The night after the spirit spring, neither of them slept.
Xiao Yang returned to his hut with his body thrumming from the exchange of qi. The Yin-Yang Harmony Scripture had cycled only a fraction of its potential, yet his cultivation had already broken through to the peak of Qi Condensation in a single session. More dangerous than the leap in power was the lingering sensation of her yin qi still flowing gently through his meridians—cool, elegant, and intimately familiar, like a lover's fingers tracing his veins.
He knew she felt the same.
Across the sect, in the secluded cave mansion atop Jade Phoenix Peak, Su Qingxue sat before her bronze mirror, staring at her reflection as though it belonged to a stranger.
Her skin glowed with a vitality it had not possessed in decades. The perpetual pallor from cold yin accumulation had vanished, replaced by a soft, rosy flush that spread from her cheeks down her slender neck and across the gentle swell of her chest. Her silver-white hair shone like moonlight on fresh snow.
She looked… alive.
Beautiful in a way that frightened her.
For three hundred years she had stood faithfully beside Zhao Wuji. They had met as mortal teenagers in a small village at the foot of Crimson Flame Mountain. He had protected her from bandits; she had nursed him when spirit beasts mauled him. Together they had entered the sect, risen through the realms, faced demonic cultivators, secret realms, heavenly tribulations. Their love was the stuff of sect legends—pure, enduring, unbreakable.
Yet in one night, with one lowly outer disciple's touch, centuries of quiet loneliness had cracked open.
She pressed her palms to her burning cheeks.
"Wuji… forgive me," she whispered to the empty room. "I only meant to ease the deviation…"
But even as guilt clawed at her heart, her body remembered the warmth of Xiao Yang's hands. The way his pure yang qi had flowed into her like sunlight after endless winter. The way he had looked at her—not with the awe or fear most disciples showed, but with quiet strength and something deeper. Something that made her feel seen.
Desired.
Loved, perhaps, in a way she had not felt in far too long.
She stood abruptly, robes whispering around her legs, and paced the chamber.
No. This was wrong.
Tomorrow she would end it. She would thank him for his help, give him some spirit stones as reward, and never see him again.
That was the right thing to do.
The only thing.
Yet when dawn came and a transmission talisman fluttered into her cave mansion—bearing only two words in neat, respectful script:
"May this disciple inquire after Madam's health today?"
—she felt her resolve waver like morning mist.
Her fingers trembled as she wrote back:
"Eastern spirit spring. Tonight. Same time."
And so the second night arrived.
This time, Su Qingxue wore even simpler robes—a thin, pale-blue inner layer that clung softly to her mature figure in the humid air. She told herself it was only because the spring's heat made heavier garments uncomfortable.
Xiao Yang arrived carrying a small jade bottle.
"Madam—Qingxue," he corrected softly when her eyes flicked up at the intimate address. "I refined this Yang Warming Pill with the herbs from Garden No. 7. It should help stabilize the treatment."
She accepted the bottle, their fingers brushing.
Again, that spark.
Again, the involuntary shiver that ran through her perfect body.
They sat closer this time—knees touching, palms pressed together without hesitation.
The qi circulation began as before, but deeper. Faster. More intimate.
Half an hour passed in silence broken only by their breathing.
Then Su Qingxue's voice, barely audible:
"It's not enough."
Xiao Yang opened his eyes.
Her phoenix eyes were half-lidded, lips parted. A faint sheen of perspiration glistened at her collarbone.
"The cold yin has accumulated too long in my… lower dantian," she whispered, cheeks flaming. "Simple palm circulation cannot reach it fully."
Her gaze dropped, unable to meet his.
"I… I read in an ancient manual that skin-to-skin contact over the dantian allows deeper harmonization. But only if both parties trust each other completely."
The air grew thick.
Xiao Yang's voice was low, steady.
"I trust you with my life, Qingxue."
A tear slipped down her cheek.
"I do not trust myself," she breathed.
But her hands moved anyway—trembling as they untied the sash of her outer robe. The ice-blue fabric slipped from her shoulders, pooling at her waist.
