After what seemed like a long time, he opened his eyes again, gazing at the six frozen War Ghosts. He exhaled deeply, but then something seemed to occur to him. “Oh no!” he gasped and ran over to the ice.
Sure enough, Tan Yin was frozen inside.
“Well, if she’s not dead already, she will be soon,” Yuan Zhong muttered. He crouched down, gently touching her face through the ice. Poor girl—her face was covered in blood. Who knew if she had been disfigured?
“Sorry,” he said quietly. “I couldn’t save you. I’ll come back in a few days to take care of your remains. Rest in peace.”
On her bloodstained chest was the broken, colorful little windmill he had given her earlier. Such a beautiful young girl, dead because of a twist of fate. Yuan Zhong, feeling genuinely sorrowful, brushed the dust from his clothes and walked away.
Tan Yin slowly opened her eyes, her entire body consumed by one overwhelming sensation—cold.
She tried to move her arms and legs, but her body felt frozen in place, unable to budge. The intense pain in her back and head warned her that her injuries were severe. Her left leg, from the knee down, had no feeling at all—had it been broken?
She couldn’t let this body die.
She opened her mouth and gently blew out a breath. The ice encasing her body immediately shattered into powder. She struggled to sit up, but both her hands seemed broken, her fingers unresponsive. Her forehead, too, felt fractured, and blood had stained her vision red, obscuring the surroundings. All she could sense was an overwhelming cold, and every surface within reach was covered in ice.
Ice… A sudden realization struck her. She wiped the blood from her eyes with difficulty and glanced around.
The entire area, spanning over a dozen meters, was blanketed in thick snow and ice. Six figures were frozen within it. This wasn’t ordinary ice—perhaps no one in the mortal realm knew its power and deadliness better than she did.
It was Tai He’s handiwork.
Tan Yin's heart raced. She jumped up impulsively, but her left leg gave out immediately, causing her to fall heavily back to the ground.
Tai He... she thought, her fingers trembling as they brushed the ice. After five thousand years, she had finally seen this deathly sea of ice again.
All around her was silent except for the gentle whisper of the mountain wind. Tan Yin looked around in a daze. The landscape was warped, with swaths of forest leveled. Apart from the six War Ghosts frozen in the ice, there wasn’t a soul in sight. That slippery fox of a monk had surely escaped unscathed.
She had been too careless. After such an incident, how was she supposed to return to the Grand Monk’s side? And how could she possibly explain herself?
Could she tell him, I wasn’t really frozen, or I was lucky enough not to die? Even a three-year-old child wouldn’t believe such lies, let alone the Grand Monk, with his warm exterior and cold, suspicious heart.
But this wasn’t the most pressing issue. Her body was in shambles—half of her bones were likely broken, and she wasn’t sure if this body would ever be fully functional again.
With a sigh of defeat, Tan Yin lay back down, slowly closing her eyes. The gaping wound on her forehead began to heal, and the fractures in her leg and arms started to reduce in swelling. After about half an hour, she managed to stand up. Other than the bloodstains still visible on her face and body, she was completely healed.
She touched her chest, where it felt ice-cold. This body was still dead—her heart had stopped beating. Even though her wounds had healed, the body would soon start to decay, and that would be a terrifying sight.
With a long sigh, Tan Yin tiredly covered her face with her hands. Her entire body was soon enveloped in a cold, white glow, like a small, translucent moon.
Time passed, and as night began to fall, Tan Yin slowly rose. Surveying the area, she saw the battlefield had drastically altered the landscape. If anyone discovered the six War Ghosts frozen in ice, there would surely be trouble.
She reached into her Qiankun pouch and pulled out a small, thumb-sized object. It was pure white, polished smooth, and shaped like a small conch shell. This was a Linglong house she had crafted while alive, and not even her father had mastered the skill to make such a detailed, miniature version.
She threw the Linglong house into the air, and as it caught the wind, it grew larger, engulfing half the mountain. Gradually, it turned transparent, blending seamlessly into the evening light. The wind still blew, the forest remained hidden, and the distorted landscape and frozen War Ghosts were now completely gone.
Tan Yin turned to leave, but something slipped from her sleeve—it was the small, colorful windmill, now broken. She gave it a spin, and it wobbled back to life, spinning unsteadily. She recalled the first time she had seen Tai He, sitting by the banks of the Celestial River, playing with a similarly vibrant windmill.
She remembered, too, Han Nu's tears when she left. Tai He, if awake, would surely not enjoy seeing her cry.
And she thought of herself, silently watching over everything for five thousand years. Five thousand years of changing landscapes, yet she had remained unchanged—nothing about her had changed.
With a soft sigh, Tan Yin raised her hand and tossed the windmill into the air.
The rushes grow green, over the banks they rise.To see the noble one, brings joy and grace.The boat floats on, sinking and rising.To see the noble one, my heart finds peace.
(These lines refer to a classical Chinese poem expressing the longing and joy of seeing a beloved figure.)
This was her choice. It was the last thing she could do for him.
In this world of endless chaos, where lives part and rejoin, some chase their beloveds across the heavens and into the underworld, always longing, never together. But she—she could do one final, important thing for Tai He. In that, she was the fortunate one.
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