Chapter 5: Blood of the Heart

To a cultivator, spiritual awareness is both the sharpest and most fragile weapon. Upon entering the Foundation Establishment stage, a cultivator’s perception of the world transforms dramatically—not only do their senses sharpen, but they also gain heightened intuition. As cultivation progresses, they refine their body and cultivate their spiritual awareness, until by the Nascent Soul stage, their spiritual awareness becomes tangible, allowing them to observe all things through it.

Fu Heng was now approaching a tribulation, his spiritual awareness incomparable in strength. Even a small offshoot branch of his spiritual awareness enveloping Leng Fangxie brought an overwhelming sense of confinement that was difficult to resist.

Among cultivators, the closest relationships are those of Dao companions and master-disciple. Dao companions come first and foremost; unlike mortal spouses, they share not only fate and fortune but also divide their lifespans equally—if one dies, the other cannot survive alone. Thus, true Dao companions are rare in the Fuyuan Realm; most are “false Dao companions, real spouses,” seeking not only genuine affection but also fleeting pleasures.

Simple physical union is far from enough for cultivators, who always pursue the unity of spirit and flesh. The “spirit” refers to spiritual awareness. The fusion of spiritual awareness brings a pleasure far surpassing physical intimacy, alongside many other benefits. Some cultivators become so addicted to the joys of spiritual communion that they neglect their cultivation, eventually fading their spiritual awareness and severing their roots, losing all hope of the Great Dao.

Despite the many sordid encounters between Leng Fangxie and Fu Heng, they had never truly engaged in spiritual communion—only subtle clashes of spiritual awareness.

Like now.

The spiritual awareness branching from Fu Heng formed a large circle enveloping Leng Fangxie, gentle and delicate without a hint of force, as if cradling his spiritual awareness like a treasured gem, where even the slightest touch left a mark. Yet contact was unavoidable, and every touch made Leng Fangxie tremble.

He could barely stand; the changes in his spiritual awareness reflected on his body. Without anyone touching him, he appeared moved—his damp hair clinging to his forehead, cheeks flushed, eyes clear yet bloodshot—a sight both shocking and captivating, making one forget he was a Nascent Soul Dao Lord capable of touching heaven and earth with a hand, stirring even greater desire.

How varied—and how decadent—the ways cultivators intertwined!

Such simple contact was a torment to Leng Fangxie’s mind.

He could neither control his body nor his thoughts. His body rebelled, granting him endless pleasure, even coaxing delight from it. Yet the source of this sensation was none other than his once deeply respected and utterly reverent master, the one who treated him like a brother and father.

The thought brought not only intense anger but also a vague sense of shame and betrayal.

Fu Heng’s spiritual awareness began with gentle intent but, perhaps having found amusement, grew increasingly wanton. Tears welled in Leng Fangxie’s eyes as his fragile spiritual awareness shrank under the oppressor’s pressure, soon unbearable, and darkness claimed him.

When he regained consciousness, the scene had changed drastically. No longer in the grand, spacious Lengyu Hall, he was before a corridor strewn with fallen blossoms.

Leng Fangxie was cradled in someone’s arms, his head resting against their heated chest, breathing in Fu Heng’s warm, heavy scent. Though his limbs were free, he was firmly restrained.

He could only tilt his head to watch the brilliant and rare flowers, avoiding Fu Heng’s sandalwood-scented hair draped over his shoulder.

“Awake?” Fu Heng’s chest emitted a low sound, his hot breath scattering through Leng Fangxie’s hair. The culprit’s tone was half regret, half nostalgia. “Since you grew up, I haven’t combed your hair for a long time.”

In Fu Heng’s hand was a yellow sandalwood comb, gently drawing a strand of Leng Fangxie’s hair from root to tip, slow and methodical. Fu Heng’s hands were known only for wielding a sword, devastating and mighty; few knew they could be so steady when holding a comb.

The pressure on the scalp was perfectly balanced—neither too soft nor too harsh—causing no pain, yet still unbearable.

Not only was it horrifying to have one’s vulnerabilities held captive, but the unfamiliar touch sent shivers like electric currents through him.

Leng Fangxie closed his eyes, forcing himself to ignore the maddening tickle.