Beneath, she wore only a thin silk inner garment, almost translucent in the moonlight. It clung to the full, mature curves of her breasts, the narrow waist, the gentle flare of her hips. Her skin glowed like polished jade.
She did not meet his eyes as she guided his hands beneath the hem, placing them gently on the smooth, warm skin just below her navel—directly over her lower dantian.
The contact was electric.
Both gasped.
His palms pressed against soft, flawless skin. He could feel the frantic flutter of her pulse, the intense cold yin gathered deep inside her like a frozen lake.
Her hands covered his, pressing them closer.
"Circulate… slowly," she whispered, voice shaking.
They began.
Yang qi flowed from his palms like golden sunlight, pouring into her lower dantian. Her yin qi surged back—rich, cool, intoxicating—wrapping around his meridians like silk.
Su Qingxue's head fell back, silver hair spilling over her shoulders. A low, helpless moan escaped her lips.
"Ah… so warm… deeper than yesterday…"
Her body arched instinctively, pressing closer.
Minutes stretched into an eternity of shared breath, shared heat, shared forbidden pleasure.
Then, suddenly, her bottleneck—the one that had stalled her at peak Golden Core for fifty years—cracked.
A soft explosion of spiritual light bloomed beneath Xiao Yang's palms.
Su Qingxue cried out, body trembling violently as pure yin essence surged through her meridians, refined and elevated by his yang.
Breakthrough.
Mid-stage Golden Core… late-stage… in moments she stabilized at perfect peak Golden Core, only one step from half-Nascent Soul.
Tears streamed down her face—not from pain, but from overwhelming relief and something far more dangerous.
When the light faded, her forehead rested against his shoulder. Her breathing was ragged.
Her hands still held his against her bare abdomen.
"I… I broke through," she whispered in disbelief. "After fifty years… because of you."
Xiao Yang's voice was rough with emotion.
"Because we fit, Qingxue. Your yin and my yang… they resonate."
She lifted her head slowly.
Their faces were inches apart.
Moonlight illuminated the tears on her cheeks, the flush on her skin, the raw vulnerability in her phoenix eyes.
"I love my husband," she said again, voice breaking. "I truly do."
"I know," he answered softly.
"But tonight…" Her lips trembled. "Tonight I do not know my own heart."
The distance closed.
It was not he who moved first.
It was she.
Su Qingxue leaned in, eyes fluttering shut, and pressed her lips to his.
Soft. Hesitant. A brush of silk.
Then deeper—hungry, desperate, centuries of loneliness pouring out in a single kiss.
Xiao Yang's arms wrapped around her waist, pulling her closer. She melted against him, mature body molding perfectly to his, hands sliding up his chest to tangle in his hair.
The kiss lasted forever and not long enough.
When they parted, both were breathing hard.
Her forehead rested against his again.
"I am damned," she whispered. "But I cannot stop."
"Nor can I," he confessed.
Another tear fell.
Then she kissed him again—harder, fiercer, as though trying to drown the guilt in passion.
Hands roamed. Robes loosened further. Skin met skin.
They did not go all the way—not yet.
But by the time the moon began to set, Su Qingxue lay cradled in his arms at the spring's edge, inner robe half-open, head on his chest, listening to his heartbeat.
Her fingers traced idle patterns over his skin.
"Tomorrow," she murmured, voice thick with unshed tears, "I will tell you to stay away. I will mean it with all my heart."
"I know," he said quietly, stroking her silver hair.
"And yet…" She looked up at him, eyes shining with love and torment. "I will send for you again the night after."
He pressed a gentle kiss to her forehead.
"I will come. Every time."
In the silence that followed, the system's voice rang once more.
But Xiao Yang silenced the voice in his mind.
Because in that moment, holding the legendary Ice Phoenix Beauty as she cried softly against his chest—torn between two loves, yet unable to let either go—he felt something far more terrifying than power.
He was falling too.
And there would be no gentle landing.