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It had all begun in Ghost City.
A fetus spirit—once captured by Xie Lian and Hua Cheng and sealed within an inescapable jar—had somehow vanished. Left unattended for only a short time, it had been stolen from Paradise Manor by a ghost woman named Lan Chang. When Xie Lian confronted her, the truth surfaced: she was the child’s mother.
What caught Xie Lian’s eye was the golden belt fastened at her waist—an unmistakable item issued exclusively to Heavenly Officials. The craftsmanship was distinct, and such a thing could not be acquired through ordinary means. When asked directly about the child’s father, Lan Chang only replied, vaguely, “Who else could it be?”
Xie Lian, aware of the reputations that haunted certain officials like shadows, had made a quiet judgment. Pei Ming—known far and wide for his entanglements with women—seemed the most likely candidate. The matter was too grave to ignore. Xie Lian brought it before the Heavenly Court, in the presence of the Heavenly Emperor Jun Wu himself, the truth was expected to surface.
But when Xie Lian pressed her again for a clear answer, what he received in return only deepened the confusion.
Lan Chang turned her eyes on him. Her stare did not waver.
“You,” she said.
For a moment, he thought she hadn’t finished speaking. “What about me?”
But no. That was it. And somehow, it struck harder than if she’d said, ‘You killed me.’
Xie Lian’s breath caught. “Me?!”
Above them, Jun Wu sat motionless on the throne, his hand braced against his forehead. For a beat, his posture seemed to falter—but just as quickly, he recovered. The court fell into brief silence.
Then, one by one, all turned to look at him.
And then—back to Xie Lian.
Above them, Jun Wu, still seated on the throne, his hand supporting his forehead, seemed to falter. The officials fell into a brief silence—then, all turned to look at him. Jun Wu’s hand slowly returned to its original position, maintaining the same thoughtful pose. Then, all eyes turned to Xie Lian once more.
Was it truly happening? Was this the third time His Highness the Crown Prince of Xianle would be demoted, before the eyes of the entire court?
Xie Lian’s heart trembled, as if heaven and earth shifted beneath his feet.
The words “I can’t lift it” rose instinctively to his lips, but he swallowed them down. That excuse was far too flimsy—he couldn’t use it again now.
Besides, among the heavenly realm, there circulated a half-joking classification of the Martial Gods’ attitudes toward women
Feng Xin avoided women like the plague.
Lang Qianqiu turned bright red if one so much as waved.
Mu Qing only glanced at those who met his high standards.
Pei Su was a mystery.
Quan Yizhen seemed to never think about them.
Pei Ming, of course, was entirely composed of thoughts of women.
If he said anything foolish now, he might well be added to that list in the future.
So Xie Lian bowed slightly and said, with as much grace as he could manage, “Miss Lan Chang, please compose yourself. What you’re suggesting… is not true.”
Her eyes widened, bright as polished bronze bells. “It was you! His Highness the Crown Prince of Xianle!”
“…”
Although the time of her death had come after his ascension, the timeline could be made to align. Even so, whether he’d met her or not, Xie Lian knew himself: something like this had no right to have taken place.
Whispers began to stir all around the hall.
Xie Lian steadied his breath and said gravely, “Miss, I am not a saint. But I know myself. If I do not love someone, I would never allow myself such entanglement. And if I do—then even if I had to pawn pots and pans, scavenge from the streets, perform in the public square to survive—I would never let that person suffer even the smallest grievance. This is the Divine Martial Hall. Please do not speak recklessly.”
Shi Qingxuan, fan snapping open, stepped in quickly. “If His Highness were the culprit, why would he bring her here himself? And why only now would this ghost recognize him? Something’s not adding up.”
It didn’t matter. Logic had already left the room. Clearly, something was off. But when there was a good show to be watched, no one cared whether it made sense. The hall remained charged with suppressed laughter and speculative whispers hummed like flies over sugar.
“…Maybe he lost his memory?” someone whispered. “Doesn’t remember what he did?”
“Wouldn’t be the wildest thing,” another muttered. “Maybe he’s just bold enough to assume no one would recognize him after eight hundred years.”
Xie Lian remained quiet for a breath, then said, evenly, “Fabricating one impossible thing to justify another even more impossible thing—isn’t that line of thinking a dangerous habit?”
Off to the side, Feng Xin looked as though he wanted to speak—but didn’t. He glanced down instead.
Then Jun Wu cleared his throat. “Xianle, back then… how many golden belts did you own?”
Xie Lian rubbed his brow, weary. “Too many. At least ten…”
Mu Qing added coolly, “More than forty. Each with a different pattern.”
The moment the words left his mouth, he hesitated. It was too precise. Everyone recalled then that Mu Qing had once been Xie Lian’s personal attendant, responsible for his daily affairs—of course he would know such details.
