Tai He gazed at her quietly. She couldn’t read his expression—it seemed sorrowful, but there was also a sense of finality in his eyes, a look she had never seen from him before.
"I used to hate you. But the Ji Tan Yin who could still create things—that’s the real Ji Tan Yin," Tai He said softly. Then, suddenly, he turned and left. “Goodbye, Tan Yin.”
Tan Yin puzzled over his words but was left in a daze. By the time she left the temple, Tai He had already succumbed to his weakening divine power and had fallen into a deep slumber. It was she who personally sealed him into the Divine Crystal.
His parting words lingered with her for many years. She pondered them through five cycles of the Longevity Tree by the Heavenly River blooming and bearing fruit. Gradually, she began to understand the sense of helplessness and loss behind his words.
She had lived as a mortal for seventeen years, wandered as a soul in the mortal realm for hundreds more, and had been a goddess for over five thousand years. She had always taken pride in her unparalleled craftsmanship. Yet the moment Tai He rejected her, she found herself unable to create anything ever again. But his final words had sparked a tiny flame within her long-dead heart.
She vaguely understood his message. For three cycles, she had lived in seclusion near her ancestral home, trying to rediscover the part of her that loved creating things—the true Ji Tan Yin. The gods once told her that those with pure, unwavering devotion became gods, while the obsessive ones turned into demons. She had become a goddess through her sincere and unyielding passion for her craft. She couldn’t let that go.
These were things she didn’t want to tell Han Nu. She could never be as close to her as before; in fact, deep down, she felt an unexplainable aversion.
“All done.” Tan Yin removed her dragon-skin gloves, wiped them clean, and threw them back into her Qiankun bag. She turned to look at Han Nu, who was watching her quietly, her gaze deep and inscrutable.
“I’m leaving. You’d better not try to harm the Grand Monk again,” Tan Yin said after a moment of thought. “Next time, I won’t be so polite.”
Han Nu smiled faintly. “I know. You’re helping me for Tai He’s sake. But I wonder—what will you do if I don’t cooperate?”
Tan Yin’s brows furrowed, but then she slowly relaxed, her voice cold as she replied, “I’ll shatter the Divine Crystal and leave you to your fate.”
Han Nu chuckled softly. “How terrifying. It seems that after your time in the mortal world, you’ve developed quite a temper.”
Ignoring her, Tan Yin turned and walked away. Behind her, Han Nu called out, “Wu Shuang, do you hate me?”
Tan Yin paused for a moment but then continued walking without answering.
“Wu Shuang, I’ll be watching you,” Han Nu’s gentle voice echoed behind her as Tan Yin left the cold, lonely realm of the gods without looking back.
When she returned to the mortal world, it was still daylight. The Grand Monk was sleeping soundly in the inn, not yet awake.
Tan Yin sat by the bed, gazing at his sleeping face. Her trip to the divine realm had felt like it had spanned many years, but at least he hadn’t come to any harm. That was a relief.
As she continued to watch his face, she couldn’t resist the urge to reach out and touch his jawline. After feeling along the edge for a while, she noticed a thin layer of skin. Gently peeling it away, she found that underneath was yet another false face.
She kept peeling—layer after layer—until she had removed more than thirty masks. Looking down, she realized there were still many more to go.
Even his fake faces could be considered a divine artifact. Tan Yin marveled at the lifelike quality of the masks in her hands. No one could ever peel off his final mask, except for him. He could remove it with just a touch, revealing his true face. It was a skill she had never seen before.
Filled with a renewed sense of curiosity, Tan Yin continued to examine his masks. She reached out to peel off another layer when suddenly, her wrist was caught.
“…What are you doing with your sneaky hands?” Yuan Zhong asked, his eyes half-open, looking at her with a playful smirk.
Tan Yin waved the thick stack of masks in her hand, intrigued. “How many fake faces do you have on, exactly?”
If he wore them all at once, how thick would they be?
Yuan Zhong shifted slightly, realizing that his chest didn’t hurt at all—it was as if he had never been injured. His gaze moved back to Tan Yin’s eager expression, and suddenly, he chuckled.
“Are you trying to get me to take off my fake face?” he teased.
“I want to know how you managed to wear so many masks without anyone noticing,” Tan Yin replied honestly.
“It’s just a minor, low-level celestial technique.”
Unbothered, Yuan Zhong casually reached up and removed the final mask, revealing a pale face underneath. Unlike the overwhelming charm of Tang Hua, Yuan Zhong’s features were sharp and clear. His lips were slightly pursed, giving him a somewhat cold demeanor, making him seem a bit unapproachable at first glance. But his eyes—those brilliant, godlike eyes—held a hidden warmth. Once you met his gaze, it was hard to look away.
“Well, what do you think? Handsome, right?” Yuan Zhong asked, proudly stroking his chin.
Tan Yin smiled faintly. “Your Highness, the Grand Monk, how do you feel? Better?”
Yuan Zhong didn’t answer, tilting his head to study her instead.
She… seemed to have changed again. He couldn’t quite pinpoint it, but it wasn’t his imagination. There was something different about her brow, her expression—something about her felt increasingly unlike the Ji Tan Yin he had first met. He couldn’t name what exactly had changed, but his instincts told him she wasn’t the same as before.
He touched the place on his chest where his wounds should have been, but there was no pain—not even a scar.
He recalled how the War Ghost had nearly shattered Ji Tan Yin’s body, yet that very night, she had reappeared before him without a single injury. From that moment on, she had felt different, and today, that feeling was even stronger.
“…Did you heal my wounds?” he asked suddenly.
Tan Yin hesitated for a moment before silently nodding.
Yuan Zhong took the thick stack of masks from her hand and said softly, “Yuan Zhong.”
Tan Yin blinked, confused. “What?”
“My name,” he said, clearing his throat and looking at her with a serious expression, though a playful smile danced in his eyes. “It’s Yuan Zhong. I don’t like being called ‘Your Highness, the Grand Monk.’”
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