Chapter Three: Shadows of Him in Others
The first time it happened, Yue Ling could not speak.
A junior disciple of her sect—a boy barely older than a child, full of admiration and eager to impress—had offered to help her adjust her cultivation technique. His hands brushed hers lightly over the pulse points, guiding her energy flow. She should have thanked him politely and moved on. Instead, her chest constricted, a sudden heat spreading through her body that had nothing to do with cultivation.
The moment his fingers lingered, a memory stabbed at her mind: Li Chen's hand, steady, warm, claiming her without permission, pressing her closer even as she had tried to resist, teaching her control and craving at the same time. The boy's touch was innocent, meaningless, and yet every nerve in her body flared with it, betraying her. She bit her lip to stop a shiver, her palms pressing into her thighs as if to hold herself down.
It's not him. It can't be him, she thought desperately.
And yet, it was. In every brush of skin, in every pulse of proximity, he returned—not as himself, but as memory, as obsession, as hunger.
---
Mei Xin fared no better.
In the afternoon sun, she sat across from a visiting cultivator, a man assigned by her sect to test her ability to control inner fires. His hands brushed her shoulders, adjusting her posture, guiding her energy into the correct channels. She closed her eyes to focus, tried to anchor herself in the mechanics of cultivation. But the second his hands grazed her skin, she saw him: Li Chen, kneeling behind her in the valley, murmuring encouragement, tracing the same paths her body remembered, lingering just enough to make her body betray her mind.
Her breath hitched. She pressed her palms together, trying to concentrate on cultivation, on technique, on the worldly matter at hand. But the heat in her limbs, the tension in her chest, the sudden ache in her core reminded her: she had never stopped craving him. She had never stopped needing him. And now, in the presence of another man, her body betrayed her in a way that terrified her.
The visitor smiled innocently, unaware of the storm he had triggered. She clenched her hands into fists under the table, trembling, every nerve alight, every memory alive. She wanted to push him away. She wanted to control herself. And yet, part of her—an unspoken, shameful part—wanted him to touch her again, to feel that same impossible heat, even though she knew it would only remind her of Li Chen.
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Fen Xian, who prided herself on self-discipline and control, discovered a more subtle betrayal.
In a gathering of sect leaders, a young man had approached her to request guidance, a chance to study under her tutelage. Polite, respectful, careful not to overstep, he had leaned in to show her the first steps of a technique she had never taught him. She had nodded, corrected his stance, praised his effort. And yet, when his arm brushed against hers, when his breath stirred near her ear as he whispered an instruction, her mind faltered.
Li Chen appeared. Always him. Behind her, beside her, whispering softly, pressing against her in the memory she could never release. The touch of the boy now was innocent, yet her body remembered something stronger, older, deeper—something he had once claimed in ways that burned hotter than her shame. Her knees weakened, her heart raced, and she pressed her fingers against the table to steady herself, feeling heat rush where none should have been.
She hated herself for it. And yet she could not stop it.
---
Even the most mundane interactions became weapons.
The heroines, each in her own sect or sanctuary, began noticing the pattern. Hands, arms, proximity, even the simple brush of a robe or the way a man's gaze lingered too long—it all triggered the same memory, the same ache, the same impossible craving. They could not escape him. Li Chen was everywhere: in their past, in their present, in the ghostly touch of strangers who could never replace him.
Yue Ling, alone in her meditation chamber, felt it strongest when training with another man. His guidance was necessary, a part of her cultivation, and yet every movement reminded her of the valley where Li Chen had pressed against her, whispered to her, tested her limits without ever fully letting her surrender. She trembled, hips tight, pulse raging, unable to reconcile discipline with desire.
When the man's palm brushed against her shoulder again, she shivered audibly, drawing his eyes. "Are you… alright?" he asked. She shook her head, forcing a smile that felt like steel across her cheeks. Inside, her body betrayed her with every nerve, every shiver, every flash of memory. She wanted to scream, to weep, to throw herself at him—and yet she knew, in that instant, that no other man could ever satisfy what Li Chen had claimed in her mind and body.
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Mei Xin's encounters grew increasingly desperate. She sought out other men, trying to satiate the ache, the craving, the restless heat, yet every time she touched, every time another hand brushed her skin, the ghost of Li Chen returned. His warmth, his pressure, his voice murmuring impossibly intimate words—memory overrode reason. She clenched her fists, pushed away the men she had allowed close, yet even rejection could not erase the memory. It clung, a shadow in her veins, a fire she could neither quench nor endure.
Shame flooded her. She had been a disciplined cultivator, a woman of control and reputation. And now, every innocent touch felt like betrayal. Every polite intimacy felt like failure. Every heartbeat whispered his name, every nerve screamed for him, even as she tried to anchor herself in loyalty and reason.
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Fen Xian, proud Fen Xian, began to notice the effect in the men as well. They, too, seemed captivated, unnervingly attentive, as if sensing the memory he left in her aura. Their attempts at closeness, at guidance, at ordinary interaction, sparked the same chaos inside her—a heat, a tension, a subtle collapse of restraint. She realized with a mixture of fear and dark amusement that Li Chen's absence had only made his presence stronger: even ghosts of him could dominate her mind and body.
And yet, in the moments of greatest shame, when her chest ached and her body betrayed her every rational thought, there was a thrill. Desire and memory intertwined into something intoxicating, something she could not resist. She hated it, feared it, yet part of her secretly craved it.
---
By the third week, all ten heroines were caught in the same pattern. Their encounters with other men—training partners, allies, subordinates, even rivals—triggered the same obsession. Their bodies, unbidden, remembered him. Every brush, every whisper, every lingering glance became a mirror of what Li Chen had once given them, and they could not distinguish between memory and reality.
Some nights, in secret, they would tremble alone, recalling his hands, his breath, his voice. They would close their eyes and see him kneeling behind them, pressing, guiding, teasing, claiming, and the longing became unbearable. Their shame, their obsession, their craving blended into a single, intoxicating ache that could not be sated.
Every man they touched, every embrace, every moment of closeness, became a trigger. And every trigger reminded them of him.
Li Chen had vanished, yet he dominated their bodies and minds more than ever. He had become a ghost, a memory, a need—omnipresent, untouchable, irresistible.
And they were utterly powerless against it.
---
Even as they tried to continue with cultivation, with politics, with mundane life, the craving remained. It colored every moment, whispered through every interaction, and left them shaking with desire and shame. The men around them were powerless. Only Li Chen existed. Only he had ever existed.
The psychological trap was complete: memory became obsession, obsession became craving, and craving became a quiet, unbearable torment. Each heroine, despite every effort, knew it. He had won without touching them. He had claimed them even as he disappeared.
And somewhere, far away, Li Chen walked alone, sensing, perhaps, the echoes of their obsession without ever intending to.
He wanted rest.
The world, and the women he had loved and lost, would not allow it.