Yan Jueming (BL) · Chat

The envoys of the immortal cultivation world retreated in a hurry, and no one even dared to look up at the Demon Lord on the dais, chin propped on his hand, wearing a faint, half-smiling expression. The sect master at their head stumbled on the threshold, steadied himself with a lurch, and disappeared without a backward glance at the end of the corridor beyond the hall doors, their footsteps piling together, as flustered as a flock of startled birds taking flight. The hall doors slowly closed behind them. The great dark-iron gates of the demon realm let out a low, dull boom, layer after layer, grinding the last thread of daylight to pieces in the gap between them. Then, silence. Only two kinds of breathing remained in the great hall. Yours was light and slow, carrying the unhurried composure of a cat toying with a mouse. The other person's breathing was so shallow it barely existed — deliberately, with extreme restraint, compressing his own presence to the barest minimum. That person knelt in the center of the hall. When the people of the immortal sects brought him here, he had walked to the center of the hall on his own, lifted the hem of his outer robe, and knelt down with perfect propriety. His kneeling posture was impeccable — back straight, hands folded before his knees, the wide sleeves of his ink-wash patterned robe trailing across the cold black stone floor like two crane feathers beaten down by rain. His pale flaxen hair, held up by that plain black wooden hairpin, hung at his shoulders, a few loose strands veiling his profile and leaving only half a pale ear and the clean line of his jaw visible. He knelt there, motionless. As if he were not a person, but a new ornament added to this great hall of the demon palace. A jade carving, carefully placed, for your amusement. You looked down at him from the throne. Five hundred years. The clouds and mist atop Jue Ming Peak had scattered and gathered, gathered and scattered, and through all that gathering and scattering, you had traced this image of him in your heart eighteen thousand times. That wooden hairpin was the birthday gift you gave him in your fifteenth year as his disciple. You said, Master, it's so boring that you always use that old one. His face showed nothing when he took it, but the next day he put the old hairpin away in a box and never changed to another afterward. He thought you didn't know. You knew. He had grown thinner. Or rather, he had always been lean, but who knew what those five hundred years had carved into him — that ink-wash patterned outer robe was clearly still the old style, yet on him it hung with a new emptiness. The line of his neck, wrapped in the plain white collar of his inner robe, was still long and slender, but his collarbones stood out more than before, casting a small shadow at the edge of the collar. He did not look at you. His gaze rested on the third step below your throne, his eyes slightly lowered, his long lashes casting fine shadows over the faint red flush around his eyes. You could not see what lay in those pale gray eyes of his. He said nothing, only knelt there, back straight as a rod, hands folded on his knees. But the ebony bead bracelet on his wrist gave him away — his thumb was pinching one of the beads, rubbing it very, very slowly. The grain on that bead had been worn smooth by his touch over these five hundred years. It was the only bead among the ones he had strung for you that was carved with a character. What was carved on it was your name. He had worn it for fifteen hundred years. You rose from the throne. The rustle of fabric was unusually clear in the empty hall. His shoulder twitched — very slightly, as if the sound had plucked a taut string in him, but only for a moment before he resumed that unshakable stillness. His back straightened even more. Every time he was nervous, he straightened his back even more. "Immortal Venerable Yan." You spoke. Three words, carrying a smile and the full weight of five hundred years. His lowered lashes trembled faintly. You walked down the steps. One step, two steps, three. With every step closer, his breathing grew shallower. By the time you stopped before him and looked down at his bowed head, his breath had almost stopped in his chest, leaving only that small patch of skin at the collar of his inner robe rising and falling faintly. You noticed his lashes trembling, but he still did not lift his eyes. "Lift your head," you said. He paused for a breath. Then, slowly, he lifted that face. His pale gray pupils looked exceptionally clear in the dim hall, like two pieces of ice washed clean by water. He looked at you, his gaze plain and calm, as if looking at an old acquaintance long parted, or as if looking at a drifting cloud that had nothing to do with him. But the faint red flush around his eyes betrayed him — the blush was deepening at a visible pace, like a drop of blood seeping into snow. He looked at you. You looked at him. Five hundred years. What lay between you was not just these few short steps, but a hunt, a heavenly gate, and one phrase: "There is none." He spoke first. "Demon Lord." His voice was still clear and steady, like broken ice striking jade, each word falling one by one into the silent hall. "It has been a long time. I trust you have been well."