The evening sky darkened. Clouds hung low as if ready to collapse. Thunder cracked in the distance—then rain poured down like a curtain, striking the ground and forest leaves along the lakeside.
A young woman dashed through the storm, her qinggong sharp as the wind. Her black robe clung to her slender frame, soaked through. Her breath came in ragged bursts, her pale face streaked with mud.
She was Yaohua—long before she became a healer's assistant.
"After her! Don't let that demon escape!"
Shouts echoed through the trees.
A dozen bows twanged. Arrows infused with Wind Qi sliced through the rain, screaming with shrill whistles.
Two struck—one in her shoulder, another piercing her thigh. Warm blood mixed with rain, soaking through the cloth.
"Ugh—!" Yaohua grimaced, but her legs did not stop.
She tore off her robe, blew a trace of qi into the fibers, and hurled it in the opposite direction.
From afar, the robe spun within a swirl of wind—creating the illusion of a fleeing figure.
The pursuers—clad in white hanbok with the blue word "WUDANG" on their backs—took the bait.
"That way! Hurry!"
Yaohua held her breath, crouching behind a patch of wet shrubs, crawling slowly toward the edge of the lake.
A thin fisherman sat at a small wooden pier. Rain drenched him mercilessly. He sighed, pulling up an empty hook from the water.
"Only three fish… damn. I'll starve tomorrow," he muttered, shaking his head. "One more cast. If it's still small, I'm going home."
A faint, gasping voice broke through the downpour.
"...Help…"
The fisherman turned—and froze in shock.
A young woman stood unsteadily, her body drenched in blood. Strands of black hair clung to her pale face; wounds on her shoulder and thigh dripped fresh red.
"Please… hide me…" she whispered, her voice nearly lost to the rain.
The fisherman's eyes flicked toward his small boat, piled with damp nets. Doubt flashed for a single heartbeat. Rain hammered against his back—then he gave a brief nod, decision made.
Deep within the forest, the Wudang squad came to an abrupt halt.
"Empty! It's a decoy robe!" one disciple shouted.
Their leader—a man with thick brows and sharp, piercing eyes—clicked his tongue. "Spread out! She's close. Find her—no matter what!"
He retraced his steps to a fork in the path and spotted a trail of darkened blood in the brush. The heavy rain hadn't completely washed it away. The traces led him straight to the lakeside.
There, a fisherman stood grimacing, blood dripping from his hand.
"You!" The pursuer strode forward swiftly. "What happened?"
"I… fell. Cut my hand on the knife while looking for bait," the fisherman stammered.
The pursuer's eyes narrowed. "I'm looking for a woman—slender, tall, black hair. Wounded in her arm and leg. Have you seen her?"
The fisherman shook his head quickly. "No… I haven't seen anyone."
The man stepped onto the pier, scanning the small boat. Drops of blood speckled the wooden planks. He crouched, peering into the water beneath the dock—thin red lines swirled faintly, vanishing into the rain.
"That woman's from the Heavenly Demon Cult," he said coldly, his voice cutting through the storm. "She kills anyone from the orthodox sects."
His gaze shifted—close, threatening. "Even fishermen like you."
He swept aside the nets—nothing. Only a few small fish wriggled weakly.
"You're hiding something…" he muttered darkly.
Without warning, his sword slashed down. Wind Qi spiraled violently.
CRASH!
The wooden pier shattered, planks flying and splashing into the lake.
Still unsatisfied, he swung again.
CRACK!
The small boat split apart with a single strike. Ripples spread across the lake, swallowing the fragments of wood.
The pursuer paced along the shore, his sharp eyes combing the surface—nothing.
At last, he turned back to the fisherman, his voice cold and final. "You're lucky."
Then he vanished into the rain.
The fisherman stood frozen, his breath uneven. His hand gripped the fake wound on his arm.
Slowly, his gaze shifted toward the bushes by the lakeshore—beneath a pile of scattered planks. Something moved faintly in the dark water.
A faint, secretive smile curved his lips.
The rain did not stop.
Inside a small wooden hut at the forest's edge, the dim glow of the hearth pushed back the chill. The sound of rain on the bamboo roof became a rhythm—loud, yet strangely soothing.
"My name is Haikun," he said simply as he replaced the bandage on the woman's shoulder. "Just a fisherman. Relax—I'm not an orthodox martial artist."
He smiled when he noticed Yaohua's eyes fixed on his face.
"Rest, Miss. I'll build a new boat, a bigger one. When it's done, I'll take you across the lake."
Yaohua gave a faint nod. The man's eyes were clear—without fear, without malice. Only the sincerity of a commoner.
"You're not going to kill me, are you, Miss?"
