Chapter Two: The Haunting of Memory
Yue Ling awoke with a start, a tremor running through her limbs like fire.
The moonlight spilled across her room, pale and indifferent, yet it did nothing to soothe the chaos in her chest. Sweat clung to her skin, and her robes, though loose and unremarkable, felt confining—too tight, too warm, too close. Her fingers shook as they pressed against her thighs, trying to steady herself, but it was useless.
The dreams had returned.
Not like ordinary dreams. These were vivid, living, insistent. Every sigh, every brush of fingers, every shiver she had once felt in secret now replayed itself in unbearable clarity. She remembered the way he had held her in the hidden valleys, how his warmth had pressed into her chest when poison threatened to claim her life. How his lips had hovered, almost touching, almost tasting, almost daring her to give herself to him without consent, without hesitation, without resistance.
Her body betrayed her in ways her mind refused to acknowledge.
It clenched, it trembled, it ached, and even the sharp discipline of cultivation could not quiet it.
She sat up, letting the cool moonlight wash over her, trying to think, to anchor herself in logic. It was just memory. It was just the past. He is gone.
But her mind and body refused to accept it.
The ache did not fade. It spread. A low, simmering heat that whispered promises she could neither name nor resist. She could not forget the way he had looked at her—the patience in his gaze, the subtle claim in his touch, the way he had forced her restraint to the edge without ever letting her fully surrender. Every other man she had touched since had felt hollow, distant, inadequate. None had stirred her as he had, none had lingered in her veins, in her nerves, in her marrow.
And now, she realized with a shiver of fear and longing, none ever would.
---
Across the continent, Mei Xin awoke in similar torment. Her robe clung damp to her skin as if it, too, remembered him. Her breaths came shallow and uneven, not from exertion but from memory. She had lain with him in secrecy countless times, yet never fully—never surrendered in the way she had longed to. Still, even that restrained intimacy had been enough to imprint him into every nerve of her body.
Now, in the quiet of her chamber, she could feel his presence everywhere. In the curve of her neck, the warmth of her inner thighs, the hollow ache in her chest. She had touched other men since then, yes. Partners in cultivation, fleeting bonds, the occasional political liaison meant to secure alliances—but they all fell short, pale shadows against the vividness of memory.
She pressed her palms against her thighs to stop the trembling, her eyes squeezed shut, and yet the dreams continued. In them, his voice echoed, low and teasing, commanding and gentle all at once. He was everywhere she had ever been—beneath her hands, behind her, above her—and always, impossibly, just out of reach.
A gasp tore from her throat. Shame burned hotter than desire, but even shame could not quench the fire he had left.
---
Fen Xian, always proud, always controlled, was no better. She had thought herself immune. She had thought her discipline, her mastery of cultivation, her mastery of herself, would protect her. And yet the dreams had returned, insistent as a tide.
She remembered kneeling over him when a demon's poison threatened his life, the heat of his body beneath her palms, the tremble in his voice as he encouraged her, teased her, tested her restraint. She remembered the flush in her own chest, the sudden weakness in her knees, the way her mind had blurred between fear and want, devotion and desire. She remembered hating herself for feeling it, for enjoying it, for craving more.
The memories now washed over her in waves. She pressed her hands to her face, biting her lip, trying to anchor herself in logic. It's over. He is gone.
But she could not stop remembering. She could not stop needing him.
---
They began to gather without knowing why, each heroine drawn by the pull of impossible memory. One by one, their dreams had formed a chain across the continent, threads of desire and obsession linking them like invisible chains. When they spoke of him, their voices trembled.
"He is alive," Yue Ling said, though her voice quivered as if she did not fully believe it. "I can feel it in my chest. In my blood."
"No," Mei Xin whispered, shaking her head, eyes wide with disbelief and longing. "He left. He… he chose to abandon us… again."
Fen Xian's hands clenched into fists. "If he is alive," she said, her voice tight, brittle, "then I swear I will find him. No matter what it takes."
They searched for him in sects and hidden valleys, in libraries and ruins, in mountains and rivers. Everywhere they went, memory and desire trailed them like a shadow. Even when they engaged with other men—teachers, disciples, rivals—the ghost of Li Chen's touch haunted them. His warmth lingered in their minds, in the hollow places other men could not reach.
They had tried to ignore it, tried to master it, tried to cultivate through it. But every encounter only reminded them of him, of what they had once felt, of the restraint they had been forced to maintain. Desire and shame intertwined, leaving them trembling, hollow, and yearning in ways cultivation could not heal.
Even at night, when they tried to sleep, the dreams returned. His hands, his lips, his voice, and that ineffable claim over their bodies haunted them. Every sigh, every shiver, every forbidden glance replayed itself in vivid intensity. And worse, the dreams were not bound to one heroine—they overlapped. Shared memory created shared obsession. In their waking moments, they could feel each other's tension, the trembling in the hands, the heat in the chest, the ache that could not be sated.
And in that shared torment, a dangerous realization began to bloom: he was everywhere they had ever been, and yet he was nowhere to be found.
---
The world itself seemed to respond to their obsession. Cultivation energy became harder to control. Inner fires flared without warning. Meditation brought visions of him instead of clarity. Every spell, every technique, every attempt at mastery was colored by the lingering memory of his touch, his voice, his presence. They had become prisoners of their own bodies, prisoners of the man who had once saved them yet had never fully possessed them.
Yue Ling's knees weakened as she knelt in her training hall, unable to maintain her stance. Her mind played the scene of him pressing against her in the valley, whispering in her ear, guiding her, testing her restraint. And as much as she hated the memory, as much as she feared the shame it brought, a part of her—a deep, hidden part—longed for it.
Ached for it.
---
Even the act of speaking his name brought tremors through them. Mei Xin whispered it once, in private, her lips barely moving. Fen Xian caught it, and their eyes met—shame, longing, and unspoken memory blazing between them. None could deny the truth: their bodies, their desires, their very souls remembered him, burned for him, and could not rest until they found him.
And yet he remained hidden.
Li Chen, alive and free, moved through the mortal lands, cutting wood, mending roofs, sleeping under the stars. He wanted rest. He wanted peace. And yet, without knowing it, he had set into motion a storm of obsession, guilt, and erotic memory that swept across the continent. Ten heroines, once independent, once untouchable, were now slaves to memory and desire.
It was not lust alone—it was power, it was domination without touch, it was the lingering claim of a man who had lived and died for them nine times and now refused to appear.
And in that refusal, he became more irresistible than ever.
---
As the first rays of dawn crept across the mountains, Yue Ling, Mei Xin, and Fen Xian—all ten of them, each in their own chamber—felt the same truth settle in their chests like a stone:
Li Chen was alive.
And they were utterly, irreversibly undone.