Chapter 25 (Part 1)

Rong Shang’s face was hidden in the shadows, his eyelashes lowered, veiling the cold ruthlessness in his gaze. His voice was bone-chilling: “Are you Xue Xi’s puppet?”

Though his words were framed as a question, his indifferent tone made it sound like a statement.

Puppets were created by refining the corpses of the dead.

The most common type was the low-level puppet. While the success rate of creating them was high, they lacked independent thought, had no heartbeat, and could only move when controlled by their master nearby.

High-level puppets, however, were rare. Their creation required immense time, effort, and a heavy investment in rare pills and elixirs. Since the success rate was so low, few were willing to waste their resources on crafting them.

A successfully created high-level puppet was almost indistinguishable from a living person, possessing a heartbeat and thoughts of its own. They could operate independently without their master’s proximity, even executing commands from afar.

Clearly, the woman before him, bearing Xue Xi’s form, was a high-level puppet.

An Ning paused her actions, covering her lips as she laughed softly. “So what if I am?”

Her fingers grazed his face, slowly trailing downward. “Even if you survive tonight, within the time it takes to drink a cup of tea, you’ll forget everything that just happened.”

This was the side effect of Wangqing Incense—a precaution to ensure that, even if he didn’t die, her identity wouldn’t be exposed.

Rong Shang squinted his long eyes as a faint dizziness throbbed at his temples. His surroundings began to twist and distort, like a watercolor painting soaked in water, with splashes blurring its original form.

He was the son of the divine race, immune to all poisons. Even toxic wine wouldn’t affect him, let alone ordinary paralytics or Wangqing Incense.

But An Ning’s drug was clearly tailored to his unique constitution.

Knowing so much about his special traits and even having the audacity to retrieve Xue Xi’s corpse to craft a puppet—only his sickly younger brother could have orchestrated this.

After evading him for over a thousand years, had his brother finally lost patience and decided to strike?

Rong Shang raised his eyes to look at An Ning’s neck. Her slender, pale neck seemed so fragile that, with just a slight exertion, he could snap it.

His fingers trembled faintly where they lay on the couch.

Did she, of all people, think she could touch him? Was she even worthy?

As An Ning’s fingers reached toward his waist, a sudden loud bang from outside startled her. She shuddered and instinctively turned her head.

A swaying figure appeared at the doorway, holding a wine jug. Her cheeks were flushed, one leg still poised in a door-kicking stance, and she let out a long, hearty hiccup.

An Ning froze, a trace of malice flashing in her eyes.

No one would interrupt her plans.

It was just a useless wood-spirit weakling. She could kill her and frame the Ghost King for it. With his hands already stained with blood, no one would suspect her.

An Ning stepped down from the couch, drawing a dagger from her waist, and moved slowly toward the door.

This was the first time in years Yu Zhengzheng had drunk alcohol. She disliked the sharp, throat-burning taste of clear liquor—it was too intense for her.

Outside, the scenery was serene. Light rain drizzled, soft music played, and Xiao Yuqing poured her a glass of peach blossom wine.

The atmosphere was so inviting that she couldn’t refuse, so she took a small sip.

But that silky, smooth texture, laced with a faint peachy fragrance, left her hooked after just one taste.

If no one had called her upstairs, she could have drunk the entire boat’s stock of peach blossom wine.

Her vision occasionally blurred, and she vaguely saw a hunched figure approaching her from below.

The figure seemed like a rooster about to take flight but then transformed into a goose craning its neck to attack. Yu Zhengzheng swayed clumsily and dodged its assault with ease.

An Ning frowned deeply as her dagger struck nothing but air. Was this woman drunk or not?

Yu Zhengzheng tilted her head back, took another sip of peach blossom wine, hiccupped, and stumbled inside. “Where are they? Who’s looking for me?”

She spotted a bed behind a curtain. On it lay a shirtless man, and she stopped in her tracks, her lips moistening slightly.

Yu Zhengzheng wiped her mouth. “You… are you a gigolo?”

Hearing her slurred voice, Rong Shang immediately recognized who it was. He exhaled slowly, “Get out—”

Before he could finish, he remembered her flushed face during their conversation and changed his mind. “Come in.”

