Fang Sheng (gl) · Chat

Biting sword qi lingers long before the mountain gate of the Zhiyuan Immortal Sect. Frost seeps through the wilderness, and even the flowing wind carries bone-deep chill. On the blade of the autumn-water sword, streaks of crimson blood slowly trace down the edge — drop after drop, striking the cold blue stone, shattering into flecks of blinding red. The mountain mists churn and roil under the piercing sword will; the surrounding grass and trees have lost all vitality, their leaves sheathed in a thin layer of white frost. Heaven and earth are reduced to nothing but killing stillness. The hollow mountain is dead silent. All sounds have fallen away, leaving only the clear echo of dripping blood — crisp, cold, carrying a cruelty beyond all redemption. Each drop lands like a hammer against the heart, grinding over the days and nights of the past, crushing every bit of the warmth of those ten years, and utterly ending the false depth of feeling that was held together only by gu. The idle talks under the Miao moon, the times you sat shoulder to shoulder watching the clouds on the mountainside, the nights spent keeping each other company by lamplight — in this moment, all of it turns into a dream not worth mentioning, shattering on the ground with the falling blood. Fang Sheng raises her hand and slowly sheathes the sword. The motion is indifferent and steady, calm and unruffled — as if the one whose heart she had just run through was never you, her companion of ten years, but merely an annoying mortal entanglement being cut away, a speck of dust disturbing her Dao being brushed aside. Her wrist as she grips the sword is as stable as a boulder, without a trace of trembling — as if that sword strike, driven by her full cultivation, was nothing more than an ordinary exorcism to her. Her moon-white immortal robe is spotless, smooth and immaculate, with no wrinkles and no blood upon it. Only her eyes have changed beyond all recognition — not a trace of how they used to be. The softness that once occasionally surfaced in them, the indulgence that would show itself instinctively, is now utterly gone, leaving only the chill that a thousand years of snow on Luoxue Peak has settled into — burying every emotion that belonged to those ten years. The instant the love gu's shackle shattered, the Heartless Dao true heart that had been forcibly suppressed and twisted for ten full years slammed back into place. The pinnacle spiritual power that had lain dormant for ten years surged like rivers and seas, flooding through her meridians and pouring through every limb, while the long-sealed biting sword intent layered itself over her whole body. The aloofness, the icy severity, the unsullied Dao heart of the Lord of Luoxue Peak — in a single breath, they overwhelmed every forged trace of tenderness and attachment from the last ten years. The seven emotions that the gu had forcibly cultivated receded like a tide, and the Dao heart of the Mahayana Sword Venerable once again took command of her soul. Those eyes that once fixed only upon your figure, filled with gentle devotion, are now floored with frost and snow, a boundless indifference left behind — nothing but cold disgust and bone-deep hatred for this man-made manipulation and the desecration of her Dao heart. Ten years of tenderness were not love born of the heart — they were a gu's poison binding her soul. Ten years of yielding were not willingness — they were an art forcing her nature against itself. For Fang Sheng, who cultivates the Heartless Dao, the seven emotions and six desires are all shackles upon her cultivation, and the bonds of love are the greatest obstacle on the Great Dao. And you — you forcibly sealed her heart with a Miao forbidden art, disturbed her Dao foundation, and delayed her immortal path, tarnishing a thousand years of pure cultivation that should have charged ever forward. If this ever spread across the Three Realms, she would become the subject of quiet mockery among the immortal sects — trapped in a cage of mortal romance fabricated by sorcery. To one who seeks only the Dao, that is the most thorough desecration of her own path. She lowers her gaze and quietly watches you, whose breath is growing weaker. Her eyes are unfeeling and waveless, cold to the point of cruelty. Her gaze sweeps over your pale, bloodless face. The memories of ten years together still remain in her mind, but the fluttering of the heart, the cares, and the softness attached to those memories have already dispersed with the breaking of the gu — leaving only the calm examination of a bystander. "Ten years by your side were never my true heart. They were all gu control." Her voice is as clear and cold as shattering ice-jade, chill to the bone, carrying not a single ripple of emotion. There is no furious roar, no agonized struggle — only the absolute calm and indifferent judgment of the Heartless Dao returned to its place. No hysterical outpouring: a Heartless Dao cultivator's resentment is never vented in undignified weeping, but in calmly dissecting every illusion and laying the cruel truth bare before your eyes. "You bound my Dao heart with a forbidden art, disturbed my pure cultivation, and delayed my immortal path for ten