Ye Hua~
The water, once cold, now felt lukewarm from the heat of his own mortification—doing nothing to cool him.
How could he have believed his Third Uncle Lian Song? Of all people! The same uncle who once tried to convince the great Donghua Dijun that mortal flatulence could power celestial carriages, eliminating the need to ride clouds! Still, somehow, Ye Hua had thought it wise to take that man’s advice about Fox Clan customs. And so, the dignified Crown Prince of the Nine Heavens had stripped bare before the Princess of Qingqiu like some half-drunken mountain bandit.
He jabbed a fist toward the heavens, jaw tight. “Third Uncle—” he barked between gritted teeth, “you’ve done me dirty!”
The bamboo grove surrounding the Jade Pool rustled with what felt like laughter. Ancient bamboo spirits sighed in long, whistling breaths, their jade-like stalks bowing in pity—or perhaps in amusement. High above, immortal birds perched on the emerald canopy trilled bright, mocking melodies that might have honored his Celestial lineage… or, more likely, were composing the first ballad of his shame.
One particularly old magpie—its feathers glossy as black lacquer and eyes full of ancient mischief—let out a raucous caw so violent it nearly toppled from its branch. Ye Hua glared at it darkly.
Ye Hua narrowed his eyes at the bird. “Enjoy your amusement while it lasts, feathered pest,” he muttered, voice dropping to a dangerous whisper. “One more sound and I’ll ensure your next thousand reincarnations are spent as a lowly pill-furnace spirit, eternally scorched by immortality flames yet never achieving transcendence.”
How could he have been so naïve? So stupid? A highly cultivated immortal of fifty thousand years reduced to the judgment of a three-day-old mortal infant! He sank beneath the water in self-exile, bubbles roaring around his ears as he grumbled a string of curses that would’ve made even the Demon Realm’s most depraved soldiers faint.
At least, he thought grimly; she had seen him before the chill of the water had fully set in. Cold water could misrepresent a man’s heroic proportions by no less than three heavenly measurements—sometimes four, depending on temperature and altitude.
To test this dire hypothesis, Ye Hua lifted one finger, licked it solemnly, and held it aloft like a scholar gauging the winds of destiny. The air was cool, but not that cool. He gave a decisive nod, his expression grave, as though confirming some profound celestial law.
Science, after all, demanded precision—even in matters of masculine pride. That, at least, was a small mercy.
He stayed under until his lungs burned and then surfaced, certain she was gone. He waded slowly to the edge, water lapping against his waist, droplets chasing down the golden planes of his abdomen like streams of liquid glass. He didn’t even bother to reach for his robes. What was the point? His dignity had already fled, and his reputation along with it.
The Princess of Qingqiu had seen the Crown Prince’s celestial goods—a sight that should have been reserved only for his future wife after nine days of wedding ceremonies and sixteen layers of ceremonial attire, each robe heavier and holier than the last. Now, that same sacred honor had been squandered in a moment of misjudgment and humiliation in front of a Fox with a smile too sharp to forget.
He trudged into the house with all the dignity of a man walking to his own execution, bare feet leaving wet prints like fading petals across the polished cedar floor. The silence inside Lotus Shade Retreat pressed close, thick and echoing, broken only by the soft drip-drip of water from his hair—and what he could have sworn was the distant, muffled laughter of mischievous bear spirits.
In his chamber, the bronze mirror caught his attention—a relic so old it had probably been polished for eighty thousand years by patient spirit servants. He paused before it, breath still uneven. The reflection staring back was not that of a fool, surely not.
Tall. Lean. Bronze-skinned. Water slid in languid trails down his chest, glimmering like dew rolling over the slopes of a sacred mountain. The lines of his shoulders and arms looked hewn by divine craftsmanship, his abdomen a sculpted landscape of disciplined years—firm, rippling, alive. Even the light itself seemed complicit in flattery, tracing his waist in soft strokes, gilding the shadows beneath his ribs.
