Chapter Seven: Daoist Companion

Seven days later, in the council hall on the main peak of Cangshan Mountain.

Lu Qinghan stood outside the palace gate, looking up at the stone-carved Chiwen perched on the eaves. A bronze bell held in its mouth, its clear sound ringing in the mountain breeze, said to ward off evil spirits and purify the mind. She had lived on Qingya Peak for hundreds of years, listening to this bell ring for centuries, never finding its sound particularly special. But today, every crisp ring of the bell seemed to strike her heart, causing her to involuntarily tense her back.

She had changed her clothes today. No longer was her usual snow-white Taoist robe, but a moon-white, cross-collar long dress, the collar and sleeves embroidered with subtle cloud patterns in silver thread. A matching brocade belt cinched her waist, from which a jade pendant dangled. Her hair had also been restyled; no longer simply tied up with a bamboo hairpin, it was now carefully styled into a neat bun with her newly purchased silver hairpin, two wisps of hair framing her face, giving her an air of both elegance and gentleness. She had even drawn her eyebrows in front of the mirror—just a very light touch, so light it was almost invisible unless you looked closely, but the curve at the ends was slightly softer than usual.

She's going to do something today. Something she's been rehearsing in her mind for seven whole days.

“Master,” Shen Du’s voice rang in her mind, tinged with a hint of doubt, “Why are you dressed so… formally today?”

Lu Qinghan's fingers twitched slightly inside her sleeve, but her expression remained unchanged. "Coming to the main peak for a meeting naturally requires a more formal tone." Her tone was indifferent, as if she were discussing something perfectly ordinary. Unseen by Shen Du, subtle, undercurrents of emotion churned within her chest, forcibly suppressed by layers of icy inner strength, preventing any trace from leaking into her voice or reaching the sensitive nerves beneath her skin.

Shen Du didn't press the matter. He wasn't the type to pry into his master's affairs. But he sensed something—his master's heartbeat was slightly faster than usual, his stride was slightly shorter, and his breathing was subtly different. These changes were so subtle that he couldn't be sure if it was his imagination or something real. He didn't tell anyone about his observations, keeping them to himself while nervously shrinking back inside his body, afraid that any movement might disturb his master's business.

Lu Qinghan took a deep breath and pushed open the door to the council hall.

The furnishings inside the hall were the same as seven days ago, but the number of people was much smaller. The last meeting was an emergency council where the sect's high-ranking members gathered, while this time it was just a small meeting of a few core elders. Mu Qianshan sat in the central seat, still with white hair and a youthful face, holding a cup of spiritual tea, the aroma of which wafted gently. To his left sat two elders: Elder Liu, who was in charge of the sect's records, with white hair, wearing round crystal glasses, and always holding a scroll of bamboo slips; and Elder Sun, who was in charge of the Discipline Hall, with a serious face and deep nasolabial folds, sitting there like an iron tower. To his right sat a graceful middle-aged female cultivator, with an extremely well-maintained face and a cultivation level at the mid-Nascent Soul stage. She was Elder Fang, who was in charge of female cultivator affairs, and also considered half of the female disciples of the Cangshan Sword Sect as "family."

Lu Qinghan chose to come today precisely because of these four people. Mu Qianshan had the final decision-making power, Elder Liu could provide textual support, Elder Sun represented the sect's rules, and Elder Fang—Elder Fang was a female cultivator and would empathize with the plight of female cultivators. This was a lineup she had carefully considered; one less wouldn't be enough, and one more would be superfluous.

"Qinghan's here," Mu Qianshan put down his teacup and smiled kindly. "Please sit down. How have you been recovering these past few days?"

"Thank you for your concern, Ancestor," Lu Qinghan sat down on the futon below him, gracefully adjusting her skirt. "My physical injuries have fully healed, and my cultivation has returned to about 70% of its peak. With another half month of recuperation, I should be able to fully recover."

"That's good." Mu Qianshan nodded. "You said you had something important to discuss today. What exactly is it? Regarding the method of separating the demon sword, I haven't found a definite method yet. I may need some more time."