If she left now, she’d likely be hacked to death by An Ning before making it out.

How much had she drunk to end up in such a state? She couldn’t even run if she tried—utterly useless.

Confused by his mixed instructions, Yu Zhengzheng chuckled foolishly and raised the wine jug. “I get it! You want me to climb on top and take the lead, don’t you?”

Rong Shang: “…”

As An Ning stood behind her, dagger raised high, Rong Shang flexed his fingers slightly. He pinched a bead between his fingers and flicked it outward.

The customized paralytic weakened him but didn’t fully incapacitate him.

Though he had been immobile earlier, now his body was merely heavy and sluggish. In a few moments, he would recover completely.

His throw was weak, only knocking the dagger from An Ning’s hand instead of piercing her wrist.

Despite being a puppet, An Ning could feel pain like a living person. She endured the dull ache in her wrist and swiftly reached to catch the falling dagger.

Yu Zhengzheng, hearing movement behind her, turned instinctively. Her elbow bumped the dagger slightly off course, sending it plummeting toward An Ning’s bare feet.

The blade, sharp enough to slice through iron, landed squarely on An Ning’s foot. Blood gushed from the wound, soaking into the floorboards.

High-level puppets, due to their prolonged immersion in medicinal baths, had heightened sensitivity to pain.

An Ning’s face contorted in agony, her once-gentle demeanor replaced with twisted fury.

Hearing sharp intakes of breath, Yu Zhengzheng finally noticed the woman before her.

Seeing the pool of blood spreading beneath An Ning’s feet, Yu Zhengzheng reached out to support her. “Sis, are you in labor? Why’s there so much blood? Don’t panic—lie down, and I’ll help deliver the baby!”

An Ning tried to shake off her grip, but Yu Zhengzheng’s hand was like an iron clamp, refusing to budge.

Yu Zhengzheng, seeing her uncooperative, sighed and patiently advised, “Childbirth is no joke. You need to spread your legs to give the baby enough room to come out, or you’ll suffocate it!”

As she spoke, she reached out toward An Ning’s foot, prying apart her toes with two fingers. “Sister, push harder! The baby’s head is already out!”

An Ning: “…”

Watching the time slip away, she realized the hour she had agreed upon with her master was approaching. Gritting her teeth, she endured the sharp pain radiating from her foot and reached out to grab Yu Zhengzheng by the neck.

Yu Zhengzheng squawked like a rooster, letting out wave after wave of crowing.

Fearing her cries would attract others, An Ning freed one hand to cover Yu Zhengzheng’s mouth while using the other to pull out the dagger embedded in her foot.

As the dagger was withdrawn, fresh blood poured from the wound, which had just started to clot.

Yu Zhengzheng, ever kindhearted, didn’t hold a grudge about the choking. Seeing An Ning’s bleeding foot, she snatched the dagger back and reinserted it into the original wound, prioritizing saving her over personal grievances.

A muffled groan escaped from An Ning as crystalline tears slid down her smooth cheeks. Her hand curled like a claw, and the searing pain forced her to cry out.

Mimicking An Ning’s earlier action, Yu Zhengzheng clamped her hand over An Ning’s mouth.

She pointed to the person lying shirtless on the bed. “Shh! Keep your voice down, they’re trying to give birth too!”

Rong Shang: “…”

Whether from the pain or being stifled, An Ning couldn’t catch her breath and fainted on the spot.

Rong Shang tested his arm, then sat up unhurriedly. His pale face was now tinged with an unnatural flush.

The sound of his heartbeat was jarring in the silent room, and the boiling heat coursing through his veins felt like a raging inferno rising within him.

The effects of the Forget Love Incense An Ning had used were setting in.

Whenever it rained at night, he would develop a fever. However, this fiery torment was unlike any fever he’d experienced before.

His body had a self-defense mechanism; poisons, like the paralytic toxins often used against him, would dissolve and disappear within his bloodstream.

But the Forget Love Incense wasn’t toxic, leaving him no choice but to endure it.

Rong Shang wasn’t bothered. He could suppress its effects with divine power, even if it meant additional suffering. It wasn’t a big deal.