Objectively, he decided, there was nothing to criticize. His form was flawless—worthy of the Celestial bloodline that flowed through him like liquid starlight. And yet—his stomach tightened as if a nest of Chaos-realm vipers had stirred within. The inside of his mouth felt like the Southern Desert during the Season of Nine Suns, when even thousand-year spirit cacti withered and crumbled to dust, when sand demons burrowed miles beneath the scorched land seeking relief, when the very air shimmered with heat so intense it could melt jade.
What if she told her family?
The image flickered in his mind with mortifying clarity: the Fox Emperor’s weathered face purpling as he choked on jasmine tea, droplets spraying across ninety-thousand-year-old scrolls; the Fox Empress’s jeweled hairpins quivering as she collapsed in a silken heap onto her rosewood chaise, one delicate hand pressed to her forehead. Or worse—Bai Zhen’s dark brown eyes crinkling with undisguised glee, that infernal jade flute tapping a mocking rhythm against his palm while his nine white tails swished in perfect synchronization with each tap.
“Ye Hua, you’ve shamed the Celestial Clan,” he muttered to his reflection, each word a lash of humiliation. “Disgraced yourself before the entire Fox Realm with your… exposed jade stalk.”
Then a new horror bloomed like a venomous nine-petal lotus—what if she told High God Zhe Yan? The Peach Immortal’s tongue wagged faster than a nine-tailed fox in heat. The Phoenix physician had already composed scandalous ballads about lesser celestial mishaps. By tomorrow’s sunrise, Zhe Yan would have commissioned a forty-verse epic titled “The Heavenly Dragon’s Exposed Treasure: Crown Prince Ye Hua’s Moonlight Cultivation Technique.”
The scene unfolded in Ye Hua’s mind with painful precision. He could already picture the Kunlun disciples huddled in their pristine meditation hall, his older brother Mo Yuan at the center, that single raised eyebrow giving silent permission for their barely concealed laughter.
White-bearded immortals would gather at Jade Pure’s Taoist debates, pretending to discuss metaphysical principles while actually whispering behind jade fans about his “sword cultivation.”
Elder immortals who had meditated motionless for ten thousand years would suddenly find reason to visit the other realms just to spread the tale. The Nine Heavens’ most dignified deities would struggle to maintain composure during formal court, their shoulders trembling with suppressed laughter whenever he entered.
It wouldn’t end there. The servants—those celestial swans with their pristine appearances and filthy minds—would catch wind and spread it to the Heavenly Kitchen God, who would season every immortal banquet with fresh gossip.
The Eastern Sea Whale King would choke on his wine. The Western Heaven’s Monkey King would pantomime the scene for howling demon audiences. Everyone from the highest immortal to the lowliest spirit beast in all eight realms and four seas would know him as “Ye Hua the Nude Cultivator.”
He clapped a hand over one ear as if to block it out—but the imagination was merciless. He could already hear schools of three-headed spirit minnows in the sacred pools, their bubbles forming characters that spelled out “Behold the Heavenly Sword!” and “Crown Prince’s Jade Stalk Seeks Moonlight Nourishment!”
He groaned aloud, tipping his head back against the wall. “No, no, no…” He dragged both hands down his face, wondering if it was too late to abdicate his position and cultivate in seclusion for the next eight millennia. Even now, he was certain messenger cranes were soaring between realms, scrolls in beaks, each depicting his “celestial form” in varying degrees of creative exaggeration.
Yet a rebellious notion slithered into his consciousness, whispering with the self-satisfied air of a court official who knows precisely which imperial concubine visited which emperor’s chambers the previous night.
What could she possibly say that would truly shame him?
His gaze flicked back toward the mirror, catching the molten amber of sunset gilding the lines of his immortal form. For a moment, the world narrowed to that reflection—the disciplined symmetry of a body forged by sword cultivation and sleepless centuries.
He straightened his posture, shoulders squaring like a celestial warrior awaiting imperial inspection. He flexed one hand against the plane of his abdomen, tracing the faint ridges carved by fifty thousand years of rigorous practice—each line like a sacred mountain peak in miniature.
“Flawless form,” he murmured to his reflection, voice low and even, the words gliding from his tongue like jade sliding over silk. “Undeniably respectable proportions. Worthy of imperial portraiture.”
He studied himself another moment, turning just slightly, letting the fading light caress his skin. “There is nothing she could say about this form that would reflect poorly on my… stellar looks.”