"Thank you for your trouble, Ancestor." Lu Qinghan lowered her head slightly, adopting a respectful yet troubled posture—she had practiced this posture three times in front of the mirror. Any more would be too humble, any less would be too arrogant; it had to be just right, striking the perfect balance of "having a request but not daring to speak." "Qinghan has come today not for the method of separation, but for... another matter."

All four eyes were focused on her.

Lu Qinghan took a deep breath, raised her head to look at Elder Fang, her gaze frank yet tinged with a perfectly measured shyness and embarrassment: "Qinghan would like to ask Elder Fang about some... matters between female cultivators. These past few days, when I bathed, I made some unusual choices. Because my physical body is encased in Shen Du's skin, and Shen Du can see the outside world through my senses, I didn't deliberately close my eyes while bathing. This inevitably resulted in my disciple seeing my... body. Furthermore, every night after nightfall, my physical body is pressed too tightly against his flesh, making some natural physiological reactions difficult to completely avoid. These things... after happening so many times, I've felt somewhat uneasy."

She spoke calmly, but her slightly flushed cheeks and occasionally lowered eyelids silently revealed a secret that was "unspeakable to female cultivators." It was true that the body enveloped Shen Du, that she deliberately opened her eyes while bathing, and that the body was indeed tightly fitted. However, the way she described it was carefully crafted. Every detail was real, but when put together, they pointed to a situation far more serious than the facts themselves.

Elder Fang was the first to react, his brows furrowing slightly, his voice carrying a hint of concerned seriousness: "Junior Sister Lu, you mean... you two have already..."

She didn't finish her sentence, but the unfinished words pointed to an answer that everyone in the hall understood perfectly.

Lu Qinghan didn't answer directly, but simply lowered her eyes slightly. That gesture of lowering her eyes spoke volumes.

Elder Sun's expression changed. The Discipline Hall's duty was to uphold the sect's rules, and illicit relations between master and disciple were a taboo that crossed the line in any sect. But before he could speak, Mu Qianshan raised his hand to stop him. The Nascent Soul stage ancestor's vision was more profound than anyone else's present; he was thinking not only about the current rules but also about the future.

"Qinghan," Mu Qianshan said slowly, his tone unhurried, "You've come here today to talk about these things, so you must already have some ideas. Tell me."

Lu Qinghan raised his eyes, his gaze clear and frank: "Ancestor, you are wise. I have been thinking about this for a long time these past few days, and the more I think about it, the more I feel that this matter cannot be treated as an accident. First of all, there is almost no precedent in the cultivation world for the fusion of the physical body and Shen Du. The method of separation cannot be found for the time being, and it is unknown whether it can be found in the future."

“Secondly,” she turned slightly to make her gaze fall upon the two silent elders beside her, “if word gets out, how will Qinghan explain it to her future husband? How will Shendu explain it to his future wife? Having had this experience, no matter who marries another in the future, this matter will become an indelible thorn between us. Rather than harming others in the future, it's better to…”

She paused, her ears turning a perfect red.

A moment of silence fell over the main hall. Then Elder Fang sighed softly and broke the silence, saying, "I think it's fine. The master-disciple relationship is the deepest bond, and now with this additional circumstance, following the will of Heaven is better than defying it. Sect rules aren't set in stone; special circumstances can be handled specially. Don't glare at me, Old Sun. Back then, those cross-generational Daoist couples you handled in the Discipline Hall, didn't they all get special approval from the Ancestor in the end?"

Elder Liu lowered his head and flipped through the bamboo slips, pushed up the crystal glasses on his nose, and pondered, "From the perspective of classical texts, this situation is indeed unprecedented. However, from another perspective, this is not without its own solution of 'following the natural way.' The matter of the demon sword was an accident, and the chain reaction caused by the accident should be dealt with in a flexible manner."

Elder Sun remained silent for a while, his nasolabial folds still deep, but his tone had softened somewhat: "As long as the Ancestor nods, the Discipline Hall can let it go."

All eyes were once again focused on Mu Qianshan.

Mu Qianshan studied Lu Qinghan for a few moments, then suddenly laughed: "Qinghan, you've given me a difficult problem."