This scene was not unfamiliar. As Fu Heng said, when Leng Fangxie was young, he often washed and combed his hair.

He had not been a favored prodigy from the start. Born with difficulty, losing his parents immediately after birth, he would have perished to demons if not for a red-eyed white wolf that saved him.

Leng Fangxie became a “wolf child” in the mortal world, suckling wolf’s milk and mimicking wolf behavior. Growing up in the demon-infested Sleepless Town, he never encountered humans and could not learn human manners.

The white wolf raised him as a cub, but upon the wolf’s unfortunate death, he hid in town until Fu Heng came to slay demons and took him as a disciple—more pitiful than Li Lingchen’s early days in the Jiucheng Sect.

His hair was straw-yellow, his skin pale as a corpse, eyes large and frightening, limbs thin with a slightly rounded belly, unable to stand or walk like normal people; Fu Heng had no choice but to carry him.

Because he learned from the white wolf to lick fur, Leng Fangxie disliked bathing or washing his hair, often struggling and biting when Fu Heng brought him to water. Fu Heng let him gnaw on his arm, tied him to a rattan chair, and bathed him like a mortal—gradually wetting his hair and combing it smooth, then gently drying it with a cloth.

The sunlight was gentle then, and the fierce wolf child slowly found pleasure in it, lazily squinting eyes, inhaling the faint floral fragrance mingled with Fu Heng’s earthy scent, drifting into a blissful dream.

Was this moment now a mirror of that time?

But Leng Fangxie had grown into an adult.

He and Fu Heng were no longer the innocent master and disciple of old.

Even a casual touch now bore an unspeakable sense of immorality.

While combing his hair, Fu Heng spoke of Li Lingchen: “Though talented, he is not the best among them and unworthy to be your disciple. Born a mortal and mingling with all sorts from childhood, his nature is flawed. Taking him in would only bring you sorrow.”

“Many prodigies once begged you to accept them, not even seeking to become disciples but just sweeping floors; you refused all. Why him? I thought you would never take a disciple.”

“Fine. If you want one, I will have the sect leader search the younger generation of Jiucheng for those without masters; you may choose. If unsatisfied, look outside the sect. But Li Lingchen’s fate opposes yours. You may favor him with spells and spiritual tools, but do not expect to take him as a disciple.”

His tone was gentle, his words a cruel verdict cutting off futures.

Leng Fangxie shuddered, his strength drained, and could only agree—refusal would likely mean Fu Heng would never let him leave.

Seeing his compliance, Fu Heng smiled, putting away the comb and stroking the soft, smoke-like black hair, hiding the obscurity in his eyes.

“Long time no see; I kept you longer than intended. Go.”

As he left, Leng Fangxie’s expression hardened, a small, round bird with an extraordinarily long tail feather perched on his shoulder.

Unlike the first bird named “Bean Cake,” this one was pure white save for its richly colored tail feathers. Despite its round belly, its bearing was proud and noble, with bright, intelligent eyes—clearly a spiritual creature.

It was no ordinary bird.

It was the corporeal manifestation of his esteemed master’s spiritual essence.

Fu Heng’s spiritual surveillance alone was insufficient! He had to accompany him in this external form at all times!

Seeing Leng Fangxie hesitate by the door, the bird shamelessly tilted its head and nuzzled his cheek with its fluffy head. The touch raised goosebumps; Leng Fangxie wanted to grab and throw the bird, but feared Fu Heng’s wrath.

After anger came helplessness and suffocating despair.

As he left, he failed to notice the subtle changes on his body—hidden beneath black hair at the nape of his neck, faint marks like petals appeared and flickered as he moved.

“You only dare this much,” the Heart Demon sneered at Fu Heng within the Immortal Palace. “If it were me, his body would be covered with marks, every visible inch branded by me, unable to leave the sect.”

Yet Fu Heng had openly revealed his filthy intentions before Leng Fangxie but never truly acted—merely teasing with spiritual tricks.

Fu Heng held a cloud letter in his hand, pinching it lightly until it vanished into smoke.

He grasped a jade carving once more; his fingers were slender and pale, yet not weak—in fact, when he curled his fingers to take control, the strength was chilling.

Fu Heng retorted, “So you are a demon, and I am a man—the one who can become his Dao companion and share his lifetime.”