The logic soothed him—for half a heartbeat.
He tilted his head, ebony hair slipping forward like a spill of midnight ink across his shoulder. “A tragic misunderstanding, yes,” he told the mirror solemnly. “But hardly a scandalous one.”
Still, heat bloomed again beneath his skin, creeping up his neck until his face burned like a peach blossom under spring sunlight. He could see her again in his mind—those luminous fox eyes, wide and bright as twin moons, that glimmering mischief flickering across them like starlight over still water.
Her teasing voice coiling around him like silk: ‘It must be very uncomfortable for you to sit with your legs crossed… because of your mighty sword.’
A low sound rumbled in his chest—half groan, half growl—deep as thunder rolling across the Eastern Sea. “By the Nine Heavens…” he muttered into the emptiness, “she’ll make it sound indecent no matter how she says it.”
With a defeated huff, he threw himself backward onto the bed with the dramatic flair of the uncle who was responsible for his situation. His arms fell above his head like felled branches, the damp ends of his hair fanning out across the silken pillow.
Staring up at the transparent ceiling where immortal constellations began their nightly procession across the twilight sky, he tried to soothe his wounded pride. But his mind refused the peace of stillness. His thoughts darted restlessly like koi in a sacred pond—bright, frantic, impossible to catch.
“She’ll tell them all I’m a deviant,” he spoke to himself bitterly. “A cultivator with less dignity than a three-legged toad spirit.”
Then, after a long pause—long enough for a mortal to grow old or a god to admit defeat—came the other thought. The dangerous one. Unless she tells them I’m magnificent.
A divine specimen. The Heavenly Realm’s most flawless form, which he was.
The idea coiled around him like incense smoke—sweet, dizzying, impossible to dispel. His mortification tangled with vanity until he could no longer separate shame from pride. Sleep did not come easily to the Crown Prince that night; Ye Hua’s dreams filled with fox tails and laughter like silver bells.
Bai Qian-
Bai Qian’s face blazed so crimson her mother pressed a cool hand to her forehead, concern clouding her amber eyes. “Xiao Wu, are you feverish? Have you caught something?”
Caught something!
She nearly choked. As if the naked Crown Prince were a common cold to sneeze away. She’d caught an eyeful of royal anatomy that no amount of peach wine could unsee.
Once she escaped her family’s scrutiny, the giggles erupted uncontrollably. Bai Qian clapped both hands over her mouth, her nine tails poofing out behind her like startled feather dusters. The giggles escaped anyway, slipping through the cracks between her fingers like mischievous fox kits darting from their den. By the time she reached her bedroom, she was doubled over, laughter erupting from her with the force of Kunlun Mountain’s hot springs.
She howled until her ribs threatened mutiny, until tears zigzagged down her cheeks like drunken raindrops, until the vision of Ye Hua—standing there like a statue carved from the finest jade, wearing nothing but an expression that suggested he’d prefer immediate reincarnation as a dung beetle—flashed before her again and triggered a fresh avalanche of cackles.
“Oh, my beloved future husband, Mo Yuan,” she wheezed between hiccupping giggles, “your brother’s jade stalk is going to haunt my dreams—or bless them—I haven’t decided which!”
Her laughter died on a breath. Because the memory of Ye Hua’s body—every immortal inch—flashed again. Every. Celestial. Inch.
Her cheeks flamed hotter than a phoenix in mating plumage, heat spreading down her neck to the tips of her fox ears, which twitched nervously. If Ye Hua was equipped like that, what of his identical twin? The thought slithered through her mind, intoxicating as thousand-year wine served in forbidden cups.
Surely the God of War wielded the same… impressive weapon.
She fanned herself frantically with both hands, her nine tails swishing in agitated arcs behind her. The air felt as thick as glutinous rice porridge, too hot even for Qingqiu’s mild spring.
“My poor tails,” she moaned, her imagination galloping away like a fox with its fur on fire.
She could almost see it—the solemn High God Mo Yuan peeling off layer after layer of silken robes before her on their wedding night, like some mouthwatering celestial tanghulu dripping with immortal honey.