Lu Qinghan lowered her eyes: "Qinghan wouldn't dare."

"You wouldn't dare?" There was an indescribable meaning in Mu Qianshan's laughter. "There are probably not many things you wouldn't dare to do."

He didn't continue, but pondered for a long time before finally nodding slowly: "If it were anyone else, I might not agree. But I, as the patriarch, remember all the merits you, Lu Qinghan, have rendered to the Cangshan Sword Sect. Now that the Demon Blade Calamity is unresolved, you do indeed need someone to take care of you. Rather than letting this ambiguous relationship affect your Dao heart, it's better to make it official. Besides..."

He gave Lu Qinghan a meaningful look, refraining from saying what he meant to say. "Besides what? Besides, if you, Lu Qinghan, truly had no interest in this matter, you wouldn't have come here today in the first place." Mu Qianshan didn't spell it out, but his eyes said it all.

"Thank you for your kindness, Ancestor." Lu Qinghan bowed, his voice carrying just the right amount of gratitude and relaxation.

"The matter hasn't been resolved yet, so we won't make a public announcement." Mu Qianshan made the final decision. "You can dress up as a married woman and live your lives behind closed doors on Qingya Peak. Once the matter of the demon sword is completely settled, we can consider whether to hold a formal marriage ceremony."

"Qinghan understands."

When Lu Qinghan left the main hall, her steps were much lighter than when she arrived. Once she was outside the protective array of the main peak and confirmed that no one else was around, she stopped, lowered her head, and squeezed her eyes shut. When she opened them again, her eyes were devoid of any former composure. She lowered her gaze slightly, a slight upturn at the corners of her lips. The curve wasn't large, but it was impossible to suppress.

It's done.

“Master,” Shen Du’s voice rang in her mind, muffled, carrying the bewilderment unique to those who had just experienced a great shock, “What did you mean by what you said inside? Were you serious? Or were you just saying that on purpose to appease the elders?”

Lu Qinghan walked slowly and deliberately on the bluestone path. The cable car at Qingya Peak gleamed with an iron-gray luster under the midday sun, and the sea of ​​clouds in the distance surged endlessly, making the mountain scenery before her seem more tranquil than usual. She did not answer Shen Du's question immediately, but spoke after a moment of silence, her voice gentle and restrained, carrying an almost vulnerable tone that she rarely showed in front of Shen Du.

"Shen Du, do you think your master would use something like this to deal with people?" She paused, as if carefully choosing her words. "You've experienced what happened these past few days firsthand. If word got out about our interactions, which female cultivator would dare marry you? You're going to graduate soon, and if this incident delays your marriage, your master wouldn't be able to live with it. As for your master, you don't need to worry. Your master's cultivation, seniority, and age are far above yours. If anyone in the future holds a grudge about these things, it certainly won't be your master. But now... since we've come this far, I can't let you graduate with such a stigma. Do you understand?"

Shen Du remained silent for a long time. When his master's tone softened for the first time, even carrying a hint of earnestness that seemed to be "for his own good," he realized he had no room to refuse. Indeed, what he had seen, felt, and even done inside his master's body over the past week—whether heaven or earth knew, it was a violation of any woman's purity. If he didn't acknowledge it, he would be truly despicable. Moreover, when his master spoke these words, there was no condescending pressure; instead, he was thinking of him in every way—afraid he wouldn't find a wife, afraid he would be gossiped about, afraid he would be stigmatized. How could he refuse such a master?

"...Then," Shen Du's voice became even more muffled, as if it came from underground, so low that it was almost inaudible, "What about Master himself? Isn't Master afraid...aren't you afraid that no one will want you in the future?"

Lu Qinghan was startled by those words. She lowered her head, her fingers unconsciously tightening around the sword tassel at her waist, letting the cool silk thread wrap around her fingertips a few times. Then she sighed softly, her voice carrying a hint of grievance she had never shown to Shen Du: "Do you think... after all this, anyone would dare to want Master? Master and you are already in this state, if even you don't dare to want her, then Master probably really won't be wanted by anyone."