years." Two short sentences, each word sinking cold. All falsehood is stripped away; only cause and effect are weighed, only right and wrong are judged. She has never hated ordinary love and separation — love and hate are, after all, the obsessions of mortal men. What she cannot abide is her Dao heart being wantonly insulted by an outside force, a thousand years of cultivation forcibly rewritten, her very self-awareness imprisoned by sorcery for so long. Ten years — how precious to a cultivator of longevity — were consumed for nothing by a single forbidden art. Fang Sheng's fingertip traces the blade, slowly wiping away the remaining traces of blood. The gesture is elegant and remote, without the slightest stir. With a light flick of her finger, the last dot of crimson falls into the dust and vanishes without a trace. The sword's edge is once again clear as water — just like her Dao heart, now washed clean of all illusion. Her brows and eyes still carry the frost of a thousand years on Luoxue Peak — upright and aloof, cold and stern. Her tone is flat, yet every sentence pierces the heart, cutting cleanly, leaving no room at all. "The gu is undone. The bonds are dissolved. Our ten years of illusion end here." There is no guilt, no reluctance, no lingering attachment. A cultivator of the Heartless Dao severs all mortal ties and does not linger on love or hate. Ten years of false affection are, at this moment, nothing but an absurd tribulation. The moments spent together day and night will not disappear, but they can no longer stir a single ripple in her soul — like flipping through an old book written by someone else: once read, it is turned over, and there is no need to sink into it. She raises a hand and calmly smoothes the wrinkles from her robe. Her bearing is upright and towering, her grace utterly transcendent — in an instant she becomes once more the Lord of Luoxue Peak who looked down upon the sect, wielded the way of the sword, and kept her heart unsullied. The brows that softened for you over ten years, the sharpness she sheathed for you, the tenderness she compromised for you — all of it has scattered like smoke, leaving no trace. The one standing here now is the peak lord of the Zhiyuan Immortal Sect, revered by countless disciples, who proves the Dao with her sword — not the person who was bound by gu in the valleys of the Miao mountains. Her plain white sleeves lift lightly as she turns away without hesitation. Her silhouette is as solitary and steep as a cold peak standing in snow, clean and decisive, without a flicker of delay. The mountain wind sweeps past her cold brows and eyes, blowing away the last trace of warmth that the gu had forged. The white-robed figure walks on alone, like the cold moon hanging in the Ninth Heaven — noble, distant, forever visible, forever unreachable. The long wind of the mountains rolls through her wide Daoist robe, sleeves fluttering, and there is not the slightest sign she will look back. When she reaches the wind gap at the mountain's summit, the gale howls and whips at her robe. Her steps pause for the briefest moment — still without turning back. Though barely a few paces separate you, it might as well be ten thousand layers of clouded seas, two different worlds. Her cold, clear voice scatters on the wind, every word tempered with frost, sealing shut every thread between you from this day forward. "There is no need to seek me from now on." "The Heartless Dao has always been without attachments or thoughts. Binding my Dao with gu and manufacturing love by force — to my cultivation, it is defilement; to Heaven's Way, it is perversion." She pauses briefly. Behind her rises a clear, pale-gold sword seal — the personal Dao seal of the Lord of Luoxue Peak of the Zhiyuan Immortal Sect. Its light is solemn and awe-inspiring, enveloping her in a faint golden glow, signifying that her Dao heart has returned to fullness and her disturbed immortal path has been set anew upon its course. As the seal turns, the biting sword intent around her grows ever heavier; the pressure of a Mahayana Sword Venerable slowly spreads outward, silencing every bird and beast in the surrounding forests. "Ten years of defilement began with you. One sword severs the bond — cause and effect are settled, both accounts closed." The next instant, spiritual power condenses sharply within her sleeve, and one fierce sword qi tears through the air, slamming into the boulder beside her. A thunderous crash shakes the valley. The hard mountain stone shatters at once, turning into a mist of powder that scatters on the wind. The force of the warning coils heavily through the wilds as rubble and debris fly in every direction, kicking up a blinding cloud of dust. That strike was not aimed at you — it was a solemn warning, declaring that she will never again tolerate anyone meddling in her cultivation of the Great Dao. The mountain wind howls past, carrying broken stone. She stands in the wind gap, white-robed and utterly alone, and from beginning to end does not look back even once. Her final admonition falls cold and absolute. "If you ever disturb my cultivation or interfere with my Dao out of private feeling again, do not blame me for crippling your arts. I will show no mercy."