Forty golden belts. Truly extravagant. Even Xie Lian flushed with shame. Back then, he changed into a different set of ornate clothes every day, his belts matched meticulously to his robes. Whereas now… he rotated the same three sets throughout the year. All identical. Anyone looking at him might think he owned only one.
Jun Wu’s voice was light. “Do you remember where you placed them?”
Xie Lian and Feng Xin both paused.
“Not quite… It’s been eight hundred years,” Xie Lian said at last, coughing lightly. “I naturally don’t remember.”
But it wasn’t just the passage of time. During those years of hardship, he and Feng Xin had pawned countless possessions. —clothes, trinkets, heirlooms. Countless things lost to survival. Who could say whether one of those belts had vanished along the way?
Feng Xin clearly also unwilling to speak of it any further muttered reluctantly, “That belt might not have been given. It could’ve simply been picked up.”
Jun Wu didn’t seem to expect an answer. He only said, “Xianle, if I recall, the cultivation technique you practice requires the body to remain pure. Otherwise, your spiritual power would decline.”
“That’s correct,” Xie Lian said.
Shi Qingxuan snapped his fan shut in triumph. “I knew it! The moment I saw Your Highness I thought, he must cultivate that kind of technique. Makes sense! Honestly, probably hasn’t even held hands with anyone!”
Xie Lian opened his mouth, ready to confirm when a memory suddenly flashed before his eyes.
A pale hand, cold as jade, extended from beneath a red wedding veil. The third finger wrapped with a red thread.
The word caught in his throat.
Everyone in the hall looked at him. Just one glance and they all understood: That silence means no.
But “never held hands” was setting the bar too low. Even if he had, what of it
Shi Qingxuan waved his fan frantically. “Alright, maybe hand-holding happened. But I doubt as much as kissing did.”
Xie Lian inhaled—but this time, another memory surfaced.
Beads of crystal-like mist floating in the air, a scattering of light—behind it, an exquisitely handsome face, eyes closed, a delicate red mark on a flawless neck. Lips brushing, feather-light.
Once again—he said nothing.
“…Your Highness?” Shi Qingxuan ventured.
“…”
Dry coughs echoed awkwardly through the hall.
Shi Qingxuan leaned closer and whispered, mortified, “Your highness I’m so sorry. I really thought you were the pure-and-abstinent type. I just wanted to defend your honor. I didn’t expect—you weren’t. It’s completely my bad!”
That sentence—“I didn’t expect you weren’t”—was the final blow. Xie Lian, utterly defeated, replied weakly, “It’s alright just please no more… “
Jun Wu closed his hand into a fist and coughed even harder behind it. “That’s fine. Over all these years… you haven’t broken your vows, have you?”
However he continued before Xie Lian could respond. His voice was calm, yet every word struck like iron against stone.
“I have a sword here—its name is Yan Zhen. It possesses a peculiar trait. When the blood of a virgin falls upon it, it leaves no trace. The more it is washed, the brighter it shines. One drop will suffice to reveal the truth.”
With a flick of his fingers, a long, somber sword appeared midair. It hummed softly, then embedded itself upright in the center of the hall.
The atmosphere tightened, drawn taut like a bowstring. Even the air itself dared not stir.
Xie Lian did not move.
The silence pressed down upon the assembly like snowfall—beautiful and suffocating. Then, with a flutter and snap, Shi Qingxuan opened his fan. “Heaven’s got… some rather specific instruments,” he muttered, attempting levity. But even his voice carried the tension of restrained breath.
Jun Wu sat high upon the throne, gaze steady and inscrutable. “Xianle,” he said, “step forward.”
Xie Lian’s thoughts couldn’t help but ran through his head.
In a flash, his mind conjured a memory: pale fingers—cool as moonlight—trailing across his skin. A breath at the shell of his ear, the scent of red lotus petals blooming in the dark. Silk curtains veiling crimson shadows. A quiet night filled with pleasure and comfort.
But now was not the time for that.
He moved forward. His steps were light, his robes barely whispering against the floor, but there was something too careful in each motion—like a dancer tracing the edge of a blade.
He came to a halt a few steps before the sword. His gaze dropped.
Then, after a deep breath—he said, “…I am not certain I qualify to this trial.”
A ripple passed through the crowd like wind through a field of glass.
“…What?”
Shi Wudu’s voice rang out, hard with disbelief. “What do you mean not certain? That’s not something one forgets.”
Xie Lian looked at the other official “I mean I do not know if the sword would deem me… clean.”
The words hung in the air, fragile and unrelenting.
Mu Qing’s expression darkened. “You don’t know?”
“You either did it or not!” Pei Ming said with a stunned laugh, half-amused, half-disbelieving. “This isn’t poetry. It’s a sword.”