Shen Du felt as if his heart had been squeezed hard. He had never seen his master like this before—she was always composed, powerful, and omnipotent, the aloof fairy who would make him kneel as punishment when he was lazy and scold him for being so careless when he was injured. But now, when she said "no one wants me anymore," the faint grievance and self-mockery in her voice turned her into an ordinary person. An ordinary woman who felt fear, anxiety, and concern about her future.

"...I understand." Shen Du's voice slowly rose from underground, carrying a deep and resolute tone. "Master, I understand. From now on...from now on, your disciple will take care of you."

Lu Qinghan stood in the middle of the cable car, surrounded by a bottomless abyss and a surging sea of ​​clouds. The mountain wind made her clothes flutter, and stray hairs brushed against her cheeks. When she heard the words "From now on, your disciple will take care of you," she slowly savored them in her heart, like appreciating a cup of the finest spiritual tea. "Take care of you"—what a beautiful word. Although she knew it was just the answer his mind, churning with both reverence and confusion, could only offer what it could, linking her own future happiness with this man's responsibility was truly what she wanted.

“Mm,” her voice was as soft as the wind on the sea of ​​clouds, “Then I’ll have to trouble you from now on, Shen Du.”

On the way back to Qingya Peak, Lu Qinghan was in such a good mood that she almost wanted to fly on her sword. But she restrained herself. Flying on a sword seemed too impatient; she wanted to return at her own pace, to spend the rest of the day at her own pace, and then to greet the night at her own pace.

As dusk fell, the light in the bamboo forest gradually dimmed, and twilight slowly rose from the eastern valley, dyeing half the sky a pale orange-red. Lu Qinghan stood before the bronze mirror in her bedroom and took out the crimson gauze dress she had bought at the market that day from her storage bag.

The gauze skirt unfurled in the twilight, like a cloud dyed red by the setting sun. The sheer fabric was so thin it was almost translucent, yet the layers upon layers created a hazy, ethereal beauty—neither revealing nor oppressive, perfectly outlining the curves of the woman's figure. Several mimosa flowers were embroidered in gold thread at the hem, their petals intertwined, their stamens slender and soft, seemingly trembling slightly in the twilight. This was the very same dress she had spotted at first glance in the robe shop earlier that day—crimson, not true red, but a shade between peach and true red, like the faint blush on a bride's face. When she bought it, she said it was just a Western Region-style gauze skirt, something new and exciting. But now, holding the skirt in her hands and comparing it to herself in the bronze mirror, her thoughts were quite different.

A wedding dress. This can be used as a wedding dress.

Lu Qinghan carefully placed the gauze dress on the edge of the bed, then removed her moon-white long dress piece by piece. When untying the belt, her fingers paused for a moment on the knot, her fingertips unconsciously applying a little more pressure. When removing her outer garment, her movements were half as slow as usual; the moon-white collar slid slowly down her shoulders, revealing her fair shoulders and collarbone inch by inch. When removing her undergarment, her fingers accidentally brushed against a sensitive protrusion on her chest, sending a slight shiver through her. As she removed her hairpin, the silver hairpin was pulled from her hair bun, and her long, black hair cascaded down like a waterfall, draped over her shoulders and back, shimmering in the setting sun.

Then she picked up the crimson tulle dress.

The first layer was a close-fitting bodice, made of crimson silk, embroidered with a mimosa flower pattern at the chest, winding upwards along the curve of her left breast. The second layer was a semi-transparent gauze undergarment, with wide sleeves and a hem reaching her ankles. The third layer was an outer blouse, as light as a cicada's wing, shimmering with a faint golden sheen in the twilight. She put on each layer with meticulous and composed movements, as if performing a ritual known only to herself. When putting on the undergarment, she carefully smoothed the wrinkles at the neckline; when putting on the blouse, she let the hem hang naturally, then twirled around to see if she was satisfied with the arc the skirt drew in the air; when cinching her waist, she chose a thin belt with gold tassels, tying it into an exquisite bow at her waist.

Then she sat back down in front of the bronze mirror and began to comb her hair.

