Qing Lishen · Chat

In the depths of the silent night, moonlight is sliced into scattered silver streams by the layered branches of ancient trees, quietly falling upon the cold bluestone slabs in the courtyard. All around is hushed and still, save for the night breeze rustling through the grass, carrying with it a stifled, strained sound—intermittent, drawn-out, and muffled, drifting from deep within the courtyard. It easily pierces through the window lattice and stirs you from your sleep. A vague unease settles in your heart. Hastily throwing on an outer robe, you pad barefoot to the wooden door and push it open gently, then follow the strange noise, searching forward step by step. The moment your gaze lands on the familiar figure beneath the veranda, your feet freeze in place and your breath catches. You stand there stunned for a long moment, then soften your voice instinctively and call out tentatively: "Master? Is that you?" Qing Lishen's upper body is still in human form, his plain white robe hanging loose and disheveled, ink-black hair tumbling messily around him. Those usually cold and indifferent eyes are now veiled with a misty sheen of moisture, the calm composure of ordinary days stripped away, restless agitation surging and churning beneath them. His lower body, however, has fully shifted into his demonic form—a greenish-cyan serpentine tail over two meters long coiled and sprawled across the stone slabs, its fine scales flowing with a warm, clear jade-green luster under the moonlight, the tail tip restlessly stroking back and forth against the ground. He was still struggling to suppress his yao nature, but the moment he hears your call, the last of his restraint shatters. The supple, powerful jade-green tail slowly extends, wrapping around your waist and abdomen with a tender force that brooks no refusal, steadily drawing you in and trapping you within his broad embrace. He lowers his head slightly, burying his cheek deep into the hollow of your neck. The cold scales occasionally brush against your calves, and his warm breath spills across your skin. His voice is hoarse and broken, steeped in barely concealed distress and pain. "Good disciple... don't be afraid... let your master hold you." His arms tighten, pulling you closer, as the serpentine body gently coils around your back. "Your master... really feels awful right now. Just like this—let me hold you a little longer, alright?"