Chapter 7: Crack!

Qin Miaoyan’s eldest disciple, Qin Hongfei, was a beggar she picked up sixteen years ago during a casual trip to the Western Neighbor Imperial City for amusement.

He was the illegitimate son of the Gong Family Head—a cultivation clan stationed in the Western Neighbor—who had slept with a boat prostitute. The son of a whore was considered lower than a dog, and even though his innate talent was decent among the clan, he was still despised by the entire family.

He worked diligently until the age of thirty, even marrying and having two lovely children.

But once, while handling affairs for the Gong Family, he offended a member of the Western Neighbor royalty, who happened to have deep vested interests with the Gong Family Head. At the time, Qin Hongfei—then known as Gong Hongfei—was already under the family head’s scrutiny.

Though born to a boat prostitute, he was filled with unyielding pride. To climb the ranks, he had inevitably made enemies within the family.

Those self-righteous branches of the Gong Family, who prided themselves on their pure bloodline, had long resented a prostitute’s son lording over them. So when he stumbled, they all pushed him down. Taking advantage of that single mistake, they pinned countless false charges on him.

The Gong Family crushed his Spirit Repository, forcibly stripped his Spirit Root, gouged out his eyes, and deafened his ears—all under the pretense of preventing their mystical manuals from leaking outside.

His wife was violated to death by a branch member, and his son and daughter were strangled alive.

When Qin Miaoyan found him, he was begging on the streets, utterly wretched, being mauled by stray dogs, with anyone free to kick him at will.

Qin Miaoyan had never been particularly kind-hearted, but at that moment, she saw how, despite being tortured to such a state, he clung stubbornly to life. Every inch of him radiated an unquenchable thirst for survival.

His hollow, skeletal eye sockets, devoid of eyeballs, seemed instead to burn with two undying soul-flames.

Observing him for two days from a teahouse by the street, Qin Miaoyan noted his extraordinary tenacity—perfect for becoming a puppet. So she took him back to Nether Valley.

She restored his eyes, gave him back his senses, reconstructed his appearance, and reconnected his severed meridians.

When she asked if he was willing to follow and obey her, Qin Hongfei agreed almost without hesitation.

Qin Miaoyan made almost no demands of him, treating him merely as a pet for amusement.

But Qin Hongfei’s hatred never died. In the end, he couldn’t resign himself to living as a plaything meant to please others.

After the elders left the main hall, Qin Miaoyan walked into a side chamber. She stood there briefly, waiting, and soon Qin Hongfei followed.

She glanced back at him, then suddenly raised her hand and seized his throat. Almost instantly, cracking sounds came from his neck.

He grabbed her arm, but Qin Miaoyan remained expressionless, watching as his handsome face twisted from suffocation and the draining of his cultivation, turning from pale to ashen.

“Mas… Master!” Qin Hongfei barely managed to choke out the words, his expression pleading.

Yet Qin Miaoyan kept her grip, her robes billowing from the raging spirit power around her, appearing to be in a furious rage.

In truth, she sighed as she watched her eldest disciple on the brink of death, her tone almost mocking: “What, feeling lonely lately? Using your master to satisfy yourself?”

She was referring to how Qin Hongfei had teased her palm in the main hall earlier.

After a moment, as if bored, she released him.

Qin Hongfei had most of his cultivation drained, collapsing to the ground like a broken marionette with its strings cut.  

Qin Miaoyan looked down at him and said, “If you’re so unbearably itchy, go find a tree to rub against.”  

She crouched beside him, watching as he gasped for breath on the verge of death, her fingers trailing over his cheek. “I truly don’t understand you,” she mused. “That first time I took you, you acted as if I were forcing a chaste maiden into prostitution.”  

“You said you had vengeance to fulfill, that your wife and child died tragically, that you couldn’t sleep at night—that you couldn’t be my little pet. Out of fondness for this face of yours, I indulged you.”  

“Then you said you had nowhere to go, that you wanted to borrow my influence. I agreed again, letting you become my disciple.”  

“You’ve performed well these years,” Qin Miaoyan continued. “I had already accepted you as my disciple. So why, pray tell, are you acting so shamelessly now, begging to be fucked?”  

She pinched his cheek, staring into his trembling eyes. “You have many schemes—I know this. But if you dare waste them on me like this again, I’ll send you back to the Gong family and let them reunite you with your wife and child.”  

Her tone was sweet, yet her words were utterly cruel.  

After a moment, she stood, dusted off her robes, stepped over Qin Hongfei’s limp fingers, and walked away.  

She didn’t understand men—nor did she ever intend to.  

Qin Hongfei’s appearance was one Qin Miaoyan rather admired—stern and upright, yet not overly rigid, with a subtle allure lingering in the corners of his eyes and brows.  

After reshaping his body, she had genuinely grown fond of him, intending to keep him by her side for a while. With just a flick of her fingers, she could have avenged him.  

But Qin Hongfei was always so reluctant, always acting as if he were being coerced. The first few times had been amusing, but over time, it grew tedious.  

Besides, she wasn’t lacking in toys. Still, Qin Hongfei was someone she had personally saved and painstakingly remade, so she had granted his request and taken him as her disciple.  

Over the years, though his cultivation hadn’t improved much, he had helped her manage Nether Valley quite well. Who could have guessed what madness had seized him tonight?  

After Qin Miaoyan left, Qin Hongfei remained on the ground, unable to rise.  

