The Heart Demon of the Empress

Ye Xuan’s pupils contracted sharply. He suddenly shoved her away with such force that Wu Lingxiao was sent sprawling onto the floor.

“Recover. Now!”

Ye Xuan’s voice was a low growl, his eyes filled with disgust.

Wu Lingxiao sat limply on the floor, his breath still lingering on her lips, yet her eyes had gone utterly empty.

She silently nodded. With a point of her finger, the river of time began to flow backward once more, restoring Ye Xuan’s cultivation to the peak of the Void Refining stage.

The moment his spiritual power returned, Ye Xuan felt no joy—only nausea.

He spun around and frantically circulated the spiritual energy within his body, transforming it into the purest water-attribute power. Again and again, with almost self-destructive brutality, he scoured his lips and mouth.

“Ptui! Ptui, ptui!”

He wished he could scrub away an entire layer of skin. His movements were so violent that the corners of his mouth were rubbed raw and bleeding.

Wu Lingxiao stared blankly at the scene.

She had witnessed with her own eyes how the kiss she treasured above all else was, in Ye Xuan’s eyes, no different from contact with some deadly plague.

“You really… find me that disgusting?”

Her voice was so soft it was almost inaudible, yet the sound of her breaking heart rang clearly through the empty palace.

“You filthy, worn-out slut!”

Still scrubbing his mouth, Ye Xuan turned back and cursed her viciously, his words growing more venomous by the second.

“Your mouth is full of the stench of all those men. Just smelling it makes me sick! Wu Lingxiao, even if you washed for ten thousand years, you could never get rid of that disgusting stink!”

“Give me some time…”

Wu Lingxiao lowered her head. Tears fell like pearls from a broken string, striking the cold white jade floor. As if grasping at the last wisp of hope, she cried out eagerly and humbly, “I can reconstruct my body! I can use the power of time to create the purest body and restore my virginity! Ye Xuan, by then I’ll be clean. I’ll be perfect…”

“Heh.”

Ye Xuan stopped scrubbing and turned toward her, a cruel smile twisting his face.

“Wu Lingxiao, have you cultivated yourself stupid? If you restore your body, can you change the fact that you’re a worn-out slut at heart? Can you change what happened eight hundred years ago? Can you erase the fact that your heart has long since rotted away?”

He took a step closer, every word striking like a blade.

“The body is nothing but a shell. But your soul… countless men have already had their fill of it. Even if you rebuilt your body ten thousand times, in my eyes you would still be that most despicable worn-out slut—ravaged by countless men on the imperial bed.”

Wu Lingxiao froze completely.

She opened her mouth, wanting to argue, but found her throat clogged with bitterness.

“Heh… hehehe…”

Wu Lingxiao let out a laugh as mournful as a cuckoo crying blood.

She staggered to her feet. Her black-and-gold imperial robes, symbols of supreme authority, suddenly seemed unbearably heavy, pressing down on her until she could scarcely straighten her back.

She did not look at Ye Xuan. Nor did she look at Ying’er.

Stumbling, she walked out of the side hall. With every step, a bloody footprint was left behind on the floor.

Ye Xuan remained where he was, watching her retreating figure, his expression still icy.

The spring scenery in the imperial garden had always been exquisite.

The warm sunlight now spilled generously across the grass, while a gentle breeze carried the fragrance of blooming spirit-peach trees.

“Husband, slow down! You’re going to snap the string!”

On the lawn, Ying’er lifted her skirt as she ran, her laughter ringing like silver bells.

Her small face, usually adorned with a gentle smile, was flushed with a healthy rosy glow from the exertion. Her bright eyes sparkled with pure, untainted happiness.

A short distance ahead, Ye Xuan held a nearly transparent ice-silkworm thread, his head tilted toward the sky, his expression focused and buoyant.

The black-and-gold robe he wore billowed as he ran, while the morning light outlined his peerlessly handsome profile, touched with a hint of carefree mischief.

