057 The Pain of Memory (5)

Ling Ji gazed at Fengming’s tall and solitary figure. He stood before her, yet it was as though he were at the very end of another time and space. So close, yet separated by countless cycles of reincarnation. An ominous premonition enveloped Ling Ji’s heart, weaving a dense, impenetrable net that left her teetering on the brink of despair and helplessness—a single misstep, and there would be no return.

She looked on in confusion as Fengming stepped, one foot after another, toward the Netherfire. She watched the figure who had supported her with his own strength, wishing, so desperately, that all this was but an illusion, a product of her own imagination. If only, upon waking, they would be back in the mortal realm, or perhaps in some untouched, peaceful paradise, where only their entwined shadows became one beneath the gentle moonlight.

Yet the cruel reality reminded her that danger had never truly left them—not once. The Guardian had not acted, but always lurked, eyes gleaming with predatory intent, ready to strike a fatal blow at any moment.

A glint flickered in Ling Ji’s eyes. Now was not the time for confusion. Perhaps this was the darkest moment before success; once they crossed it, the dawn would await them. She could not allow any lapse at this critical juncture. Her eyes remained fixed on the Guardian, observing his every subtle movement.

Fengming felt like ice suspended above blazing flames—no matter how he struggled, he could not escape the fate that awaited him. Step by step, he advanced toward the Netherfire, toward the abyss of darkness.

The Guardian did not move, but his gaze never left Fengming’s path. The tiny, sentient spark on his shoulder flickered restlessly, its light growing ever brighter, thin silver rays rippling outward like waves, circle after circle, drawing ever closer to the Netherfire. Closer to Fengming.

And then, just as Fengming was about to brush past the Guardian, in that fleeting moment when their gazes met, and as Fengming reached for the Netherfire—

The Guardian suddenly struck. His fingers curled, and a bolt of light, swift as lightning, cleaved toward Fengming, its power so fierce it seemed poised to shatter him in an instant.

The little spark moved as well, fusing with the Netherfire at an even faster speed. Instantly, the Netherfire flared with an even more dazzling brilliance.

Ling Ji, who had watched the Guardian with unwavering focus, acted too. In the instant the Guardian’s fingers twitched, she threw herself between them at the highest speed, blocking the deadly strike with all her strength.

As Ling Ji intercepted the Guardian, Fengming lunged for the Netherfire with a speed he’d never reached before.

It was a silent understanding between Fengming and Ling Ji—no words, only the language of their hearts, known to them alone. From the moment Fengming began his approach to the Netherfire, he knew that though the Guardian had not acted, he would never simply stand by. He would strike at the moment he deemed most fatal.

Fengming entrusted his back to Ling Ji, focusing all his strength on withstanding the force of the Netherfire.

And as their gazes crossed, the Guardian indeed made his move. Fengming felt the killing intent searing into his back; despite Ling Ji’s desperate defense, his back suffered a grievous wound.

He could not turn to look at Ling Ji, struggling behind him. He could only seize this precious moment. But, in that instant, a flash of even swifter light swept before his eyes, merging with the Netherfire. The Netherfire blazed with a radiance more dazzling than ever, its chilling flames piercing his body.

Suppressing the pain, Fengming at last reached out to touch the Netherfire. This time, he was not flung into the air. This time, he was enveloped by the Netherfire’s frigid flames. The fire slid through his palm like fish through water—he reached, he lifted, but nothing remained in his grasp.

How could he obtain the Netherfire? Immersed in it, he found no answer. How could he bring this expanse of Netherfire back to the mortal realm? The merciless flames pierced his flesh, and he felt his body changing. His divine core had begun to shatter.

Agony crashed over him.

Surrounded by the Netherfire, he sensed something watching him—a sensation so familiar. Looking closer, he found the miraculous little spark. Its glow reminded him of that strange light from earlier—could it have been this spark?

The little spark hovered at the very heart of the Netherfire. No matter how bright the surrounding flames, they could not eclipse its brilliance. With its appearance, the Netherfire began to change. In that moment, the little spark exuded the aura of a sovereign, commanding all within its empire.

Fengming struggled toward the tiny flame. It had to be the key.

A distance of only a few steps felt like crossing an entire lifetime. Each step was agony, but at last, he stood before the little spark.

He reached out.

He stopped.

He froze.

He became a statue, his form fixed in that instant—everything was changed.