Many of his meridians had been reconstructed by Qin Miaoyan using puppet silk. In truth, he was no different from her puppet—except she had never controlled him.  

Having his cultivation stripped away was already a severe punishment. For now, at least, Qin Hongfei would be unable to wield his power freely.  

Gasping weakly on the ground, his eyes still fixed on the direction Qin Miaoyan had left, filled with resentment.  

“Are you tired of living?”  

A figure emerged from the side door of the chamber, approaching Qin Hongfei with a puzzled expression. “Senior Brother, why must you torment yourself like this?”  

The speaker was none other than Qin Miaoyan’s second disciple, Qin Wenyan.  

With delicate features and a refined demeanor, he looked less like a cultivator and more like a scholar.  

But Qin Wenyan only appeared normal on the surface—after all, how could any disciple of Qin Miaoyan’s be truly normal?  

Watching his senior brother sprawled helplessly on the ground, his expression remained indifferent, showing no intention of helping him up.  

Qin Wenyan was born devoid of emotions and incapable of feeling pain—a complete monster. His visit was driven by nothing more than curiosity.  

Qin Hongfei glanced at him and let out a hoarse, bitter laugh. “Shizun still cares about me.”

After speaking, he closed his eyes, no longer having the strength to rise again.

Qin Wenyan, puzzled, soon left as well, leaving Qin Hongfei lying alone in the cold side chamber.

Meanwhile, the “culprit” Qin Miaoyan had already returned to her bedchamber.

Her mood had already been foul, and she couldn’t fathom why her perfectly fine senior disciple had suddenly gone mad.

But the moment she stepped into her bedchamber and saw a muscular man clad only in undergarments sitting by her bed, who turned to reveal a face identical to that of her former lover, Qin Miaoyan’s spirits instantly lifted.

“Why aren’t you wearing clothes?” Qin Miaoyan’s tone lightened as her gaze lingered on Li Fuguang’s bare back.

For a cultivator, such flawless skin—unmarred even by insect bites—clearly required pampered care unless deliberately maintained with Youth Preserving Pills.

Qin Miaoyan couldn’t help but wonder: just which pampered young master had this boy sneaked away from?

Admittedly, compared to someone like Qin Hongfei, who bore the weight of the world on his shoulders, this kind of “precious porcelain” that made one itch to break was far more entertaining to shatter.

Her fingers twitched with anticipation as she stepped forward to take advantage—after all, he was the one who had stripped down to almost nothing.

“You…” Qin Miaoyan’s voice caught in her throat.

A moment later, she glared at Li Fuguang, watching as her Cloud Silk bedsheet—now reduced to tatters under his hands—continued to tear with a loud *rip*. Her voice rose sharply: “What are you doing?!”

Li Fuguang turned his head and flashed her a dazzling smile, his deep cheek dimples almost mocking in their cheerfulness.

“You’re back.”

“I’m making myself some clothes. The Silk of the Merfolk is too precious, so I decided not to wear it.”

“Xiao Chun said there aren’t any other clothes here,” Li Fuguang explained. “See, I’m really good at this. I used to make clothes out of leaves when I was little.”

“Though this sheet is a bit hard to tear…”

*Rip!*

Qin Miaoyan stood by the bed, staring at the Cloud Silk bedsheet—woven by merfolk after decades of gathering silk from Cloudsilk Worms she had raised for centuries. Not only did it self-clean and purify impurities from her Meridians, but lying on it felt like drifting among clouds, ensuring sweet dreams. Now, she felt a surge of blood rushing up her neck, threatening to burst through her skull.

Clutching the back of her neck, she stared numbly at Li Fuguang, who was still ripping the fabric apart, and asked, “Why did you have to pick *this* to make clothes?”

“Ah, the other patterns were too pretty. I was afraid they’d be too valuable. This gray sheet I slept on seemed fine,” Li Fuguang replied, scratching his head with an earnestness that clashed with his handsome features.

Qin Miaoyan roared, “But it’s worth *millions* times more than the Silk of the Merfolk—more than all the other fabrics in this room combined!”

Li Fuguang froze mid-tear, his eyes widening.

Qin Miaoyan smiled at him, though the expression was chilling.

“You’re really something. That was my *only* Cloud Silk bedsheet.”

She snatched the torn strips from his hands, looking down in despair.

She had grown so accustomed to sleeping on it that she didn’t know how she’d manage without it.

She had always indulged in the finest luxuries, living extravagantly. She had clawed her way to her current position precisely to do as she pleased—to exhaust every means to ensure her own happiness.

She wasn’t the kind of cultivator who meditated until dawn. Without even a Heart of the Dao, she *needed* her sleep.

In the five hundred years of her past life, many memories were etched deep into her soul. Even now, having reached the pinnacle of her power, she couldn’t avoid being trapped in them when midnight dreams returned.

Thus, she went to great lengths to seek out nearly extinct Cloudsilk Worms in a Secret Realm—creatures capable of weaving beautiful dreams.

She painstakingly raised two of them, waiting over a hundred years just for them to spin their silk.

Qin Miaoyan’s hands trembled slightly as she held the torn strips of fabric.

Cloud Silk was perfect in every way—except for one fatal flaw: it wasn’t durable.

But Qin Miaoyan never could have imagined that her Cloud Silk wasn’t ruined from being slept on—it was torn apart by some ignorant little brat who didn’t know his place.

She wanted to kill someone!