Inconsistent.
An Yao’s mind went blank, unable to comprehend the meaning of those three words at first.
In the world she had constructed, those three words were never meant to exist.
She and he were the only two Heavenly Lotus atop the snowy peak of Kunlun, the only Stars in the vast red dust capable of reflecting one another.
They were supposed to be naturally “consistent.”
She struggled to understand what he was saying.
“When interacting with others… it’s not their cultivation or talent that matters, but one’s own heart.”
“All things have their own path, and the ordinary are not necessarily uninteresting…”
“Whether it ‘matters’ is determined by my own heart, not another’s status.”
Every word he spoke echoed clearly in her mind.
Reason told her this was a statement of personal perspective—a cultivator’s view on “worldly involvement” versus “transcendence”—with no other, superfluous meaning.
But in the depths of her heart, a more instinctive, obsessive emotion shredded those words and reassembled them in a way even she couldn’t control.
——It’s not about cultivation or talent.
This meant… the talent she prided herself on, far surpassing ordinary people, was not a “special” reason in his eyes.
——The ordinary are not necessarily uninteresting.
This meant… even that girl with poor swordsmanship and weak cultivation today possessed her own “interest” in his eyes.
——Determined by my own heart, not another’s status.
This meant… she, An Yao, Celestial Maiden of the Ninth Heaven, future leader of the sword path.
And that Su Ying, an ordinary inner disciple among the masses, these two utterly different “identities,” in his “heart,” likely held no distinction of higher or lower.
An invisible scale appeared in An Yao’s heart without warning.
On one end of the scale was herself—the one who dueled swords with him under the moon for two years and was called “Zhidao” by him.
On the other end was that girl—those whom she considered “unstable in Dao heart and shallow in vision”… mere dust.
Yet Ye Chen placed both upon the scale with his own hand.
And he told her—these two ends were balanced.
So… was it like this all along?
What she thought was “Zhidao,” what she believed was “kinship,” what she assumed was “special,” were all just her own wishful thinking?
He didn’t fail to understand the shallowness of those “insignificant people”—he simply… didn’t care at all.
He wasn’t incapable of comprehending her aloofness—he simply… didn’t consider it precious.
The kindness he showed her, the special regard, the sword duels, the shared tea… what real difference was there between this and his guidance to that girl today?
Perhaps, in his eyes, it was all the same.
All were just passing scenery on his path of cultivation.
A cloud, a tree.
A peerless flower and a wild weed by the roadside—perhaps in his eyes, there truly was… no difference.
This realization, like the vilest Demonic Curse, like the coldest mist, instantly froze the warmth that had just begun to blossom in her heart.
The joy of anticipation, the gentle illusion of “peaceful years,” the desire to immerse herself—looking back, it all seemed so laughable, so… self-indulgent.
Suddenly, she felt… afraid.
The emotion arrived so unfamiliar, so fierce, that her crystal-like pure heart could not resist.
She feared they were not the same kind.
She feared even more that, on that lonely, eternal road toward the Heavenly Path, she believed she had finally found the only person to walk beside her, only for that person to say: the scenery by the roadside is also beautiful.
Then what did that make her?
Was she… merely one of the passing sights as well?
Ye Chen did not notice the storm raging within her.
To him, differing viewpoints were entirely normal.
Openly sharing perspectives among cultivators was, in itself, a kind of Dao discourse.
It was only a discussion of Dao.
What consequences could there be?
…
At some point, the night wind had grown colder, brushing through the bamboo leaves in the courtyard with a faint rustling.
The sound entered the ears, like some kind of omen, stirring unrest in the heart.
Ye Chen’s gaze fell on the white porcelain teacup.
A slight movement of spiritual power at his fingertip lifted the nearly shattered teacup with a gentle force, setting it on the edge of the stone table.
He picked up a new cup, took the teapot, and once more poured clear tea, the melodious sound echoing softly.
“The path of cultivation allows for different perspectives. It’s no great harm.”