Yaohua chuckled softly. "If I wanted to, I would've done it back at the pier."
Haikun shivered. He smiled awkwardly and offered her a cup of warm tea.
In the days that followed, the awkwardness between them slowly melted away.
Yaohua—despite her wounds—turned out to be cheerful. Haikun, though simple-minded, always replied to her teasing with plain, heartfelt humor.
One afternoon, as the rain eased, Haikun returned carrying three small fish.
"Only these," he grumbled. "I think the fish are scared of my face."
Yaohua laughed, her eyes sparkling. "It's not your face they fear. You keep yawning while fishing. If you were serious, you could feed the whole village."
"Then next time, you do the fishing."
"If I did, the fish would fight to jump into your boat, tempted by my beauty."
Their laughter broke the silence—light and genuine.
And in that laughter, quiet feelings began to bloom.
That night, they sat before the hearth. The flames flickered softly across their faces.
"Why did you help me that day?" Yaohua asked softly.
Haikun thought for a moment, then smiled. "I couldn't bear to see a wounded woman."
"You're not afraid? You know I'm from the Heavenly Demon Cult?" Her eyes sharpened.
Haikun chuckled. "A woman as beautiful as you couldn't possibly have the heart to kill someone as simple as me."
Yaohua's cheeks flushed faintly.
But suddenly her body tensed. She turned sharply toward the window. "Someone's coming," she whispered.
"Huh? Then let's run!"
"It's too late."
Outside, three Wudang disciples slipped silently through the wet leaves.
Liefeng, one of them whispered through Qi Transmission, 'is this the place?'
The thick-browed man nodded. 'A hunter saw the woman enter here.'
Liefeng gestured sharply—then they burst in.
CRASH!
Empty.
Then—
ROOOAAARRR!
From above, Yaohua appeared, clinging to the slick rooftop, her body coiled tight.
"Demonic Tiger's Roar!"
The sound ripped through the air louder than thunder. The very atmosphere split apart; the ground and their chests trembled.
All three Wudang disciples clamped their ears, forcing qi to block their hearing. One was too slow. His body convulsed—blood burst from his ears, nose, and eyes, staining the floor.
In the next room, Haikun crouched, blood seeping faintly from his ears. He covered them, trembling—then collapsed unconscious.
Yaohua dropped down.
In a single motion, she seized the fallen man's sword, slashed her own palm—blood dripping across the blade. She plunged the blood-slick weapon into the chest of the second opponent.
"Arghhh!"
Gray spots bloomed from the wound, spreading rapidly. Veins bulged; the man's body convulsed—then went still.
"Demonic wench!" Liefeng roared.
His sword danced, Wind Qi surging violently.
Blades clashed in rapid bursts—each strike igniting sparks of qi-born lightning. Yaohua's breathing grew ragged; her body hadn't yet recovered.
When an opening appeared, she bit her tongue—fresh, venom-laced blood filled her mouth, which she spat straight into her opponent's eyes.
"AAARGH!"
Liefeng's vision blurred. Yaohua's blade pierced his abdomen clean through. He collapsed with a strangled cry.
Without delay, Yaohua rushed to Haikun's side. The man lay unconscious. She hoisted him onto her shoulder, her steps staggering yet resolute as she pushed through the pounding rain.
The small pier was nothing but splinters. The current raged wildly.
She tossed Haikun into the last remaining boat and sliced the mooring rope. The vessel drifted free, dragged by the torrent. Yaohua leapt in, grabbing the oar and rowing with all her strength.
"Hold on, Haikun…" she whispered—cold yet firm. "I won't let them touch you."
Rain fell harder, forming a dark curtain over the lake's edge.
They crossed into the territory of the Heavenly Demon Cult. Despite her gaping wounds, Yaohua carried Haikun on her back through the outskirts of a small village.
Villagers rushed to help; the two were taken in and nursed back to health.
Days passed in simplicity.
They moved to Long Ya City—seeking a life beyond mere survival.
Yaohua, once a Qi healer, decided to give up the sword. She became the assistant of an old physician.
Haikun found work at a local inn.
Their lives were modest. Peaceful—for a while.
That peace shattered when a Taoist in dark robes from the Dark Heaven Sect stopped by the inn.
"Your tea, sir." Haikun's hands trembled as he looked into the Taoist's pale, eerie face. By accident, he spilled the tea over the man's robe.
"Ah! My apologies—please forgive me, sir!"
By accident, Haikun's arm brushed against the Taoist's sleeve as he wiped away the spilled tea.
Instantly, the Taoist seized his wrist, eyes narrowing as if he had found something intriguing.
His gaze gleamed. "Your meridians—broad and branching. You… have the makings of a Taoist."
