Chapter 75
Beyond the great mortal nations lay the Demon Realm — a land whispered of in awe and dread. The city at its heart was a place of contradictions, a den of pleasures and vices. They called it the City of Gambling, the City of Lust, the City of Misleadings, and above all, the City of Outlaws.
Here, one could win a fortune or lose their soul before the moon had crossed the sky. Its streets roared with life — the clatter of dice, the clash of drunken quarrels, the sweet scent of incense curling from brothels, and the metallic tang of spilled blood from back-alley disputes.
Yet now, an even greater excitement surged through the air. News had spread like wildfire: the Demon Monarch's wedding was imminent.
In the past, the throne had been tainted by endless bloodshed between rival clans, each eager to seize power. Since the death of Hua Mo, the former ruler, the realm had been a beast without its head — restless, snarling, ready to tear itself apart.
But who could have predicted that Hua Ling, son of a demon father and human mother, would seize the throne… and rule it more ruthlessly than any pure-blooded monarch before him?
It was said his strength surpassed all cultivators, human or demon alike. No blade could match his, no cultivator dared to challenge him. Those who met his gaze swore it was colder than steel, a frost that could still the heart mid-beat. Over the years, his temper had sharpened into something vicious — now, one could not even speak in his presence without first being spoken to.
The Demon Palace rose high above the city, vast and imposing. Its walls gleamed with black jade, each tile worth more than a mortal's lifetime of earnings. Inside, endless corridors led to secret gardens, moonlit courtyards, and halls rich with the scent of sandalwood.
Deeper still was the Monarch's private sanctuary — a waterfall that poured from the mountain into a vast lotus pond, its surface dotted with lanterns that glimmered even at midday. At the edge of this tranquil scene stood a grand chamber, where Hua Ling worked in silence.
His long, pale fingers moved with slow precision, the tip of his brush gliding over silk paper. His face was as still as ice, the curve of his lashes casting faint shadows over eyes fixed on the page.
The black and red of his robe shimmered in the candlelight, embroidered patterns shifting like flames. His hair — long, dark, and sleek as flowing ink — spilled over his shoulders, bound in place by a single, finely carved hairpin. His lips, naturally tinted like ripened cherries, pressed together in thought as he set the brush aside.
A knock came at the door.
"Young Master, may I come in?"
The voice belonged to Qingze, Hua Ling's shadow since childhood. Even now, despite the title of Mo Jun, Qingze still called him gongzi.
"Come in," Hua Ling replied, his tone flat and cold.
Qingze stepped forward, bowing lightly. "Young Master, the woman we've been seeking has left the city. I questioned several informants — they say she will return soon."
Hua Ling did not lift his gaze from the paper. "Then we wait. This time, I'll go with you to find her."
Qingze hesitated. "Young Master… you haven't rested properly in days. If you keep going like this—"
"I can't sleep anyway." Hua Ling's voice carried no warmth. His brush tapped once against the inkstone before he finally raised his eyes. "I'm coming."
Qingze's lips tightened. No argument would sway him. "Yes, Mo Jun."
In the city below, a crowd had gathered in a teahouse. At the center stood a storyteller, waving his fan dramatically as he spun his tale.
"Ah, Mo Jun Hua Ling," he said, his voice carrying above the chatter, "often seen at the cliff outside the city. Kneeling there, silent, staring into the abyss as if it could answer him. Some say he grieves for his father's death…"
Xinyu, sitting in the corner, leaned forward to hear more.
"But!" the storyteller snapped his fan shut, eyes gleaming, "others say his relationship with his father was bitter. No one can claim to know the truth of what Hua Ling thinks."
From the crowd came a mutter: "Could it be he still holds a grudge against that man… Chen Xinyu?"
Xinyu's back stiffened.
Another voice replied, "It's possible. After all, Chen Xinyu killed Hua Mo. The whole Demon Realm must hate him to the bone."
Xinyu's fingers curled against the table.
Someone else laughed darkly. "I, for one, admire him. Hua Mo was no saint. But keep your voice down — if the Demon Realm hears you praising Chen Xinyu, they'll execute you. Haven't you heard? Mo Jun's temper is… legendary. They say he kills anyone who dares mention that name."
The words sent a cold shiver down Xinyu's spine. He looked around as though expecting to see the Monarch himself standing behind him.
"…I shouldn't be here," he muttered, rising quickly. Madam Meng had told him to stay in the village, but he had slipped out again. If she found out, she'd be furious.
By the time he reached the village, Liu Xiaozhi was already waiting at the gate, arms crossed.
"Xian'ge, why did you sneak out again? If Madam hears, she'll break your legs."
Xinyu waved her off. "Don't tell her, and no one will know."
She frowned, following him into the small house. He untied the blindfold from his eyes and collapsed onto his bed.
The storyteller's words echoed in his mind. If Hua Ling hates me that much… what if he really wants me to burn in hell?
He rolled over, restless. But it doesn't matter. To him, I'm already dead.
A bitter laugh slipped from his lips. "I'm the most wanted criminal in the Demon Realm. If they knew I was alive…"
His thoughts drifted into uneasy sleep.
In his dream, he stood in a vast garden, sunlight spilling over a sea of flowers. At the center, a lone figure stood with his back turned. Xinyu walked closer, and the man turned — black hair, red robes, cold eyes like an endless winter.
Hua Ling's hand shot out, seizing his collar. "You killed my father, Chen Xinyu. For that, I should behead you."
A hand closed around his throat. Xinyu gasped, struggling—
He woke with a start, heart pounding, sweat damp on his skin.
Pouring himself a cup of water, he drained it in one gulp. The pale light of dawn was already spilling into the room.
A new day had begun.