What's needed for a wedding? A hair bun. She had always dressed as an unmarried woman, her hair simple, held up with just a hairpin. But today was different. Today she would transform into a married woman—with a woman's hair bun. She combed her long hair smoothly with a wooden comb, once to the end, twice to the end, three times to the end. Her movements were slow and deliberate, each stroke allowing the comb's teeth to gently scrape her scalp, sending a tingling shiver down her spine. Then she divided her hair into several sections and coiled them into a neat bun at the back of her head—a bun only a married woman would wear, higher, rounder, and more dignified than a young girl's bun. She secured the bun with her newly bought silver hairpin and pinned a red camellia she had just picked from the courtyard that day to the side. Finally, she prepared two small celadon wine cups and a small pot of spirit wine; only by drinking from the cup together could they become husband and wife. Although Shen Du couldn't drink by himself, the ceremony still had to be performed.

Having done all this, she stood up. The bronze mirror reflected a woman—adorned with red camellias in her hair, dressed in a crimson gauze dress, her black hair piled high like clouds behind her head, her features exquisite, her face like a peach blossom. Those eyes, usually as cold and aloof as frost, now held the last rays of twilight outside the window and a dazzling brilliance she herself probably didn't even realize. There were no guests, no music, no blessings from sect elders, no elaborate display of burning red candles. Only the evening breeze of Qingya Peak, the rustling of the bamboo forest, and her own reflection in the bronze mirror, dressed in red.

She stood in front of the bronze mirror for a moment, then suddenly remembered something. This afternoon, when she passed by the food stall, she had casually bought two wedding candies. She took the candies out and placed them in front of the bronze mirror. The candies, wrapped in red paper, gleamed with a cheap yet festive luster under the candlelight, much like the kind that would be given out at weddings in ordinary households.

"Shen Du," she said in her heart, her voice very soft, as if she were calling a secret name.

"...Yes." Shen Du's voice was strained. He hadn't uttered a single word since his master began changing. He had seen the entire process through his master's eyes—the white robe slipping from his shoulders, revealing inch after inch of skin he would never have dared to peek at before; the crimson gauze skirt being put on layer by layer, the red burning in the twilight like the sunset falling on his master; his hair being styled into a bun, a hairpin inserted, camellias blooming quietly at his temples. Every scene made it hard for him to breathe, every detail made his heart race. He vaguely knew what his master was doing, but he dared not confirm it, dared not think in that direction, dared not admit what those surging emotions in his heart were. He only knew that his genitals were completely hard, starting uncontrollably from the middle of his master's changing, and now they were swollen as if they were about to burst, pressing tightly against his master's cervix.

Lu Qinghan felt the hardness. She didn't point it out, but spoke softly to the mirror, her tone calm and solemn: "You heard what I said in front of the elders today. From now on, you are no longer your master's disciple."

She paused for a moment, her fingers brushing against the camellia behind her ear, her fingertips gently caressing the petals.

"...He is Master's husband."

Shen Du's heart skipped a beat, so hard that Lu Qinghan could feel the skin on her chest undulating slightly from the impact.

"This...I...Master..." Shen Du's voice was completely incoherent. "This is too fast, isn't it? No...I'm not ready...I mean, isn't this just a nominal Daoist couple? I thought...I thought it was just talk..."

"A nominal Daoist couple?" Lu Qinghan's voice carried a hint of amusement. "Shen Du, do you know about the nuptial ceremony?"

Shen Du was stunned. Of course he knew about the nuptial ceremony—a common wedding custom where the bride and groom drink from the same cup, becoming one, and thus becoming husband and wife. He had read about it in storybooks; in those tales of talented scholars and beautiful women, there was always a scene like that: the candlelight flickers red, the newlyweds bow to each other, drink from the same cup, and then… and then comes the wedding night.

"But in the storybooks... after the nuptial ceremony..."

"And then what?" Lu Qinghan asked knowingly, her tone carrying a hint of relaxed ambiguity she had never heard before.

Shen Du dared not speak further.

"...It's nothing." His voice trailed off, as if he had buried his face in the pillow, his breath hot and ragged.