The swish of fabric, the faint sparkle of golden thread in her mind—it was enough to make her knees tremble. A soft sound slipped out of her lips, half-sigh, half-hum—and entirely scandalous.
She slapped a hand over her mouth in panic, cheeks flaming hotter than a Fire Qilin’s breath. But her effort at self-control did little to steady the frantic fluttering in her chest, which felt ready to burst free like an overexcited bird.
Then dread hit her like ice.
Hadn’t Zhe Yan once said Celestials mated fully clothed? Always fully robed, every fold divinely ordained, every secret covered?
A shiver raced down her spine, snuffing out the heat she’d just imagined. She pictured Mo Yuan standing there in a fortress of silk, wrapped like an imperial cabbage layered tighter than a palace secret—every fold a vow of chastity, every knot another heartbreak. Layers upon layers of modest sleep robes, high collars hiding his throat, hems brushing the ground, each robe buttoned or tied so precisely it looked like divine armor. Not a thread slipped loose, only the faintest strategic slits—like keyholes designed by immortal tailors—to grant minimal and only necessary “access.”
Her face contorted in horror. “That’s impossible…” she whispered to her reflection in the gilded mirror. “Or is it?”
Suddenly, her legs turned to jelly. She grabbed the edge of her dressing table, white-knuckled, as though it were the last anchor in a stormy sea. Her other hand flew to her lips again, stifling the high-pitched shriek eager to escape.
The next mental image was worse.
She saw herself buried head-to-toe under a ceremonial quilt so thick it could double as a mountain. The embroidery gleamed—phoenixes, dragons, auspicious runes—but the heft of it threatened to smother any hint of passion. A single slit, no longer than her index finger, sat smack in the center, her only “welcome and meeting” to Mo Yuan. She imagined prodding at it with one trembling finger, like a squirrel poking its head through a castle wall.
Another vision rippled into being, even more absurd. The bridal chamber bathed in silken lantern light, red drapes fluttering in an invisible breeze, everything neat and prim. There lay the marriage bed, a sea of embroidered comforters so voluminous she’d need a ladder to climb in.
She would be covered and wrapped like a steamed baozi dumpling, her limbs tucked tightly beneath layers of silk, only the crown of her head peeking through like the glossy top of the bun waiting to be bitten.
He would bow first—of course he would—leaning forward with the solemnity of an emperor about to pass imperial edicts. In that calm, teacherly voice she imagined so well, he’d intone, “Are you ready, my wife? Tonight we copulate for procreation only.”
Then, with the precision of a calligrapher’s brushstroke, he’d approach, step by measured step, until their silken robes met. Never skin to skin—just silk sliding on silk, as if even the concept of flesh were a blasphemy.
Bai Qian pressed a palm to her heart, her fan fluttering wildly as she gasped. The scene was so ludicrous she wanted to laugh through her tears. “No, no, no…” she moaned, clutching her embroidered pillow like a life raft. “Surely this can’t be real.”
Her rebellious mind refused to stay gloomily fixated. In a heartbeat, the bedazzled nightmare dissolved, and there he was again—Mo Yuan unbound, cast in golden light so warm it could melt fat. No layers, no endless silk barricades—just the smooth, polished planes of his divine body, glowing like carved amber. His long dark hair spilled over his shoulders in joyful disarray, and when his eyes met hers, it felt like sunlight bursting through storm clouds.
Heat bloomed across her cheeks; her breath hitched; she’d have fallen over if she wasn’t sitting. In that moment, imagining him truly “unwrapped” was more intoxicating than any mortal desire she’d ever known.
“Now that,” she whispered, voice shaking with delight, “would be worthy of a celestial wedding.” She pressed a hand to her mouth again—this time to stifle a dreamy sigh.
Alas, her fox-bright imagination was fickle. With one mischievous twist, the dread-draped bedding reappeared, the imperial bow, the microscopic slit, the hush of divine propriety. She frowned so deeply her lower lip trembled. Throwing off the pillow, she marched to her reflection and pointed an accusing finger.
“Absolutely not!” she declared at her reflection, stamping her foot. “If Celestials truly wed like that, I’ll demand a divorce before the ink dries—or I’ll enchant him with a fox spell!”