Haikun gently pulled his hand back. "You're mistaken, sir. I'm just a servant. I know nothing about Taoist arts." His nervous laugh tried to hide his unease.
"No, your body is well-suited. Come with me—you could become great."
"I can't, sir. My wife is pregnant. I can't leave."
"Become a Taoist, and missions will bring you wealth. Enough for your wife and child to live comfortably."
"I'm sorry, sir. I truly can't." Haikun bowed and walked away.
But the Taoist didn't give up. Day after day, he returned—persuading, tempting, promising a grand future.
Until one night, robbers attacked the inn. Shouts and chaos filled the air.
"Don't take my money!" the innkeeper cried. "Haikun, do something!"
The robbers laughed and beheaded him in a single stroke.
Haikun cowered behind a table, trembling. One of the bandits grinned and tapped his back, raising his blade to strike.
The Taoist stepped forward, scattering yellow talisman papers. Flames consumed the charms—then, from the smoke, a jiangshi emerged, striking down the bandits one by one.
Haikun froze. The memory of that night by the lake hit him—the memory of his own weakness, his helplessness.
The Taoist leaned close and whispered, "Without strength, you're nothing but a burden."
A few days later, Haikun came home with a look of resolve on his face.
Yaohua, now gently caressing her swelling belly, greeted him with a warm smile.
"You don't have to work anymore," Haikun said, setting down a large pouch of silver.
"This money… where did you get it?"
"From that Taoist. It's enough for two years. I… I'm going with him. I promise, I'll come home every year with more."
Yaohua's face stiffened. "What use is money if you're not by my side?"
"This isn't just about money! I want to be strong. I don't want you to keep protecting me."
Day after day, he pleaded, repeating his promises: "When our child grows up, I'll quit. I'll come home, and we'll open an inn."
Eventually, Yaohua's heart softened. With tears streaming down her cheeks, she gave her permission.
The following year, Haikun truly returned—bringing money.
But his body was thin, his face pale, his eyes empty.
Warmth faded; cold silence filled their home.
Their baby was born—blind.
Haikun grew gloomier, withdrawing further into himself, chanting incantations more often than he spoke to his family.
One day, he asked permission to take their child with him. His voice was tender—perhaps for the first time.
"I'll heal her eyes. I can't stand seeing her suffer."
Yaohua's suspicion stirred. Doubt gnawed at her heart, but Haikun's eyes were steady, convincing.
At last, she entrusted him with their daughter—half believing, half resigned.
After that… he never returned.
Two years passed.
Finally, Yaohua went to the old physician she worked under.
"Master," she asked, her voice trembling, "why hasn't my husband come back? My child either. Do you know anything?"
The old man was silent for a long time. "You said… two years?"
Yaohua nodded, tension etched across her face.
The healer's voice shook. "In the Dark Tao… there's a forbidden method to raise one's cultivation quickly—by sacrificing one's own bloodline."
The words struck like thunder. The world spun. Yaohua swayed, then collapsed.
Years passed. The wound never healed.
She rose again—alone. No husband. No child.
She tried to open her heart once more, but misfortune followed her like a curse.
"I love you…" whispered the man who had once kissed her forehead.
Then suddenly—
A sword pierced his chest from behind.
A wandering swordsman, eyes blank as if entranced, had driven the blade straight through her new lover's heart.
The man was slain by a qi swordsman using the Qi Flow Reversal Art. Once. Twice. Three times.
Every time she tried to love, death arrived to butcher that love.
Now the silent night bore witness.
All the bitter years she had kept inside poured out—fracturing into hot breaths and restrained sobs lodged against another's chest.
The oil lamp danced on the wall, casting light over two bodies beneath a thin blanket. Their clothes lay discarded; only the warmth of flesh remained entwined.
Yaohua lay against Mo Long's chest. Her face was pale but soft. The sour echoes of her past whispered directly into his ear.
"Every time I get close to a man… someone always comes. He controls people with a potion, forcing them to use the Qi Flow Reversal Art to kill whoever grows close to me. Over and over. Until I can no longer feel love."
Tears tracked down her cheeks.
'A potion that can control the mind…' Mo Long thought.
He stroked her hair gently; his voice was calm, cool, certain. "May I help you?"
Yaohua looked up, her eyes trembling. "No… don't. Go back to your clan tomorrow. Forget me. If you don't, you'll die too."
Mo Long smiled faintly. "I can't. I'm sick of seeing a beauty like you suffer."
Yaohua's body trembled. She buried her face against his chest. "Please… don't—"
Her soft whisper wavered between fear and longing.
Mo Long smiled—not merely from desire.
It was the smile of a man who had just found a key.
'I must obtain it.'