Lestes opened his eyes, light quietly gathering within their depths. There was no hesitation, only a calm that followed careful consideration. He had already made his decision - to gamble.
He would gamble with his will and his heart. Though he could no longer feel that heart, he still knew what kind of person he had been before his Colourful Root was damaged.
If he succeeded, it would herald the near restoration of his Colourful Root.
If he failed… then failure would simply be his end.
Lestes understood this clearly. He had no other path to choose from. Avoidance would only lead to stagnation, and stagnation was no different from death. Rather than retreat, it was better to seize this rare opportunity and press forward.
The healing of a Colourful Root was nothing more than legend—so distant it bordered on myth. In the mortal world, such a chance was rarer even than a dragon's horn or a phoenix's feather. Yet legends existed for a reason, and Lestes had never relied solely on faith. He relied on calculation.
Thus, he resolved to take this chance and descend deeper straight into the heart of lust itself.
Without further delay, Lestes stepped from the peak and leapt downward. His figure cut through the air, swift and silent, vanishing into the layers of mist and tree forest below. By the time evening arrived, he had already reached the vicinity of the Fortune Cave.
He did not pause.
Lestes entered.
Within the cave, Feng Louchen sat in stillness, her attention fixed upon an ancient sculpture, its surface worn smooth by time. Shadows danced across the stone as dim light flickered, and the air carried an oppressive stillness as though fate itself awaited what was to come.
Golden lamplight fell upon her face, steady and unyielding, its glow burning not far away. The light did not merely illuminate—it exposed. Beneath its radiance, her features appeared unnaturally clear, as though every line had been deliberately revealed for scrutiny rather than admiration.
The golden glow continued downward, outlining the white jade–like curves of her slender form. What might have been gentle in another's eyes became, under Lestes's gaze, a point of focus, a stimulus, a variable. The lamplight magnified her beauty, but it also stripped it of illusion, reducing grace and softness into something measurable, something dangerous.
To him, this was no moment of indulgence.
It was a trial.
Desire coiled in the air like a silent pressure, subtle yet invasive, testing the limits of his restraint. His eyes remained calm, unwavering, as if observing prey that had wandered too close—neither hurried nor merciful. He did not approach, nor did he retreat. He simply watched, dissecting every detail with ruthless clarity.
What the light revealed was not temptation alone, but a blade aimed at his Dao-heart.
And Lestes did not fear blades.
Why resist?
Lestes's eyes darkened slightly.
This is not what I want, he told himself calmly. I will not become a mindless puppet.
The pressure did not recede.
Instead, it shifted.
What you seek lies beyond that door.
Lestes understood the implication at once. This surge of lust—this dangerous imbalance—was not merely corruption. It was also an opening. A medium. A catalyst. If guided correctly, it could be used to nourish the Colourful Root, to stimulate what had long remained dormant.
That much is true, he admitted inwardly.
This crisis was both a calamity and an opportunity. Lust, unchecked, would devour his will. But lust, restrained and refined, could become the key he lacked—a doorway through which his damaged Colourful Root might be restored.
The pressure thickened, subtle yet suffocating. Desire no longer came from the outside alone; it was reflected at him, magnified, refined, fed upon. The serpent did not command him; it guided, nudged, and reasoned. It offered clarity twisted into indulgence, logic bent toward surrender.
This is not corruption, the presence seemed to murmur.
This is restoration.
Lestes felt the response within his Colourful Root—a faint tremor, like a dormant vein stirring to life. The serpent seized upon it instantly, its influence flowing along that fragile connection, amplifying sensation while dulling restraint. What little emotion remained within him was stretched thin, pulled toward excess.
His breath slowed.
This was the serpent's true danger. It did not overwhelm through force. It eroded through persuasion, feeding upon weakness while masquerading as opportunity. It offered him what he lacked most, while quietly demanding what little he still possessed.
Yet even as the whispers coiled tighter, Lestes's gaze remained sharp.
He recognised the trap.
To the serpent, desire was domination.
To him, desire was a tool.
Whether the serpent would become his chain—or his stepping stone—had yet to be decided.
The response of his Colourful Root did not escape him.
It was subtle—too subtle for most—but Lestes noticed it instantly. A fractional acceleration in breath. A delayed return of clarity. A warmth where there should have been none. Each change was catalogued, measured, and weighed against his own tolerance.