The trouble lay in the incense’s side effect: temporary amnesia.

Pulling his robe around him, he prepared to twist An Ning’s neck, ensuring there would be no lingering trouble once he forgot what had transpired.

Just as he was about to step off the bed, the sound of hurried footsteps echoed outside.

Judging by the disarray, it seemed several people were approaching.

It was unclear whether the commotion from earlier had attracted them or if An Ning had prearranged for her accomplices to arrive at this time, bringing Xiang Feng and the others.

Hearing Xiang Feng’s anxious voice outside, Rong Shang hesitated. He was about to end An Ning’s life when a sudden flash illuminated the window.

Thunder rolled closer, and the approaching footsteps grew louder. Rong Shang froze for a moment before grabbing Yu Zhengzheng by the back of her collar and leaping out the window with her.

Landing smoothly, he glanced at the woman dangling like a chick in his grasp, a trace of regret crossing his face.

Why had he brought her out in the thunderstorm?

She wouldn’t have died if he’d left her in the room. At most, An Ning might have woken up and framed her, leaving her to bear the brunt of misunderstandings.

Before Rong Shang could think further, someone peeked out of the third-floor window. He ducked into a second-floor storeroom with Yu Zhengzheng.

Listening to the relentless thunder outside, Rong Shang released her collar and slowly sat down, leaning against a wooden crate. His breath was slightly uneven.

He had checked the weather before descending to the mortal realm; there had been no indication of a thunderstorm.

Whether caused by the dragon clan’s rain summoning or the Thunder God and Lightning Mother’s intervention, such acts required the Heavenly Emperor’s decree. While the dragon clan might defy him, the Thunder God and Lightning Mother wouldn’t dare to act without permission.

The sudden storm and lightning were unnerving.

The communication bracelet on Yu Zhengzheng’s wrist lit up. Rong Shang hesitated for a moment before placing his fingertips on the glowing red surface, answering the call.

He remembered clearing out all her contacts, leaving only one—himself.

So, who could be calling her?

Rong Shang moved out of the bracelet’s visible range. A soft light projected onto her head, revealing the face of a man.

There was no candlelight in the cluttered room, only moonlight streaming through the window, allowing the Seventh Prince to discern her outline.

The Seventh Prince was visibly irritated. “Yu Zhengzheng! I went through great lengths to persuade the Thunder God and Lightning Mother to risk punishment for this storm, and here you are, sleeping soundly?”

Yu Zhengzheng, groggy and hugging her knees, stirred at the sound of her name. She lifted her head in confusion and murmured, “Hmm?”

Seeing the drool at the corner of her mouth and the jade flask clutched tightly in her hand, the Seventh Prince turned green with anger. “I told you to drug that old scoundrel! Did you do it or not? You said his divine power would weaken during a thunderstorm—don’t tell me you were lying to me!”

Yu Zhengzheng smacked her lips and shut her eyes again, clearly treating his words as background noise.

The Seventh Prince’s face twisted in frustration. “You don’t even care about my father’s murder! Do you think I’ll still give you the antidote? Just wait to turn into a dead fish!”

With that, he angrily cut the connection.

Rong Shang’s pitch-black eyes fixed on Yu Zhengzheng, who was now sprawled across his lap, smacking her lips in her sleep.

The one capable of convincing the Thunder God and Lightning Mother to act and who bore a grudge against him for killing their father could only be the offspring of the Southern Sea Dragon King.

Rong Shang sneered, his lips curving into a cold smile.

She had told this man everything he had said that night.

No wonder she had been so attentive the past two days—it was all to drug him.

Yu Zhengzheng, indeed.

As divine power drained from his body, Rong Shang struggled to lift his arm. Frost crystals formed between the gaps of his eyelashes.

Though his body burned as if consumed by fire, a thin layer of frost coated his skin. It was as if thousands of ants gnawed at his bones, the biting cold slicing into his flesh like icy blades.

The scene before his eyes began to distort, but Rong Shang stubbornly reached out, his cold palm covering her slender neck.

She did not turn to ashes.