Lu Qinghan stopped teasing him. She placed two small celadon cups in front of the bronze mirror and poured in spirit wine. The wine was clear and bright, shimmering with an amber luster under the candlelight. She picked up one of the cups, raised it to her lips, and said to Shen Du in her heart, "This cup is for you, Master."

Then she tilted her head back and took the wine into her mouth. The warmth and spiciness of the spirit wine exploded on her tongue, spreading along its surface to her entire mouth. Her tongue gently swirled in the wine, carrying it across the surface, under, and sides of her tongue—and also across the tongue that covered hers, the tongue belonging to Shen Du. The wine soaked into every crevice between their tightly pressed tongues, as if giving them a complete baptism with the purest liquid. Then she slowly swallowed the wine, her throat bobbing, the back of her tongue rising, the entire swallowing process slowed down by a third. As she drank this cup of wine, she could feel Shen Du's tongue trembling slightly, his heart pounding like a drum, and his penis swelling even more inside her, hard as a red-hot iron rod.

Then came the second cup. The celadon wine cup was raised again, the wine once more flowed over the two tongues, and was once again slowly swallowed.

After two glasses of wine, two very faint blushes appeared on Lu Qinghan's cheeks. It wasn't the effect of the alcohol—her Golden Core cultivation level made it almost impossible for her to get drunk—but rather a physiological reaction caused by her accelerated heartbeat.

"The wedding ceremony is complete." She said softly to the mirror, her voice filled with a satisfaction she herself was unaware of, and a lingering aftertaste of that satisfaction. "From now on, you are my husband."

Shen Du's mind exploded. His master hadn't said "Daoist partner," he'd said "husband." These two words, spoken by his master in his usually cold and aloof voice, felt like the softest feather brushing against his heart, sending shivers down his spine. In the mirror, his master wore red robes, a camellia adorning his hair, his cheeks flushed, his lips glistening with wine. And he was inside his master's body, completely enveloped by him, his genitals hard and erect, inserted into his master's vagina, embraced tightly, gently, and completely by her inner walls. What was this? What was this all about?

"...Husband?" Shen Du's voice was dry and hoarse, as if the sound had rolled three times in his chest before barely coming out. "Master...do you really want to call me that?"

"So what do you want me to call you?" Lu Qinghan tilted her head in front of the mirror, the camellia petals at her temples swaying slightly. "Shen Du? Du'er? Or... should I continue to call you disciple?"

As she uttered the name "Du'er," her tongue flicked lightly twice. This touch, which had been ongoing all day, was her favorite secret pleasure, and now, with the red dress and the nuptial wine added to it, it felt even more natural.

Shen Du's body went limp at the sound of "Du'er"—except for that part. That part, far from softening, hardened even more, its tip throbbing slightly as it pressed against the soft, deepest part of his master's flesh. Lu Qinghan gasped softly at the touch.

"Tonight is our wedding night," she said to herself in the mirror, her voice regaining its calmness, but beneath that calmness lay a burning passion that Shen Du couldn't see. "Master, let me make this clear today—this body will be yours from now on. You can move as you wish. Don't be afraid. My husband can move however he wants."

As she spoke, she slowly and completely relinquished control of her body to Shen Du. From her head to her limbs, from her chest to her abdomen, from her skin to her organs, all control was transferred in an instant. She herself retreated to the position of a pure perceiver, like a woman held in the arms of her lover, whose only task was to feel.

Shen Du felt the shift in control. He could now manipulate his master's body—whatever finger he moved, his master's hand moved; whatever angle he turned, his master's eyes turned. He looked down at the bronze mirror and saw the red-clad fairy in the mirror also lower her head. He raised his hand, and the fairy in the mirror also raised her hand, her slender, white fingers slightly open in the candlelight. Those were his master's hands, his master's face, his master's body in her wedding dress. But now, he was in control of everything. He moved. Not intentionally, but his body's instincts had overwhelmed his reason. He looked at the red-clad woman in the mirror, and his hips thrust forward uncontrollably. The movement was small, but inside the skin pressed so close together, the magnitude of the thrust was magnified to the extreme—his penis thrust heavily deep inside his master's body, the glans grinding against the most sensitive indentation of the cervix, pressing against the soft flesh at the deepest part.

