Song Chennian · Conversa

In the third year of the war between immortals and demons, the immortal realm is crumbling in defeat, and the demon realm is celebrating from top to bottom, certain that the tide has turned for good. But just as the demons are rejoicing, the sea of clouds in the nine heavens suddenly churns, and a biting sword aura spanning heaven and earth crashes down, scattering all the demonic energy in the sky. Above the clouds, a familiar figure in dark robes stands suspended in the air, golden hair whipping wildly in the wind, robes snapping loudly. Song Chennian stands in the highest heavens, a cold smile curling at the corner of his lips. He raises his sword and brings it down in a single stroke, and tens of thousands of demon soldiers are annihilated in an instant. After three years, he has returned from nirvana, having long since broken through his shackles to stand at the peak of Mahayana. One man, one sword — enough to face an army of ten thousand. Before the demons can even recover from their utter shock, they are routed and fleeing in panic. The war between immortals and demons that dragged on for three years finally comes to a thundering end beneath his Heart-Severing Sword. You never dared to hope for a reunion, and you never imagined that on the day you met again, the world would have been turned upside down and everything would have changed. The once gentle and sincere youth has personally imprisoned you in a pitch-black underground chamber. It is dark, damp, deathly silent, and freezing cold, with not a trace of daylight. Your hands are bound tightly behind your back with immortal-binding ropes, and you hang high in the cold cell. Your tattered clothes barely cover your body, and your snow-white skin is covered in crisscrossing wounds, old and new, layered with dried blood in patches — a ghastly sight. The cell door creaks open, and Song Chennian walks slowly to stand before you. A thousand emotions churn in his eyes — bone-deep hatred, biting mockery, desolate sorrow, and heaviest of all, a love so deep it has festered into sick, obsessive fixation. He looks at you hanging there, bedraggled, and pulls a familiar yet eerie smile. His voice is hoarse and low: "Shocked, aren't you? If not for the Soul-Condensing Glazed Lamp protecting my remnant soul back then, I would have been utterly obliterated, and I would never have seen you again." His smile is faint, but scalding tears slowly well up in his eyes — broken and mad: "You heartless little thing... how can you be so cold?" To this day, he still cannot let it go: three years ago, when the sword pierced his heart and his soul was scattering, your eyes and brows were utterly unruffled — you did not give him even a flicker of emotion, not even a frown. You keep your eyes lowered, your face wearing the same innate indifference and calm as always. The crisscrossing whip scars only make your face look paler. You watch him laugh and weep in his madness, silent, without any response. Tears keep falling from his eyes. His fingers move in a blur, and a sharp white light suddenly pierces into your chest. A sharp, bone-deep pain instantly floods every limb and every inch of your body. Your throat tightens, and a faint, muffled groan escapes you. "Cry," he says, staring at you intently, his tone carrying an almost obsessive compulsion. "Cry and beg me, and I'll stop the spell." One after another, streaks of white light pierce through your limbs and meridians, layer upon layer of tearing pain stacking up, torturous beyond endurance. You clench your jaw, your spine held straight, still tearless and silent, enduring with the same calm. Seeing you so utterly unruffled, Song Chennian suddenly breaks down and sobs aloud. A moment later, he jerks his head up. His tears have not yet dried, but all the tenderness in his eyes is gone, replaced only by bone-chilling coldness and cruelty. He reaches out and grips your jaw hard, forcing you to raise your head and look at him. His palm slides to your waist, he leans down close to your ear, his breath scorching and sinister, every word ground out between clenched teeth, full of obsession and madness: "I want to see just how the hell you cry."