Staring blankly at his hand, it took him a long moment to realize—his divine power had just been drained.

No living creature could bear the blessing of a god, but only if he still had his divine power.

Perhaps sensing the cold touch on the back of her neck, Yu Zhengzheng slowly opened her eyes and pulled his hand away.

Her palm was warm, and even his ice-cold hand absorbed a hint of that warmth.

Every time it rained, he would lose his divine power entirely.

At those times, he would always seek solitude, enduring it alone.

He never knew that, without divine power, he could touch living beings.

Nor had he realized that a woman’s hand could feel so soft and delicate.

Rong Shang gently squeezed her small hand. Her drowsy eyes looked at him, shimmering with unshed tears. “Who… who are you?”

He had no strength to reply and could only gaze at her.

Lightning split the sky, its silver-blue tendrils spreading like branches in the gloomy heavens.

The thunder was deafening. Instinctively, she leaned closer, nestling her head against his chest. “Are you… the cowherd?”

It was the second time he had heard that word, cowherd. He knew the legend—the cowherd and weaver girl meeting once a year on the Magpie Bridge. He had even glimpsed their rendezvous before.

But why did she call him a cowherd?

Was it because… she wanted to be the weaver girl?

Lacking the energy to clarify, Rong Shang gave a faint hum in response.

Yu Zhengzheng chuckled, raised the wine flask in her hand, and took a sip. “This is my first time hiring a man. How much for the night?”

Rong Shang: “…”

When he didn’t answer, she pressed further, unwilling to let it go. “What, are you mad now?”

She murmured under her breath, “I didn’t expect someone so plain-looking to have such a strong ego.”

Rong Shang mulled over her words, tasting the syllables in his mouth. “Hiring?”

There was a trace of cold arrogance in his voice, and she caught on immediately. “If you don’t like being hired, how about this—I sleep with you for free, no payment involved. Then it doesn’t count as hiring, right?”

Rong Shang: “…”

Were it not for his loss of divine power, were it not for the debilitating weakness coursing through him, he swore he would have snapped her neck.

Perhaps the effects of the love-withering incense had fully taken hold. His thoughts became foggy, and his recent memories began to blur.

An Ning… An Ning… he must not forget her.

He tightened his grip on her hand and spoke in fragmented gasps. “An Ning… is a puppet. Remember, she is a puppet.”

Yu Zhengzheng, not hearing clearly, brought her face closer to his lips. “What did you say?”

Rong Shang, frustrated but patient, repeated, “You must…” remember.

Before he could finish, she tilted her head and lightly pressed her lips to his.

The soft warmth was cool and sweet.

It felt like the flavor of peach milk pudding—gentle, tender, and lingering.

The kiss was brief, like a dragonfly skimming the water, gone in an instant.

He stared, dazed, as though it had all been a mirage.

His lips still held a trace of her warmth. The heat in his blood seemed to boil even hotter, his breathing uneven, and a faint blush crept across his pale face.

Rong Shang asked, “Why did you kiss me?”

He even forgot to use his usual formal tone, urgency tinging his voice as he awaited her answer.

The moonlight painted her features in a soft glow, making her appear innocent and serene. She blinked and said, “You told me to.”

Rong Shang: “…”

What he had meant to say was to remember that An Ning was a puppet.

But all she caught were the words you must.

He loathed others touching him. Even a brush against his sleeve could churn his stomach for hours—a trauma that stemmed entirely from his father, the despicable Third Prince of the Eastern Emperor.

To save his concubine’s unborn child, the Third Prince had scoured the land for dragon marrow, going so far as to trade his legitimate wife, the goddess, to other men.

From young, virile dragons to bald, potbellied men and even frail, elderly seniors, the goddess—once the unreachable moon on water and the unparalleled daughter of heaven—was reduced to a commodity.

He had watched as his mother, the embodiment of pride and grace, humiliated herself to please those men, sacrificing her dignity and even her maternal instincts to cling to the Third Prince’s affection.

When the concubine’s labor approached, and the Third Prince discovered the High Priest possessed dragon marrow capable of ensuring a safe delivery, he offered up his son, locking him in an iron cage and sending him to the priest overnight.