He pushed the freshly brewed tea in front of An Yao, his voice as calm as ever.
“We are both seekers of the Dao. To meet on the way is already Fate.”
Fate.
Was he saying that even the bond formed by chance encounters has its end?
His tone was too calm, so calm it seemed to state an established fact.
So calm, it was like a polite prelude to a farewell.
An Yao did not move.
Her gaze fell upon the unblemished, steaming new tea.
The aroma remained, yet the fragrance could no longer bring her a moment of peace.
A silent tsunami raged within her.
A cold voice sounded in her heart: Paths diverge, and goals no longer align.
It was a rule branded into her very bones since she began cultivating.
He was willing to enter the world, while she was destined to walk alone.
Their roads had pointed in opposite directions from the very start.
She should stand up, flick her sleeve, and leave.
Erase this night, and Ye Chen, this nominal disciple, from her world completely.
It should have been this way.
But then… why?
Why did her chest feel gripped so tightly?
Why, at the thought of “parting ways,” did everything in front of her seem to lose all light?
All her life, people said she was born devoid of emotion.
She believed it too.
But only now did she understand—it wasn’t that she lacked emotion.
Rather, in this world, there had never been a light bright enough to ignite it.
A shadowy figure stood upon her shoulder, whispering in her ear.
Your world is too cold, too empty.
Now, this hard-won light seemed… about to be extinguished.
No, not seemed.
With his argument that “to enter the world is also to transcend it,” the two of you were destined to become parallel lines that would only grow further apart.
He would embrace his red dust, while you would walk the lonely Heavenly Path.
You would… never cross again.
An unprecedented panic swept over her heart.
“That…”
An Yao suddenly looked up at Ye Chen.
For the first time, her always clear and gentle eyes, reflecting the drifting Stars, showed a shadow called “helplessness.”
“…Fellow Daoist, what do you think I should do?”
The words spilled out, like a bird breaking free from its cage, escaping her lips before she could control them.
Her voice was light, trembling so faintly she herself barely noticed.
The moment she spoke, she froze.
What am I saying?
Who was she? She was the Saintess of the Purple Cloud Sword Sect.
Her Dao, her path—when had she ever needed to seek guidance from another?
She wondered if she might be… mad.
Ye Chen was also stunned.
He looked at the near pleading, childlike confusion in her eyes, and a flicker of doubt arose within him.
He thought her silence was simply a sign of hesitation, so he analyzed with utmost logic.
“This is not about right or wrong. We simply see things differently. You were born atop the mountain, your view filled with clouds. As for me…”
He wanted to continue, to explain that the scenery below the mountain was also worth seeing.
But before he could finish, the invisible aura radiating from An Yao interrupted him.
Her face grew paler with every word of his explanation.
That shadowy figure seemed to whisper again in her ear.
So that’s it…
The fact that he could dissect all this so clearly, so calmly, meant he had long accepted it—and was ready for the two of them to walk separate roads.
Every word he spoke became another unarguable proof of their “differences.”
The more he explained, the deeper her fear grew.
What she had always feared was never that her Dao was wrong.
What she feared was that, because their “paths diverged,” they were unworthy even of the chance to “pursue a goal together.”
She feared that after this night, this small courtyard, this bright moon, and this pot of clear tea would become a final song.
That the wait atop the Star Observatory would never see that figure again.
She feared the first light to shine into her life would push her back into the boundless, icy darkness.
The hand resting on her lap had gone white from gripping so tightly.
She looked at Ye Chen, at his calm, indifferent gaze—there was appreciation, understanding, but not a trace of panic or fear of loss that matched her own.
The final line of defense in her heart collapsed completely.
An Yao took a deep breath, as if summoning all her strength.
Her voice was so soft it nearly shattered in the night wind.
“…I don’t want to.”
Ye Chen paused.
She lowered her gaze slightly, long lashes casting a faint shadow beneath the moonlight, veiling all emotion in her eyes—leaving only a fragile, pleading vulnerability.
“I don’t want to become strangers to you… Fellow Daoist.”