High above them, a kite fashioned from the feathers of multicolored spirit birds climbed with the wind, swaying gracefully against the azure sky.

“Don’t worry, Ying’er. This string is sturdy!” Ye Xuan called over his shoulder, flashing her a radiant smile.

There was no mockery in it, no coldness, and none of the violence or disgust he had shown Wu Lingxiao in the bedchamber the previous night.

It was a tenderness pure to the extreme, filled with youthful warmth—the softest, truest part of himself, reserved solely for Ying’er.

Seeing his smile, Ying’er ran even faster, like a tireless pink butterfly fluttering around Ye Xuan.

Their laughter echoed through the vast, silent imperial garden, beautiful as a painting of an immortal paradise untouched by worldly dust.

And yet, in the eyes of certain people, that painting was the most vicious curse in the world—the sharpest blade of all.

Crack.

From the shadows beneath a white-jade corridor dozens of yards from the lawn came an almost imperceptible sound of shattering.

Wu Lingxiao stood silently behind one of the corridor pillars.

She still wore the black-and-gold imperial robes that symbolized supreme imperial authority, their sleeves and hems whipping in the wind.

But her noble, coldly beautiful face—once elevated above all living beings—had twisted into something almost feral.

Both hands were clenched around the white-jade railing. Her fingernails had sunk deep into the hard stone. The faint crack had come from a corner of the thousand-year-old white jade railing being crushed beneath her grip.

Watching Ye Xuan smile at Ying’er, watching the tenderness and adoration in his eyes—the very things Wu Lingxiao had dreamed of obtaining for eight hundred years—she felt as though ten thousand ants were gnawing at her organs.

Jealousy.

A frenzied, irrational jealousy, like a sudden mountain flood, completely drowned out her reason.

“Ye Xuan… you’ve never smiled at me like that…”

Wu Lingxiao screamed silently in her heart. Her eyes were bloodshot, almost shedding tears of blood.

A golden flame clinging to the sleeve of her left arm sensed its master’s overwhelming hatred and savagery. In an instant, it blazed brighter.

“Ugh!”

Wu Lingxiao groaned. Her delicate body shuddered violently.

The flame crept along her flesh, slowly burning toward the depths of her soul, bringing wave after wave of agonizing pain that seemed to tear her apart from within.

Yet she refused to look away. Even as the veins bulged at her temples from the pain, she continued staring fixedly at that blinding scene.

She watched Ye Xuan cheer when the kite soared higher. She watched as he caught Ying’er when she came leaping into his arms.

The two of them laughed as they tumbled together across the grass, their black-and-gold robes and pale-pink skirt tangling together—a sight that stabbed straight into Wu Lingxiao’s soul.

“I am the ruler of this world… You were supposed to be my male consort, my Consort Xuan…”

Wu Lingxiao clenched her teeth. Her lips split beneath her bite, and blood mingled with her tears as it trickled down.

No one knew how much time passed before the wind gradually died down.

Ye Xuan put away the kite, then gently patted Ying’er on the head.

“The spiritual energy in my body still needs to be stabilized. I’m going to the secret chamber in the rear hall to cultivate in seclusion for a few days. You can play here by yourself. If anyone dares provoke you, don’t hold back.”

As he spoke the final sentence, Ye Xuan’s gaze deliberately—or perhaps casually—drifted toward the shadows at the far end of the corridor. A completely undisguised warning flashed in his eyes.

“Go without worry, Husband. Ying’er will wait here obediently.”

Ying’er nodded docilely and reached up to straighten his collar.

Watching Ye Xuan’s back disappear into the formation barrier leading to the secret chamber, the charming innocence and smile on Ying’er’s face gradually faded.

She turned around and slowly walked to a bench nearby. Sitting down, she picked up the cup of spirit tea on the stone table—it had long since gone cold—and gently brushed the fallen leaves from its surface.

“Come out, Sister.” Ying’er’s voice had returned to its usual calm, utterly devoid of emotion. “As the ruler of an entire nation, hiding in the shadows to spy on someone is hardly dignified.”