So this is the rate of erosion, he concluded calmly.
The Nine-Headed Serpent's influence continued to seep inward, no longer whispering persuasion but altering the parameters themselves. What had once been external pressure was now internal distortion. Desire no longer announced itself—it embedded itself into thought, threading through logic until impulse and reason became indistinguishable.
Lestes adjusted.
He slowed his circulation, suppressed instinctive reactions, and tightened control over his consciousness. Every response was filtered, every sensation dissected. To indulge blindly was death. To reject completely was stagnation. The balance lay between—razor-thin, unforgiving.
Yet the corruption adapted as well.
Each calculation he made became a foothold. Each act of restraint fed the serpent a clearer map of his limits. The influence did not rush him. It waited, allowing erosion to masquerade as control, letting him believe the descent was measured.
A faint pressure bloomed behind his thoughts.
Acceptable loss, the serpent seemed to suggest—not in words, but in conclusion.
What is a little corruption, weighed against restoration?
For the first time, Lestes paused his calculations.
Not because they failed—but because they were beginning to justify what they once would have rejected.
That realisation was dangerous.
His will tightened, cold and absolute, forcing clarity back into place. But the damage had already begun. A line had been crossed, not in action, but in allowance. Corruption had not seized him; it had been permitted.
This was no longer merely a trial of endurance.
It was a contest over who would define reason itself.
Lestes drew in a slow, measured breath, forcing his mind and will into stillness. Turbulence faded, leaving only clarity.
Since this is a gamble, he thought calmly, I must first understand my enemy.
With that resolve, Lestes stepped forward.
Lestes did not give in to lust. Since he had chosen to gamble, he understood one principle above all others: a gambler must fully comprehend both his cards and his enemy. Only then could a wager be controlled.
In this gamble, however, the distinction was blurred.
His enemy was also his card.
Lust was not merely an external corruption pressing upon him—it was a force rooted within his own damaged Colourful Root. To reject it outright would be ignorance. To indulge blindly would be ruin. Only by understanding it completely could he determine how it might be wielded rather than endured.
Thus, Lestes did not resist out of fear, nor did he surrender out of desire. He advanced with intent, prepared to dissect even his own weakness if that was the price of victory.
Feng Luochen lifted her gaze, her pupils still unfocused, as though her thoughts lagged a breath behind reality. When she saw him clearly, her lips parted slightly.
"Master."
The single word echoed softly within the cave.
Lestes did not answer.
He bent down before her, movements deliberate and unhurried. One hand rose, fingers cool and steady as they brushed against her skin, lifting her chin just enough to force her eyes to meet his. His touch carried no warmth—only intent.
Feng Luochen remained dazed, unable to comprehend what he intended. Her thoughts stalled, instincts failing to keep pace. Before realisation could catch up, Lestes leaned in.
Their lips met.
The contact was sudden, brief, and utterly decisive—less an act of affection than an assertion of will. It was as though a boundary had been crossed without ceremony, without permission, driven by something deeper than desire.
For an instant, the air seemed to tighten.
Within Lestes, the Nine-Headed Serpent's influence surged, satisfied and eager, while his Colourful Root responded with a sharp, dangerous clarity. He did not linger. He withdrew just as quickly, eyes already cold again, as though the act itself had merely been a necessary step in a calculation.
Feng Luochen remained frozen, breath uneven, mind struggling to catch up to what had just.
What a pervert, she wondered.
Her Master had spent no more than two days with her in total, yet during that brief time, most of it had been marked by intimacy. The thought itself felt strange, as though it did not fully belong to her.
It was true. Ever since Lestes had taken Feng Luochen in as his slave, his interactions with her had been distant in presence yet heavy in implication. On the very first day—after he rescued her from the Feng clan elders—he brought her directly to the Fortune Cave. What followed there left her mind clouded and her memories blurred.
When she awoke, Lestes was already gone.
He did not return for nearly a month.
And now, after reappearing without warning, he forced that same intimacyupon her once again, leaving her confused and unable to reconcile his actions with the image of the Master she believed she understood.
What unsettled her most was not the intimacy itself, but its irregularity—his sudden appearances, his prolonged absences, and the cold composure with which he acted, as though her thoughts and feelings were irrelevant variables.
She could not tell whether she was being tested, used, or simply swept along by something far beyond her understanding.
And that uncertainty weighed on her far more heavily than fear.