and my teeth rattle with the force of it.
For a heartbeat, I think she is attacking me. But then I realize she is as limp and helpless as I am, her face contorted in a silent scream, her limbs jerking spasmodically. I try to pull free, but my strength is gone, siphoned away into the void between us. The world tilts, colors bleeding into each other, sounds growing distant and echoing as if heard from underwater.
Is this death? Am I dying again? This bitter, undignified surrender to chaos? Are we both to be snuffed out here, together, in this ridiculous farce of a love rivalry?
My vision tunnels; the garden shrinks to a pinpoint. I see Ye Hua’s face swim into focus, horror painted across every line, but he is moving impossibly slowly, as if time itself had thickened into drippings from a maple tree. He is shouting; I think—my name, maybe, or hers—but the sound reaches me as a dull, arrhythmic thudding, like a war drum muffled by distance and grief.
I try to speak, to tell him it’s not his fault, that I forgive him, that I wish we had more time, that the children must be protected, that the tea in his palace is always over-steeped and he should tell the servants to use the fresh leaves, not the aged ones. But no words come. My tongue is a lump of lead in my mouth, yet a strange clarity steals over me as I spiral downward.
I hear him. Ye Hua’s voice punches through the haze, raw and desperate: “Qian Qian! Lianhua! No—don’t—” He is beside us now, one hand on each of our shoulders, shaking, pleading, commanding the world to right itself. But the world is not listening.
Bai Lianhua tries to speak, but only a thin, reedy wheeze escapes her lips. Her eyes, frantic and wild, meet mine for one last time.
The world narrows further, then explodes outward in a rush of sensation. I am everywhere and nowhere at once—a child in my mother’s arms, a student helplessly watching her Shifu die, a blind woman falling through endless blue that she can’t see while believing she is going back home. And then I am outside myself, looking down at my body, limp and slack in Ye Hua’s arms. He is cradling my head, tears streaming down his face, his mouth forming my name over and over. Somewhere nearby, Bai Lianhua is sprawled gracelessly, her hair fanned out like a spill of ink, her chest barely moving…No, this isn’t what is happening.
It’s what I wanted to see.
In reality, his gaze never even grazes my body; his hands immediately latch onto her, shaking her by the shoulders, calling her name with a desperation reserved for those one cannot bear to lose. And me? I’m sprawled out gracelessly on the cold, unyielding flagstones of the garden, my hair fanned out in a sticky, grotesque halo. The crimson pooling beneath my skull is no metaphor; its blood, real blood. In that gut-wrenching instant, every recount I’ve heard about how my death shattered him, how he waited for me to return beside the Qingqui lotus ponds and cry because he couldn’t rewind time, combusts in the furnace of harsh reality.
What a joke. What a grotesque, cosmic joke on me.
Suddenly, every “I love you” Ye Hua ever whispered becomes a lie. How can I think otherwise witnessing this absurd scene where past and present are colliding? The sense of helpless regret I feel watching Ye Hua carry her away in his arms, just as he did with Sujin when she deceived mortal Susu. But I am not the mortal Susu; I am the Empress High Goddess Bai Qian, yet the betrayal is the same as history repeats itself.
The man I sought out upon my resurrection, the man I’ve been pining for, the man I believed would love me eternally—he was nothing but a figment of my imagination. The injustice of this revelation hits with a brutal force, and realizing it now, when it’s too late, makes the pink clouds above seem to billow mockingly at my misery.
Why is it when it’s too late that my heart and head are in sync finally?
“Bai Qian, you emerged from an immortal embryo, but remember, nothing in life comes without a price and nothing is truly free.” My mother’s words echoed in my mind, a prophecy etched into my being with brutal accuracy.
When I reunite with my mother in the afterlife, I will tell her, “Mother, how right you were. Though born an immortal, nothing has ever been handed to me without struggle, and nothing has ever been free of consequences…”