His robe, already soaked in blood, shone with a ghastly hue, as if the fire of his soul blazed one final time. Droplets of blood clung to the hem, suspended, never falling—caught, too, in that moment outside of time.

Ling Ji strained with all her might to hold the Guardian at bay. She did not look to Fengming; though she could resist the Guardian for a time, her strength waned with every breath. Still, she did not give in. With every moment she endured, their chances of success grew. She had never touched the Netherfire, but she knew it would be even more perilous.

She heard no sound from Fengming. He was not, as in the two attempts before, flung away at the first touch of the Netherfire. The absence of any disturbance meant—perhaps, after two failures, he had finally found the way. Hope swelled in Ling Ji’s heart. She longed for the moment she could turn and see him return triumphant.

Her strength faded further. She could no longer withstand the Guardian. He, on the other hand, seemed untouched. With a casual wave of his hand, Ling Ji was struck heavily to the ground. She saw the Guardian’s fingers curl, as they had when he struck Fengming.

Ling Ji saw her fate. The attack she had barely blocked before, she could not possibly survive now.

But in that instant, the Guardian suddenly stilled, his gaze shifting to something behind Ling Ji.

Ling Ji did not know what was happening. Behind her… what was there?

The Guardian’s odd behavior gave Ling Ji a final reprieve. She escaped danger, turned—and saw.

In that moment, the world was drained of all color—unspeakable despair, indescribable sorrow. Ling Ji wished she had fallen to the Guardian’s attack, so she would not have to witness what lay before her, to bear a pain deeper than life itself. This scene would be etched in her memory for all eternity, inerasable even at the end of her days.

Only now did she understand why there had been no sound from Fengming, why she had heard nothing, why his eyes had held that complexity she could not decipher. He had long since made his decision. She could only hope it was all a hallucination. Yes, it must be an illusion. Ling Ji closed her eyes, telling herself, “When you open your eyes again, everything will be better, everything will be all right.” But when she opened her eyes once more, she could no longer hold back her tears. They ran down her cheeks—drops of blood.

A heartrending scream tore through the barrier, piercing the heavens. In an instant, white robes were drenched in crimson.

Scarlet blood; an eternal wound.

Even the Guardian’s icy face betrayed a trace of emotion. That such a thing could happen, that Fengming would give up everything for her—body and soul annihilated, trading the shattering of his divine core for the Netherfire. The power of Phoenix blood alone withstood the Netherfire’s chill. The scene before him made him forget his duty, brought all his actions to a halt.

Ling Ji dashed forward, desperate to reach Fengming’s side. In that moment, she forgot everything—her responsibilities, their purpose for coming—her mind held only one thought: “Save him. Whatever it takes, even if it costs me everything.”

As she rushed toward him, the figure within the Netherfire, now insubstantial, his divine core already shattered, slowly turned. His form was so tenuous, it seemed he might vanish at any moment, a wisp of wind scattering him to dust.

Fengming held himself together by sheer force of will.

He looked at Ling Ji, a faint smile on his lips. In that smile there was no pain, no sorrow—only unwavering resolve, and a final serenity. With his eyes, he forbade Ling Ji’s reckless rush. Too high a price had already been paid—was everything to be rendered meaningless?

Ling Ji, as if unaware, continued forward. Her only thought: “Hold his hand. Hold his hand.” If she missed this chance, she might never again feel the gentle strength of his grasp.

“Ling Ji!”

Fengming called out. One sacrifice was enough—must Ling Ji suffer the same fate?

Ling Ji halted in agony. “No. We don’t need the Netherfire. We don’t need anything. Let’s leave together. Let’s go, together…”

Fengming shook his head gently. He could not leave now. A brilliant light shone in his hand—he had finally succeeded in obtaining the Netherfire, a single flame that had absorbed the essence of the Netherworld for tens of thousands of years. Once merged with the Sacred Earthly Fire, it would be enough to alter the very climate of the mortal world.

Yet this solitary spark became Ling Ji’s eternal torment. Never before had she hated the Netherworld so deeply, nor everything and everyone within it—even the Celestial Realm. If only they had not stood by, if only they had offered more support, things would never have come to this.

Why had she chosen to come to the Netherworld? Why had she believed he could seize the Netherfire? Why had she not stopped him? So this was the price for the Netherfire—if he was lost to her, what meaning could such a victory possibly have?