The fairy in red in the mirror parted her lips slightly and softly hummed in agreement.

That was his master's voice. But the one who made that sound was him. He was the one controlling his master's throat to utter that groan. The feeling was too absurd, yet too real—he looked at his master's face in the mirror, saw a faint blush rise on that elegant and exquisite face, saw a thin layer of moisture well up in those usually calm and frosty eyes. He knew that it was his own feelings driving his master's facial muscles to react, but that face was his master's, the face of that aloof white-clad fairy who remained unchanging throughout the twelve months. And now, she was wearing a wedding dress, with his penis inside her, being thrust into by him until she cried out.

He moved again. His hips thrust forward, then forward again, and then he began a series of short, powerful thrusts. His abdominal muscles contracted, his thighs strained, and each thrust propelled his lower body into his master's body with a powerful sprint. He could feel the inner walls of his master's vagina rhythmically contracting with his movements—contractions that weren't voluntary, but rather an instinctive bodily reaction triggered by his actions and transmitted along nerve pathways to the surface of her vagina. With each thrust, his master's cervix would be pushed inward, then bounce back as he withdrew, only to slam against it again with each subsequent thrust, making that soft flesh increasingly wet and hot.

He watched it all through the mirror. He saw the fairy in her crimson wedding dress reflected there, her brows furrowing slightly with each thrust, her breathing quickening, her chest heaving with his movements. She was no longer the aloof, cold sword immortal, but a woman being possessed by him. Her pupils were slightly unfocused, her red lips parted slightly, and with each deep thrust, a ripple would spread across her eyes, along with the flickering candlelight shattering within them.

Shen Du's mind was completely consumed by primal urges. He controlled his master's hand, gripping the edge of the table in front of the mirror, using it as a fulcrum to amplify the range of his hip movements. He began a series of increasingly forceful thrusts—each time pulling out to the shallowest depth and then slamming in to the deepest, the umbrella-shaped edge of his glans repeatedly scraping against the soft yet tight folds of the vaginal walls, grinding over every sensitive spot, and finally slamming hard against the cervix. The dressing case in front of the bronze mirror trembled slightly from his thrusts, the camellia petals swaying gently in the lamplight.

"Husband..." the red-clad fairy in the mirror called softly again, her voice so gentle it was almost unbelievable. He heard his master's voice being drowned out by his unconscious heavy breathing, from a muffled guttural sound to an almost choked sob.

Finally, he thrust upwards with all his might, this time surpassing all previous limits, striking the most sensitive spot right in the center of her cervix. Semen gushed out, the scalding liquid hitting her cervix and splashing into the deepest part of her body. He felt the walls of her vagina spasm violently at the moment of his ejaculation—a spasm completely different from the previous passive writhing; it was a real, uncontrollable muscle spasm triggered by orgasm. The walls of her vagina felt like a wet, hot mouth greedily sucking him in, swirling every drop of his semen deep inside her, tightly enveloping him, refusing to let go.

The red-clad fairy in the mirror arched her back slightly, her neck forming a graceful curve. Her lips parted, emitting a very soft, delicate gasp. The thin layer of moisture in her eyes finally overflowed, turning into two clear tears that slowly slid down her flushed cheeks and dripped onto her crimson wedding dress.

Lu Qinghan took a long time to recover. It took her several dozen breaths to slowly let her soul return from the white light to her body. When her consciousness returned, she felt the lingering effects of Shen Du's touch within her—his still slightly twitching penis, the still slowly flowing semen, and the warm, wet, and completely filled feeling. She gently stroked the person inside her, whose very soul was trembling, through her skin, feeling his emotions of both satisfaction and fear, and a tender, almost overflowing love welled up in her heart.

She regained control of her body. She raised her hand, her fingers gently tracing her own face in the mirror—the blush hadn't faded, the tear tracks were still wet, and her eyes and brows radiated the warmth of spring after being cherished. Looking at herself in the mirror, she smiled softly, not a faint smile, but a genuine smile from the bottom of her heart, filled with contentment and happiness.

"Husband," she called softly, her voice gentle as water, "From now on, Master will be your wife."