“There are… forms of intimacy,” Xie Lian said, his tone composed but distant. “Lines that blur. I never believed I would be in a position where the distinction mattered.”
Mu Qing just mumbled. “You can’t just stumble over a vow and expect Heaven to interpret nuance.”
From the side, Feng Xin asked quietly, “Your Highness… is there something we should know?”
But Xie Lian only turned his gaze to the sword. “Nothing that would offer clarity.”
The silence was oppressive.
Shi Qingxuan flapped his fan nervously. “Maybe he means he doesn’t know how the sword defines it. I mean, let’s be real, Heaven’s standards are probably based on some ancient weirdo’s idea of ‘purity.’ Could mean anything.”
“Exactly,” Xie Lian thought to himself.
Shi Wudu’s voice was colder now. “So are you saying you didn’t break your vow—or that you did, and hope the sword won’t notice?”
“I’m saying that I’ve made peace with what I’ve done. But I cannot be too sure.”Xie Lian answered
Pei Ming pushed on, a curious glint in his eye. “If there’s a particular reason you think you might… not qualify, wouldn’t it be easier to just say so? Save us all the drama.”
Shi Qingxuan rolled his eyes. “Why do you care so much?”
“I don’t,” Pei Ming said frankly. “But someone implied they might have slept with someone and didn’t stop to check the fine print, and I just—I need a moment.”
Ming Yi snorted.
Jun Wu’s voice cut through the murmurs like a blade. “Enough.”
He descended the throne slowly, each footstep soundless.
“If you doubt your purity, then let the sword reveal the truth.”
“I do not doubt it,” Xie Lian said quickly—and then more softly, “I simply do not presume to know Heaven’s judgment.”
His voice had cooled, like a mountain spring buried beneath frost. Steady. Clear.
Jun Wu regarded him for a long moment. “Will you undergo this trial?”
Xie Lian nodded.
“I will.”
The tension in the hall sharpened to a fine point.
He approached the sword.
Time seemed to stretch thin. The Great Martial Hall, so often filled with golden light and idle chatter, now held only silence. Even the air was hushed.
Xie Lian drew a slender blade from his sleeve. A ceremonial dagger—fine, but unassuming. With practiced precision, he turned it in his hand.
Jun Wu spoke again, softly. “Just a drop.”
Xie Lian nodded. His face did not change as he pricked the tip of his finger.
A single bead of blood welled—ruby-bright under the divine light.
He let it fall.
The droplet struck Yan Zhen with a soft chime, like a bell heard in a dream.
Then—
Nothing.
The blood vanished as if it had never been. The sword gleamed brighter, pure and unmarred.
A murmur swept through the crowd, hushed and reverent. The result was clear.
The blade had accepted him.
“…That’s it?” Shi Qingxuan whispered. “He passed?”
Jun Wu did not speak. He only gazed at the sword.
Pei Ming exhaled a stunned laugh. “I’ll be damned.”
“No need,” Shi Qingxuan murmured. “He’s fine.”
Feng Xin looked stricken—like a man who had been bracing for battle, only to find no enemy waiting. Mu Qing’s expression was unreadable, but his gaze remained fixed on the sword.
Xie Lian remained still. He looked down at the blade for a long moment, then calmly rewrapped his finger.
He turned toward the dais once more. His face betrayed nothing—neither relief nor victory. Only silence.
Jun Wu met his gaze. “The sword says you are untouched.”
Still, Xie Lian said nothing.
Jun Wu’s eyes narrowed faintly. “And yet, you doubted.”
“I only doubted the sword’s standard,” Xie Lian replied.
The words were soft—but in that moment, they were louder than thunder.
Pei Ming gave a low whistle. “Interpreting vows your own way, huh?”
Mu Qing spoke sharply. “So that’s it? He passed, and the rest is forgotten?”
Feng Xin shifted, jaw tight. “…Then she was lying.”
“Or mistaken,” Xie Lian murmured.
Voices rose—soft, speculative.
“But the sword—”
“Could he have hidden it?”
Pei Ming muttered to Shi Wudu, “I swear, if the other party turns out to be some mountain ghost with a loophole, I’ll never recover.”
Shi Qingxuan who stood nearby elbowed him in the ribs. “Shut up.”
Jun Wu raised a hand.
The murmuring ceased instantly.
“The trial is concluded,” he said. “This matter is closed.”
The words fell like the tolling of a temple bell—final and immovable.
Xie Lian bowed low. When he rose, he cast a single glance toward the farthest edge of the hall.
No one stood there.
And yet something lingered.
Red, like fire behind silk.
And then, without another word, he turned around and went back to question Lan Chang. Behind him, the sword still gleamed—bright, and silent.